election, we do know where we are. The compass, the chronometer, the
quadrant; what would be the watery world without them!

On the twenty-fourth of July we were just a month at sea. In all that
time we had spoken no ship nor had any glimpse of land, unless I
except a trifle in a flower pot. The captain made his reckoning at
noon, and added to the reading--

"Seventy-five miles from the entrance of Avatcha Bay. We ought to see
land before sunset."

About four in the afternoon we discovered the coast just where the
captain said we should find it. The mountains that serve to guide one
toward Avatcha Bay were exactly in the direction marked on our chart.
To all appearances we were not a furlong from our estimated position.
How easily may the navigator's art appear like magic to the ignorant
and superstitious.

The breeze was light, and we stood in very slowly toward the shore. By
sunset we could see the full outline of the coast of Kamchatka for a
distance of fifty or sixty miles. The general coast line formed the
concavity of a small arc of a circle. As it was too late to enter
before dark, and we did not expect the light would be burning, we
furled all our sails and lay to until morning.

By daybreak we were under steam, and at five o'clock I came on deck to
make my first acquaintance with Asia. We were about twenty miles from
the shore, and the general appearance of the land reminded me of the
Rocky Mountains from Denver or the Sierra Nevadas from the vicinity of
Stockton. On the north of the horizon was a group of four or five