About two o'clock, P.M., we crossed an _arroyo_ which runs through a
narrow gorge of the hills, and struck an artificial wagon-road,
excavated and embanked so as to afford a passage for wheeled vehicles
along the steep hill-side. A little farther on we crossed a very rudely
constructed bridge. These are the first signs of road-making I have
seen in the country. Emerging from the hills, the southern arm of the
Bay of San Francisco came in view, separated from us by a broad and
fertile plain, some ten or twelve miles in width, sloping gradually
down to the shore of the bay, and watered by several small creeks and
estuaries.
We soon entered through a narrow street the mission of San Jose, or St.
Joseph. Passing the squares of one-story adobe buildings once inhabited
by thousands of busy Indians, but now deserted, roofless, and crumbling
into ruins, we reached the plaza in front of the church, and the
massive two-story edifices occupied by the _padres_ during the
flourishing epoch of the establishment. These were in good repair; but
the doors and windows, with the exception of one, were closed, and
nothing of moving life was visible except a donkey or two, standing
near a fountain which gushed its waters into a capacious stone trough.
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