le for what he calls a nasal accent. A Hindu is a Hindu, and a
brother to the man who knows his vernacular; and a Frenchman 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 and 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.

* * * * *

Night fell over the Pacific, and the white sea-fog whipped through the
streets, dimming the splendours of the electric lights. It is the use of
this city, her men and women, to parade between the hours of eight and
ten a certain street, called Kearney Street, where the finest shops are
situated. Here the click of 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 are very fair. The maidens were of generous
build, large, well-groomed, and attired in raiment that even to my
inexperienced eyes must have cost much. Kearney 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