Some geese are wabbling in the drain, some curs sleeping in the sun. Are we not idling through an unknown city in the south of Spain
, folks affect high pedigrees, and give themselves Castilian airs.
Here birth and blood are choicer things than house and land.
Is not the country overrun by Hybrids, sons of savages, daughters of nobody, yet holding up their heads and putting in their claims?
The lower ranks of people admit some taint of blood; but in the church, the plaza, and the barber's shop, no man is less than don and caballero, with a pedigree long enough to amaze a Gael and satisfy a Basque.
No house in Monterey
is fifty years old. Fiftysix years ago, the city built by Don Jose
tivera and the Spanish
friars, was levelled to the earth.
, a French pirate or privateer, ran into the port with two small frigates, flying the flag of Spain
, acting for his royal master, masked a battery near the water's edge, and having placed this battery in charge of Don Jesus de Vallejo
, waited the piratical attack.
Next day, on Buchard
laying one of his ships athwart the