fall of a horse, as
Sir George Simpson (who had not much regard for the truth anyway, for he
gave a false picture of our Concha), and even Doctor Langsdorff, who
should have known better, wrote it, but worn out, worn out, after
terrible hardships, and a fever that devoured him inch by inch. And he
was so handsome when he left us! Dios de mi alma! never have I seen a
man like that. If I had I should not be here now, perhaps, so it is as
well. But never was I even engaged, and when permission came from Madrid
for the marriage of my sister Rafaella with Luis Argueello--he was an
officer and could not marry without a special license from the King, and
through some strange oversight he was six long years getting it--; well,
I lived with them and took care of the children until Rafaella--Ay yi!
what a good wife she made him, for he 'toed the mark,' as the Americans
say--; well, she died, and one of those days he married another; for
will not men be men? And Luis was a good man in spite of all, a fine
loyal clever man, who deserves the finest monument in the cemetery of
the Mission Dolores--as they call it now. The Americans have no respect
for anything and will not say San Francisco de Assisi, for it is too
long and they have time for nothing but the gold. Were it not a sin,
how I should hate them, for they have stolen our country from us--but
no, I will not; and, to be sure, if Rezanov had lived he would have had
it first, so what difference? Luis, at least, was spared. He died in
1830--and was the first Governor of Alta California after Mexico threw
off the yoke of Spain. He had power in full measure and went before
these upstart conquerors came to humble the rest of us into the dust.
Peace to his ashes--but perhaps you care nothing for this dear brother
of my youth, never heard of him before--such a giddy thing you were;
although at the last earthquake the point of his monument flew straight
into the side of the church and struck there, so you may have heard the
talk before they put it back in its place. It is of Sister Dominica you
think, but I think not only of her but of those old days--Ay, Dios de
mi! Who remembers that time but a few old women like myself?

"Concha's father, Don Jose Dario Argueello, was Commandante of the
Presidio of San Francisco then; and there was nothing else to call San
Francisco but the Mission. Down at Yerba Buena, where the Americans
flaunt themselves, there was but a Battery that could not gi