SINCE landing in New York the Herr Director and the Frau Directorin had endured many a formal reception; she with angelic patience, and he with the usual masculine aversion to formal social amenities.

When I announced that a reception was to be tendered us in San Francisco, he cried with uplifted hands, “Um Gottes Willen!” He did not object to really meeting people; but to stand in line an hour or two shaking hundreds of outstretched hands, not knowing nor caring much to whom they belonged, seemed to him a profitless exercise; while our wafers and tea, or our punch—without those ingredients which give the “punch” to punch—were gastronomic delusions to one accustomed to the abundant meat and drink attendant upon social occasions in Germany.

This particular reception was to be given us by the Chinese, and a committee of stately, solemn looking gentlemen called for us in carriages; despite the Herr Director’s reluctance, I am sure he was delighted to have this chance of giving his jaded social appetite a new sensation.

Chinatown, with its gay coloring, its tempting shops, its stolid-looking men, its quaint women and cunning babies, was made doubly fascinating to us, entering it officially conducted and riding in state.

I do not know to this day to just what facts or virtues or position in life we owe the attentions we received; but it was all recorded upon posters and handbills liberally distributed through Chinatown, announcing our advent. Recorded upon them in those picturesque characters with which the Chinese language puzzles its readers, were the names and eulogies of certain members of our party. The character which stood for the Herr Director looked like a top, a tree and a barrel, while his nativity and manifold virtues were made known in other artistic symbols.

I suspect that the man to blame for it all was a certain young American whose mixed ancestry has created a rare and most effective personality. He has inherited all the grace of his French ancestors, the tenacity (a virtue in which he excels) of his Dutch or double Dutch progenitors, and I am sure he can claim kinship with the first man who “kissed the Blarney stone.” He could pull the latch-string to any foreign colony in that great conglomerate of peoples, and always be greeted as one of them. The Young Men’s Christian Association, in whose name he served, could not have had a more worthy exponent of its social creed, and America could not have projected against these foreigners a better representative than Charles W. Blanpied.

The reception was held in the Chinese Presbyterian Church, and upon our arrival we found it crowded by a solemn-looking company of Chinese. We were conducted to the platform and introduced to his Excellency the Consul-General, ministers of various denominations, and dignitaries of Chinatown.

This was the first reception we attended where introductions were not followed by vigorous hand-shaking. I am inclined to believe that the softness of the Oriental palm is due to the fact that it is not vigorously pressed every time two men meet each other.

The Herr Director was in ecstasy over the beautiful Chinese girls in the choir. Doubtless he would have preferred sitting among them, rather than where he was, between the Consul-General and the chairman of the evening.

The reception opened with prayer, as if it were a church service; then the choir sang an anthem, followed by four speeches of welcome. The first by his Excellency the Consul-General lasted an hour and seemed much longer, because it was in Chinese and unintelligible to us.

I was asked to respond, and, under the circumstances, my remarks were brief. The clever interpreter made a good deal of them, judging by the length of time it took him, and the tumultuous applause with which every sentence was greeted.

The Herr Director told me it was the poorest speech he ever heard; but I am inclined to believe that he was a little jealous because he was not asked to speak; or perhaps he was merely trying to keep me humble, a course which he had consistently pursued from the day I met him in New York.

The reception closed with the benediction, and the dignitaries and guests proceeded to a Chinese restaurant which was genuinely Oriental; not one of those nondescript Chop Suey places which serve such varied and often objectionable purposes. The entire establishment was reserved for us. It was gayly decorated with the banners of the Youngest Republic, an orchestra played vigorously and so unmelodiously that the Herr Director was reminded of the ultra modern German compositions.

The menu was the most mysterious thing of the evening, ranging from tea to broiled seaweed, and eggs which looked their age and were not ashamed of it. There was fowl which was made unrecognizable to both the eye and the palate, something which tasted like glue flavored with onion, and something else which to my perverted Occidental palate seemed like stewed Turkish towels. There were sweetmeats before and after and between courses. Beside the mystery, the variety and novelty of the banquet, it had one other virtue; it was not followed by after dinner speeches, that common American practice which is an assault upon one’s digestion, and, not infrequently, upon good taste.

