us.  After two circuits, we stopped our horses, and at last a man showed himself in front of one of the small buildings.  We rode up to him, and found him dressed in the common dress of the country, with a silver chain round his neck, supporting a large bunch of keys.  From this, we took him to be the steward of the Mission, and, addressing him as ``Mayor-domo,’’ received a low bow and an invitation to walk into his room.  Making our horses fast, we went in.  It was a plain room, containing a table, three or four chairs, a small picture or two of some saint, or miracle, or martyrdom, and a few dishes and glasses. ``Hay alguna cosa de comer?’’ said I, from my grammar. ``Si, Senor!’’ said he. ``Que gusta usted?’’ Mentioning frijoles, which I knew they must have if they had nothing else, and beef and bread, with a hint for wine, if they had any, he went off to another building across the court, and returned in a few minutes with a couple of Indian boys bearing dishes and a decanter of wine.  The dishes contained baked meats, frijoles stewed with peppers and onions, boiled eggs, and California flour baked into a kind of macaroni.  These, together with the wine, made the most sumptuous meal we had eaten since we left Boston; and, compared with the fare we had lived upon for seven months, it was a regal banquet.  After despatching it, we took out some money and asked him how much we were to pay.  He shook his head, and crossed himself, saying that it was charity,—­ that the Lord gave it to us.  Knowing the amount of this to be that he did not sell, but was willing to receive a present, we gave him ten or twelve reals, which he pocketed with admirable nonchalance, saying, ``Dios se lo pague.’’ Taking leave of him, we rode out to the Indians’ huts.  The little children were running about among the huts, stark naked, and the men were not much more; but the women had generally coarse gowns of a sort of tow cloth.  The men are employed, most of the time, in tending the cattle of the Mission, and in working in the garden, which is a very large one, including several acres, and filled, it is said, with the best fruits of the climate.  The language of these people, which is spoken by all the Indians of California, is the most brutish, without any exception, that I ever heard, or that could well be conceived of.  It is a complete slabber.  The words fall off of the ends of their tongues, and a continual slabbering sound is made in the cheeks, outside of the teeth.  It cannot have been the language of Montezuma and the independent Mexicans.

Here, among the huts, we saw the oldest man that I had ever met with; and, indeed, I never supposed that a person could retain life and exhibit such marks of age.  He was sitting out in the sun, leaning against the side of a hut; and his legs and arms, which were bare, were of a dark red color, the skin withered and shrunk up like burnt leather, and the limbs not larger round than those of a boy of five years.  He had a few gray hairs, which were tied together at the back of his head, and he was so feeble that, when we came up to him, he raised his hands slowly to his face, and, taking hold of his lids with his fingers, lifted them up to look at us; and, being satisfied, let them drop again.  All command over the lids seemed to have gone.  I asked his age, but could get no answer but ``Quien sabe?’’ and they probably did not know it.