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PACTE oT C SLOPE 
Horace Annesley Va Vachell 


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Life and Sport on the 
Pacific Slope 


By a 
Horace Annesley Vachell 


Author of «The Procession of Life,’? «*A Drama 


in Sunshine,’’ etc. 


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New York 
Dodd, Mead and Company 


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Library of Congress! 
Two Cortes Recenrn | 


FEB 18 19u] 


Copyright entry 
1,19 70 


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SECOND COPY 


Copyright, 1900 
By Dopp, MEapD anpD COMPANY 


All rights reserved 


UNIVERSITY PRESS . JOHN WILSON 
AND SON + CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A. 


TO 
fay Father-in-La, 
CHAUNCEY HATCH PHILLIPS, 


WHO, BORN IN THE EAST, IS ESSENTIALLY OF THE WEST, 
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK. 


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Prefa tory Note 


My Dear CutEr,—lI dedicate this book to you 
with profound pleasure, in acknowledgment of an 
affection and sympathy which have been sealed 
by a great sorrow. From your hands I received 
a loyal, loving wife; but the fact that she was 
born in California has not shackled my lips in 
speaking of the West. She, I know, would have 
entreated me to write with a free hand; and if at 
times I seem to criticise somewhat harshly certain 
women who, consciously or unconsciously, are 
widening the gulf between their husbands and 
themselves, let it be remembered by my friends 
that I have judged these women according to a 
standard set by a daughter of the West, a standard 
of tenderness, fidelity, unselfishness, and modesty 
to which few wives, be their country what it may, 
can attain. 

Many and many a time have you and [ talked 
over the subjects treated in these pages; but 


Vili Prefatory Note 


although our opinions clashed now and again, our 
intercourse continued absolutely free from friction 
and discord. ‘That intercourse, which began seven- 
teen years ago, and our friendship, which sunshine 
could not wither nor shadow obscure, have indirectly 
inspired this volume. But I ask you to shoulder no 
responsibility in regard to it; and whether you ap- 
prove what I have written or not, believe me, 


Most affectionately yours, 
HoracE ANNESLEY VACHELL. 


Horsey, Winchester. 


CHAPTER 


Contents 


THe LAND or To-mMoRROW . 
THE MEN OF THE WEST 

THE WOMEN OF THE WEST 
THE CHILDREN OF THE WEST 
Rancaw Lrg, I. . 

Rancu# Lirs, II. 

Business LIFE 
ANGLO-FRANCO-CALIFORNIANS . 


THE ENGLISHMAN IN THE West, I. 


THE ENGLISHMAN IN THE West, II. 


THE SripE-SHOW 
PoT-POURRI 

ETHICAL 

Bic GAME SHOOTING . 
SMALL GAME SHOOTING, I. . 
SMALL GAmE SuHoorTIne, II. 
SEA FISHING 


FresH WATER FISHING 


107 
131 
149 
161 
177 
191 
205 
229 
249 
273 
289 
307 
335 


x Contents 


APPENDICES 


CHAPTER i PAGE 
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I 


THE LAND OF TO-MORROW 


‘ 
1 


i 


Life and Sport on the 
Pacific Slope 


si 
THE LAND OF TO-MORROW 


OT long ago I saw the sun rise in a Surrey 
garden. Standing at an open window I 
looked down upon dew-laden, silvery lawns that 
sloped to a lovely mere. In the mid-distance the 
mist lay like a velvety blur upon the woods skirting 
the northern bank of the Thames. It veiled, too, 
the great cedars and elms in the garden, robbing 
them of colour and substance, so that they seemed, 
as it were, grey ghosts,—spectral sentinels of an 
Eden whence the glory had departed. The mist 
began to melt beneath the kiss of an August sun, 
and I lingered at my window, waiting expectantly 
for what would be revealed, as if I were a stranger 
to the garden and its beauties. Very soon the trees 
and shrubs and flowers were clearly defined, fresh 
and glowing. Against the yew hedge that encom- 
passed this pleasaunce was an herbaceous border. 
Here, great salmon-pink hollyhocks towered above 
the graceful larkspurs — dark and pale blue. Below 
these again were those sweet vagabonds the corn- 
flowers, the stocks, the verbenas, and snapdragons. 


4 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


Fringing the border were the gaudy calceolarias. 
Not for the first time I was struck by the amazing 
finish of the picture, its exquisite texture and quality. 
And I reflected that in Surrey alone there are hun- 
dreds of such gardens, and that they represent the 
care and the culture of a thousand years. 

Looking at this perfect miniature I was fain to 
contrast it with a picture I knew and loved in 
another land seven thousand miles away. I could 
see in fancy a great valley sloping westerly to a 
great ocean. Upon the face of this landscape lay 
the same glad freshness of morning. And here 
too the mist had spread her magical carpet, obscur- 
ing the bare plains, veiling the rude houses and 
barns, blotting out, in fine, the works of man while 
lending unearthly beauty to the works of God. 

In both pictures was revealed the hand of the 
Master. And the less included the greater, even as 
the infinite spaces of the sky are reflected in a 
dewdrop. 

The Surrey garden was an epitome of yesterday 
and to-day. Upon the other, the great valley sloping 
to the Pacific, broods the promise of to-morrow. 


This Land of To-morrow includes within itself the - 
material resources of all the nations. It has a great 
seaboard, rich valleys, mountains of minerals, vast 
forests, rivers, lakes, reservoirs of oil (the fuel of 
to-morrow), and a people not to be matched in 
energy, patience, pluck, and executive ability. 

Fifty years ago this was the Lotos Land, where 
life was essentially Arcadian, pastoral and _ patri- 
archal. Another race dwelt upon the shores of the 


The Land of To-Morrow 5 


Pacific, the Hispano-Californians, who ate and drank 
and made merry. Some of them may still be found 
south of Point Concepcion; they have absolutely 
nothing left — except their charming manners. 
When I came to the Pacific Slope, in 82, you might 
find, here and there, a ranchero, the lord of many 
acres, of many flocks and herds. At his house a 
warm welcome awaited the stranger. The men of 
the family, the caballeros, entertained their guests 
with feats of horsemanship, barbecues, and stories 
of the past. The sefioritas danced and sang. The 
word “work” was seldom mentioned. These were 
simple primitive people: content with little, grate- 
ful to God for the blessings vouchsafed them, truly 
free, if we may accept their own testimony, and 
truly happy. Such as they were, however, the 
Pacific Slope will never see their like again. 

Their songs, | remember, were infinitely tonching. 
One had a pathetic refrain (it was a favourite with 
the sefioritas): Adzos, adios, para siempre adios. I 
never heard it sung without reflecting that this — 
so to speak —was the swan-song of the Latin to 
the all-conquering Anglo-Saxon. 

During the fifty years that followed the American 
occupation of the West so much has been accom- 
plished that an encyclopedia would hardly find 
room for facts. In the appendices of this book will 
be found figures taken from reliable sources that will 
serve to faintly indicate what has been done. By 
applying to these figures the rule of geometrical 
progression some conception may be formed of what 
will be done — to-morrow. 

It will be conceded, I think, that so far as Cali- 


6 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


fornia, Oregon, Washington, and British Columbia 
are concerned the experimental stage has been 
passed. Mining, for instance, has become an exact 
science. The same may be said of fruit culture, 
viticulture, the breeding of fine horses and catile, 
the making of wine and oil, cereal-raising, and man- 
ufactures. The cruiser upon whose bridge stood 
Admiral Dewey when he entered the harbour of 
Manila was built in San Francisco. An immense 
battle-ship, “The Oregon,” doubled Cape Horn with- 
out misadventure, a marvellous feat. Her keel was 
laid in the ship-yards of the West. The modern 
war ship is a machine so complex, combining in 
itself so many of the arts and sciences, so incom- 
parably difficult of nice adjustment, that it would 
seem to be the ne plus ultra of human ingenuity 
and mechanical skill. To the hands and brains 
that have constructed an “Oregon” nothing can be 
deemed impracticable. ) 

I shall now set forth, as briefly as may be, my 
reasons for speaking of the Pacific Slope as the 
land of To-morrow. The people who live in the 
West are profoundly convinced that their country is 
a land of to-day. More, the word “to-morrow” has 
an offensive signification. California, for instance, ~ 
was once known as the land of “ mafiana,’ a land 
where nothing must be done to-day that could pos- 
sibly be put off till to-morrow. 

Time has brought many changes to the Pacific 
Slope, but none more amazing than the change from 
ignorance and indolence to activity and intelligence. 
But the promise of the future dwarfs the perform- 
ance of the present. Heretofore, despite her unpar- 


The Land of To-Morrow 7 


alleled resources, California has been, for the many, 
terra incognita. Over and over again I have been 
asked the most absurd questions. A lady of rank 
and fashion told me only the other day that she 
hoped to visit California, because she wished to see 
the — Andes. Another thought that the Golden 
State belonged to England. A third was interested 
in Yo Semite, but feared the terrors of the wilder- 
ness. She really believed that I roamed my ranch 
clad in skins of wild beasts, that the plains were 
black with Apaches, the towns at the mercy of des- 
peradoes! Some of my friends have greeted me on 
my return to England as if I were a long lost ex- 
plorer. “ How glad you must be,” they say, holding 
my hand in a fervent clasp, “ to find yourself once 
more in a civilised country.” When I explain that 
I have been living in a town of thirty thousand 
people, a town better lighted, better kept, more 
abundantly blessed with the amenities of life, than 
two-thirds of the cathedral towns of England, I am 
confronted by a pitying stare. 

I remember taking some English travellers to a 
luncheon at the country house of a Californian. 
After luncheon a drag came round, and we went for 
a drive. The visitors cocked bewildered eyes at the 
coach, the harness, the servants, the horses. When 
their surprise found words, they overwhelmed our 
host with compliments far too florid for his taste. 
Silence would have been a subtler form of commen- 
dation. French visitors would have conveyed their 
sense of pleasure and concealed their amazement. 

But this ignorance of the West is passing away, 
and with it will pass the fear also, that fear which 


8 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


a great raw boy so often inspires in his elders. In 
a certain sense the West has been running amok. 
It has had a stormy youth. It has played queer 
pranks. Talk to the wise men of the East — why 
is wisdom supposed to dwell in the East? —and 
they will shake their hoary heads at the mere men- 
tion of the West. Some of them, doubtless, have 
suffered real pain, finding themselves in the grip of 
a young giant unconscious of his strength. Gold 
has come out of California and been sown broadcast 
all over the earth. There is no advertisement like 
gold. Even wise men are dazzled by the sight of it. 
And accordingly the very name of California became 
a synonym of the precious metal. Men who were 
unwilling to leave their snug hearths sent some of 
their savings to the State that was called golden. 
And it is to be feared that these savings were never 
seen again. In Wall Street, in the city of London, 
on the continental bourses, Californian mining stocks 
were freely bought and sold. But, for the most 
part, the great fortunes were made by the Californi- 
ans themselves: the Fairs, the Floods, the Mackays, 
of bonanza times. The outsiders, who — like Kip- 
ling’s woman —did not know, who never could 
know, and did not understand, lost their money and 
with it their faith in the El Dorado on the shores of 
the Pacific. Although gold was being taken by the 
ton from the mountains and streams, although 
the country was extraordinarily prosperous, yet the 
bottom —as the phrase runs — was out of the boom. 
California had the whooping-cough. 

The measles followed in due course. In mining 
times, land was held at a few cents an acre. The 


The Land of To-Morrow 9 


dons who owned hundreds of leagues were in the 
habit of giving it away. A miner, shrewder than 
his fellows, asked Mariano Vallejo for a farm. 
Vallejo gave him eight thousand acres of fine land, 
and bade him take more if he wanted more. Others 
followed. The Haggins, the Tevises, the Millers ac- 
quired principalities for a song. When the psycho- 
logical moment came, these vast ranchos were 
subdivided and put on the market, on the world’s 
market. Mr. Nordhoff wrote a book about California 
that was widely read. Pamphlets, maps, special 
editions of newspapers, lecturers, agents of the trans- 
portation companies, Boards of Trade, proclaimed 
the virtues of Californian soil. Of course, the facts, 
quite amazing enough in themselves, were embel- 
lished. It was a day of individual successes. One 
man had cleared four hundred pounds sterling from 
one acre of cherries! Another had made a fortune 
out of apricots, or oranges, or ostriches. Not a 
word was said of the patience, labour, and special 
knowledge that had made such results possible. 
Reading the pamphlets one was not only assured of 
success, but failure was proved to be impossible. 
The prose, in which these alluring statistics were 
embalmed, was homely enough, mere fustian, but 
the poetry that lay between the lines of it might 
have lent enchantment toa dustbin. Great stress 
was laid upon the climate. To the farmer in the 
East, or mid-West, to the British labourer, to the 
French or German peasant, —all of them groaning 
and travailing under conditions more or less intoler- 
able, the slaves of the elements, the playthings of cy- 
clones and blizzards, — to these poor weary workers, 


10 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


life beneath the soft blue skies of California was 
pictured as a sort of triumphant procession. 

And so it proved — for a season or two. 

I remember planting potatoes —the Early Rose 
variety — upon some land for which I had just paid 
(in ’82) five dollars an acre. My neighbours, men 
of flocks and herds, laughed at my folly. They too 
had read the pamphlets, and sneered at the predic- 
tions of the prophets. According to them, land in 
Southern California was adapted to pastoral uses — 
and nothing else. I was pronounced a tenderfoot 
with money to burn. The potatoes were planted in 
virgin soil. They increased and multiplied. In 
due time the crop was sacked and sold. After pay- 
ing expenses, I found that I had cleared about one 
hundred dollars per acre ! 

I could cite a thousand such instances. 

During the decade that followed, the Pacific Slope 
was peopled with petty farmers and fruit-growers. 
Land values steadily rose in obedience to the im- 
mutable laws of demand and supply. The men 
of flocks and herds, the ‘‘silurians” as they were 
called, the “ moss-backs,” ploughed up their pastures 
and sold their sheep and cattle. The spirit of the 
times had them by the throat. These patriarchs, 
knowing but one business (and that indifferently 
well), became of a sudden horticulturists, wine- 
makers, fruit-growers, or dealers in real estate. 
They no longer laughed at others, they laughed 
with them. Everybody laughed. A broad grin 
rested on the face of the landscape. We were all 
blowing soap-bubbles, and that is glorious sport 
when you are young. And there was plenty of 


The Land of To-Morrow II 


soap. It greased — so to speak — the ways of every 
enterprise. Heavens! what crazy crafts put to sea! 

Town properties began to boom. At Los Angeles 
men stood patiently in line for many hours waiting 
to buy lots which they had never seen. The same 
lot was sold again and again within a week. New 
towns were hastily surveyed and put up at public 
auction. The bidders fought with each other for 
the privilege of securing corner lots on avenues that 
were laid out on— paper. These auctions were ad- 
vertised in all the daily papers; excursions were 
organised ; the railroads, of course, had more than a 
finger in the pie. When the new town-site was 
reached, meat and drink were provided for the hun- 
gry and excited buyers. A band furnished appro- 
priate music. 

