"It is the spring in California," he thought, with
a sigh that curled at the edge. "However," life
had made him philosophical; "the moments of un-
reasonable happiness are the most enviable no doubt,
for there is neither gall nor satiety in the reaction.
All this is as enchanting as--well, as a woman's
promise. What lies beyond? Illiterate and mer-
cenary Spaniards, vicious natives, and boundless
ennui, one may safely wager. But if all California
is as beautiful as this, no man that has spent a
winter in Sitka should ask for more."

In the extent and variety of his travels Rezanov
had seen Nature more awesome of feature but
never more fair. On his immediate right as he
sailed down the straits toward the narrow entrance
to be known as the Golden Gate, there was little to
interest save the surf and the masses of outlying
rocks where the seals leapt and barked; the shore
beyond was sandy and low. But on his left the last
of the northern mountains rose straight from the
water, the warm red of its deeply indented cliffs
rich in harmony with the green of slope and height.
There was not a tree; the mountains, the promon-
tories, the hills far down on the right beyond the
sand dunes, looked like stupendous waves of lava
that had cooled into every gracious line and fold
within the art of relenting Nature; granted ages
after, a light coat of verdure to clothe the terrible
mystery of birth. The great bay, as blue and tran-