Italy which produced the Renaissance. Diametrically opposed in their
ideals, they have a common spirit. In Italy the rebirth was of the love
of art, and of classic forms, the desire to embellish--all that was
inspired by culture of the beautiful; the Renaissance in America is the
rebirth of man's originality in the invention of the useful, the virgin
power of man's wits as quickened in the crude struggle for life.
Florence is _par excellence_ the place where we can study the Italian
Renaissance; Pittsburg appealed to me as a most favourable spot to watch
the American Renaissance, the enlivening of energies which give value to
a man devoid of education, energies which in their daily exercise with
experience generate a new force, a force that makes our country what it
is, industrially and economically. So it was toward Pittsburg that I
first directed my steps, but before leaving New York I assumed my
disguise. In the Parisian clothes I am accustomed to wear I present the
familiar outline of any woman of the world. With the aid of coarse
woolen garments, a shabby felt sailor hat, a cheap piece of fur, a
knitted shawl and gloves I am transformed into a working girl of the
ordinary type. I was born and bred and brought up in the world of the
fortunate--I am going over now into the world of the unfortunate. I am
to share their burdens, to lead their lives, to be present as one of
them at the spectacle of their sufferings and joys, their ambitions and
sorrows.

I get no farther than the depot when I observe that I am being treated
as though I were ignorant and lacking in experience. As a rule the
gateman says a respectful "To the right" or "To the left," and trusts to
his well-dressed hearer's intelligence. A word is all that a moment's
hesitation calls forth. To the working girl he explains as follows: "Now
you take your ticket, do you understand, and I'll pick up your money for
you; you don't need to pay anything for your ferry--just put those three