Looking back it seems incredible that we could 
have been such fools. The craze affected all alike, 
rich and poor, young and old, wise and simple. If 
you had no money the banks clamoured for your 
patronage. Their gold lay in shining piles upon 
the counters. You could borrow what you pleased 
— atten per cent. The men of business, the trades- 
men, the lawyers, the doctors, and the parsons 
bought land. We were all, in a sense, thieves, for 
we robbed Peter to pay Paul. The saloons did a 
roaring trade. Champagne, at a sovereign a bottle, 
was the only liquor fit to slake the thirst of the 
Native Sons. They smoked shilling cigars ; fat per- 
fectos, encircled with gaudy paper bands upon which 
was inscribed “ Habana.” Some of these full-flav- 
oured weeds were made by Chinese cheap labour in 
the stews of San Francisco. Perhaps the opium in 


12 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


them lulled to sleep the prudence of the smokers. 
Who can tell ? 

During these halcyon days there were no Popo- 
crats, no Silverites (for silver— as in the time of 
Solomon — was counted as dross), no Unemployed. 
Everything being upside down, the man became the 
master. I remember that I was graciously per- 
mitted to pay my cook eighty-four pounds a year 
for services worth, as we compute results in Europe, 
a ten-pound note. Theranch hands wore diamonds. 
On Sunday they arrayed themselves in suits of broad- 
cloth at fifteen pounds the suit, silk-lined ; they took 
their “ best girls” for drives in well-appointed bug- 
gies drawn by fast pairs of trotters. As for the 
young ladies, I dare not describe their toz/ettes. 

But the outward and visible sign of this amazing 
_ prosperity was most manifest in the houses (they 
were always spoken of as residences) which — like 
Aladdin’s palace — seemed to be built and furnished 
in a single night. .A propos of them I have a story: 
I was in a Pullman car, and we were passing through 
a valley dotted with most unsightly houses, — ram- 
shackle buildings, for the most part, each an amal- 
gam of half a dozen styles of architecture, each 
obviously built for show. 

“What are yon?” said an old Scotchman, who 
was of the party. 

“ They ’re private residences,” replied an American, 
proudly. “Yes, sip, we’re passing through Paradise 
Park. Six months ago, sir, this tract was a howling 
desert of cactus and sage brush.” 

“Eh, eh-h-h? Ye surprise me. Private resi- 
dences, ye say?” 


The Land of To-Morrow 13 


“Yes, sir. What do you take them for?” 

The old Scotchman answered soberly: “I was of 
the opeenion that they must be lunatic asylums.” 

A big fellow, evidently a cattleman from Arizona, 
burst into Homeric laughter. 

“ Jee-roo-salem!” he exclaimed. “That’s just 
exactly what they avr.” 

Of course adversity trod hard upon the heels of 
her twin, prosperity. The pendulum began to swing 
the other way. We had had, as I have said, the 
measles, and the body politic was enfeebled and 
anemic. Bad prices, an over-glutted market, 
drought, frost, and blight, set their stigmata upon 
us. “ Laugh,” says Mrs. Wilcox, “and the world 
laughs with you: weep — and you weep alone.” Our 
laughter had rung through the East and Europe. 
Our youth and high spirits had enchanted the older 
civilisations. Now, recovering from a contagious 
disease, we were constrained to mourn alone, in 
silence and seclusion. The contrast between the 
smiles of the past and the tears of the present would 
have been pronounced humorous had it not been 
pathetic. When I first came to the West, I was 
speaking one day to a Californian of London and 
the glories thereof. He listened politely, but when 
I had finished he said meaningly: “London is all 
right, though it ain’t Paris, but both of them are 
— remote.” To him, San Francisco was the centre 
of the solar system: the sun itself. Only last 
year I happened to meet the same man. His 
forehead, I noted, was puckered with perplexity ; 
his clothes were shabby; his linen was not im- — 
maculate; he smoked a pipe. After a minute’s 


14 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


talk, he said to me, feverishly: “Say, what ails 
California ? ” 

I told him that, in my humble opinion, the hard 
times were over, that the future was rosy with the 
blush, not the flush, of returning health, and that 
California would be richer and stronger and wiser 
than she had ever been before. My friend’s expres- 
sive face brightened. 

“The State is all right,” he replied earnestly. 
“The trouble lies with us. We’ve had a bad dose 
of the swelled head. And now,” he added mourn- 
fully, “we ’ve got cold feet.” 

In the slang that comes so pat to the lips of a 
Western man, he had said — everything. 


When California begins to laugh again, the world 
will laugh with her. She is smiling already. The 
discovery of gold in the tributaries of the Yukon, the 
opening up of Alaska, the acquisition of the Philip- 
pine Islands, railroad competition, the Oriental trade, 
the possibilities that encompass the cutting of a 
canal across the Isthmus of Panama,! and the com- 
pletion of the Trans-Siberian Railway, the discover- 
ies of coal fields and oil wells, these — to name only 
a few — are the heralds of a progress and prosperity 
that must prove radical and enduring? 


1 Since writing the above the Panama Canal has become the 
property of American capitalists. 

2 The Hon. John Barrett, late United States Minister to Siam, 
writes: “Three great States, California, Oregon, and Washington, 
forging ahead in material strength with tremendous strides, de- 
veloping vast resources, increasing rapidly in population, and pos- 
sessing mighty potentialities yet to be exploited, debouch with 
. their entire western boundaries upon the Pacific, and look to it for 


The Land of To-Morrow iy 


I am not prepared to discuss the pros and cons of 
Imperialism in a book which merely professes to 
be a pot-pourrt of personal experience; but I can 
understand why the word itself is offensive to 
many good Americans. Expansion, to my mind, 
better expresses the purpose and policy of those 
who have annexed the Philippines. Already, we 
are told, the bill to be paid for these islands 
amounts to more than two hundred millions of 
dollars: a large sum, but not too heavy a price to 
pay for that moral expansion which has revitalised 
a country needing perhaps no fresh territory. Al- 
though I use the word “moral” I am confining 
myself to practical politics. The sentimentalists, 
the men of Utopia, are as usual astride the fence. 
We know only too well that from them proceed, in 
endless prolixity, empty words,— vow, et preterea 
mhil. But even to those who take the world as 
it is, to those whose eyes are undimmed by party 
prejudice, the annexation of the Philippines and the 
protectorate of Cuba mean something far more im- 
portant than the acquisition of rich territory, or 
the right to take a leading place in the councils of 
the nations. It is very questionable to the writer 
whether the one or other of these is worth much 


a goodly share of their future prosperity... . If we include the 
long winding coast of Alaska and the Aleutian Islands, we have a 
grand total of nearly thirty-five hundred miles facing the Pacific. 
. . . China, Japan, Siberia, Siam, the Philippines, and Korea, not 
only want the flour of the Pacific Coast, but they are developing a 
growing demand for timber, manufactured food supplies, and a long 
list of lesser products.” 


Note. — The grand total of Pacific trade exchange — exports and 
imports — was $210,000,000 for the year 1898. 


16 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


in hard cash to the United States; but it does 
seem absolutely certain —if the testimony of the 
past is to be accepted — that with nations as with 
individuals a policy of self-sufficiency, of restric- 
tion, and of isolation, is demoralising, and in the 
end disintegrating. The Spanish-American war, 
where millionaire and cowboy fought side by side 
in the ranks, did more to adjust the relations be- 
tween rich and poor than all the synthetic philoso- 
phies of the world. Expansion will create new and 
enlarge old professions; it must have a permanent 
civil service, a diplomatic corps, an army, an ade- 
quate navy, a merchant marine; but these are 
merely the phylacteries of evolution; beneath and 
unseen lie the quickening pulses of a life richer in 
its opportunities, wider in its scope, more varied 
and variegated, a life in sympathy and in touch 
with others, a life that is ampler, nobler, freer, 
and happier than the life which lives in and for 
itself alone. As the egg of an eagle is to the 
monarch of the air, so is the incubation to the 
“hatch and the disclose” of a great nation. 
However, dismissing the subject of Imperialism 
as one not germane to these pages, we must remem- 
ber that rightly or wrongly the Philippines and 
Hawaii now belong to the United States, and that 
their possession affects the future of the Pacific 
Slope more than any other part of Uncle Sam’s 
domain. Californians, at any rate, have no cause 
to complain of or criticise a policy which must — 
benefit directly and indirectly every farmer and 
merchant west of the Rocky Mountains. It has 
been computed that the Philippines’ imports from 


The Land of To-Morrow 17 


foreign countries (including Spain), compared with 
the imports from the United States, were in the 
ratio of thirty-three to one. This fact indicates 
the volume of trade awaiting a market nearer 
(China excepted) by thousands of miles than any 
I have named. Roughly speaking the imports into 
the Philippines are some ten millions, while the 
exports will be about twice as much. But this is 
nothing. Mr. John Foreman, in his book entitled 
“The Philippines” (London, 1899), says that the 
possibilities of development are so great that the 
next generation will look back with astonishment 
at the statistics of to-day. If Mr. Foreman proves 
a prophet, San Francisco will be one of the five 
great cities of the world. She has a harbour that 
can be entered by any ship afloat, at any time of 
the tide, and at all seasons of the year; a harbour 
vastly superior to New York harbour; a harbour 
with an anchorage of seventy-nine square miles! 
New York has an anchorage of nine and a half 
miles. 

Let us make, however, no mistake. The West, 
intellectually and morally, has proven itself both 
wild and woolly. The healthiest sign of a vigor- 
ous recovery is the recognition of this by the people 
themselves. Cold feet may be quickly warmed; a 
swelled head is not so easily treated. For the 
present the Pacific Slope is—so to speak —in 
the corner. Our nurses, the great capitalists, have 
their eyes upon us, but we must be careful. It 
is time for us to put aside childish things, the 
swaddling-clothes of conceit and ignorance, and 


to assume instead the toga of manly modesty. 
2 


18 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


Then, and not till then, we can take our rightful 
place in the senate-house of the world. 


When I was asked to write this book, I replied 
that although I was provided with matter for it, 
the varied experiences of seventeen years, yet the 
manner of setting them forth adequately would 
prove, I feared, beyond my powers. I have reason 
to know that the people of the West are extremely 
sensitive to criticism — especially from Englishmen. 
And having many warm friends in the West, 
having, moreover, many connections by marriage 
amongst them, wishing, if I did write at all, to 
write with entire frankness, I hesitated for a long 
time before I undertook a task that may be best 
described by the old Greek word of — “ bitter-sweet.” 
In the Greek it is “sweet-bitter,” for the ancients 
held that the bitter follows the sweet—and re- 
mains. We, as Christians, hold otherwise. With 
us the sweet prevails and endures. Speaking per- 
sonally—and it is only as an individual who has 
lived many years of his life in the West that I am 
entitled to a hearing—1 would say emphatically 
that the bitter has passed from me. Were it not 
so I would hold my tongue. More, had I not © 
suffered in common with the people of the West, 
did I not know, as they know, the peculiar trials 
and temptations of a new country, if I was not 
willing to share the blame, to shoulder my part 
of the load, I would lay down my pen before it is 
hardly wet. My object is primarily to show what 
life in the West zs, not what it ought to be. 1 
believe in the Pacific Slope. I am profoundly con- 


The Land of To-Morrow 19 


vinced that it has a great and glorious future before 
it; and that it stands to-day upon the threshold of 
that future. If Horace Greeley were alive, I am 
sure that he would repeat his famous dictum: 
Young man — go West. 


Il 


THE MEN OF THE WEST 


im th 


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SNS: 
Bray 


nen Gre AUS A 
‘ fi) VERSA NOLL ve 
aA! Vv bh Penh 

i ae J 


II 
THE MEN OF THE WEST 


UCH was forgiven to Mary Magdalene, quia 
multum amavit, and much may be for- 
given to the sowers of the West because they have 
laboured so hard and so faithfully. — Nice customs 
curtsey to great kings, they grovel before con- 
querors. And the men who apprehended the pos- 
sibilities of the West, who not only crossed the 
plains, and the forests, and the mountains, but who 
recrossed them with shining ribands of steel, were 
— Cesars, endowed with the strength and the weak- 
ness of giants. You must consider them and their 
actions, in the aggregate, panoramically, as you 
would survey a Californian landscape. 

The English traveller, who merely touches the 
phylacteries of American life, always lays stress 
upon the dollar as being the unit of value on the 
Pacific Slope. According to this authority we are 
money-grabbers, worshippers of the Golden Calf, 
sacrificing to the god our own flesh and_ blood. 
And yet no people on earth are more truly lavish 
with their gold than the men of the West; no 
people care less for gold as gold; no people greet 
the loss of it with greater fortitude and good-temper. 
What gold represents — power and success — is 
dear to the Native Son, for he knows that he can- 
not plead as an excuse for failure the burdens of 


24 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


tradition and convention that hamper the strivers 
in older countries. In the West runners are nude 
when they start: the race is to the swift, the 
battle to the strong. ach is given credit for what 
he does, not for what he is. Indeed, in a country 
where the only gentlemen of leisure are tramps, it 
is shameful to be other than a bread-winner. Dives 
works harder than Lazarus. Only the other day 
a millionaire, a comparatively young man, was 
stricken down. He died of —over-work. Why 
did he not take it easy? Surely, he had enough. 
I knew this man, and he told me that he laboured 
more diligently than the meanest clerk in his 
employ, and for practically the same wage: clothes, 
board, and lodging. He dared not do less than he 
did. It is against the spirit of the West to shirk 
responsibilities. 

Mr. Clarence Urmy, a Californian, whose tuneful 
verses are familiar to readers of American maga- 
zines, has written some charming lines upon this 
theme. According to Mr. Urmy, those only fail 
who strive not. The sentiment is as pretty as the 
verses that embalm it. And it is a sentiment 
essentially of the West. But it would be truer 
to say that only those who strive can know the 
bitterness of failure. In a new country the strife 
is so strenuous, it demands so many sacrifices, that 
failure becomes almost a synonym for death. God 
help the man who, in the accounting that comes 
to all of us sooner or later, finds his balance on 
the wrong side of the ledger. Surely, in that dark 
hour the sense of what he has suffered and endured 
becomes a crown of thorns. Later, perhaps, he 


The Men of the West 25 


may realise that it is better to have striven in vain 
than not to have striven at all. 

The men of the West never take the word 
“failure” home to their wives. It is locked up, 
when they leave their office, in that symbol of pros- 
perity, the safe, which often contains nothing more 
valuable than the record of wasted endeavour. One 
and all are stoutly self-assured that if the slippery 
yesterdays have eluded them, if the silvery to-days 
belong to others, the golden to-morrows are theirs 
by the unalienable rights of faith and hope. The 
door-mat kind of man who lies down grovelling, 
and permits the foot-passengers to wipe their shoes 
upon him, is not to be found west of the Rocky 
Mountains. Robustly conscious of his strength, 
the Native Son confronts the beasts of the market- 
place with the same courage and determination 
that sustained his father in the wilderness. I have 
stood in the wheat-pit of San Francisco when 
wheat was jumping like a kangaroo. Around me 
were men — some of them young — who had large 
fortunes at stake. I saw one “bear” unmercifully 
gored by the stampeding “bulls.” But he picked 
himself up with a grin, lit a cigar, ate a capital 
luncheon, told a good story, and made it plain to 
my wondering eyes that physically, mentally, and 
morally, he was none the worse for his mis- 
adventure. 

