SAN DIEGO.
"The truly magnificent, and--with reason--famous port of San
Diego."--_From the first letter of Father Junipero in Alto
California._
Fifteen cents for motor, ferry, and car will take you to Hotel Florence,
on the heights overlooking the bay, where I advise you to stop. The
Horton House is on an open, sunny site, and is frequented by
"transients" and business men of moderate means. The Brewster is a
first-class hotel, with excellent table. The Florence is not a large
boarding-house or family hotel, but open for all. It has a friendly,
homelike atmosphere, without the exactions of an ultra-fashionable
resort. The maximum January temperature is seventy-four degrees, while
that of July is seventy-nine degrees, and invalid guests at this house
wear the same weight clothing in summer that they do in winter. The
rooms of this house are all sunny, and each has a charming ocean or
mountain view. It is easy to get there; hard to go away. Arriving from
Coronado Beach, I was reminded of the Frenchman who married a quiet
little home body after a desperate flirtation with a brilliant society
queen full of tyrannical whims and capricious demands. When this was
commented on as surprising, he explained that after playing with a
squirrel one likes to take a cat in his lap. Really, it is so restful
that the building suggests a big yellow tabby purring sleepily in the
sunshine. I sat on the veranda, or piazza, taking a sun-bath, in a happy
dream or doze, until the condition of nirvana was almost attained. What
day of the week was it? And the season? Who could tell? And who cares?
Certainly no one has the energy to decide it. Last year, going there to
spend one day, I remained for five weeks, hypnotized by my
environments--beguiled, deluded, unconscious of the flight of time,
serenely happy. Many come for a season, and wake up after five or six
years to find it is now their home. "There seems to exist in this
country a something which cheats the senses; whether it be in the air,
the sunshine, or in the ocean breeze, or in all three combined, I cannot
say. Certainly the climate is not the home-made common-sense article of
the anti-Rocky Mountain States; and unreality is thrown round life--all
walk and work in a dream."
At Coronado Beach one rushes out after breakfast for an all-day
excursion or morning tramp; here one sits and sits, always intending to
go somewhere or do something, until the pile of unanswered letters
accumulates and the projected trips weary one in a dim perspective. It
is all so beautiful, so new, so wonderful! San Diego is the Naples of
America, with the San Jacinto Mountains for a background and the blue
sunlit bay to gaze upon, and one of the finest harbors in the world. Yet
with all this, few have the energy even to go a-fishing.
Now, as a truthful "tourist," I must admit that in the winter there are
many days when the sun does not shine, and the rainy season is not
altogether cheerful for the invalid and the stranger. Sunshine, glorious
golden sunshine, is what we want all the time; but we do not get it. I
noticed that during the heavy rains the invalids retired to their rooms,
overcome by the chill and dampness, and some were seriously ill. But
then they would have been in their graves if they had remained in the
East. There are many charming people residing in San Diego, well, happy,
useful, who know they can never safely return to their old homes.
There has been such a rosy glamour thrown over southern California by
enthusiastic romancers that many are disappointed when they fail to find
an absolute Paradise.
Humboldt said of California: "The sky is constantly serene and of a deep
blue, and without a cloud; and should any clouds appear for a moment at
the setting of the sun, they display the most beautiful shades of
violet, purple, and green."[1]
[Footnote 1: Humboldt had never been in Alta California, and procured
this information in Mexico or Spain.]
Now, after reading that, a real rainy day, when the water leaks through
the roof and beats in at the doors, makes a depressed invalid feel like
a drenched fowl standing forlornly on one leg in the midst of a New
England storm. With snow-covered mountains on one side and the ocean
with its heavy fogs on the other, and the tedious rain pouring down with
gloomy persistence, and consumptives coughing violently, and physicians
hurrying in to attend to a sudden hemorrhage or heart-failure, the scene
is not wholly gay and inspiriting. But when the sun comes forth again
and the flowers (that look to me a little tired of blooming all the
time) brighten up with fresh washed faces, and all vegetation rejoices
and you can almost see things grow, and the waves dance and glitter, and
the mountains no longer look cold and threatening but seem like painted
scenery, _a la_ Bierstadt, hung up for our admiration, and the valleys
breathe the spicy fragrance of orange blossoms, we are once more happy,
and ready to rave a little ourselves over the much-talked-of "bay 'n'
climate." But there are dangers even on the sunniest day. I know a
young physician who came this year on a semi-professional tour, to try
the effects of inhalations on tuberculosis, and it was so delightfully
warm that he straightway took off his flannels, was careless about night
air, and was down with pneumonia.