While there were no after dinner speeches, we had a chance to discuss the problem of the Chinese in California, and their brave attempts to become Americanized in thought and feeling, in spite of the unyielding race prejudice they have had to meet; thus renewing our faith in our common origin and destiny, regardless of our apparent differences. Never before had I realized how gentle these Chinese are nor how altogether likeable, and it was no surprise to find that some of the Californians have made the same discovery, and are treating them accordingly.

We visited the Immigrant Station at San Francisco and I wished we had not; for our treatment of the incoming Orientals lacks all those elements of which I had boasted. We are neither humane, nor fair, neither wise, nor decent. We found young Chinese women who had been detained for more than a year, and were left without occupation or suitable companionship or even a hope of early release. There were Chinese boys who were herded with hardened, vicious-looking men, and the station, although ideally situated, was little better than a prison. What was done or was allowed to be done to make the lot of these people more bearable was accomplished by outsiders. Conditions may have changed since that time, and if they have, it is a cause for profound gratitude.

We also had an unusual opportunity to come in touch with the Japanese all along the coast. In one city we met a young Japanese, a graduate of my own college. He is now serving his countrymen there as a Buddhist priest. He has brought to his sacred calling much of the practical religion which he absorbed through his contact with the college Y. M. C. A., and it is his ambition to make Buddhism efficient and serviceable. He has put into the work all his patrimony and is eager to build up an institution patterned after the Young Men’s Christian Association.

We had many a confidential talk, and if the soul of the Oriental is not altogether inscrutable I have had a glimpse of it; although I cannot say that I have fathomed his soul any more than he has mine. He seemed to me to typify his race in a remarkable degree. His is a strong, unyielding, definite kind of ethnos, and while we liked each other and tried to understand one another, there seemed to be a place just before we reached our Holy of Holies where we stood before a barred gate.

When he told me that the American soul is absolutely unemotional in comparison with the Japanese, I knew he did not understand us; even as I did not understand the Japanese when I told him that his people are cold and unemotional in comparison with us.

He took us to his temple in the basement of a shabby looking American tenement. He showed us his Sunday-school room, picture cards with Golden Texts, club and class rooms, and many devices borrowed from us, applied and perhaps improved upon by his Japanese genius. The day we left the city he brought us an invitation to luncheon at the home of the most prominent Japanese merchant in the place. Our hostess was a delightful woman educated in a Methodist school in her native country, and of course spoke English. Her husband, a conservative Buddhist, although he had been in this country for twenty years, was still Japanese to the core and spoke little or no English. There were several notables present, whose English was more or less Japanned. They were keen, well educated, and had absorbed enough of American culture to be baseball “fans.”

During luncheon, which in our honor was served À la Nippon, we discussed the anti-Japanese legislation which at that time was menacing the peaceful relationship of the two countries.

All the Japanese agreed that they had no right to demand unrestricted immigration; but they were urgent that no crass distinction should be made between them and other races, and that they too should have the right to obtain citizenship when they had proved themselves fitted for it.

During this discussion the Frau Directorin and our host were carrying on a picturesque conversation; that is she did the talking and he smilingly said “Yes” to everything she said. She felt highly flattered that he understood her English, which was still about seventy-five per cent. German, while his was ninety-nine per cent. Japanese.

That night as we were leaving the city a delegation met us at the station to complete their Oriental hospitality by presenting us with beautiful and valuable souvenirs.

After such brief and friendly relationships with these people it is easy to come to very one-sided conclusions about the problem they present to the people of California. The situation is serious, but not so serious that, in order to try to meet it, we must cease to be gentlemanly in our relation to them.

It is the peculiarity of all people who face race problems, to face them irrationally and to think that in order to maintain racial dignity one must insult, demean, and humble other races; and the people of the United States in general, and those of the Pacific Coast in particular, have not yet learned a better and more rational way.

Strong race prejudice is not necessarily a sign of race superiority, and the people who constantly proclaim their superiority by humiliating and persecuting others have a hard time proving it.