Curiously enough, despite this pluck and energy, 
the men of business are ignorant of much that they 
ought, in their own interest, to know thoroughly. 
The average English gentleman, the magistrate and 
landlord, lacks the intelligence, the cleverness and 


26 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


tact of his American cousin, but, narrow and prej- 
udiced as the Briton is in many ways, he takes 
the broader view in regard to the conduct of the 
world’s affairs. Not till the war with Spain did 
these challenge the serious intérest of Americans. 
I have read, even in sober reviews, the grossest 
blunders, the most absurd misrepresentation of facts 
within the reach of any journalist who has access 
to a library. In this particular regard the press is 
French: to please the public, to tickle the ears of 
the groundlings, they ignore the truth as perversely 
as the Dreyfusards and anti-Dreyfusards writing in 
the “Figaro” and the “ Hcho de Paris.” In an English 
party paper, say the “Standard,” you will mark that 
an account of a Liberal meeting will be faithfully 
recorded. The speeches will be printed verbatim ; 
the cheers, the hisses, the questions, will be honestly 
reported. I have never read in a Western paper 
a true description of a political meeting. The facts 
are embellished or mutilated according to the politi- 
cal views of the editor. Of an enemy, who in 
private life may be a blameless citizen, nothing too 
shameful can be said. He is proclaimed a Judas, 
a Catiline, a Nero, a Verres. Ancient history is 
ransacked to find his peers in infamy. This is 
entirely a Gallic characteristic, alien to the Anglo- 
Saxon spirit and love of fair play. The men who 
wish to be “posted” buy two daily papers, the 
Republican and Democratic organs, and form their 
opinions by what is left unsaid in both. 

On the other hand, the Western man is keenly 
conscious of his limitations. He wants to know. 
England is full of men who are quite convinced 


The Men of the West 27 


that what they don’t know is not worth knowing. 
I can hear the voice of the old colonel, a rasping 
voice mellowed somewhat by sherry, as he pro- 
nounces all subjects without the magic circle of 
his own intelligence — bosh. Not so the Western 
man. He is catholic in his sympathies. Every- 
thing interests him — and everybody. He devours 
an essay upon liquid air and its possibilities, and 
turns from that with gusto to a vol au vent of 
political gossip, or a chaudfroid of economics. And 
this being so, it is a thousand pities that the cooks 
who cater to this appetite should not supply whole- 
somer diet. Western people suffer from dyspepsia, 
but what they eat is as Mellin’s food compared to 
what they read. 

Some months ago I was returning from a fishing 
tour in British Columbia. In the smoking-room of 
the Pullman car, I encountered a youth of about 
seventeen, who, taking me for a tenderfoot, pro- 
ceeded to set forth at great length the resources of 
California, its sociology, topography, and climate. 
I listened patiently for a couple of hours. Pres- 
ently he asked me if this were my first visit to his 
State. I replied in the negative, saying that I lived 
in California, that I owned land, that I was engaged 
in a large business. He looked uncomfortable ; then 
in quite a different tone he said: “Say — when did 
you first come to California ?” 

It was my turn. 

“You are a Native Son ?” 

“JT am,” he answered proudly and promptly. 

“ About seventeen years old?” 

“That’s right; seventeen last fall.” 


28 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


“ Ah —well, I came to the State of California 
about the same time you did.” 

He blushed scarlet; then he laughed heartily. 
“Great Scott! Why didn’t you tell me to come 
off my perch ?” 

After that, he asked a number of questions and 
listened civilly to my replies. We parted the best 
of friends. 


An Englishman is never seen to worse advan- 
tage than when he is insisting upon what he is 
pleased to call his—rights. For in the develop- 
ment of character it is expedient that men should 
sometimes do without privileges to which they con- 
ceive themselves entitled. Perhaps if we clamour 
too persistently for our dues in this world, we may 
also, in the world to come, be dealt with according 
to our deserts. At any rate it is a charming char- 
acteristic of the men of the West that they are 
good-humouredly content with less than that to 
which they are legally and morally entitled. As 
much, be it noted, cannot be said of the women. 
In San Francisco, at certain times of the day, the 
demand for seats in the cable cars invariably ex- 
ceeds the supply. And the men of course always 
give up their seats to the ladies, who accept them — 
without thanks. Once, however, I saw a Briton 
who refused to budge. Finding the eyes of the fair 
upon him, he fidgeted and finally burst into speech. 
“You ’re all looking at me,” he said angrily ; “and 
you think I ought to give up my seat. Well, I’m 
not going to do it. And if the men of this country 
had more sense they ’d keep what they ’ve paid for, 


The Men of the West 29 


and then the cable companies would provide seats 
enough to go round.” He was scarlet in the face 
before he finished, and everybody laughed. 


At the theatre, in church, at race meetings, coun- 
try fairs, at all times and in all places where a little 
patience and good-humour temper what is disagree- 
able, the people of the Pacific are at their best. 

Once at a performance of “ La Tosca,” some youths 
in the seats behind me were “ guying” the actress 
who was sustaining the principal role. And this to 
the annoyance of all of us. A man not far from me 
silenced them. “That lady on the stage,” he said, 
very politely, “is making so much noise that we 
cannot hear what yow are saying. But I hope we 
shall have the pleasure of listening to your criti- 
cisms later, after the act is over.” 

At times something more drastic is wanted. A 
lady had been rudely treated by some minor official 
of a railroad. As a rule, ticket-sellers give them- 
selves great airs. To women, however, they almost 
invariably show courtesy and consideration. This 
man was an exception. The lady, very indignant, 
at a loss for words, but with a comical sense of 
humour, turned to a stranger at her elbow. “ Pray, 
sir,’ said she, “tell this man what I think of him.” 
The stranger proved equal to the task set him. In 
a melancholy drawl, without betraying the smallest 
excitement, he said slowly: “Sir, this lady thinks 
you are an understrapper, clothed with a little brief 
authority, whose only qualification to the position 
you occupy is your — impudence.” 

The English reader will pronounce this to be tall 


30 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


talk. In England, even amongst men of mark, 
niceties of speech are banned and barred. The 
phrase-maker is commonly a prig, the precisian in 
grammar is despised as a pedant. The American 
on the contrary, has found out that a well-sharpened 
tongue is more reliable than a six-shooter. But it 
must be noted that (regarding the tongue as a 
weapon) conversation in America is necessarily ag- 
gressive and competitive. Club talk in England is 
narcotic in quality, in the West it is stimulant. I 
have met vampire talkers, who seemed to suck from 
the brains of others vigour and vitality. Some im- 
press one painfully as struggling against odds too 
great to be overcome. Up to the neck in a quag- 
mire of words, they finally sink into silence, defeated 
but not disgraced. 

I remember meeting a friend who had been 
elected a state senator, and asking him how he 
had fared at Sacramento. “First rate,” he replied, 
taking hold of the lapel of my coat. “ Yes, first 
rate. I was really scared out of my wits, but 
I didn’t wilt. And I rehearsed carefully my 
own little song and dance. You read my maiden 
speech? Yes: good—eh? My boy, I practised 
it in front of my mirror. Yes, I did! And I 
gave ’em a little of everything: a dash of Mill,a 
teaspoonful of Spencer, Shakespeare, the Bible, and 
a line from the Mikado. It was great, great! It 
hit ’em all. I tell you—don’t give me away — 
that the western orator’s vade mecum, his staff, 
his shield, his cruse of oil, is—a Dictionary of 
Quotations.” 

Nothing upsets the equanimity of a Californian 


The Men of the West 31 


crowd. At one of the great football games between 
Stanford and Berkeley Universities, a huge stand, 
flimsily constructed of timber, began to shake omi- 
nously. Several persons jumped up and a panic 
was imminent. Just then there arose a well- 
known man, something of an autocrat in his way. 
“Sit down!” he said sternly. “Sit Down! SIT 
DOWN!” He was obeyed, but a clear voice was 
heard in reply: “That’s all right, Fred. But why 
don’t you sit down yourself?” 

Another anecdote that illustrates well the temper 
of an American crowd as contrasted with an Eng- 
lish assembly is worth repeating: A great singer 
was enchanting a large audience, when suddenly 
at her feet a column of flame soared up into the 
flies. In the front row of the stalls a man sat 
beside his wife (some wags said she was his mother- 
in-law). As the flames shot upward this fellow 
bolted. He was next to the gangway, and was 
up and out of the theatre before the audience had 
realised what was impending. The flames van- 
ished ; the cantatrice smiled and assured the house 
that the danger was over. Then the man came 
back! In England he would have been greeted 
with hisses. In America he was cheered! For 
my part, I think that his moral courage in return- 
ing was more amazing than his cowardice in run- 
ning away. 

In a thousand ways the men of the West show 
that they are willing and content to accept less 
than their due. In lawsuits a compromise is 
generally possible, whereas in England the same 
suit would be fought to a finish. And in their 


32 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


daily dealings with others, the Native Sons are 
humorously sensible that “the other fellow” may 
get the best of the bargain, and if he does none 
complains. A question at such a time would pro- 
voke a grin and the assurance that the speaker’s 
turn would come — later. I remember a very stout 
dealer in real estate who once showed me a rocky 
and sterile piece of land, for which he asked an 
exorbitant price. I was indignant. “You must,” 
said I, “take me for a fool of fools. How dare you 
show me such a scarecrow of a ranch as this! To 
whom does it belong?” 

My stout friend answered sorrowfully: “It’s 
mine. I was fool enough to buy it in boom times; 
I’ve been waiting ever since to find a bigger fool 
than I to take it off my hands. And,” he added 
sotto-voce, “I don’t know now that Ill ever find him.” 

Another real estate agent was showing some 
rough hills to a client. The day was hot, the 
slopes were almost perpendicular, and the client 
tired and out of temper. After seeing the ranch 
he demanded the price. It was named. “ What! 
You have the nerve to name a figure as steep as 
that for such land!” 

“Well,” murmured the other, blandly, “you see ~ 
the land is steep too.” 

The consideration shown to employees by the 
great corporations and business houses is a mani- 
festation of that genial, kindly spirit which is in- 
deed as mortar binding one human soul to another. 
The master seldom forgets that once he was the man, 
and the man never forgets that he in his turn may 
be the master. I cannot recall, during seventeen 


The Men of the West Ex} 


years, one single instance of a cruel and cutting 
rebuke from one in authority to a clerk or servant. 
A friend of mine had a clerk who was always for- 
getting important duties: letters would be left 
unmailed; important entries on the books would 
be omitted; messages, even, were sometimes not 
delivered. Said my friend to me one morning: 
“Really, I must speak to John.” So John was 
summoned, and I wondered what manner of rebuke 
would fall upon his head. “John,” said my friend, 
“it is most astonishing what a very bad memory 
you have. But Ibelieve that in time it will 
improve, because I notice that you have never once 
forgotten to draw your salary on the first of the 
month.” John took the hint, and after that my 
friend was truly and faithfully served. 

It has been said that corporations have no con- 
sciences. I can personally testify that this is, 
generally speaking, untrue of the banks in the 
West. The kindness and forbearance shown by 
them to their debtors have tided many and many 
across the quicksands of ruin. It is often, I admit, 
the policy of the strong not to seize the spoil, but 
I know of cases where bankers have preferred the 
interests of customers to their own, and during 
recent years of drought and panic, notably during 
the time when the Australian banks were breaking 
by the score, the policy pursued by the capitalists 
of California averted a general panic. Had they, 
in their hour of sore need, pressed claims upon an 
impoverished community, half the farmers and 
storekeepers in Southern California would have 


become bankrupt. More than one bank suspended 
3 


34 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


payment, but the confidence of the people in those 
who held their fortunes in the palm of the hand 
was sustained and justified. 


I was in California when war was declared be- 
tween the United States and Spain. Of that war 
so much has been written by so many and such 
able men that little remains to be said — now. 
Later, when the history of it is set forth calmly 
and dispassionately, when time has adjusted the 
scales by which the great events of the world are 
measured, it will be found that the Declaration of 
Independence has not been fraught with more 
vital interest and significance to the people of the 
New World than this declaration —so to speak — 
of Dependence: the dependence, not of the weak 
upon the strong, but of the strong in relation to 
the ignorance and folly and vice of the weak: a 
confession that no nation, however great, can stand 
alone. The particular causes that constrained Mr. 
McKinley to let loose the dogs of war have not 
yet been determined. The ugly word “revenge” 
was in many mouths. Political expediency, in- 
crease of territory, were phrases heard at the street 
corners and in the clubs. And, doubtless, these 
and half a dozen others were factors in’a sum that 
must have sorely puzzled the President and his 
Cabinet. But, personally, I believe that from Maine 
to California the Puritan spirit, using the adjective in 
its best sense, was stirring the hearts of the people. 

There is a feeling all over America, but more 
especially in the West, a feeling essentially Gallic, 
that leads men to pose as being worse than they 


The Men of the West 35 


are. J remember a charming American woman 
saying to me, & propos of her husband: “ He is the 
most domestic man I know, but he would like to 
be thought a Jattle wild.” Now, the London “ Spec- 
tator” predicted war some weeks before it was 
declared, and it pointed out the good motives that 
would surely animate our cousins over-seas. The 
article was able, but a note of condescension lurked 
between the lines of it, that condescension in re- 
gard to foreigners of which James Lowell wrote so 
delightfully. American readers might infer from 
the “Spectator” that they were expected by Eng- 
land to do their duty, not as free-born Americans, 
but as the kinsmen of Englishmen. I do not say 
that the writer of the article in question deliber- 
ately meant this. But I assert that by Americans 
such interpretation was placed upon it, and upon 
other similar articles in the London papers. At 
any rate, the San Francisco “ Argonaut,” the best 
weekly upon the Pacific Slope, and one of the best 
in the world, burst into coloured sparks of rhetoric. 
After reading carefully an impassioned leader, I 
was quite satisfied (temporarily) that Duty, as an 
entity in American affairs, was dead, that Evil 
always triumphed over Good, that Might was 
Right, and that the finger of Destiny was the 
finger of Death. The article was widely read in 
the West, and its phrases snapped up by many 
an Autolycus. Men who had talked glibly enough 
only the week before of philanthropy, and the obli- 
gations of a model republic, went about the streets 
dancing a sort of Carmagnole. It was high time 
—some of them said —to grab all they could get. 


36 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


Why not be bold and bad, like the buccaneer- 
ing Briton? Let the United States annex Cuba, 
and Spain, and Europe, and the Aurora Bore- 
alis, if necessary. The reaction had set in. Then 
I remembered one of Max O’Rell’s best stories. 
Mons. Edmond About had written of a hero that 
he was “ virtuous as a pupil of the Polytechnique.” 
The pupils of the Polytechnique at once held an 
indignation meeting that simmered into the form 
of a round robin to the distinguished author. 
“Monsieur,” it ran, “pray mind your own busi- 
ness. We are no more virtuous than you are!” 
Max O’Rell always added that he knew this story 
was true, because he signed the round robin 
himself ! 

But be the causes of the war what they please, 
the spirit in which the youth of America responded 
to the call of arms must awaken the liveliest 
admiration in all of us. If Mr. McKinley had 
asked for a million men, he would have had them 
within twenty-four hours. Friends of mine, men 
with many interests at stake, volunteered to serve 
in the ranks. A private’s musket might have 
been a marshal’s baton, judging by the eagerness 
with which it was sought. One patriot—to cite ~ 
a single instance out of a thousand —no longer 
young, very rich, occupying a high position in 
society, a man of fashion and culture, wired to 
Washington entreating his friends there to procure 
him any position, however humble, in either the 
army or navy. It is said that his wife wired also: 
“Pay no attention to Jimmy.” No attention was 
paid to Jimmy, except perhaps by the Recording 


The Men of the West 27 


Angel; but his fervent wish to serve his country, 
abandoning thereby all that most of us count as 
making life worth living, has curious significance 
to a foreigner. There are about a million Jim- 
mies in the United States. 

