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Browsing named entities in a specific section of William Hepworth Dixon, White Conquest: Volume 1. Search the whole document.

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Capitan Carlos (search for this): chapter 1
from stone to stone. A chapel stands near the gate, and a door within the chancel opens into a sacristy. Some mural paintings still remain on wall and vault; such painted scrolls and pious messages as you read in village churches of Castille. Angeles Y Santos la Bemos Aj Corozon di Jasvs A door, now rotting into dust, conceals the sacristy. Closed by a wooden peg, this door suggests that some poor soul still cares for the old place. Yes, some one cares. A Rumsen chief, old Capitan Carlos, comes in once a year, to smooth the falling stones and keep his memory of the church alive. On pushing the door ajar, a ray of light, a rush of air, go with us into the sacristy. The floor is mud. A broken table leans against the wall. Above this table hang some poor oil pictures, in the Spanish school of sacred art; a faded Sefora of Carmelo, and by way of balance, a yet more faded Jesu Christo. Covered by dust and grime lie votive offerings of the village sort; among the heaps,
Jesu Christo (search for this): chapter 1
me poor soul still cares for the old place. Yes, some one cares. A Rumsen chief, old Capitan Carlos, comes in once a year, to smooth the falling stones and keep his memory of the church alive. On pushing the door ajar, a ray of light, a rush of air, go with us into the sacristy. The floor is mud. A broken table leans against the wall. Above this table hang some poor oil pictures, in the Spanish school of sacred art; a faded Sefora of Carmelo, and by way of balance, a yet more faded Jesu Christo. Covered by dust and grime lie votive offerings of the village sort; among the heaps, a bunch of forest leaves, and a chaplet of paper flowers. All sorts of creeping things defile the floor and wall. The room smells moist and mouldy; so we turn our faces towards the chancel, leaving our Lady of Carmelo in the gloom, and shutting the door on spiders, centipedes, forest leaves, and artificial flowers. This chancel has a purer interest than the sacristy. Here stood the shrine, and
White Conquest (search for this): chapter 1
rock and slope of sward; and here again, gardenlike copse and musical cascade; each nook commanding a view over cypress knoll, bright stream, green down, and blue illimitable sea. Nestling in a hollow at our feet, half hidden by the forest growths, yet with an out-look over ridge and ocean, lie the broken stones and falling rafters of San Carlos, a Franciscan church, built by Red men, natives of the country, acting under a company of Spanish friars. These friars, heralds of the first White Conquest of the Slope, brought into this corner of the earth the torch of Gospel light, hoping to convert and save some remnants of a savage and neglected tribe. Hitching our mustangs to a pine, and bidding our dogs keep watch, we vault the fence of sundried bricks, and feel our feet within the sacred courts; as sacred in this hour of ruin, as when cross and pyx were carried round these walls by holy men, and angelus and vesper swelled from the choir. The soil is black, the odour aromatic; f
teps. A portion of the roof still rests on solid beams; the rest has fallen in, and helped to choke up nave and chancel. No one seems to care. Starting the squirrels from their holes, the night birds from their nests, we pick our way from stone to stone. A chapel stands near the gate, and a door within the chancel opens into a sacristy. Some mural paintings still remain on wall and vault; such painted scrolls and pious messages as you read in village churches of Castille. Angeles Y Santos la Bemos Aj Corozon di Jasvs A door, now rotting into dust, conceals the sacristy. Closed by a wooden peg, this door suggests that some poor soul still cares for the old place. Yes, some one cares. A Rumsen chief, old Capitan Carlos, comes in once a year, to smooth the falling stones and keep his memory of the church alive. On pushing the door ajar, a ray of light, a rush of air, go with us into the sacristy. The floor is mud. A broken table leans against the wall. Above this tab
Mexico (Mexico) (search for this): chapter 1
ndreds of natives lived within this fence, yet nothing but these heaps of dust and earth remain. Adobe walls soon melt away. The summer sun is frying them to dust; the winter rain is washing them to earth. Each zephyr steals some grains of loam and drops them over wood and field. Ere long, lovers of the past will seek for them in vain. The stone pile may stand a few years longer than the earthen fence. San Carlos is a church of poor materials, put together in the crude though showy Mexican style. No beauty feeds the eye. No magic clothes a gateway; no enchantment lurks in shaft and skyline; yet a sacred edifice is always solemn, and a broken arch affects our feelings like the epitaph on a friend. The pathos of San Carlos lies in the fact of its being the ruin of an Indian's church. No door impedes our entrance to the nave, no rail prevents our passage to the altar-steps. A portion of the roof still rests on solid beams; the rest has fallen in, and helped to choke up nav
San Francisco (California, United States) (search for this): chapter 1
stangs to a pine, and bidding our dogs keep watch, we vault the fence of sundried bricks, and feel our feet within the sacred courts; as sacred in this hour of ruin, as when cross and pyx were carried round these walls by holy men, and angelus and vesper swelled from the choir. The soil is black, the odour aromatic; for at every step, you tread on thyme and sage. Sweet herbs and grasses make their home along these shores. Not long ago, the site now covered by the banks and wharves of San Francisco, was known as Yerba Buena, otherwise Good Herb, the Spanish name for mint; and yet these court-yards of San Carlos are deserted wastes, choked up with briars, and scratched by catamounts into deep and treacherous holes. Along the outer fence stand wrecks of school and bastion, hut and hospital, as desolate as a heap of ruins on the Sea of Galilee. Blocks in which the Red-skins lodged and the Christian fathers prayed, stand open to the sky, hedged in by weeds, and overgrown with grass.
Yerba Buena (California, United States) (search for this): chapter 1
ng our dogs keep watch, we vault the fence of sundried bricks, and feel our feet within the sacred courts; as sacred in this hour of ruin, as when cross and pyx were carried round these walls by holy men, and angelus and vesper swelled from the choir. The soil is black, the odour aromatic; for at every step, you tread on thyme and sage. Sweet herbs and grasses make their home along these shores. Not long ago, the site now covered by the banks and wharves of San Francisco, was known as Yerba Buena, otherwise Good Herb, the Spanish name for mint; and yet these court-yards of San Carlos are deserted wastes, choked up with briars, and scratched by catamounts into deep and treacherous holes. Along the outer fence stand wrecks of school and bastion, hut and hospital, as desolate as a heap of ruins on the Sea of Galilee. Blocks in which the Red-skins lodged and the Christian fathers prayed, stand open to the sky, hedged in by weeds, and overgrown with grass. Some hundreds of natives l