or at a fancy-dress ball. Figaros were on every hand, and Rosinas and
Dons of all degrees. At times a magnificent Caballero dashed by on a
half-tamed bronco. He rode in the shade of a sombrero a yard wide,
crusted with silver embroidery. His Mexican saddle was embossed with
huge Mexican dollars; his jacket as gaily ornamented as a
bull-fighter's; his trousers open from the hip, and with a chain of
silver buttons down their flapping hems; his spurs, huge wheels with
murderous spikes, were fringed with little bells that jangled as he
rode,--and this to the accompaniment of much strumming of guitars and
the incense of cigarros.

Near the Spanish Quarter ran the Barbary Coast. There were the dives
beneath the pavement, where it was not wise to enter; blood was on those
thresholds, and within hovered the shadow of death. Beyond, we entered
Chinatown, as rare a bit of old China as is to be found without the
Great Wall itself. Chinatown has grown amazingly within the last forty
years, but it has in reality gained little in interest. There is more of
it: that is the only difference; and what there is of it is more
difficult of approach. The Joss House, the theatre, with its great
original "continuous performance"--its tragedy half a year in
length,--flourished there. The glittering, spectacular restaurant was
wide open to the public, and so was everything else. That fact made all
the difference between Chinatown in the Fifties and Chinatown forty
years later.

My companion and I tarried long on Dupont Street, between Pacific and
Sacramento Streets. The shops were like peep shows on a larger scale.
How bright they were! how gay with color! how rich with carvings and
curios. Each was like a set-scene on the stage. The shopkeepers and
their aids were like actors in a play. They seemed really to be playing