In the West the war was taken very soberly. In 
the clubs, in the restaurants and cafés, at the 
theatres and music halls, there was none of that 
cheap and vicious excitement that in its worst 
phases is delirium. The regiments marched into 
San Francisco, they sailed through the Golden 
Gates, and always the streets and docks were 
black with friends to wish them “God speed you.” 
An observer could not fail to be profoundly im- 
pressed by these comings and goings. Between 
them and the mimic parades of the National Guards 
upon high days and holidays, was the difference 
between the real thing and the sham. The faces 
of the fathers were grim as they watched their sons 
file past (they were thinking of Gettysburg and 
Vicksburg), and the women’s cheeks were wet. 

The word “ Chauvinism” has been used more than 
once of late in connection with the people of the 
West,—a word to which a deserved stigma is 
attached. But, for my part, the militarism of the 
people was a pleasant thing to witness. Rich and 
poor alike joined hands in singing the national 
anthem, and the fact that it is set to the music of 
“God Save the Queen” did not detract from its 
power and purport so far as I was concerned. 
Columbia called her sons to arms, — 


** And all the bugle breezes blew 
Réveillé to the breaking morn.” 


38 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


The Stars and Stripes floated from the top of every 
house. Upon hundreds of thousands of windows 
were pasted paper flags. The girls encircled their 
hats and waists with ribbons of red, white, and 
blue. The boys bought badges and buttons. The 
men wore tiny enamelled scarf-pins. Some Eng- 
lishmen took exception to this perfervid patriotism. 
They said that love of country was cheapened 
when a man wore it in his cravat instead of in his 
heart. In England, continued these critics, the 
flag was held too sacred to be defamed to calico 
uses.1 I can quite sympathise with this point of 
view, but I can also sympathise with and apprehend 
the spirit of a new country which exacts, and exults 
in,a demonstration. And a demonstration is neces- 
sary, —the confession of faith of a heterogeneous 
people. Englishmen can well take the patriotism 
of their fellow-countrymen for granted; they are 
and have been Englishmen for nearly a thousand 
years. But in the West is it not common prudence 
to demand from the Kelt, the Teuton, the Latin, 
the Slav, an answer to the question, “ Are you truly 
of us, or merely with us?” Fifty years hence the 
Stars and Stripes will be still the beloved flag, but 
it will not be seen twisted around the hats of the 
maidens, or pasted in paper upon the windows. 


The men of the West may be divided into three 
classes: those who live by the seaboard, those who 
live on the plains, and the stockmen and miners 
who dwell in the mountains. 


1 Since these lines were written the author has witnessed the 
scenes in London after Ladysmith and Mafeking were relieved. 


The Men of the West 39 


It has been my unhappy experience that most 
of those who live by the seaboard are — tricky, as 
were, doubtless, the traders of Tyre and Sidon. 
And there is small excuse for their trickiness 
inasmuch as to them, the citizens of a great republic, 
have been given advantages denied to the strivers 
in less favoured countries. All these knaves know 
the right, yet they choose the wrong. In the old 
world you find the seller putting the biggest straw- 
berries on the top of the pottle, his smallest pota- 
toes in the bottom of the sack, water into the milk, 
sand into the sugar, and so forth. In the West, 
where neither poverty, nor vice, nor disease, nor 
ignorance can be pleaded in excuse, these tricks 
assume a darker complexion. 

It is true that the worst offenders come from the 
East and from Europe, for the West is a sanctuary 
to the pariahs of the nations. Here, mind-healers, 
clairvoyants, astrologers, card-sharpers and the like, 
flourish as the bay tree. These are the dregs of the © 
older civilisations, the scum of the new, and there- 
fore the more readily seen. Perhaps, if choice must 
be made of two evils, it is better that sewage should 
be spread upon the fields than lie festering in cel- 
lars. The bad that has come to and is in the West 
lies upon the surface of all things, in full view of a 
too hypercritical world. If this scum be not soon 
skimmed and cast to the void it will filter through 
every stratum of society, as it has done elsewhere, 
and then the last state of the West, outwardly im- 
maculate, will prove worse than the first. I believe, 
personally, that the period of purification has begun. 

There is said to be honour amongst thieves. 


40 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


Western thieves are exceptions to this rule. I re- 
member subscribing toward the construction of a 
steam schooner that was to carry at a minimum. 
rate the produce of our county. to San Francisco. 
Many farmers pledged themselves to ship their 
wheat and wool by this vessel. The railroad, a 
local road, was run upon the well-known principle 
of charging the shipper “all that the tariff would 
bear,” a policy which enriched the shareholders of 
the road, but did not endear them to the farmers of 
our county. It was pointed out that as soon as the 
steamer was put in commission, the railroad rates 
would be cut in a competition that must prove disas- 
trous to the fortunes of the steamer, unless the farmers 
loyally observed their contract. It was also pointed 
out that if the farmers failed to support the steamer, 
it would be sold, and that the railroad would have 
our county at its mercy. Were they loyal? Had 
they the wit to avail themselves of an opportunity ? 
No. The railroad did cut their rates. The poor 
little steamer was wiped from the seas. And then, 
when it was too late, the penny-wise farmers paid in 
full for their folly and dishonesty. 

Of the men who live in the plain, the less said 
the better. The sun seems to have sucked the sap 
from them, leaving them, as it leaves the grass in 
the pastures, drab-coloured and withered. Here 
are the wheat farmers of the Pacific Slope, who 
hold the prosperity of the inland towns at the 
mercy of the elements. If the sun shines too fiercely, 
if the wind blows too hard, if the rain fails, if blight, 
or rust, or wire worms attack the crops, the com- 
munity trembles. The banker, the storekeeper, the 


The Men of the West 4I 


lawyer, the doctor, and the parson may well join in 
the farmer’s prayers for rain. To all, a drought spells 
ruin. These big gamblers are the curse of a new 
country. They have done enormous harm to the 
State of California. They impoverished the soil that 
yielded at first fabulous harvests, and they impover- 
ished the souls of those dependent upon their success 
and failure. Credit is the life blood of a new country; 
it irrigates the waste places of the earth. Without 
it the greater portion of the West would be to-day 
what it was in the time of Daniel Webster — a wilder- 
ness, But credit, like water, can do grievous harm. 
Credit, in full flood, has swept from the West those 
habits of thrift and industry and patience that alone 
make for character and prosperity in a community, 
as in an individual. They will return, they are 
now returning, halting in the wake of adversity, 
and under more generous conditions will become 
vertebrate and vigorous. 

In the old days, it will be remembered, Lot chose 
the plain, and to Abraham was given the hill. And 
since those ancient times, it has always seemed to 
me that the best men live nearest the stars. Cer- 
tainly in the West you will find that the mountain- 
eers are a finer race, more robust than their brethren 
of the plain, simpler in their habits, breathing a 
purer air and leading a purer life. For the most 
part they are miners or cattlemen. If you meet 
one of these fellows, be sure and mark the quality 
of his glance. George Eliot’s much criticised adjec- 
tive “ dynamic ” describes it best, — that all-compel- 
ling gaze, the glance of a man whose eyes are 
weapons not of offence, but of defence. In the foot- 


42 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


hills, in the forests, and in the plateaux of the Sierras, 
you will find these men. They are a silent race, 
save when possessed of strong drink, sober of coun- 
tenance, impassive (some of them) as Redskins, 
very prejudiced, but as a rule honourable, kind- 
hearted and truthful. Like the ancient Persians, 
they can ride, shoot, and speak truth. They are 
loyal to their friends. Some years ago two outlaws 
set the officers of justice at defiance. They lived 
on the plain, but in their hour of need betook 
themselves to their friends in the mountains. Here 
they found sanctuary and food and drink. A great 
price was set on their heads, but for many months 
they remained at large. 

Shooting and fishing among these people, I have 
always found them hospitable and honest. Often 
they have refused money for my board and lodging. 
Not once can I recall an overcharge for services 
rendered. Talking with them around the camp- 
fire, I have been told amazing stories of obstacles 
surmounted, stories of almost superhuman pluck 
and endurance. Of the life beyond their forests 
and mountains they are profoundly ignorant. An 
English Minister of Education, Sir John Gorst, has 
said that he considers “ reading, writing, and arith- - 
metic to be of dubious value to a boy who lives in 
the country; and grammar a positive curse.” The 
men who live nearest the stars are learned in other 
lore, the ancient wisdom of the woods and streams, 
where every leaf and pebble tells its tale to the at- 
tentive eye and ear. They are still masters of the 
arts that an educated world has forgotten. Perhaps 
contrast colours too vividly the imagination, and 


The Men of the West 43 


warps our sense of proportion. But, in the cool 
northern woods in springtime, when the forest ap- 
peals in turn to all the senses, lying, may be, on the 
banks of a lovely stream, watching the rainbow 
trout, the big fellows at ease in the tail of a rapid, 
seeing, perhaps, a stag quenching his thirst, hearing 
the melodious murmur of the stream, the soft sigh 
of the cedars kissing overhead, smelling the per- 
fume of the pines, I have wondered if this, the life 
of the primal man, is not, after all, the best that can 
be lived under God’s high heaven. At any rate, as 
an antidote to the fever of modern life it has no 
peer. O weary worker of the West, see to it that 
for a season in each year you live out-of-doors! 
Sleep beneath the stars. Eat the food that the 
woods and streams provide. Fill your lungs with 
ozone and oxygen, fill your body with plain, whole- 
some food, fill your heart with the freshness and 
fragrance of the forest, your soul with the glory of 
the firmament; and then, when you return to the 
roaring thoroughfares of the world, you will realise 
that, no matter how dun the days of strife may be, 
you too have had your golden hours — of rest. 


I have spoken hitherto of men generally, but 
the West produces certain giants, who by virtue of 
their size challenge special attention. These are 
the aristocrats, the few, who at all times and in all 
places mould and control the many. I shall name 
two. Mr. Collis Huntington was the President of 
the Southern Pacific Company, the richest man in 
California, the ablest financier in the United States, 
and one of the shrewdest politicians of this or any 


44 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


other age. He has been compared to Bismarck, to 
Napoleon, to Gladstone. He had enormous execu- 
tive ability, stupendous capacity for work, a great 
sane mind in a great sane body. I have had the 
pleasure of chatting with him, and I recall without 
effort his leonine head, his keen, kindly eyes, his 
massive body, and the power and vigour that ema- 
nated from it. Mr. Huntington could stand upon the 
ragged edge of an abyss, and gaze undaunted into 
frightful depths. There is said to be a line between 
right and wrong. Mr. Huntington ploughed close 
to the line, where the soil is richest; some say 
that he went beyond it. That line, most of us will 
admit, is a meridian, variable and varying. Per- 
haps when Mr. Huntington’s figures are given to 
the public, it will be agreed that his line has been, 
after all, nicely computed. To most of us this same 
line is a broad strip of debatable land upon which 
we wander, poor vagabonds, asking of each other 
where we are. To Mr. Huntington must at least 
be given the credit of always knowing exactly 
where he was. More, he showed others where and 
what they were. He plucked the eagle’s feathers 
from many a daw; he stripped many an ass of 
his lion’s skin. An octogenarian, he worked as 
hard as any youth. Born in a small Eastern vil- 
lage, he was essentially of the West. His life was 
simple, primal even. By the sweat of brow and 
brain he made himself—a Colossus. And you can- 
not measure him with the foot-rule of pygmies. 

Of Mr. Huntington scores of stories are told, 
One, pregnant with significance, is repeated from 
Shasta to San Diego. The driver of a cab, recog- 


The Men of the West 45 


nising the great man, protested that he had been 
paid no more than his legal fare. “Your nephew,” 
said the fellow, “pays me three times as much.” 

“Ts that so?” replied Mr. Huntington. “ Well, 
you see, my friend, I have not a rich uncle —as he 
has.” 

What Mr. Huntington has been to the material 
growth of the Pacific Slope, Doctor Jordan, of the 
Leland Stanford Junior University, has been to 
the more subtle development of the world unseen. 
His influence to-day amongst the young men of 
the West cannot be measured till to-morrow. In 
a country where gold colours the very flowers of 
the field, Doctor Jordan, like Agassiz, has had no 
time to make money. He has refused preferment 
again and again, cut down his salary, when the 
university was in financial straits, laboured strenu- 
ously in many fields without the labourer’s wage, 
and, in fine, has set an example of energy and 
fortitude that thousands are striving to emulate. 
But David Starr Jordan’s friends — and their name 
is legion —say that he does too much. He is a 
world-famous ichthyologist, an international author- 
ity upon natural science, a writer of note, a poet, 
a lecturer, a journalist: the Charles Kingsley of 
the New World. Is it not to be feared that this 
Protean capacity of playing a dozen parts will work 
evil rather than good? The weakness and the 
strength of the West lurk in its varied resources. 
A child taken to a toy-shop squanders his dollar 
upon a dozen trifles because the sense of selection 
is paralysed. Likewise the young man, apprehend- 
ing, through the clear lenses of a Jordan, the infi- 


46 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


nite possibilities of the future, the alluring wares 
that Nature has spread upon a thousand counters, 
may wander here and there, frittering away his 
capital of energy upon a score of gewgaws, whereas 
he might have bought and paid for a radiant pearl. 

Some of my readers must have seen that amaz- 
ing Italian, Fregoli THe plays by himself a comed- 
ietta, in which he alone assumes the various réles. 
He is ubiquitous. Here, a dotard —there, a bal- 
lerina. There are many Fregolis in the West. I 
used to know one who was in turn doctor, parson, 
undertaker, justice of the peace, paper-hanger, and 
painter. He played all these parts indifferently 
well; he was intelligent, temperate, hard-working 
—and he never had been able to earn more than 
a bare living. 


Il 


THE WOMEN OF THE WEST 


ra 
is 
(Seta 
ah, 
Dau, 


IIl 
THE WOMEN OF THE WEST 


I REMEMBER a pretty Californienne with whom 

I used to dance, a true daughter of the West, 
charming on account of her beauty, vivacity, health, 
and youth. She had never left the Pacific Slope — 
except on the wings of a perfervid imagination — 
and she afforded an amazing contrast to other young 
women of my acquaintance, the gilded girlies who had 
had what is humorously called advantages, —a season 
in London, a winter in Riviera, a summer at New- 
port, and so forth. Perhaps I had better say at 
once that in speaking of the men and women and 
children of the Pacific Slope, I do not include the 
Anglo-Franco-Americans, who have built around 
themselves a stone wall that I, being an English- 
man, am willing to respect. 

Our pretty Californienne dines in the middle of 
the day and sups at six. Thesame girl, in England, 
would be painfully ill at ease in the presence of a 
stranger. Moreover, you would note regretfully 
that the English girl’s skirt was ill hung, that her 
hair was somewhat tousled, that her shoes were 
vilely cut. The Californienne, on the contrary, 
challenges criticism out of a pair of sparkling eyes. 
“Take a square look at me,’ she seems to say; ‘it 
will brace you up.” Should you accept this invita- 


tion in sober earnest, defiance will curve her lips 
4 


50 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


into a smile. The odds are she will put you to 
the blush with the sharp question, “Anything 
wrong ?” 