The tourist or traveller who writes of San Diego usually knows nothing
of it but a week or two in winter or early spring.
Southern California has fifty-two weeks in the year, and for two thirds
of this time the weather is superb.
I can imagine even a mission Indian grunting and complaining if taken to
our part of the country in the midst of a week's storm. We flee from
deadly horrors of climate to be fastidiously critical. If, in midsummer,
sweltering sufferers in New York or Chicago could be transported to this
land they would not hurry away. The heat is rarely above eighty-five
degrees, and nearly always mitigated by a refreshing breeze from the
bay. I am assured that there have not been five nights in as many years
when one or more blankets have not been necessary for comfort. In summer
everything is serene. No rain, no thunder-storms, no hail, or
water-spouts. (The dust pest is never spoken of!) The picnic can be
arranged three weeks ahead without an anxious thought about the weather.
The summer sunsets are marvellously beautiful.
One must summer and winter here before he can judge fairly, and the
hyper-sensitive should tarry in New Mexico or in the desert until
spring. I believe that rheumatic or neuralgic invalids should avoid the
damp resorts to which they are constantly flocking only to be
dissatisfied. Every sort of climate can be found in the State, so that
no one has the right to grumble.
Do not take off flannels, although the perspiration does trickle down
the side of your face as you sit in the sun. A fur cape is always needed
to protect one shoulder from a chilling breeze while the other side is
toasted. It is not safe for new-comers to be out-of-doors after four or
five o'clock in the afternoon, nor must they ride in open cars except
in the middle of the day. These innocent diversions give the doctors
their support.
Bill Nye, with his usual good sense, refused to drive in a pouring rain
to view the scenery and orchards when visiting San Diego in March, and
says: "Orange orchards are rare and beautiful sights, but when I can sit
in this warm room, gathered about a big coal fire, and see miles of them
from the window, why should I put on my fur overcoat and a mackintosh in
order to freeze and cry out with assumed delight every half-mile while I
gradually get Pomona of the lungs?"
There are many places worth visiting if you can rouse yourselves for the
effort. Point Loma, twelve miles distant, gives a wonderful view, one of
the finest in the world. I warrant you will be so famished on arriving
that you will empty every lunch-basket before attending to the outlook.
National City, Sweet Water Dam, Tia Juana (Aunt Jane), La Jolla--you
will hear of all these. I have tried them and will report.
The Kimball brothers, Warren and Frank, who came from New Hampshire
twenty-five years ago and devoted their energies to planting orchards of
oranges, lemons, and olives, have made the desert bloom, and found the
business most profitable. You will like to watch the processes of
pickling olives and pressing out the clear amber oil, which is now used
by consumptives in preference to the cod-liver oil. Many are rubbed with
it daily for increasing flesh. It is delicious for the table, but the
profits are small, as cotton-seed oil is much cheaper. Lemons pay better
than oranges, Mr. Kimball tells me. Mrs. Flora Kimball has worked side
by side with her husband, who is an enthusiast for the rights of woman.
She is progressive, and ready to help in every good work, with great
executive ability and a hearty appreciation of any good quality in
others.
It does not pay to take the trip to Mexico if time is limited, there is
so little of Mexico in it. After leaving the train and getting into an
omnibus, the voluble darkey in charge soon shouts out, "We are now
crossing the line," but as no difference of scene is observed, it is not
deeply impressive. One young fellow got out and jumped back and forth
over the line, so that if asked on his return if he had been to Mexico
he could conscientiously answer, "Oh yes, many times." We were then
taken to the custom-house, where we mailed some hastily scribbled
letters for the sake of using a Mexican stamp,--some preferred it
stamped on a handkerchief. And near by is the curio store, where you
find the same things which are seen everywhere, and where you will
doubtless buy a lot of stuff and be sorry for it. But whatever other
folly you may be led into, let me implore you to wholly abstain from
that deadly concoction, the Mexican _tamale_. Ugh! I can taste mine now.
A _tamale_ is a curious and dubious combination of chicken hash, meal,
olives, red pepper, and I know not what, enclosed in a corn-husk,
steamed until furiously hot, and then offered for sale by Mexicans in
such a sweet, appealing way that few can resist the novelty. It has a
more uncertain pedigree than the sausage, and its effects are serious.