If what I was frequently told is true, that California “wants no immigrants unless they are something between a mule and a man,” then I can understand their animosity towards the Japanese; for they are altogether human and want to be so treated.

Beside the many racial varieties with which we came in contact on the Pacific Coast, we found there all the types produced in the United States, and while neither the Herr Director nor myself was able to differentiate them by external variation, we discovered them by different and contending ideals. From that standpoint they were even more interesting than the Orientals. Every shade of political and religious opinion, every kind of economic doctrine, every variety of social standards we found, besides currents and cross currents not easily discerned or classified. In spite of the difference in race, class, religion and politics, we found three well defined ideas expressed, upon which there is such an agreement that they might be called the California Confession of Faith.

First and foremost is the belief in the climate and the resources of the state. There is no religious doctrine in existence unless it be the monotheism of the Jews, which is so dogmatically held as this faith, that California is unsurpassed in climate, productiveness, in all those opportunities for a leisurely existence (provided you have worked hard elsewhere to get the necessary money) as are offered by its mountains and sea, its luxuriant homes and all other factors which contribute to the health and happiness of mankind. The only possible rival to California is Heaven itself, and just because in these unbelieving and unregenerate days so many people are not sure that there is such a place, or if there is, are in doubt that they will have a mansion reserved for them, they are leaving the farms and towns of the more mundane Middle West and prosperous East to get a taste of Heaven in California before they go to that “bourne from which no” wanderer has returned.

The people of California forgive any heresy or unbelief except a doubt, however faint, about its climate and resources. From the shadow of Mount Shasta to the deepest depth of the Imperial Valley, whether we were so cold in summer as to need furs, or were hot enough to melt, or were choking from dust when we travelled through miles of unredeemed desert, we found this faith in the climate and resources of California unshaken.

The Herr Director asked why there were so many cemeteries in the midst of the most crowded streets, and only a nearer look convinced him that they were “for sale” signs of rival real estate agents, who flourish equally with the sage-brush and cactus.

The second idea upon which there is a common agreement is, that while California in particular is perfect as to climate and resources, the world in general is a dire place, and its wrongs need to be righted.

In spite of the fact that the climate invites to leisure, it has not as yet tamed the fighting spirit of this fine, manly race, which is never so happy as when it has something to do and dare. This state has admitted women to the duties of citizenship, that all may have an equal share in the fight. The issues at stake are worth battling for, and nowhere else is the struggle more intense and dramatic. Organized labor and capital have crippled each other in the desperate conflict, fierce always, and often brutal. Protestantism, unorganized and frequently inefficient, faces the Roman Catholic hierarchy, defending, as it believes, the public schools and democratic government itself: awakening, purified democracy is in deadly conflict with the demagogue entrenched by special privilege while the prohibitionists are engaged in most desperate conflict with the vinous industry of the state.

The third doctrine of the California Confession of Faith is, that here on the Pacific Coast the white race has been providentially placed to defend this country against the encroachment of the “Yellow Peril.” It was illuminating though painful to find that race prejudice is as intense here as in the South, and as unreasoning, and that one is as helpless against it as against a flood or fire. All one seems to be able to do is to accept it as a fact, and treat it like a contagious disease.

If there is any danger to the white race at the Pacific Coast, it is not the presence of the Japanese or Chinese in limited numbers; it is the attitude of mind which has been created among Americans there, and that may bring its own vengeance.

It was a great joy to introduce my guests to California, its orange groves and vineyards, its marvellous cities and palatial homes. It is a state to glory in; but strange to say I was somewhat depressed when I left it. The Herr Director said he missed my “brag and bluster.”

Everything was beautiful and bountiful, even as the real estate agents have advertised; yet there were some things I found and some things I missed which took the “brag and bluster” out of me.

Its pioneer spirit is weakened by the accession of a large, leisure class, and how or where the next generation will find a grappling place for vigor of body, mind and spirit, is still a great question. To eat one’s bread by the sweat of some ancestor’s brow, to be challenged daily by the luxury of a limousine rather than by the hardships of the prairie schooner, to have as the end and aim of one’s day the winning of a Polo match, or the making of a golf score, must ultimately bring about a decadence of spirit, even though one retains for a while litheness of body and activity of mind.