The first time that I had the honour of a valse 
with this young lady, I committed a breach of eti- 
quette. She danced admirably. I—vwell, no man 
is bound to incriminate himself —I did my best. 
But, after circling twice round the room (the night 
was sultry), I stopped and began to talk. She 
seemed provoked at something, answered in mono- 
syllables, and when I said, “Shall we go on danc- 
ing?” replied curtly, “ That’s what we ’re here for.” 
After a couple of turns I stopped again, and then 
my lady Disdain, out of the fulness of her heart, 
spoke : — 

“Tt’s not hard to tell that you’re an Englishman.” 

“Thank you,” said I. ‘‘ My dancing betrays me.” 

“Yes, it does. No, no, I don’t mean that. You 
dance fairly well, but —” 

For a couple of minutes she wouldnot budge from 
her “but.” Finally, she was constrained to entire 
frankness. Why had I stopped twice without con- 
sulting her convenience? JI was so paralysed with 
amazement that I had no answer pat, save the ob- 
vious one. I had stopped — so I said — because, in | 
my opinion, it was better to stop than to fall down. 

“Giddy ?” she demanded incredulously. 

“Yes; giddy.” 

“ American men never get giddy,” she observed, 
after a significant pause. 

“Tf they did,” I submitted, “would they stop 
without consulting their partner ?” 

“They would go till they dropped,” she retorted. 


The Women of the West si 


Did she mean it literally? Perhaps not. But 
truth underlies these idle words. The Western 
man ws expected to “go till he drops;” and the 
Western woman sets the pace. Are women judges 
of pace ? 

You may roughly divide the daughters of the 
West into two great classes: the bond and the free ; 
those who have leisure and those who have none. 
The woman of leisure is a charming creature ; clever, 
plastic, cheery, and always womanly (the English 
girl who hunts, shoots, swears, and gambles has no 
understudies on the Pacific Slope); but, be she 
maid, wife, or widow, she obeys no law save that of 
her own sweet will. There are many exceptions, 
of course, but the Western woman of leisure, in 
startling contrast to other women, does what she 
likes rather than what she ought; although often 
duty and inclination march hand in hand? If a 
daughter of the West sits up with the sick child 
of a neighbour, the chorus says, “How good of 
her!” The chorus does not say, “How good for 
her.” 

She is unconsciously the most selfish creature of 
her sex. To find her mate, you must go to England 
and take the gilded youth who fondly thinks that 
the world owes him a living. He has had, as a 
rule, an expensive and superficial education, he can 
talk glibly enough about most things on this earth, 
particularly his neighbours, and his neighbour’s 
wife. He has a feminine love of being “ done well.” 
He will join a great house-party and leave it with- 
out saying good-bye or thank-you to his hostess. 
He will invite his pals to drink his father’s vintage 


52 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


champagnes and to shoot his father’s coverts ; and 
when the author of his being writes a fatherly letter 
complaining that his son’s extravagance will force 
him (the sire) to let his town house and spend the 
season out of town, the son sends a postcard in reply, 
expressing his regret and offering to rent the house 
in question himself! Once and again a youth such 
as I have described (from life) marries a daughter 
of the Golden West; and then Greek meets Greek. 
One girl I knew married a man who died under 
peculiarly tragic circumstances. Everybody con- 
doled with her, and perhaps she grew tired of cheap 
verbiage. At any rate she silenced sympathy one 
day by saying, in the most naive manner: “ Yes, it 
was dreadful, dreadful; but, thinking it all over, I 
would sooner it was him than me!” 

It is not uncommon to read in the society notes 
of a San Francisco paper that Miss X is enter- 
taining a party of her friends at her country place. 
The country place belongs to her father the bread- 
winner, but he is seldom seen and as seldom heard. 
The English father of daughters, loud-voiced, didac- 
tic, prone to fits of “ waxiness,” the laughing-stock 
of many, and the terror of the few unhappy women 
over whom he rules, is unknown on the Pacific 
Slope. Ifa Californian father ventured to find fault 
with a daughter, he would be sent, metaphorically 
speaking, to bed. For a week he would be given to 
understand that he was in disgrace. He would 
have to take his meals —as it were —at the side- 
table. 3 
The women I am describing improve their minds 
at the expense of their souls. Culture, which — 


The Women of the West Lg 


according to Matthew Arnold — is only one-fourth 
of life, teaches them nothing about the vital three- 
fourths — conduct. The men are busy making 
money —they have no time to do anything else; 
but the wives and daughters are taking French and 
German lessons, studying Spencer, or Maeterlinck, 
or Mrs. Mary Eddy, devouring, with an appetite 
which grows by what it feeds on, the contents of 
every new book, good or bad, — in a word, eternally 
busy in widening and deepening the intellectual 
eulf between the men and themselves. 

The men are responsible for this state of affairs. 
Indeed they brag of it. They are willing to die 
that their beloved may live. The hotels (and the 
divorce courts) are full of idle wives. Why? 
Because housekeeping in a new country is a syno- 
nym of work. Many a good fellow has said to me, 
“ My wife, sir, shall not work, so long as I can work 
for her.” 

None of these butterflies are happy. Mark the 
quality of their laughter. Note the tinkle of 
raillery. The educated daughter of the West would 
sooner laugh at you than with you. 

This one-sided condition of things cannot be 
dismissed with a phrase. In all new countries, 
there is a time when woman is compelled to bear 
dreadful burdens. Look at the pioneers, — the 
men who advanced step by step into the wilder- 
ness, performing prodigies of labour, hewing down 
vast forests, reclaiming hideous swamps, irrigating 
the barren places, for ever working and fighting, 
the prey of wild beasts and wild men, the heroes, 
who, despite all obstacles, perhaps because of them, 


54 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


triumphantly vindicated their unparalleled patience 
and energy,— these were accompanied by their 
wives, the mothers and grandmothers of the 
daughters of the West. Stop and think what 
these women, some of them delicately nurtured, 
suffered and endured. Think not only of the 
physical ills, but of the mental worries and anxie- 
ties: the sense of isolation, the impending sword 
of death and disease, the possibility of what is 
worse than death, —torture and dishonour. 

Ts it then to be wondered at that when a brighter 
day dawned for these men they realised what was 
owing to their wives? And have they not be- 
queathed the sense of this obligation to their sons ? 
Can you not hear them saying, “Nothing that 
this world can give is too good for the women of 
the West” ? 

And accordingly she has been exalted, and the 
hands that placed the idol on high are loath to pull 
it down. Indeed, so beloved are their women by 
the men of the West that some of them (a few), 
who are truly no more than graven images, have 
been given articulate speech. I know one man, a 
charming fellow, witty and humorous and the 
husband of a stupid wife. Again and again he has 
told me what his wife has said upon subjects whose 
very names, I am convinced, are Greek to her. I 
have never failed on such occasions to express my 
sense of his wife’s wit, and upon my soul I am 
beginning to believe that my Pygmalion really 
gives his Galatea credit for the good things which 
he puts into her mouth. Such a husband brings 
no business cares to his shrine. Often the divinity 


The Women of the West 55 


is the last to learn that the worshipper who has 
decked her with diamonds is on the eve of bank- 
ruptcy. But let it never be forgotten that when 
adversity comes the idol steps quickly down from 
her pedestal. The shrine is dismantled. The 
divinity enters the kitchen. And you can wager 
that she soon learns how to cook an excellent 
dinner. 

Again, in early days the men were many, the 
women were few, and, as a commodity in the 
marriage mart, of extravagant value. It is unfair 
to say that they went to the highest bidder, for 
Western girls are not mercenary in the sense that 
applies to the daughters of Mayfair, but naturally 
they fell into the arms of the rich rather than the 
poor. Indeed, a poor man, unable to give his wife 
the luxuries of life, remained at the mines or on 
the plains —a bachelor. 

Another reason: the last. At a time when vast 
fortunes were made and lost in a few weeks or 
months, it was part of the general scheme of things 
to make hay while the sun of prosperity was shin- 
ing. The man who had sold a big herd of fat 
steers, who had struck a rich lead at the mines, 
who held booming stocks, was not one to grudge 
his wife a few diamonds or an extra dress or two. 
Freely they had received, as freely they gave. 
And so, petted and pampered, with not a caprice 
left unsatisfied, the women of the West, touched 
to the finest issues by poverty and hardship, were 
by prosperity debased and discoloured. Not long 
ago a friend of mine met a charming woman on 
one of the big Atlantic liners. She confided to him 


56 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


her plans for her honeymoon. Nothing was want- 
ing, seemingly, but a husband. He—it appeared 
—had been left behind in San Francisco. 


Let us turn now to the women who earn their 
own living: the type-writers, the stenographers, 
the book-keepers, the telegraph and telephone girls, 
the doctors, and insurance agents. The fact that a 
girl can and does earn a fair living gives her a sense 
of independence and a self-possession quite admirable. 
But often, avoiding the Scylla of ineptitude, she 
is engulfed in the Charybdis of a too strenuous 
endeavour. She is pushing behind a coach that 
already is over-horsed. Whatever she may accom- 
plish to-day, to-morrow must hold for her sickness 
and disappointment, — the protest of the body femi- 
nine against uses to which it is ill-adapted, the 
protest of the mind whose desires have outgrown 
performance. There is a loss— who can deny it? 
—of womanliness. Does this loss to a community 
outweigh the gain ? 

Some years ago I walked into my office, and found 
at my desk, in my chair, reading my paper, an 
insurance agent. She was tall, well-dressed, and 
had the impudence and insolence of her tribe. 
With these weapons she had fought her way past 
my clerk, and through a door marked “ Private.” 
When she saw me she smiled and nodded. 

“T’m making myself to home,” she said blandly. 

“So I see,” was my reply. 

“Won’t you be seated ?” 

“You are very kind.” 

I sat down and waited. 


The Women of the West 57 


“Do you carry life insurance?” she asked. 

“T do, madam.” 

“In what companies, sir?” 

“Upon my honour, madam, I do not see how 
that concerns you.” 

She explained that she represented a new com- 
pany, that an exchange would benefit both of us, 
and so on and so forth. After five minutes of this 
I said quietly, — 

“T am sure that your time is money to you, so 
I tell you frankly that I have gone into the subject 
of insurance, that I belong to an old-line company, 
and that nothing you can say will make me leave 
it. And so I wish you — Good-morning.” 

The hint was wasted. For another ten minutes 
her tongue wagged faster that a terrier’s tail. By 
this time I had almost forgotten her sex. 

“Madam,” said I, “I made a mistake Just now. 
I perceive that your time is not worth much, not 
as much as — mine, for instance. I wish you again 
— Good-morning.” 

I rose, and held open the door. She rose also, 
somewhat after the fashion of the immortal Sairey 
Gamp. 

“You are an Englishman,” she said, and there 
was not sugar enough left in her voice to sweeten 
a fairy’s cup of tea. 

oP am: 

“Yes, you are. And let me tell you, sir, that 
you are the rudest Englishman I have ever met. 
Good-morning, sir.” 

I did not grudge her the last word. 

A well-known Californian tells another story. 


58 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


He was standing in some public office, chatting 
with other men, when a brazen-faced lady sailed 
into the room, note-book in hand, interrogation on 
her brow. She was, it seemed, the moving pillar 
of flame of some organisation that had concerned 
itself, amongst many matters, with female suffrage. 
This Gorgon approached a man, and addressed 
him, — 

“ Are you in favour of woman’s suffrage, sir?” 

“Most emphatically I am not,” he replied. 

“You are not. Your name, sir,—and your 
address ?” 

The man stammered out both name and ad- 
dress. The lady marched on, asking each the 
same questions. None refused their names or ad- 
dresses. Finally, she tackled a stout farmer. 

“ Are you in favour of woman’s suffrage, sir?” 

“T am not,” he replied. “Indeed, I think there 
are fools enough in pants voting already.” 

“Sir-r-r-r!!! Your name, your address ?” 

The stout farmer eyed her calmly. The other 
men waited a-quiver with expectation. The stout 
farmer conveyed somehow the impression that he 
would stand his ground, and vindicate the superi- 
ority of the male. 

“That is none of your d 
very deliberately. 

The Gorgon stared into his impassive face. Then 
she turned and confronted the others. Nobody 
smiled or frowned. But the sense of the meeting 
had been adequately set forth by the stout farmer. 
The lady fled. 

There are many such women in the West, and 


d business,” said he, 


The Women of the West 59 


they make the lives of their “men folks,” as they 
are pleased to call them, abjectly miserable. The 
following anecdote, not a new one to Western read- 
ers, illustrates the man’s point of view. A long- 
suffering husband was burying his wife. The coffin 
had been taken from the hearse by the pall-bearers, 
and was being carried through the somewhat nar- 
row gate of the cemetery. It chanced that in 
passing through the gate, the coffin was thrust 
hard against one of the posts. Almost immedi- 
ately, to the amazement of the mourners, a muffled 
scream was heard. The lid was hastily unscrewed. 
And, lo! the woman was not dead at all. She 
was taken home and lived for three more years. 
Then she died again. At the funeral, as the coffin 
was being lowered from the hearse, the husband 
addressed the bearers very solemnly: “Boys — 
mind that post.” 

We come now to the Western woman who leads 
the double life,— the life of the peasant and the 
gentlewoman. There are hundreds of these be- 
tween San Diego and Victoria, nay, thousands, 
who, as a factor in the future of the Pacific Slope, 
challenge attention —and pity. Personally I can 
conceive nothing more pathetic, more heart-break- 
ing, than the spectacle of a gently nurtured girl 
constrained by poverty to bake and wash and 
sweep, to play the parts of cook, nurse, wife, ser- 
vant, and washerwoman, and yet, by virtue of what 
is bred in her, constrained also to dress as a lady 
dresses, to eat what a lady eats, to read what a 
lady reads. Here, again, the curse of a new coun- 
try, the insatiable desire to appear other than what 


60 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope | 


you are and ought to be, grinds these unhappy 
women to powder. They wish—they will tell 
you—to keep up with the procession! Where is 
the American sense of humour? The men know 
that the double life cannot be lived. Accordingly, 
they give their undivided attention to business. 
When success crowns his labours, the Westerner 
can —and often does —apply himself diligently to 
art, or letters, or politics, and the powers of con- 
centration that made him a man of money serve 
also to make him a man of culture; but what 
chance has the woman who wishes to make soup 
and poetry in the same place and at the same 
time? She is sure to forget to put salt into either. 
It is easier to bale out an ocean with a pitchfork 
than to live successfully the double life. Think of 
Browning and —basting, of a crying baby and 
French irregular verbs, of kitchen odours and 
Herbert Spencer. The end is inevitable. These 
women die, worn out. Before their first boy is 
breeched the colour and form and fragrance of 
life have fled. And they leave to their children — 
what? A taint, in a sense, as of scrofula, the 
stigmata of the suffering and sorrow that wait on 
failure. These children in their turn will try to 
shave Shagpat. Their mother, in the attempt to 
do two things at once, has given them indigestible 
food for mind and body. Upon the graves of these 
unhappy women should be inscribed the famous 
French line: “Malheureuse est ]’ignorance, et plus 
malheureux le savoir.” 

