The herald., 1897-12-26
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: THE ALTAR CLOTH OF VALENCIA !
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written for The Herald.)

(Written for The Herald.)
The traveller visiting our city today
finds but few relics left to remind, him
of that romantic past which makes the
history of California so replete with in
terest to the imaginative mind. Some
admirers Of the facile pen OF Bret Harte
expect even now to meet the characters
and live among the scenes Of that writ
er's thrilling stories, and are surprised
ii not little disappointed to find that
Los Angeles ranks among the first of
the modern cities of the age, and that
the ever progressive and restless spirit
of the native born American pervades
the whole West. Yet, although an en-
croaching civilization has cut the once
vast ranches into building lots, and for
the most part replaced the picturesque
adobe with lofty editices of brick and
stone, there yet remains enough OF the
old Ciudad de Los Angeles to attract
the tourist and give a tolerapiy good
idea of what has vanished.
In the first faint hours of morning,
when the changing bells of the street
cars are still, and the light of the wan
| ing moon touches the gray adobe dwell
ings that stretch In silent. mysterious
rows to the river bed, a peculiar thrill. al
most mesmeric, comes to the lonely pc
destrian on the streets of the Latin
quarter. The scent of flowers in the
Plaza park rises on the night air. and the
old palms rustic in the faint breeze.
Every closed door seems to hide story
of austere religion. daring heroism, or
fateful intrigue. One would not be sur
prised to see one Of the barred windows
opened softly. and dark-eyed senorita
beckon with her white hand. But with
the coming of day these illusions vanish.
The adobes remain, but the first rays
of the sun throw into evidence the
squalor of their surroundings. The SEN
Ioritas are there, 1t is true, but one enjoys
most of them better in the imagination
than the flesh.
Aside from Sonoratown there is little
left to remind one of the Spanish occupa-
ton. A few of the old homes are stand
ing, but these are banished to sad OBJ
scurity. Their crumbling wallis could
il they might speak, tell many tale
of gallantry and revelry the more force
full because of their truth. Most OF these
stories have been forgotten in the rush
and hurry of today, but there are some
which have left an indelible mark, ana
although covered with the dust OF years,
can even now quicken the pulses by the
glmpses of passion which they reveal
Down near the river-bed, somewhat
apart from Sonoratown, is an old adobe,
which is blackened by the storms and
baked by the suns of over fifty years.
It's occupants are an old man and wo-
man, who live very simply and have
every appearance Of poverty. There is
nothing about either of them to suggest
a romance. The woman's face Is wr1nk-
led until it resembles parchment; her
form is shapeless, and the shawl which
always covers her gray hair is old and
faded. Yet fifty years ago she was
beauty. and her husband a gallant cab
allero. who owned acres of land. which
have gradually slipped away from him,
laeving only the little plot upon which
his house now stands. There are few
in the settlement as old as they. and
their eyes have seen many changes.
They seldom speak of the past. and it
was only by chance that an impecunious
reporter in search of something new to
offer to the public taste ran across the
couple and made the discovery that the
old woman had in her possession some
old and very valuable pieces OF lace and
drawn work. The owner of these relics
shook her head as she displayed them.
"Yes, they are very nice" she said In her
musical Spanish. but you should have
seen the altar cloth of Valencia. Ah!'
For some time she would say no more,
and it was only after good deal of per-
suasion that she consented to tell the
story OF love and tragic death of which
she was a witness.
Fifty or more years ago the most beau
tiful woman In all of new Spain was
Esperanza de Narela, sole child and
daughter of the house of Varela, one Of
the most aristocratic and powerful fam
lilies of Mexico and Spain. The few per-
sons now living, who saw her face, de-
clare that no woman has lived since her
time who could rival her. 1t is hard TO
tell wherein lay her charm. There were
many with eyes as large and dark as
hers and few with hair as fair-for her
mother was from old CASTLE and had the
golden tresses of the women of that
province-and skin as white.
In the miniature now in existence, the
crimson mouth has cruel curve, which
repels rather than attracts, yet even
about the lifeless picture there is
nameless fascination, which makes it
easy to believe that those who saw her
did not stop to analyZe, but fell captive
to her spell. 1t is said that she had but
to look upon a man and he would die for
her without even hearing her speak.
Some thought her absolutely heartless.
and said that she could look upon the
keenest suffering with smile. Others
contradicted this and said that she was
sir,ply cold, because her love had never
been awakened. But however conflict
ing these reports may be, one thing re-
mains unquestioned, and that was her
supremacy over all other women.
1t was in the early days Of the Spanish
occupation of California that General
de Varela was seized with spirit of
venture and leaving Mexico sought a
home in the newer country. The alcade
of Los Angeles was a relative, and, after
travelling from one place to another, and
being feted at all of them, it was there
that the Don de Varela made his home
His daughter accompanied him, and her
naughty beauty and indolent grace won
her crowds of admirers. Caballeros came
from all over the state to pay court to
her, but she only laughed at one and all.
There are some even now who remem-
ber the famous duel of Fernandez San
Juan and Antonio Viscaino, who fought
to the death for lock of her golden
hair: and the famous ride of the Don del
Valle, who came from San Diego in day
and a night, killing two horses under
him, to dance with her at the Alcalde's