The heart of the Sierras is inviolate. The word
"Gold" must be whispered to break the charm.
The sun climbs to noon, then slowly sinks to the west. It dips into
the silent sea, mirroring sparkling evening stars.
Stretching to Japan, the Pacific is the mysterious World's End.
Along the brown coast, the sea otter, clad in kingly robes, sports
shyly in the kelp fields. The fur seals stream by unchased to their
misty home in the Pribyloffs. Barking sea-lions clamber around the
jutting rocks. Lazy whales roll on the quiet waters of the bay,
their track an oily wake.
It is the land of siesta, of undreamed dreams, of brooding slumber.
The barbaric diversions of the day are done. The firing squad
leave the guns. The twang of guitar and screech of violin open the
fandango.
The young cavaliers desert the streets. Bibulous dignitaries sit
in council around Governor Alvarado's table. Mexican cigars, wine
in old silver flagons (fashioned by the deft workers of Chihuahua
and Durango), and carafes of aguadiente, garnish the board.
The mahogany table (a mark of official grandeur), transported
from Acapulco, is occupied (below the salt) by the young officers.
Horse-racing, cock-fighting, and gambling on the combat of bear
and bull, have not exhausted their passions.
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