At the Golden Gate
“Serene, indifferent
to fate,
Thou sittest at the
Western Gate;
Thou seest the white
seas fold their tents,
Oh, warder of two
continents;
Thou drawest all things,
small and great,
To thee, beside the
Western Gate.”
This is what Bret Harte has written of the great
city of San Francisco, and for the past fortnight
I have been wondering what made him do it.
There is neither serenity nor indifference to be found
in these parts; and evil would it be for the continents
whose wardship were intrusted to so reckless a guardian.
Behold me pitched neck-and-crop from twenty days of
the high seas into the whirl of California, deprived
of any guidance, and left to draw my own conclusions.
Protect me from the wrath of an outraged community
if these letters be ever read by American eyes!
San Francisco is a mad city—inhabited for
the most part by perfectly insane people, whose women
are of a remarkable beauty.
When the “City of Pekin” steamed through
the Golden Gate, I saw with great joy that the block-house
which guarded the mouth of the “finest harbor
in the world, sir,” could be silenced by two
gunboats from Hong Kong with safety, comfort, and despatch.
Also, there was not a single American vessel of war
in the harbor.
This may sound bloodthirsty; but remember, I had come
with a grievance upon me—the grievance
of the pirated English books.
Then a reporter leaped aboard, and ere I could gasp
held me in his toils. He pumped me exhaustively
while I was getting ashore, demanding of all things
in the world news about Indian journalism. It
is an awful thing to enter a new land with a new lie
on your lips. I spoke the truth to the evil-minded
Custom House man who turned my most sacred raiment
on a floor composed of stable refuse and pine splinters;
but the reporter overwhelmed me not so much by his
poignant audacity as his beautiful ignorance.
I am sorry now that I did not tell him more lies as
I passed into a city of three hundred thousand white
men. Think of it! Three hundred thousand
white men and women gathered in one spot, walking
upon real pavements in front of plate-glass-windowed
shops, and talking something that at first hearing
was not very different from English. It was only
when I had tangled myself up in a hopeless maze of
small wooden houses, dust, street refuse, and children
who played with empty kerosene tins, that I discovered
the difference of speech.
“You want to go to the Palace Hotel?”
said an affable youth on a dray. “What
in hell are you doing here, then? This is about
the lowest ward in the city. Go six blocks north
to corner of Geary and Markey, then walk around till
you strike corner of Gutter and Sixteenth, and that
brings you there.”
I do not vouch for the literal accuracy of these directions,
quoting but from a disordered memory.