A friend of mine tasted a small portion of one late at night. It was
later before she could sleep, and then terrible nightmares intruded upon
her slumber. Next morning she looked so ill and enfeebled, so unlike her
rosy self, that we begged to know the cause. The tale was thrilling. She
thought a civil war had broken out and she could not telegraph to her
distant spouse. The agony was intense. She must go to him with her five
children, and at once. They climbed mountains, tumbled into canons, were
arrested in their progress by cataracts and wild storms, and even the
hostile Indian appeared in full war-paint at a point above. This awoke
her, only to fall into another horrible situation. An old lover suddenly
returned, tried to approach her; she screamed, "I am now a married
woman!"--he lifted his revolver, and once again she returned to
consciousness and the _tamale_, and brandy, and Brown's Jamaica ginger.
If she had eaten half the _tamale_ the pistol would doubtless have
completed its deadly work. A kind old gentleman of our party bought a
dozen to treat us all. We were obliged to refuse, and it was amusing to
watch him in his endeavor to get rid of them. At last he made several
journeys to the car door, throwing out a few each trip in a solemn way.
He didn't want to hurt the feelings of the natives by casting them all
out at once.
Sweet Water Dam is a triumph of engineering, one of the largest dams in
the world, holding six million gallons of water, used for irrigating
ranches in Sweet Water Valley; and at La Jolla you will find pretty
shells and clamber down to the caves. There the stones are slippery, and
an absorbing flirtation should be resisted, as the tide often intrudes
most unexpectedly, and in dangerous haste. Besides the caves the
attractions are the fishing and the kelp beds. These kelp beds form a
submarine garden, and the water is so clear that one can see beautiful
plants, fish, etc., at forty or fifty feet below the sea surface--not
unlike the famous sea-gardens at Nassau in the Bahamas. There is a good
hotel, open the year round.
Lakeside is a quiet inland retreat twenty-two miles from San Diego,
where many go for a little excursion and change of air. The Lakeside
Hotel has seventy large rooms and complete appointments. The table is
supplied with plenty of milk and _real_ cream from their own cows,
vegetables and fruit from the neighboring ranches, game in its season,
shot on the lake near by, and, in the valleys, meats from homegrown
stock. The guests who are not too invalidish often go out for long
drives, never forgetting the lunch-baskets. One day we try the Alpine
stage. Winding across the mesa at the rear of the hotel, we have a
lovely view of the little lake half hidden in the trees, reflecting in
its quiet surface the mountains that rise up beyond it. Gradually
climbing upward, we come to a tract of land that is watered by the
Flume. To our surprise we learn that this is practically frostless, and
that since this has been discovered many young orchards of oranges and
lemons have been planted. The red mesa land on the side-hills will not
be touched by the frosts of a cold night when the valley at its foot
will have enough frost to kill all tender growth. This is a new
discovery, and has placed thousands of acres on the market as suitable
for the culture of citrus fruits. Do you notice how the appearance of
the landscape is changing? The nearer hills are much sharper and
steeper, and their sides are studded by great boulders. There are stone
walls, and here and there are great flocks of sheep. The horses stop of
their own accord at a lovely spot where they are used to getting a drink
of cool spring water. Did any ever taste quite so good as that drunk
from an old dipper after a long warm drive? The live-oaks and sycamores
look too inviting to be resisted, and we get out to explore while the
horses are resting. Underneath the evergreen shade we pick up some of
the large pointed acorns and carry them away as souvenirs. This would be
a delightful spot for a picnic, but we have many miles before us and
must go on. In a few more miles we reach a little town known as
"Alpine." In the distance looms the Viejas, and if any of the party wish
to travel over a grade, now is the opportunity. The top of the grade
brings us to a lovely view. Eastward is an unbroken chain of
mountain-peaks, from whose summits may be seen the broad Pacific on one
side and the Colorado Desert on the other.
