undry cracked brazen bells,
the gifts of Spanish gentlemen who died a hundred years ago perhaps,
swing by withes of ancient rawhide from great, worm-gnawed, hand-riven
beams; you walk through the Mission burying-ground, past crumbly old
family vaults with half-obliterated names and titles and dates upon
their ovenlike fronts, and you wander at will among the sunken
individual graves under the palms and pepper trees.

Most convincing of all to me were the stone-flagged steps at the door of
the church itself, for they are all worn down like the teeth of an old
horse--in places they are almost worn in two. Better than any guidebook
patter of facts and figures--better than the bells and the graves and
the hand-made beams--these steps convey to the mind a sense of age.

You stand and look at them, and you see there the tally of vanished
generations--the heavy boot of the conquistador; the sandaled foot of
the old padre; the high heel of a dainty Spanish-born lady; the bare,
horny sole of the Indian convert--each of them taking its tiny toll out
of stone and mortar--each of them wearing away its infinitesimal
mite--until through years and years the firm stone was scored away and
channeled out and left at it is now, with curves in it and deep hollows.

Given a dime's worth of imagination to start on, almost any one could
people that spot with the dead-and-gone figures of that shadowy past;
could forget the trolley cars curving right up to the walls; the
electric lights strung in globular festoons along the ancient ceilings
of the porticoes; the roofs of the new, shiny modern bungalows dotting
the gentle slopes below--could forget even that the brown-cowled,
rope-girthed father who served as guide spoke with a strong German
accent; could almost forgive the impious driver of the rig that brought
one here for referring to this place as the Mish. But be sure there
would be one thing to bring you hurtling back again to earth, no matter
how far aloft your fancy soared--and that would be the ever-present
souvenir-collecting tourist, to whom no shrine is holy and no memory is
sacred.

There is no charge for admission to the Mission. All comers, regardless
of breed or creed, are welcomed; and on constant duty is a gentle-voiced
priest, ready to lead the way to the inner rooms where priceless relics
of the day when the Spaniards first came to California are displayed;
and into the church itself, with its candles burning before the hi