ne, 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 Hote