A feature of home life in the West to which — | 
so far as | know —no writer has drawn attention, 


The Women of the West 61 


is the gradual backsliding of maternal love and 
tenderness as the child grows older. This is so in- 
sidious as to escape the notice of most persons — 
particularly the parents; but amongst nearly all 
classes in the West— as in the upper and upper- 
middle class of England —there is an animal love 
of the very young, a wish to cuddle, and kiss, and 
flatter, and dress, and spoil the little ones, a love 
which diminishes as imperceptibly, but as surely, as 
the adored object increases. And the men like to 
see it. They take the mother at her own valuation. 
She tells them that she loves babies, that she 
is so fond of children; and they believe it! These 
women always sigh because their children are 
growing up. The child is, or ought to be, develop- 
ing, maturing, becoming in short a human being, 
ceasing to be a kitten or a puppy; and this — say 
the mothers —is cause for regret. And as a rule, it 
as cause for regret. The child is growing up to be 
vain, hard, selfish, deformed in mind, perhaps in 
body — essentially unlovable. Some wit said that 
the spinsters of England were the mothers of Eng- 
lish gentlemen. He was alluding to the nurses, 
the governesses, the maiden aunts, the plain elder 
sisters, who do not perhaps kiss and cuddle, but 
who patiently and laboriously, day after day, month 
after month, year after year, shape and prune and 
water the tender plants committed to their charge. 
And these are the women whom the men of the 
world hold cheap! I never meet a mother but I 
wonder whether her children are denied, not kisses, 
but that love which finds expression in ceaseless 
ministration to the mental and moral faculties. I 


62 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


know one mother — it is a privilege to know her — 
who is in and of the West. She has no servants, 
no sister, not even a friend to help her care for her 
three children. Does she hug her little ones in pub- 
lic? Not she. But she gives them hours of patient 
teaching and gentle correction. And when her chil- 
dren grow up she will have her reward. 

There are many such in the West, but there 
might be so many more. And, mark you, the “ani- 
mal” mother, beneath the veneer of tenderness is 
hard — hard as the nether millstone; and her hard- 
ness grinds to powder the gawky hobbledehoys and — 
hoydens who are not a credit to her whom they 
have the misfortune of calling — mother! 

Some of my readers will remember a paragraph 
of Daudet’s in that delightful book Fromont Jeune 
et Risler Ainé. It is so pat that I cannot forbear 
quoting it: a translation would spoil it. 

“Ce que Sidonie enviait par-dessus tout a Claire, 
c’était l’enfant, le poupou luxueux, enrubanné de- 
puis les rideaux de son berceau jusqu’au bonnet de 
sa nourrice. Elle ne songeait pas aux devoirs doux, 
pleins de patience et d’abnégation, aux longs berce- 
ments des sommeils difficiles, aux réveils rieurs, 
étincelants d’eau fraiche. Non! dans l’enfant, elle 
ne voyait que la promenade. . . .” 


The women of the Pacific Slope have indirect 
control of the churches and schools. We are told 
that “the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand 
that rules the world,” but in the West it not infre- 
quently happens that in attempting to rule the 
world, the cradle is allowed to stand still. Work is 


The Women of the West 63 


done in churches and schools that might be better 
done at home. It would seem as if the women of 
the West, living in a country where everything is 
on a large scale, were absolutely unable to see what 
is small. With their eyes fixed on the mountains 
they ignore the molehills. The men will tell you, 
with a fine disregard of ancient wisdom, that if you 
take care of the dollars, the cents will take care of 
themselves. Such matters are ordered better in 
France. There the men make the francs, and the 
women save the centimes. But in the West the 
dollars made by the men are squandered by the 
women. And the children buy candy with the 
cents. 

Perhaps the word “‘squander” is ill-chosen. The 
Western woman is keen to get what she calls “ value 
received” for her money. She will spend a morning 
as lightly as a dollar, looking over samples at a dry- 
goods store. Generally speaking, she buys some- 
thing unsuited to her station in life and her husband’s 
monthly income. You see more trash upon the 
counters of Western shops than anywhere else in 
the world: cheap shoes, cheap clothes, cheap jew- 
elry, cheap underwear. What is plain and service- 
able finds no favour and no sale. 

Some of the men and women who think about 
these things have said to me that what is wanted is 
an example: a Roosevelt in petticoats, who will 
preach and practise the gospel of simplicity and 
thrift. One cannot help feeling that such work — 
now that the war is over —might be undertaken 
by the Red Cross Society. Comfort is one of the 
most alluring words in the English language, but in 


64 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


the West it is found for the most part only in dic- 
tionaries. It is conspicuously sacrificed to show in 
the palaces of the very rich, and it has never en- 
tered the cottages of the poor. You may find it in 
the homes of what would be called in England the 
middle class, especially amongst the Jews, but even 
here it is jostled and pinched by its bastard brother 
Display. The women of the West are very hospi- 
table, but at their luncheons and dinners you are 
sensible that too much is attempted. A lady with 
one servant entertains upon the same scale as her 
neighbour who has four. Many of the dishes she 
has prepared herself; and in consequence she comes 
to table a physical wreck, unable to eat, unable to 
talk. In such houses a famine follows the feast; 
after the guests have departed the mistress takes to 
her bed. 

Speaking of examples, it is a pleasure to cite Mrs. 
Pheebe Hearst and Mrs. Jane Stanford. These 
ladies own and control many millions of dollars. 
They are the widows of two senators who began life 
poor and obscure men. Senator Stanford was one 
of four who conceived and carried to a successful 
issue the building of that colossal railroad which 
linked the West to the East. Senator Hearst was © 
a famous miner. The bulk of their fortunes will 
eventually be absorbed by the two Universities of 
California. One can conceive no nobler use for 
great wealth than this: the endowment and equip- 
ment upon the most munificent scale of institutions 
whose doors stand open to all who are worthy to 
enter them. To this single end Mrs. Stanford has 
devoted her fortune and her life. It is a fact that 


The Women of the West 65 


when the Leland Stanford Junior University was in 
sore financial straits, she denied herself no sacrifice, 
living in poverty and seclusion until the dun days 
were past. More, at an age when most women count 
themselves entitled to rest in peace, she mastered 
those difficult arts by which alone great trusts are 
properly administered. She became a woman of 
business, the slave of innumerable interests, shifting 
responsibilities to none, the patient indefatigable 
worker and executrix. The same may be said of 
Mrs. Hearst. 

To women such as these, the Pacific Slope owes 
an incalculable debt. The money, vast sum that it 
is, which they give is the least part of that debt. 
The sleepless nights, the anxious days, the physical 
exhaustion — can these be computed ? 


The girls of the West marry for love. Very often 
the daughter of a rich man, accustomed to every 
luxury, marries a poor clerk, or a struggling lawyer 
or doctor; and while the struggles last she almost 
invariably proves a loyal and tender helpmeet. 
Adversity would seem to link such lovers with 
golden fetters; prosperity tears them apart. It 
is curious to note that the rich father rarely makes 
his daughter an allowance, no matter how sharply 
poverty pinches her. There may be virtue in this 
Spartan discipline (I believe there is more than 
we suspect), but to English eyes it appears un- 
necessarily rigorous. There is a true story of a 
millionaire who gave his daughter a very large 
fortune when she came of age. Later, she married 


against his wishes a poor man, and the father said 
5 


66 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


bitterly that if he had been vouchsafed a glimpse 
of the future, his daughter would have gone penni- 
less to the man of her choice. The daughter, with 
her husband’s consent, in accordance, perhaps, with 
his wishes, returned her fortune to the father — and 
he accepted it. 

The women of the West have undertaken one 
colossal labour. They have not sprinkled the 
demon Drink with their tears; they have fought 
him tooth and nail. For many years it seemed 
to me that the advocates of Temperance, a synonym 
in the West for Total Abstinence, were far too 
radical in their proposed reforms. Myself a mod- 
erate drinker, believing then (as I believe now) 
that a glass of wine with one’s dinner is far more 
wholesome than a cup of strong tea or coffee, and 
infinitely less injurious than the lime-saturated 
water of the Pacific Slope, I could find no words 
strong enough to condemn those who, styling them- 
selves temperate, proved in debate to be the exact 
opposite. Since then I have learned to look at the 
matter from the woman’s point of view. I must 
admit, very reluctantly, that nothing short of the 
knife will cut out this cancer. I hold no brief 
for the W.C.T.U., I pronounce Prohibition a sorry _ 
plank in any political platform, but I do believe 
that working amongst individuals, fathers, hus- 
bands, and brothers, the women are justified in 
demanding total abstinence; they are not likely 
to obtain it. It seems almost impossible for the 
average man of the West to confine himself to a 
pint of light claret a day. The experiment has 
been tried again and again; it has always failed. 


The Women of the West 67 


And in the past seventeen years I have seen so 
many seemingly sound apples drop rotten from 
the tree — gin-sodden and worthless. In England 
drunkenness is confined to a certain class; the 
drunkards of the West are ubiquitous. You find 
them everywhere — except, be it said, in the pulpit. 
The doctors, the lawyers, the business men are 
the worst offenders, for they nip, nip, nip, all day 
long, till they become — as they are called — 
whisky-tanks, and cease, for the practical purposes 
of life, to be men at all. What has been done to 
check the growth of this monstrous tumour has 
been done by the women, and to them be the 
credit. 

There are some public positions which women 
fill with genuine dignity. At the outbreak of the 
late war, a Red Cross Society was organised in San 
Francisco (I think), with branches all over the 
Pacific Slope. The Society concerned itself with 
the welfare of the American soldier, and in particu- 
lar the American volunteer, for whose comfort those 
in authority had made inadequate provision. One 
regiment arrived in San Francisco to find itself with- 
out rations. It is true that a banquet was prepared 
for the officers at the Palace Hotel, but the men 
would have gone without food for twenty-four hours 
had it not been for the Red Cross Society. It was a 
flagrant case of Red Tape versus Red Cross, and the 
Red Cross was not found wanting. 

I have found in country-bred girls an air, a grace, 
a charm quite irresistible. And you cannot classify 
them collectively. The typical Western girl does 
not exist. Each is unique, a study in white, or red, 


68 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


or blue, or yellow (primary colours, mark you) ; each 
appeals to the curiosity, not to mention the cupidity, 
of the male ; each, too, has a chameleon-like facility 
of adapting herself to her environment without sac- 
rificing an iota of her personality. Many English- 
men waste valuable time in making up what they 
call their minds upon purely domestic matters. In 
the West, the daughters generously assume this 
task. Without the circle of politics and business, 
the young American man follows wherever his sis- 
ter, or some other man’s sister, may lead. About 
this spinster, moreover, are no skirts of compromise: 
those clogging garments which cramp and compress 
the walk, the talk, the very thoughts of the English 
miss. 

Perhaps the common denominator of the young 
women of the West is a magnificent charlatanerie ; 
an imposture that would be ridiculous if it were not 
sublime. Each pretends to be what she is not; 
each thinks herself the superior of the women in 
the classes below hers, the equal of those in the 
classes above; each strives to appear cleverer, 
younger, wittier, and prettier than God intended 
her to be. Indeed, it is an impertinence to speak 
of them as women ; they are all —ladies. And all 
are ambitious. The ambition of the wife spurs the 
husband to efforts beyond his strength. Living as 
they do in the country of infinite possibilities, the 
humblest unconsciously try to fit themselves for 
positions that but few are destined to occupy. I re- 
member, many years ago, being accosted by a tramp, 
who asked me for money wherewith to buy “a bite 
of something to eat.” I gave him a small coin, re- 


The Women of the West 69 


marking that in my opinion he was likely to spend 
it on “a bite of something to drink.” As he moved 
away, ragged and forlorn, my father-in-law, who 
was with me, said soberly: “You should not cut 
jokes with free-born American citizens, That fel- 
low may live to be senator of this State.” 

The balance must be adjusted between the woman 
who does not work at all and the woman who works 
too hard. I am of opinion that a radical change 
is taking place in the hearts and heads of the women 
themselves. I have already said that adversity 
brings out and develops what is best in the Western 
woman. The hard times have given them a clearer 
perception of values, a saner common sense, En- 
vironment is more potent than heredity. The New 
England women, for instance, bring with them to 
the West the qualities that distinguish them, —a 
love of truth and duty and renunciation; and as a 
rule these good gifts abide with them till they die. 
But their daughters born in the West will be of the 
West; and as the West changes, sloughing its skin, 
so will they change, in obedience to the laws of 
evolution, till they stand at length, strong and tri- 
umphant upon the pyramid of experience, not what 
they are to-day, but what they ought to be— 
to-morrow. 


IV 


THE CHILDREN OF THE WEST 


isn 


‘ 


IV 
THE CHILDREN OF THE WEST 


T has been said that the pioneers were the salt 
of the earth, but their children have been 

reared for the most part as if they were sugar. 
A man who has practised rigid self-denial, who 
knows —none better —what he has lost, as well 
as what he has gained, and who, perhaps, lacking 
a perfect sense of proportion, is apt to overestimate 
the value of advantages he has been forced to 
forego, —an academic education, for instance, cul- 
ture, sport, in fine, the amenities of life,—such a 
one, sitting alone in his counting-house, may well 
swear that his children shall drink freely of the 
cup denied to him. And how can he — poor fellow 
—he expected to foresee the results: intoxication, 
folly, bitterness ? 

Many a father in the West has said: “My son 
is not like me; we have nothing in common.” 

“Why should he be like you?” one might reply. 
“You have kept him in cotton wool; you have 
humoured his whims; you have taught him to 
consider himself alone. Now you complain that 
he is selfish, indolent, and extravagant. Who made 
him so?” 

This question the fathers of the West are un- 
willing to answer. One can conceive no more 
pathetic condition of affairs: a father successful 


74. Lite and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


beyond the dreams of avarice, conscious of powers 
turned to rich account, respected and admired by 
his fellows, a pillar of his State, and yet sensible 
that in the greatest thing of all, in the administra- 
tion of the most stupendous trust, in the care and 
culture of his own flesh and blood —he has failed ; 
that he has killed his best-beloved son with — too 
much kindness! 

This kindness, as in the case of King Lear, often 
breeds rank ingratitude, especially amongst the 
poor. Here is a story —TI cannot vouch for the 
truth of it— which illustrates a relation that too 
often exists between son and father. The son is 
speaking. ‘“ Yas—TI’ve had the worst kind o’ luck 
with the old man. I knew he was ailin’, so I paid 
his expenses out from Missourah, and fed him the 
best o’ corn all through the fall and winter. And 
then, when spring come and I was a calculatin’ 
that I’d get a summer’s work out of him, he up 
and died!” | 

Throughout the West, in the cottages of the poor 
and in the mansions of the rich, you will find. 
fathers and mothers the slaves of their children. 
The poor work their fingers to the bone in order 
that the little ones may wear clothes quite unsuited 
to their station in life. Upon a hundred ranches 
I have seen mothers cooking, washing, sewing, 
while the daughters of the house were reading 
novels or playing the piano. I have known a 
mother make her own underclothing out of flour 
sacks, when her little girl was wearing silk. 

“They can only have a good time once,” is the 
cant phrase of these altruists. 


