Views From a German Spion

"Views From a German Spion" is a satirical work by Bret Harte that offers a humorous perspective on the American West through the eyes of a fictional German spy. Set against the backdrop of the Gold Rush era, the narrative combines sharp wit and cultural observations, exploring themes of identity, ambition, and the clash of civilizations. Harte's clever prose and vivid characterizations provide a unique lens on the social dynamics of the time, making this work a compelling commentary on American life and the diverse influences that shaped it.

								
Outside of my window, two narrow perpendicular mirrors, parallel
with the casement, project into the street, yet with a certain
unobtrusiveness of angle that enables them to reflect the people who
pass, without any reciprocal disclosure of their own. The men and women
hurrying by not only do not know they are observed, but, what is worse,
do not even see their own reflection in this hypocritical plane, and
are consequently unable, through its aid, to correct any carelessness
of garb, gait, or demeanor. At first this seems to be taking an unfair
advantage of the human animal, who invariably assumes an attitude
when he is conscious of being under human focus. But I observe that my
neighbors' windows, right and left, have a similar apparatus, that this
custom is evidently a local one, and the locality is German. Being
an American stranger, I am quite willing to leave the morality of the
transaction with the locality, and adapt myself to the custom: indeed,
I had thought of offering it, figuratively, as an excuse for any
unfairness of observation I might make in these pages. But my German
mirrors reflect without prejudice, selection, or comment; and the
American eye, I fear, is but mortal, and like all mortal eyes,
figuratively as well as in that literal fact noted by an eminent
scientific authority, infinitely inferior to the work of the best German
opticians.

And this leads me to my first observation, namely, that a majority of
those who pass my mirror have weak eyes, and have already invoked the
aid of the optician. Why are these people, physically in all else so
much stronger than my countrymen, deficient in eyesight? Or, to omit the
passing testimony of my Spion, and take my own personal experience, why
does my young friend Max, brightest of all schoolboys, who already
wears the cap that denotes the highest class,--why does he shock me by
suddenly drawing forth a pair of spectacles, that upon his fresh, rosy
face would be an obvious mocking imitation of the Herr Papa--if German
children could ever, by any possibility, be irreverent? Or why does the
Fraulein Marie, his sister, pink as Aurora, round as Hebe, suddenly
veil her blue eyes with a golden lorgnette in the midst of our polyglot
conversation? Is it to evade the direct, admiring glance of the
impulsive American? Dare I say NO? Dare I say that that frank, clear,
honest, earnest return of the eye, which has on the Continent most
unfairly brought my fair countrywomen under criticism, is quite as
common to her more carefully-guarded, tradition-hedged German sisters?
No, it is not that. Is it any thing in these emerald and opal tinted
skies, which seem so unreal to the American eye, and for the first time
explain what seemed the unreality of German art? in these mysterious yet
restful Rhine fogs, which prolong the twilight, and hang the curtain
of romance even over mid-day? Surely not. Is it not rather, O Herr
Professor profound in analogy and philosophy!--is it not rather
this abominable black-letter, this elsewhere-discarded, uncouth,
slowly-decaying text known as the German Alphabet, that plucks out the
bright eyes of youth, and bristles the gateways of your language with a
chevaux de frise of splintered rubbish? Why must I hesitate whether it
is an accident of the printer's press, or the poor quality of the paper,
that makes this letter a "k" or a "t"? Why must I halt in an emotion or
a thought because "s" and "f" are so nearly alike? Is it not enough that
I, an impulsive American, accustomed to do a thing first, and reflect
upon it afterwards, must grope my way through a blind alley of
substantives and adjectives, only to find the verb of action in an
obscure corner, without ruining my eyesight in the groping?

But I dismiss these abstract reflections for a fresh and active
resentment. This is the fifth or sixth dog that has passed my Spion,
harnessed to a small barrow-like cart, and tugging painfully at a
burden so ludicrously disproportionate to his size, that it would seem a
burlesque, but for the poor dog's sad sincerity. Perhaps it is because
I have the barbarian's fondness for dogs, and for their lawless, gentle,
loving uselessness, that I rebel against this unnatural servitude. It
seems as monstrous as if a child were put between the shafts, and made
to carry burdens; and I have come to regard those men and women, who in
the weakest perfunctory way affect to aid the poor brute by laying
idle hands on the barrow behind, as I would unnatural parents.
Pegasus harnessed to the Thracian herdsman's plough was no more of a
desecration. I fancy the poor dog seems to feel the monstrosity of the
performance, and, in sheer shame for his master, forgivingly tries to
assume it is PLAY; and I have seen a little "colley" running along,
barking, and endeavoring to leap and gambol in the shafts, before a load
that any one out of this locality would have thought the direst cruelty.
Nor do the older or more powerful dogs seem to become accustomed to
it. When his cruel taskmaster halts with his wares, instantly the dog,
either by sitting down in his harness, or crawling over the shafts, or
by some unmistakable dog-like trick, utterly scatters any such delusion
of even the habit of servitude. The few of his race who do not work in
this ducal city seem to have lost their democratic canine sympathies,
and look upon him with something of that indifferent calm with which
yonder officer eyes the road-mender in the ditch below him. He loses
even the characteristics of species. The common cur and mastiff look
alike in harness. The burden levels all distinctions. I have said that
he was generally sincere in his efforts. I recall but one instance to
the contrary. I remember a young colley who first attracted my attention
by his persistent barking. Whether he did this, as the plough-boy
whistled, "for want of thought," or whether it was a running protest
against his occupation, I could not determine, until one day I noticed,
that, in barking, he slightly threw up his neck and shoulders, and that
the two-wheeled barrow-like vehicle behind him, having its weight evenly
poised on the wheels by the trucks in the hands of its driver, enabled
him by this movement to cunningly throw the center of gravity and the
greater weight on the man,--a fact which that less sagacious brute never
discerned. Perhaps I am using a strong expression regarding his driver.
It may be that the purely animal wants of the dog, in the way of food,
care, and shelter, are more bountifully supplied in servitude than in
freedom; becoming a valuable and useful property, he may be cared for
and protected as such (an odd recollection that this argument had been
used forcibly in regard to human slavery in my own country strikes me
here); but his picturesqueness and poetry are gone, and I cannot
help thinking that the people who have lost this gentle, sympathetic,
characteristic figure from their domestic life and surroundings have not

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