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As usual, the town is built around a large plaza where the population Spaniards, and Indians, wrapped in their ample mantles, sun themselves and lounge, and here, on Sunday, are their amusements. Through the week, however, it is as quiet as possible. The climate is delicious, said to be the most healthy on the coast, and the people do not seem disposed to show any activity except on horseback. Now and then some cavalier, mounted on a fine horse, dashes across the plaza, lasso in hand, his huge spurs and stirrups jingling as he goes. The American population, however, is gradually coming in, and in a few years the place will lost its Spanish characteristics. During the Mexican war, San Diego was taken by Commodore Stockton, and on the hills above are the remains of the breastworks he threw up to command the town.
Opposite to Don Juan’s is a long Spanish house, the residence of the Padre one end of which is fitted up for a chapel. They have a church in progress of erection, but after the walls had been raised, funds …
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