One of the favorite drives is into the Monte. This is a large park or
tract of a thousand acres. On each side the hills rise, and in front El
Cajon shows new beauties with every step of the way. Great live-oaks
with enormous trunks, ancient sycamores, elders, and willows make in
some spots a dense shade. On the edge of the hillsides the Flume may be
seen, which furnishes many ranches as well as the city of San Diego with
the purest mountain water. Underneath the trees and up on the rocks the
lover of flowers and ferns will scramble. There are the dainty
forget-me-nots, tiny flowers of starry white, flowers of pale orange
with centres of deep maroon, the wild galliardia, and the wild peony
with its variegated leaves. Many other delicate blossoms which we cannot
stop to describe are there too. And the ferns! All kinds may be found
by the initiated, and many are close at hand. The fern lined with gold
or with silver, the running ferns, the ferns of lace-like fineness, the
ferns as soft as velvet, all growing in the greatest profusion. And each
day of the week a different drive and new delights.
There is the valley of El Cajon ("the box"), which should be visited in
grape-picking time. The great Boston ranch alone employs three hundred
and twenty-five pickers. Men, women, children, all busy, and the grapes
when just turned are sweet, spicy, and delicious, making the air
fragrant. This valley is dotted with handsome villas and prosperous
ranches. The range of mountains which looms up before us from the
veranda of the hotel is not yet dignified by a name, yet it is more
imposing than the White Mountains, and in the distance we see old
Cuyamaca, nearly seven thousand feet high. But we must take the next
train for San Diego, or this chapter will be a volume in itself. And I
have not even alluded to the "Great Back Country."
The founder of San Diego is still living, still hopeful, still young at
heart. "Father" Horton, the typical pioneer, deserves more honors than
he has yet received. Coming from Connecticut to California in 1851, he
soon made a small fortune in mining, buying and selling gold-dust, and
providing the diggers with ice and water for their work. He rode over
the country in those lawless times selling the precious dust disguised
as a poverty-stricken good-for-naught, with trusty revolver always in
his right hand on the pommel of the saddle--the handsome green saddle
covered with an old potato sack. In this way he evaded the very men who
had been on his track for weeks. Once he came near capture. He passed a
bad-looking lot of horsemen, one of whom had a deep red scar the whole
length of his cheek. He got by safely, but one, looking round,
exclaimed, "My God! That's Horton! I see the green saddle." And back
they dashed to kill him and gain his treasure, but he escaped into a
canon, and they lost their one chance.
At another time he had $3500 in gold in his belt, and at a tavern of
poor repute he could hear through cracks in the floor of his bedroom the
gamblers below laughing about the old greenhorn above who had his supper
of mush and milk and had asked for a lock on his door.
Returning East _via_ Panama in 1856, he proved himself a hero and a
soldier during the terrible riot there. The natives, angry because they
had lost the money they used to make in transporting passengers,
attacked the foreigners, killing and plundering all who came in their
way, the police turning traitors and aiding them. The hotel was
attacked, and among all the passengers only three were armed. Mr. Horton
and these two young men stood at the top of the stairs and shot all who
tried to get nearer. When they fell back eight rioters were dead and
others wounded. Then Mr. Horton formed the two hundred passengers in
order and marched them off to a lighter, and put them aboard the
steamer. About half this number wanted to go on to San Francisco, but
had lost all their money and baggage. Mr. Ralston and Mr. Horton helped
many to pay their passage, but not one person was ever heard of again,
not one cent was returned, not even one word of gratitude or good
intentions.
Up to the period which is known as the boom of 1870-71, the history of
San Diego was so interwoven and closely connected with the life of Mr.
Horton that the story of one is inseparable from that of the other.
When Mr. Horton came from San Francisco to see the wonderful harbor
described by friends, there was nothing there but two old buildings, the
barren hillsides, and the sheep pastures.
His gifts to the city and to individuals amount to a present valuation
of over a million of dollars. Of the nine hundred acres of land which he
originally bought (a part of the Mexican grant) at twenty-seven cents an
acre, he owns but little.
But it is to his common sense, foresight, and business ability that the
present city owes much of its success; and it is interesting to hear him
tell of exciting adventures in "Poker Flat," and other places which Bret
Harte has worked up so successfully.
