A Hindoo is a Hindoo and a brother to the man who knows his vernacular.And a French-man is French because he speaks his own language.But the American has no language.He is dialect,slang,provincialism,accent,and so forth.Now that I have heard their voices,all the beauty of Bret Harte is being ruined for me,because I find myself catching through the roll of his rhythmical prose the cadence of his peculiar fatherland.Get an American lady to read to you "How Santa Claus Came to Simpson's Bar,"and see how much is,under her tongue,left of the beauty of the original.
But I am sorry for Bret Harte.It happened this way.A reporter asked me what I thought of the city,and I made answer suavely that it was hallowed ground to me,because of Bret Harte.That was true.
"Well,"said the reporter,"Bret Harte claims California,but California don't claim Bret Harte.He's been so long in England that he's quite English.Have you seen our cracker factories or the new offices of the 'Examiner'?"He could not understand that to the outside world the city was worth a great deal less than the man.I never intended to curse the people with a provincialism so vast as this.
But let us return to our sheep--which means the sea-lions of the Cliff House.They are the great show of San Francisco.You take a train which pulls up the middle of the street (it killed two people the day before yesterday,being un-braked and driven absolutely regardless of consequences),and you pull up somewhere at the back of the city on the Pacific beach.Originally the cliffs and their approaches must have been pretty,but they have been so carefully defiled with advertisements that they are now one big blistered abomination.A hundred yards from the shore stood a big rock covered with the carcasses of the sleek sea-beasts,who roared and rolled and walloped in the spouting surges.No bold man had painted the creatures sky-blue or advertised news-papers on their backs,wherefore they did not match the landscape,which was chiefly hoarding.Some day,perhaps,whatever sort of government may obtain in this country will make a restoration of the place and keep it clean and neat.
At present the sovereign people,of whom I have heard so much already,are vending cherries and painting the virtues of "Little Bile Beans"all over it.
Night fell over the Pacific,and the white sea-fog whipped through the streets,dimming the splendors of the electric lights.It is the use of this city,her men and women folk,to parade between the hours of eight and ten a certain street called Cairn Street,where the finest shops are situated.Here the click of high heels on the pavement is loudest,here the lights are brightest,and here the thunder of the traffic is most overwhelming.I watched Young California,and saw that it was,at least,expensively dressed,cheerful in manner,and self-asserting in conversation.Also the women were very fair.
Perhaps eighteen days aboard ship had something to do with my unreserved admiration.The maidens were of generous build,large,well groomed,and attired in raiment that even to my inexperienced eyes must have cost much.Cairn Street at nine o'clock levels all distinctions of rank as impartially as the grave.Again and again I loitered at the heels of a couple of resplendent beings,only to overhear,when I expected the level voice of culture,the staccato "Sez he,""Sez I"that is the mark of the white servant-girl all the world over.
This was depressing because,in spite of all that goes to the contrary,fine feathers ought to make fine birds.There was wealth--unlimited wealth--in the streets,but not an accent that would not have been dear at fifty cents.Where-fore,revolving in my mind that these folk were barbarians,I was presently enlightened and made aware that they also were the heirs of all the ages,and civilized after all.There appeared before me an affable stranger of prepossessing appearance,with a blue and an innocent eye.Addressing me by name,he claimed to have met me in New York,at the Windsor,and to this claim I gave a qualified assent.I did not remember the fact,but since he was so certain of it,why,then--I waited developments.
"And what did you think of Indiana when you came through?"was the next question.
It revealed the mystery of previous acquaintance and one or two other things.With reprehensible carelessness my friend of the light-blue eye had looked up the name of his victim in the hotel register,and read "Indiana"for India.
The provincialism with which I had cursed his people extended to himself.He could not imagine an Englishman coming through the States from west to east instead of by the regularly ordained route.My fear was that in his delight in finding me so responsive he would make remarks about New York and the Windsor which I could not understand.And,indeed,he adventured in this direction once or twice,asking me what I thought of such and such streets,which from his tone I gathered to be anything but respectable.It is trying to talk unknown New York in almost unknown San Francisco.But my friend was merciful.He protested that I was one after his own heart,and pressed upon me rare and curious drinks at more than one bar.These drinks I accepted with gratitude,as also the cigars with which his pockets were stored.He would show me the life of the city.Having no desire to watch a weary old play again,I evaded the offer and received in lieu of the devil's instruction much coarse flattery.
Curiously constituted is the soul of man.Knowing how and where this man lied,waiting idly for the finale,I was distinctly conscious,as he bubbled compliments in my ear,of soft thrills of gratified pride stealing from hat-rim to boot-heels.I was wise,quoth he--anybody could see that with half an eye;sagacious,versed in the ways of the world,an acquaintance to be desired;one who had tasted the cup of life with discretion.