The Children of the West 75 


It never seems to occur to them to consider 
whether or not the children are “having a good 
time.” Certainly, compared with the children 
of other countries — France, Germany, England — 
they lack mirthfulness. Perhaps they are sensible, 
poor little dears, of the sacrifices made on their 
behalf; perhaps the strife around them, which they 
passively witness every hour of the day, has entered 
like iron into their souls; perhaps they, in common 
with their elders, attempt too much and learn too 
soon the weariness of satiety. I have talked with 
little maids of four, who knew that their dolls were 
stuffed with sawdust. I have seen the same little 
maids pull down their tiny skirts, blushing. 0, ye 
Prunes and Prisms! Ought a little girl of four to 
know that she has—legs? I remember one miss 
of seven (a born coquette, by the way) who hon- 
oured me with her friendship. She was in my 
room when I was unpacking a portmanteau, and 
she took the greatest interest in my coloured shirts. 
Presently she said softly, “My father buys my 
frocks, but Auntie gets my underclothes.” Then 
she added, with a queer little stare, ‘Perhaps I 
ought not to mention underclothes to a gentleman.” 

When they go to school, and they go too soon, 
evil besmirches them. From what I have learned 
from many parents, it is safe to assert that inno- 
cence is seldom found in the country schools of 
the West. One hesitates to indict a system of 
education that in many respects works admirably. 
One knows that a mother who is both cook and 
housekeeper cannot play the part of schoolmistress. 
And one sympathises with a natural ambition which 


76 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


confounds means with ends. If a smattering of 
book-learning is the be-all and end-all of education, 
the mothers of the West are justified in sending 
their little girls to school. If, on the other hand, 
purity of mind, modesty, unselfishness, be deemed 
a maiden’s triple crown, she had better stay at 
home till she is old enough to know evil when 
she sees it, and, so knowing it, choose the good. 

When I first came to California, the girls, with 
few exceptions, enjoyed unrestrained liberty. They 
scoffed at apron-strings. They walked, and rode, 
and drove alone with the man of their choice. The 
mothers always stayed at home. They said proudly 
that they could trust their girls. This trust was 
a beautiful thing, quite ideal, but how often was it 
betrayed! You must ask the doctors, read the 
records, and talk with the young men who take 
the girls to the picnics and dances, and when you 
have done all this you can answer the question for 
yourself. 

In a country town, you will find the streets full 
of girls. They are sent alone on errands; they loaf 
about the station and post-office, they walk arm in 
arm up and down the thoroughfares. They ought, 
every one of them, to be at home working, helping 
their mothers, who— heaven knows!— want all 
the help they can get. And yet these same mothers 
admit that their girls are a hindrance to them in 
the kitchen and the laundry. “Bless you,” said 
one hard-working farmer’s wife to me, “ my daughter 
could n’t cook a meal o’ victuals to save her life.” 
From her tone I was left to infer that this inca- 
pacity was greatly to the girl’s credit. In the 


The Children of the West 7a 


West a stream is expected to rise higher than its 
source. A minute later the mother murmured, “I 
do wish that you could hear Alvira play Weber’s 
‘Invitation to the Waltz.’ ” 

Alvira was sweet sixteen, had attended school 
since she was six, and what she knew of practical 
value could have been put into a grain of millet- 
seed. 

On the other hand, the boys are encouraged to 
earn an honest penny as soon as they are breeched. 
I am speaking of the sons of the poor. Many a 
small boy, out of school hours, sells papers, peddles 
tamales, or does “chores,” for a neighbour. The 
money so earned he spends on himself. This of 
course fosters independence. The boy learns to 
paddle his own canoe, to shoot the rapids. At 
fifteen he is —so to speak —a voyageur, a naviga- 
tor. The father is a “ back number.” 

The conceit of the very small boys, their bump- 
tiousness and braggadocio, always amaze the stranger 
and foreigner. I read a story the other day that 
must have been clipped from a Western newspaper. 
A father leaving home had specially commended 
the care of the mother to his small son, aged — 
five. That night, the urchin modified his evening 
prayer. He entreated the protection of Heaven on 
behalf of the absent sire; but he ended as follows: 
“Dear God, don’t bother about mamma, for I’m 
taking care of her myself.” 

My own little boy, a Native Son brought up in 
California, was very much excited at the prospect 
of a first visit to England. The battle of Omdur- 
man had just been fought. “I do hope,” he said, 


78 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


after seeing the pictures in the “ Illustrated London 
News,” “that the Queen will keep the war in 
Egypt going —for me.” 

Another day he was listening attentively to the 
story of the Golden Calf and the Fiery Serpents. 
“ Well,” he remarked, as the Bible was closed, “ they 
were wicked, those Israelites. No wonder God was 
mad with them. J don’t blame him.” 


Irreverence is a characteristic of the children of 
the West. This is partly the fault of the pastors. 
I remember a funeral sermon preached by a Presby- 
terian minister upon a dead child. The child’s 
play-fellows were in church, and attentive listeners 
to a discourse mainly biographical. The preacher 
concluded : “I can see him; yes, I can see our dear 
little friend;” he looked upward, and the eyes of 
the children were immediately fixed upon the ceiling 
of the church. “There he is, corralled in Heaven, 
playing about with all the other little angels.” 

This allusion to the corral, that homely feature 
in the Western landscape, appealed forcibly to the 
imagination of the children, but surely the ridicu- 
lous was too perilously near the sublime. 

Speaking of funerals, I recall another anecdote 
that illustrates this peculiar blending of the sacred 
and the profane. In Southern California, funerals 
are, like the Irish wake, a source of entertainment 
to the many who attend them. If the deceased 
happens to have been in his lifetime a member of 
any order, such as the Oddfellows or Freemasons, his 
funeral becomes a public function, a parade. You 
march to the burial-ground clad in the uniform of 


The Children of the West 79 


your order; a band furnishes appropriate music; 
at the grave certain rites are observed. But the 
solemn procession to the cemetery is robbed of its 
significance, by the rout that follows the benedic- 
tion. Peace, indeed, is left with the dead. The 
living race home, as if Death, with the “ tiger-roar” 
of his voice, were pursuing them. After one of these 
functions I encountered the chief mourner and mur- 
mured my condolence. He asked me in return what 
I thought of the funeral; then he added, before I 
could answer: “It was fine. Every thing according 
to Hoyle. Well sir, she’d been a good wife to me, 
and me and my friends appreciated that fact, and 
so — we gave her a good send-off !” 
Children attend these entertainments. 


Talking with the boys and girls of the West, one 
notes the bias of their minds to what is material 
rather than ideal. This gives to each child a certain 
personality — he must be reckoned with as an indi- 
vidual. His egoism is so plainly manifested that 
it becomes dominant. And this egoism of the 
child is pregnant with ill-omen for the future of the 
race. What makes for character — sense of duty, 
reverence, humility, obedience —is not inculcated 
by the majority of parents in the West. On the 
contrary, they encourage the egoism latent in all 
-children, till each becomes an autocrat. I shall 
never forget a morning I passed in what is called 
the “ Ladies’ Parlour” of a steamship. My mother 
was with me, prostrated by headache and sickness, 
and the room was full of fellow sufferers. Suddenly 
a boy marched in playing —toy bagpipes. The 


80 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


skirl of the pipes at a distance has been known, I 
believe, to please some persons with Scotch blood 
in their veins, but the wildest pibroch ever played 
in Highland glen was sweet melody compared to 
the strains produced by this urchin. The women 
glared at him, but he played on, delighted with 
himself and his toy. His mother was present, un- 
protesting. Presently he flung down the pipes, 
walked to the piano, opened it, sat down, and began 
to hammer the keys with his feet. The mother 
smiled fatuously. I rose up and approached the 
child. “You play very nicely with your feet,” I 
ventured to say, as I lifted him from the stool, “ but 
some of these ladies are suffering with headache, 
and your music distresses them. Run away, like a 
good boy, and don’t come back again.” 

The child stared at me and obeyed. The mother 
was furious. Had I been Herod the Great, red- 
handed after the slaughter of the Innocents, she 
could not have looked more indignant or reproach- 
ful. I was interfering with the sacred rights of the 
American child to do what he pleased, where he 
pleased, and when he pleased. 

In the East —I am glad to say — Fashion has 
ordained that the children of the well-to-do shall 
be quietly dressed, soft-voiced, polite, and consider- 
ate. They flaunt no absurd silks and satins, they 
wear no jewellery, they play neither the piano nor 
the fool — in public. 

In the West it is otherwise. 


South of Point Concepcion, the children suffer 
from the effect of a climate ill-adapted to the de- 


The Children of the West 81 


velopment of the Anglo-Saxon race. One hesitates 
to use the odious word, “décadent” in connection 
with them, but no other can be found. You will 
see many pretty faces, whose features lack strength 
and balance. The lads are pallid, narrow-chested, 
and rickety; the girls, like the roses, lack fresh- 
ness and fragrance. There is an exotic quality about 
them, a quality not without a charm, a languorous 
grace denied to the robuster children of the North. 
These are the orchids of the Pacific Slope. 

Their precocity is astounding. Most of them are 
allowed to read the public prints, and in particular 
the Sunday editions, wherein may be found a special 
page devoted to the young, and which the young 
— according to my experience — seldom read. In 
1895 we were horrified by a dreadful double murder. 
Two girls were decoyed to a church, and there dis- 
honoured and despatched by a fiend of the name 
of Durrant. The case furnished hundreds of col- 
umns of what is known in editorial sanctums as 
“good stuff,” and for two years these details tainted 
the public mind. The very headlines were sufficient 
to debauch the imagination. To-day, you would 
hardly find on the Pacific Slope an intelligent boy 
of fifteen who is not familiar with the details of this 
murder. Finally, Dewey took the taste of Durrant 
out of their mouths. 

If the mental diet is too stimulating for the chil- 
dren, the food they eat is no less so. Some parents 
gravely contend that the tissues of a child’s stomach 
may be toughened, like his cuticle, by abuse. One 
man I know wakes up his children in the middle of 


the night to eat whatever he fancies: Welsh rarebit, 
6 


82 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


cold plum pudding, caviare, or pickled clams. “I 
like my babies around me,” he observed tenderly. I 
feared that he would n’t have them long, but he as- 
sured me that they were none the worse for these 
noctes ambrosiane. 

All the children of the poorer class eat too much 
salt meat, and drink tea that is little better than 
poison. The cooking on the ranches is inconceiv- 
ably bad. Soda and cheap baking-powders take the 
place of honest yeast; steaks and chops are fried, 
not broiled, and served sodden with grease; the vege- 
tables, particularly the peas, are tough and tasteless ; 
the puddings alone are palatable. As a rule, these 
viands are gulped down in a few minutes. The 
children fill their pockets with doughnuts (the 
Western word “sinkers” is expressive) and scurry 
away to their lessons and games. The elders take 
a dose of some patent medicine, and fondly believe 
that they have enjoyed a square meal. 7 


The amount of medicine sold on the Pacific Slope 
is significant of either stupendous credulity or stu- 
pendous ill-health on the part of the people. And 
the children get more than their share of the drugs. 
The weakening of a general belief in the Great - 
Physician has quickened faith in the quacks. If 
Tommy cuts his finger the doctor is summoned ; if 
Mamie coughs, a lung specialist must be consulted ; 
if the baby has a pain, he must be dosed with pare- 
goric. In a country where health once reigned 
supreme, where doctors were unknown, where drugs 
were sold by the grocers, you may hardly find to- 
day a perfectly healthy family. One child has lost 


The Children of the West 83 


his “adnoids,” another his tonsils; this one goes 
twice a week to an aurist; an oculist has just oper- 
ated upon that; a nose specialist (he won’t be long 
without a name) has the fifth under special treat- 
ment, and so forth. 

And yet, despite the money spent on them, de- 
spite the care and anxiety of the parents, despite 
the pampering, despite the endearments, the children 
of the Pacific Slope are emphatically neglected. 
You seldom see a father or a mother patiently 
and laboriously teaching a child. The common 
round is distasteful to the people of the West, the 
trivial task is abhorrent. The “grind” of slowly 
imparting to achild habits of self-control, obedience, 
and a sense of duty is a treadmill that few care to 
mount. Those who can afford it pay others to train 
their children for them, and this training is, as a 
rule, intermittent and ineffective. 

The religious training is practically in the hands 
of the Sunday-school teachers. The more intelli- 
gent of these will tell you, if you ask them, that 
their efforts are often futile, because at home the 
men of the family habitually make light of sacred 
things and names. I remember one very small 
boy who astonished his mother one night by sud- 
denly sitting up in bed and saying, “Well, I am 
a dam fool; I’ve forgotten to say my prayers!” 
Here again is the blend of sacred and profane. 


The good qualities of the children of the Pacific 
Slope are: originality, independence, pluck, and 
perspicuity. They are extraordinarily quick-witted 
and plastic, full of quips and odd turns of speech, 


84 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


and blessed with the strongest imaginations. A 
grandmother gave me the following. She had 
explained very patiently the nature of that respect 
which is due to age from youth. At the end she 
asked, “Do you understand what I[ have been 
saying ?” 

“You bet I do,’ replied the grandson (aged six). 
“JT know that it would n’t do for me call you — 
Tom.” 

During a heavy rainstorm, an urchin was seen by 
his mother to drop upon his knees. “ Dear God,” 
prayed the child, “father says we have had rain 
enough. Please turn off the faucet.” 

This urchin once begged me to read aloud to him 
from the paper I held in my hand. I assured him 
that what I was perusing — the annual statement 
of one of the banks — would not interest him. He 
begged to contradict me. So I began: “ Capital 
Stock. . . $3,000,000.” | 

He interrupted me at once. Stock, seemingly, 
suggested dairy cows, for he said eagerly: “ By 
golly, three million dollars! Wouldn’t I like to 
own those cows, and would n’t I milk ’em for all 
they were worth, and sell’em when they went dry ?” 

Upon another occasion, he had returned from a 
visit to one of the neighbours’ wives, whom he pro- 
nounced a perfect lady. I took exception to the 
adjective and substantive, the person in question 
being a peasant. “Well,” said he, “she may not be 
a perfect lady, but she’s a very agreeable woman.” 

Upon the deck of a steamer I heard the fol- 
lowing: A small boy from the West asked a 
friend of mine, a striking-looking man, who he 


The Children of the West 85 


was. “I’m the pilot,” replied he, with a twinkle 
in his eye. 

“The pilot,” repeated the urchin, thoughtfully. 
“Then why ar’n’t you on the bridge ?” 

These imps criticise their elders and _ betters 
freely. A tot said to me quite gravely : “My auntie 
is not as smart as she thinks herself. And she’s 
often very rude. She cont’adicted me this morning.” 

A snub —need it be said — is good powder wasted 
on the Western youth. I remember a lad of eigh- 
teen who was selling books. He went into the 
office of a physician notorious for his crabbed 
temper, and submitted his wares. The medico 
bade him be gone, in very unparliamentary terms. 

“Can you read?” demanded the youth, blandly. 

“ Read, sir! I don’t read such books as you sell.” 

“I sell Shakespeare, and the Bible. You don’t 
act as if you had read either. Good-morning.” 

This same youth — who surely will go far — had 
heard that at a certain bank the clerks had agreed 
to hustle any book agent who invaded their prem- 
ises. The book agent, it must be added, is regarded 
in the West as a beast of prey. Our young friend 
took his own line. Rushing into the bank, he ex- 
claimed excitedly, “ Boys, have you seen him ?” 

“Seen whom?” repeated the clerks in chorus. 