Lieut. George H. Derby is amusingly associated with "Old Town," the
former San Diego, three miles from the present city. He had offended
Jefferson Davis, then Secretary of War, by his irreverent wit, and was
punished by exile to this then almost unknown region, which he called
"Sandy Ague," chiefly inhabited by the flea, the horned toad, and the
rattlesnake. Mr. Ames, of the _Herald_, a democratic paper, asked Derby,
a stanch whig, to occupy the editorial chair during a brief absence. He
did so, changing its politics at once, and furnishing funny articles
which later appeared as "Phoenixiana," and ranked him with Artemus Ward
as a genuine American humorist. Here is his closing paragraph after
those preposterous somersaults and daring pranks as editor _pro tem_:
"Very little news will be found in the _Herald_ this week; the fact is,
there never is much news in it, and it is very well that it is so; the
climate here is so delightful that residents in the enjoyment of their
_dolce far niente_ care very little about what is going on elsewhere,
and residents of other places care very little about what is going on
in San Diego, so all parties are likely to be gratified with the little
paper, 'and long may it wave.'"
The present city has eighteen thousand inhabitants, twenty-three church
organizations, remarkably fine schools, a handsome opera-house, broad
asphalt pavements, electric lights, electric and cable cars,--a compact,
well-built city, from the fine homes on the Heights to the business
portion near the water.
In regard to society, I find that the "best society" is much the same
all over the civilized world. Accomplished, cultured, well-bred men and
women are found in every town and city in California. And distance from
metropolitan privileges makes people more independent, better able to
entertain themselves and their guests, more eagerly appreciative of the
best in every direction.
"O city reflecting thy might from the sea,
There is grandeur and power in the future for thee,
Whose flower-broidered garments the soft billows lave,
Thy brow on the hillside, thy feet in the wave."
Many of San Diego's guests have no idea of her at her best. The majority
of winter tourists leave California just as Mother Nature braces up to
do her best with wild-flowers, blossoming orchards, and waving
grain-fields. The summers are really more enjoyable than the winters.
When the Nicaragua Canal is completed it will be a pleasant trip to San
Diego from any Atlantic seaport. A railroad to Phoenix, Arizona, _via_
Yuma, will allow the melting, panting, gasping inhabitants of New Mexico
and Arizona an opportunity to get into a delightfully cool climate.
THE INDIANS AND THE MISSION FATHERS.
As for Indians, I have never seen such Indians as Helen Hunt Jackson
depicts so lovingly. I have never seen any one who has seen one. They
existed in her imagination only, as did Fenimore Cooper's noble redmen
of the forest solely in his fancy. Both have given us delightful novels,
and we are grateful.
The repulsive stolid creatures I have seen at stations, with sullen
stare, long be-vermined locks, and filthy blankets full of fleas, are
possibly not a fair representation of the remnants of the race. They
have been unfairly dealt with. I am glad they can be educated and
improved. They seem to need it. After reading "Ramona" and Mrs.
Jackson's touching article on the "Mission Indians in California," and
then looking over the opinions of honest writers of a previous
generation regarding the Indians, it is more puzzling than ever. The
following criticisms apply exclusively to the Southern Californian
tribes.
Mr. Robinson, after a twenty years' residence among them, said: "The
Indian of California is a species of monkey; he imitates and copies
white men, but selects vice in preference to virtue. He is hypocritical
and treacherous, never looks at any one in conversation, but has a
wandering, malicious gaze. Truth is not in him."
And the next testimony is from an Indian curate: "The Indians lead a
life of indolence rather than devote themselves to the enlightening of
their souls with ideas of civilization and cultivation; it is repugnant
to their feelings, which have become vitiated by the unrestricted
customs among them. Their inclination to possess themselves of the
property of others is unbounded. Their hypocrisy when they pray is as
much to be feared as their insolence when in tumultuous disorder. They
are never grateful for any benefit, nor do they pardon an injury, and
they never proffer civilities, unless to accomplish some interested
motive. They are ready to expose themselves to the greatest danger to
satisfy their predominant passions. The future from them is ever veiled
by the present. Their inconstancy and want of confidence deprives them
of friends, and he who by deception holds them in subjection may reduce
them to almost abject slavery."
Dana, speaking of the language of the Californian Indians, described it
as "brutish" and "a complete slabber."
The missionary Fathers did their best to teach and convert them, and the
missions must be spoken of. So we will go back a little.
No one knows how California was so named. St. Diego was the patron saint
of Spain. St. Francis, who founded the Franciscan order, was a gay young
Italian, who after conversion led a life of mortification and extreme
self-denial, tramped about like a beggar, scourged himself, slept on
ground, rolled in snow to subdue the flesh, fasted, wept until he was
almost blind, saw visions, like all other great religious leaders,
received messages directly from Christ, and was at last rewarded with
the stigmata (the marks of the crucifix on his body), and commemoration
after death.
