Making your way through the mazes of the Coast Range to the summit of any Of the inner peaks or passes opposite San Francisco, in the clear spring time, the grandest and most telling of all California landscapes is outspread before you. At your feet lies the great Central Valley glowing golden in the sunshine, extending north and south farther than the eye can reach, one smooth, ﬂowery, lake-like bed of fertile soil. Along its eastern margin rises the mighty Sierra, miles in height, reposing like a smooth, cumulous cloud in the sunny Sky, and so gloriously colored, and so luminous, it seems to be not clothed with light, but Wholly composed of it, like the wall of some celestial city. Along the top, and extending a good way down, you see a pale, pearl-gray belt of snow; and below it a belt of blue and dark purple, marking the extension Of the for ests; and along the base of the range a broad belt Of rose-purple and yellow, where lie the miner's gold fields and the foot-hill gardens. All these colored belts blending smoothly make a wall of light inef fably fine, and as beautiful as a rainbow, yet firm as adamant.