The boasted democracy of California is threatened, not only by the presence of a large leisure class and the necessary serving if not servant class, but also by a lack of faith in humanity, without which no democracy is safe and enduring. To California has been transferred all that unfaith gendered by the advent of the negro, and if there were ever a chance to revive the institution of slavery, that state might offer some hope for its revival.

The Californians who fear for the white race because of the presence of the Oriental, whom that fear has made vain, boastful, ungenerous and reckless of the feelings of others, need to know that a greater danger threatens the race—the decay of the democratic spirit, which languishes and perishes unless it permits to all men free access to the best it holds, regardless of “race, color, or previous condition of servitude.”

Because I had lost my “brag and bluster” and wished to recover them, I took my guests, who were now homeward bound, to the one place which might fitly crown their experiences—the Grand Canyon, where one is apt to forget humanity and its fretting problems.

I must confess that by this time I was quite worn out; for introducing your country to a stranger is wearing business, especially when you are dealing with blasÉ globe-trotters, who have done all the big things, from the Alps to the Dead Sea, and have had to crowd into a brief month the best which lies between New York and California. To do this with a lover’s adulation, endeavoring more or less skillfully to hide defects and make the bright spots brighter still, may well tax one’s nerves.

I acted as a sort of shock absorber, for I determined that the journey should be a joltless one for my guests; but in that I partially failed; for not only did I receive the shocks myself, I could not keep them from receiving some.

One of the worst of these jolts I suffered at the Grand Canyon of the Colorado. I was very sure of the Canyon itself; I knew it would put a thrill into the Herr Director, and force an expression of it out of him. I never worried about the Frau Directorin. We reached the Canyon in that happy mood gendered by a combination of Harvey meals and Pullman berths, and the sight of the friendly inn at the brink of the big surprise, and the cheer of the big log fire in the raftered room drew an involuntary exclamation of pleasure from the Herr Director. He registered, then asked the clerk for a room fronting the Canyon.

“Yes siree!” said the obliging young man as he attached a number to the Herr Director’s long and illegible signature; “I’ll give you a room so near that you can spit right into it.”

Naturally I received the first shock; a minute later it communicated itself to the Herr Director. It did not reach the Frau Directorin, for her English fortunately was still limited; she kept on looking at the bright Navajo rugs, while the clerk smiled at his own smartness. The Herr Director commanded to have his bags taken to his room, and turning from the desk said: “Young man, I am a German, and I want you to understand that we do not spit in God’s face.”

The next morning the great Canyon was full of mist, and only faint outlines of its titanic architecture were visible. As we stood at the edge of the wondrous chasm, watching the last cloud being driven from the depths as the moisture was absorbed by the dry, desert air, the Frau Directorin was shaken by emotion as she gasped at intervals: “Um Gottes Himmels Willen!” The Herr Director, his feelings better controlled, said nothing; but after a long silence, muttered under his breath: “I should like to throw that clerk down this abyss as a penalty for his desecrating thought.”

Every few minutes I heard him saying, as he shook his head: “Just think of it! Just think of it!”

I did not disturb him or ask him what he thought of it for I knew he could not tell, nor can any one. I think he felt as I felt, that all the cities he had seen were as nothing compared with this wonder of nature; that all the pillared post-offices and libraries which our cunning hands have scattered over this broad land are trifling toys compared with this templed miracle; that all our dreams of what we might paint or fashion or carve, or build, are child’s play compared with this, and that we ourselves are mere nothings in the presence of what God hath wrought here in stone and clay, in color and form.

Never before had I so wished that I could rearrange the geography of the United States as when we turned eastward from the Grand Canyon. If I had the power of Him who shaped this earth I would have put it within a mile of the Atlantic Ocean and within a stone’s throw of the Hoboken dock, and having shown my guests the Canyon, I would have put them on board their home-bound steamer, and as they sailed away I would have cried out with ancient Simeon: “Now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace!”