Father Junipero, of this order, was appointed presiding missionary of
California, and arrived July, 1769, erected a great cross on the coast,
celebrated mass, and commenced his work. Like St. Francis, he was
earnest, devout, pure, and self-sacrificing, blessed with wonderful
magnetism. Once, while exhorting his hearers to repent, he scourged his
own shoulders so unmercifully with a chain that his audience shuddered
and wept; and one man, overcome by emotion, rushed to the pulpit,
secured the chain, and, disrobing, flogged himself to death. This holy
Father believed that he was especially protected by Heaven, and that
once, when journeying on a desolate road, he was hospitably entertained
by the Holy Family.
He said, "I have placed my faith in God, and trust in His goodness to
plant the standard of the holy cross not only at San Diego, but even as
far as Monterey."
And this was done in less than ten years, but with many discouragements.
The first Indian who was induced to bring his baby for baptism got
frightened, and dashed away, taking, however, the handsome piece of
cloth which had been wrapped around the child for the ceremony.
Next there was an attack with arrows; in less than a month serious
fighting followed; and later more than one thousand Indians joined in
the attack. One priest was killed and all inhabitants of the mission
more or less wounded, and the mission itself was burned. The present
ruins are the "new" buildings on the site of the old, completed in 1784,
the walls of adobe four feet thick, the doorways and windows of burnt
tiles. These half-cylindrical plates of hard-burnt clay were used to
protect the inmates from the sun and the burning arrows of the Indians,
and are now greatly valued as relics.
In front is the orchard of three hundred olive trees, more than a
century old, still bearing a full crop, and likely to do so for
centuries to come. As the Indians disliked work much, and church
services more, they were encouraged in both matters by rather forcible
means, as the Irishman "enticed" the pig into his pen with a pitchfork.
We "tourists" who, dismounting from our carriages, view with sentimental
reverence the picturesque ruins, the crumbling arches, the heavy bells
now silent but mutely telling a wondrous story of the past, and tiptoe
quietly through the damp interiors, gazing at pictures of saints and of
hell and paradise, dropping our coins into the box at the door, and
going out duly impressed to admire the architecture or the carving, or
the general fine effect against the sky of fleckless blue--we picture
these sable neophytes coming gladly, bowing in devout homage, delighted
to learn of God and Duty, and cheerfully cooeperating with the good
priests who had come so far to teach them. In 1827 the San Diego mission
had within its boundaries an Indian population of 1500, 10,000 head of
cattle, 17,000 sheep, and more than 1000 horses. But Mr. Robinson tells
us that the Indians were dragged to service, were punished and chained
if they tried to escape, and that it was not unusual to see numbers of
them driven along by a leader and forced with a whip-lash into the doors
of the sanctuary.
It is said that they were literally enslaved and scared into submission
by dreadful pictures of hell and fear of everlasting torment. After
church they would gamble, and they often lost everything, even wives and
children. They were low, brutal, unintelligent, with an exceedingly
limited vocabulary and an unbounded appetite. A man is as he eats, and,
as some one says, "If a man eats peanuts he will think peanuts."
"There was nothing that could be swallowed and digested which the San
Diego Indian would not eat. Snakes, half roasted and even raw, were
toothsome dainties. The horned toad and the lizard had favorite places
at each repast. Human parasites were not refused, and mice, gophers,
bats, caterpillars, worms, entrails, and even carrion, were consumed
with a greed that did not stop at pounds. Hittel says that twenty-four
pounds of meat in a day was not too much for a Californian Indian, and
Baegart mentions the case of one native who ate seventeen watermelons at
a sitting. The smoking of wild tobacco was carried on to equal excess."
The saintly Fathers deserve unlimited praise for making them accomplish
so much and behave as well as they did. Those New Englanders who
criticise them as severe in discipline must remember that at the same
period our ancestors were persecuting Quakers and burning witches. The
beautiful hospitality of these early priests should also be mentioned.
Alfred Robinson described a miracle play which he saw performed at San
Diego at Christmas, in 1830, as akin to the miracle plays of mediaeval
Europe. The actors took the part of Gabriel, Lucifer, shepherds, a
hermit, and Bartolo, a lazy vagabond who was the clown and furnished the
element of comedy: the whole interspersed with songs and incidents
better adapted to the stage than to the church.