“Oh, it didn’t take the American long to make things hum,” I assured him.  “He arrived here on July second.  Two days later he had built a house and was entertaining all the Spaniards from miles around, at a grand Fourth of July celebration.”

“Quick work even for a Yankee,” laughed my companion.  “But rather hard on his English neighbor, I should think.  Did Richardson attend?”

“Of course he did!  Delivered the invitations, too!  Leese was busy building his house, so the Englishman, in his little launch, called at all the ranchos and settlements about the bay and invited the Spaniards to come to Yerba Buena for a Fourth of July fandango.”

We retraced our steps and a few doors beyond entered the gay, balconied restaurant, in quest of a cup of tea served in Oriental style.  Climbing the steep stairs, we passed the first floor where laborers were being served with steaming bowls of rice; then mounted to the more aristocratic level where we were seated at elaborately carved teakwood tables, inlaid with mother-of-pearl.  While waiting for our tea, we stepped onto the balcony which we had regarded with so much interest from the street.  Above us hung the gorgeous lanterns, swaying like bright bubbles in the breeze, and below moved the silent blue-coated throng.

“So there was a Fourth of July celebration here even in Spanish times?” said the man.  “Somewhat prophetic of the American days to come, wasn’t it?”

We caught a glint of color in the street and leaned far over the balcony to watch a violet-coated Chinese girl thread her way among the sombre crowd.

“It must have been just below us that the early festivities were held,” I suggested.  “Leese’s house was not large enough to accommodate his guests, so a big marquee surmounted by Mexican and American flags, and gaily decorated with bunting, was spread about where the street now runs.  Can’t you picture it all?  The dainty little senoritas in their silk and satin gowns, with filmy mantillas thrown over their heads and shoulders, and the men not less gorgeous in lace-trimmed velvet suits and elaborate serapes.  I can almost hear the applause and the booming of the cannon that followed General Vallejo’s glowing tribute to Washington, and see the graceful Spanish dancers as they assembled for the evening ball.  It was doubtless at this time that Leese met General Vallejo’s fascinating sister, whom he married after a short and business-like courtship.”

“Short, and she a Californian?” He sent me an amused glance.

“Perhaps Leese thought delay dangerous,” I suggested, “for Senorita Maria Rosalia was one of the belles of the new military outpost at Sonoma and more than one gaily clad caballero was suing for her hand.”

“No wonder the American pushed the matter,” laughed my companion.  “Did many Boston men marry Spanish Senoritas?”

“Nearly all who came to the Coast,” I answered.  “The California women were among the most fascinating in the world and held a peculiar charm for these sturdy New Englanders.”