“That book agent.” 

“No, no. We want to see him! We’re fixed 
for him. The last fellow made us weary. We’re 
going to skin the next one alive. Where is he 2?” 

“He is—here!” said the youth dramatically. 
“Start right in, boys, and enjoy yourselves. When 
you get through [ll sell you some books.” 


86 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


He sold his books. 

If they refuse to take a snub, they are quick to 
take a hint. There is an authentic story of a poor 
lad who approached a famous millionaire and asked 
for twenty-five cents (a shilling), wherewith to buy 
a meal. 

“A meal?” exclaimed the great man. “ Why, 
my boy, twenty-five cents will buy you five meals 
— of bread and water. And a healthy lad like you 
can live on two meals a day. I’vedone it. Here’s 
your quarter.” 

The boy took the coin and the advice. Years 
after he sought out the millionaire and thanked 
him. 


Since I first crossed the Rocky Mountains, an ex- 
traordinary stimulus has been given to all athletic 
exercises. In 1882 baseball was the only game. 
To-day the muscles of the youths are hardened 
and expanded by football, polo, golf, tennis, and 
bicycle riding. And yet the physiology of bodily 
exercise is entirely misapprehended, even more so 
than it isin England. In no country do the young 
men “scorch” as in the West. You may see them 
any Sunday upon the highways and byways. Their 
faces are streaming with perspiration; their eyes 
are popping from their heads; their brows are 
seamed with anxiety. Doubled up above the 
handle-bars they always seem to me the most piti- 
ful notes of interrogation. They are asking for 
health and strength. What are they getting ? 

I hold with Walt Whitman that “in man or 
woman a clean, strong, firm-fibred body, is more 


The Children of the West 87 


beautiful than the most beautiful face;” I know, 
also, what athletics has done for the young men of 
the West; I am well aware of the many (who 
might have been drunkards and debauchees) whom 
a love of manly sport has reclaimed and regener- 
ated. But I cannot blind myself to the fact that 
in this, as in other matters, the pendulum has 
swung too far the other way. The strenuous com- 
petition that stalks in the market-place rages furi- 
ously in the playing-fields, too furiously for the 
weal of the athletes. In their play, as in their 
work, would it not be wise for the Sons of the 
West to give pause ? 


RANCH LIFE—I | 


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RANCH LIFE— I 


UTSIDERS look at ranch life through rose- 
coloured spectacles. The word “ranch” has 
peculiar charm: it sounds more pastoral, more 
alluring than “farm.” A farm suggests hedges, 
fences, stone walls. Of necessity, life on a farm 
would seem to be life within bounds, circumscribed 
by convention, lacking the freedom and freshness 
of the ranch. A ranch implies ampler pastures, 
purer air, the essence of Arcadian things. 

In the West the word is linked indiscriminately 
to a score of industries. We have cattle-, horse-, 
hog-, fruit-, berry-, chicken-, and even bee-ranches. 
According to your inclination, according to the 
amount of capital at your disposal, you may choose 
any one of these; but remember, you will infallibly 
fail— losing money, time, and probably health — 
unless you give to your ranch undivided energies, 
unwearied patience, a fair measure of brains, and a 
leaven of common-sense. 

The writers who have described ranch-life as 
easy and leisurely, a refuge for men who have 
broken down in the professions or in business, have 
— consciously or unconsciously — lied. 


On a cattle-ranch, you will be sensible of its 
remoteness. You are far from railroad and post- 


g2 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


office. Once a week, perhaps, you get papers and 
letters; once a week you see a fresh face, hear the 
tones of a fresh voice. The world wags on, but 
you are out of it. To some this isolation is intoler- 
able; to others, doubtless, it brings comfort and 
content. The life grows upon one. You rise early, 
feed your horse and yourself, and ride forth into 
the hills. After a time you begin to know your — 
cattle; you can see them, distinguish one from an- 
other at a distance that surprises the tenderfoot. 
If one is missing you are aware instinctively of 
the fact, and glance skyward. <A buzzard circling 
slowly on motionless pinions advises you that the 
beast is dead, or dying. Perhaps he has mired 
down in some rotten ground, or is cast in a gulch, 
or stolen. It is the business of your life to know 
where the cattle are, and what may be their 
condition. At certain seasons the calves must be 
branded; the beef cattle must be cut out, as the 
phrase runs, the estrays must be given to their 
lawful owners. These rodeos are the high days, 
not the holidays, of ranch life. From the neigh- 
bouring ranchos ride the cowboys, and in the corrals 
you will see them at work with the lasso and 
branding-iron. Time was when cattle were roughly 
handled. They came streaming across the hills, 
the vaqueros shouting behind them and whirling 
their reatas. Now quieter methods prevail. The 
foreman instructs his men to drive the beasts 
slowly, not to shout, not to swing the reata. He 
wants his cattle tame. Even in the corral the 
lasso is less used than formerly, and the skill of 
the vaqueros is passing for lack of practice. Some 


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Ranch Life 93 


of the “greasers,” however, can still fling a rope 
with such exquisite art that the loop seems to be 
guided by an invisible hand to the horn or hoof 
it is destined to encircle; they can vault on, and 
off, and over, a horse at full gallop, or snatch a coin 
from the ground as they race by — swinging far 
out of their big saddles and into them again with 
extraordinary grace and agility; they can “tail” 
a bull; they can “tie up” and wntie a wild Texan 
steer, single-handed; and they can break and ride 
anything that goes on all-fours. In the days be- 
fore the American occupation of the Pacific Slope 
the mastery of such feats was part, the larger part, 
of a caballero’s education, and the vaquero was held 
in high esteem. To-day, poor fellow, his occupa- 
tion is almost gone. 


There is plenty of work to be done on a big cattle- 
ranch: fences must be built and repaired; water 
troughs— where there are no streams— must be 
filled ; the hay-land must be sown to barley, and 
the crop harvested. You eat the plainest and most 
unpalatable fare, — bacon and beans, for the most 
part, with canned vegetables and dried apples and 
apricots. You sleep in the hardest of bunks, be- 
tween rough blankets. You wear canvas overalls. 
You smoke coarse tobacco. But you are strong 
and well. That is the reason why so many men, 
who would seem to be ill-equipped for a rough life, 
deliberately chose it in preference to any other. 

As a rule, the cowboys spend what they earn in 
drink, the most fiery whisky they can find —the 
brand known as “Sheepherder’s delight.” After 


94 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


leading a sober and temperate life for perhaps two 
months they will ride into the nearest town, and 
proceed to paint it a beautiful blood-red. As long 
as the money lasts, all comers are invited to drink. 
When the last cent 1s spent the cowboy mounts his 
bronco and returns to the ranch, where, you may 
be sure, no indiscreet questions are asked. In the 
’80’s, when southern California was still a pastoral 
country, these roysterers were anathema maranatha 
to the townsmen, despite the money they put into 
active circulation. You may see them to-day jog- 
ging into town, astride their wiry, fiddle-headed geld- 
ings (your true vaquero never rides a mare), clad 
in chappareros (long, loose leggins made of stout 
leather, designed to protect the legs in riding 
through the tough manzanita and chaparral), and 
wearing big stiff sombreros tied under the chin by 
a piece of black ribbon. The dandies are distin- 
guished by a fine silk neckerchief, loosely knotted, 
by the high-heeled boots (the high heels prevent 
the foot from slipping through the large wooden 
stirrups), by the silver mountings of the Mexican 
bit, by the rawhide bridle and cuerda, by the long 
buck-skin gloves. Those who wear canvas overalls 
instead of “chaps” will be careful to turn up the 
ends of them, so as to display the black trouser 
beneath, and when they dismount and lounge 
through the streets, you will mark an easy swagger, 
the cachet of the caballero. . 

Drunk, they are dangerous; sober, most capital 
fellows, — cheery, kindly, without fear, hard as nails, 
and generous to a fault. From such men Roose- 
velt recruited his famous Rough Riders, and they 


Ranch Life 95 


make the finest irregular cavalry in the world; but 
they are and always will be —Ishmaelites. They 
are profoundly ignorant of everything outside their 
own calling, and always laugh disdainfully at a 
tenderfoot’s blunders. It is best to laugh with 
them, but sometimes the tables are turned. I know 
a man, now famous, who once silenced a camp full 
of cowboys. He had made some trivial blunder — 
I forget what — which provoked the jeers of the 
“boys.” “My God!” he exclaimed, “is it possible 
that you fellows, born and bred in this cow coun- 
try, laugh at me? Look here, I have been twice 
round the world, I speak half a dozen languages, I 
have lived, lived, mark you, in half the States of your 
Union, I have met your famous men; and you, you 
dare to laugh at me because I do not know the one 
little thing which you know. Well, laugh away, 
boys. What I don’t know about cow-punching is 
worth a laugh, but what you don’t know about 
everything else in the world is enough to make a 
man cry.” 

I have found a warm welcome in dozens of cow- 
boys’ camps and never, but once, anything else. On 
that occasion my brother and I were the unpremedi- 
tated cause of the “trouble.” We had been camp- 
ing out in the mountains, and had with us in our 
spring-waggon a small demijohn of whisky. This 
demijohn we carefully hid, at the special request of 
the foreman of the ranch, but the cook, who had 
not been to town for many moons, found it and an- 
nexed it as treasure-trove. It seems that this cook 
had had “words” that morning with the “ boss,” 
and our whisky, in large undiluted doses, fanned 


96 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


into flame resentment that otherwise might have 
smouldered harmlessly till it burned out. As we 
were sitting together after supper, spinning yarns 
and smoking, the cook suddenly marched into the 
room, and bade the boss and the other cowboys be 
gone into the hills, or where they pleased, but off 
the ranch. He carried my Winchester rifle in his 
hand, and as he spoke covered our group, which dis- 
persed like a bevy of quail when a hawk circles 
overhead. In a jiffy, none was left in that room 
save the cook, my brother, and I. I cannot explain 
why we stayed, but we had received no orders to go, 
and we knew of course that the cook had no grudge 
against us. Then followed a scene, ludicrous enough 
now, but not so funny at the time. The cook para- 
ded up and down the room, assuring us that he 
was the King. To emphasise his claims, I remem- 
ber, he fired into the ceiling two royal salutes, and 
just then —it being moonlight outside —I saw a 
dark figure, pistol in hand, flit past the open door. 
There were two doors in the room exactly opposite 
to each other. At the same time I saw another 
figure, similarly armed, at the other door. The 
King, apprehending danger, brought his rifle to his 
shoulder, pointing it first to the right and then to ~ 
the left, according as the heads appeared and dis- 
appeared. Meantime he waxed grimly facetious, 
entreating the gentlemen outside to come in, or at 
least to stand still, and so forth. The comic side of 
it did not strike me till afterwards, because I was 
wondering whether it would not be expedient to lie 
down upon the floor, out of the line of fire, a posi- 
tion commended by all tacticians of the West. 


Ranch Life 97 


However, I was sensible that the men outside were 
not going to shoot first, so I sat still and waited. 
Suddenly the King’s mood changed. He called to 
one of the men outside, the brother of the foreman: 
“Say, Charlie,—I’m cold. Bring me my coat; it 
hangs in the kitchen.” 

Now drunken men are sometimes as subtle as the 
serpent, and I decided that if I were Charlie, I 
should remain outside, and not play the valet, even 
to a king. Charlie, it seems, was not of my opinion, 
for he said quite naturally: “That’s all right: I’1l 
get your coat.” And in less than a minute he was 
standing in the open door with the coatin his hand. 
It was a plucky thing to do. The King eyed Charlie, 
and Charlie eyed the King. There was a light in 
Charlie’s keen grey eyes that was not to be mistaken 
by a sober man. 

“Give it to me,” commanded the King. 

Charlie held out the coat. The King, with an 
eye cocked at the door opposite, advanced to take it. 

“No funny business,” growled his Majesty. “It 
your brother sticks his ugly head into that door, I’ll 
shoot you deader’n mutton.” 

Charlie — as it proved afterward — had persuaded 
the others not to interfere. He wanted to play “a 
lone hand.” As the King put forth an arm for his 
coat, the other jumped like a cat at the rifle—and 
we jumped too, and everybody else jumped, till 
there was a big heap of men in the middle of the 
floor, and at the bottom of the heap the King. 
Presently we disentangled ourselves, and nobody 
was left on the floor save he who was no longer 
King, and the boss. 

7 


g8 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


“You are king, are you?” said the Boss. “Take 
that!” 

He had the monarch by the ears, and at “that” 
he raised the royal head, and pounded the floor with 
it, till the foreman entreated him to stop, for the 
flooring, he said, was rotten. Then the ex-King was 
handcuffed, and securely tied to a bed. Next day, 
the boss and the foreman led him to the ranch 
fence, and explained to him that if he had any con- 
sideration for his own health, he must never, never, 
never come back again. And I am quite sure he 
never did. 

I can tell another story that ends less happily, 
and which illustrates a peculiar phase of ranch life. 
Around nearly all the old Spanish grants, the 
ranchos proper of Southern California, lies Govern- 
ment land, valued by Uncle Sam at one dollar and 
a quarter an acre. A great deal of this land is 
worthless save for grazing purposes, and it often 
happens that the possession of a fine spring or a 
small creek gives the owner undisputed title to 
many hundreds of acres not worth taking up on 
account of a scarcity of water. But when it was 
proved that some of these hitherto neglected lands 
were the natural home of certain grapes and fruits, 
men were eager to file homesteads —as the phrase 
runs — upon them, and the squatters who had had 
the use of them for many years naturally felt 
aggrieved. In some cases they had fenced in 
these hills, to which they had no legal title what- 
ever. Not far from us was an old squatter who 
had grown rich upon Uncle Sam’s lands. He had, 
I think, some three hundred and twenty acres of 


‘ ¥* 


Ranch. Life 99 


his own, well-watered, and his stock roamed over 
a couple of leagues of rolling hills. One day a 
man and his wife filed their claim to a quarter 
section (160 acres) of these hills, and began to 
build a cabin. The first squatter protested and 
blasphemed —in vain. Finally, he and his son 
and a nephew deliberately stalked the stranger, 
and shot him dead on his own land; they also 
shot and wounded the wife, who dragged herself 
several miles to a neighbour, and recited the facts. 
Within twenty-four hours the murderers were 
locked up in the village “calaboose,” and during 
the following night they were taken out and 
lynched. The Vigilantes hanged them from a 
bridge not a mile from our ranch-house, and some 
children, crossing the bridge on the road to school, 
found the bodies stiff and stark at the end of two 
stout ropes. A rope had been provided for the 
nephew; but at the last moment, as he stood shiv- 
ering upon the ragged edge of eternity, he was 
released and commanded to leave the county for 
ever. He needed, I have been told, no urging. 
This case has a certain interest, because the old 
man, it appeared, had not fired a single shot; but 
it was equally certain that he, and he alone, had 
planned the affair. Further, he was rich, and the 
people in our county were only too well aware 
that in California it is easier for a camel to pass 
through the eye of a needle than for a rich man 
to be convicted of murder in the first degree and 
executed. Accordingly, they very properly hanged 
an old scoundrel who otherwise would have escaped 
almost scot-free. 


L. of C. 


100 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


Many persons supposed that my brother and I 
were amongst the Vigilantes. We were not. We 
knew absolutely nothing of what was going on, so 
to speak, under our noses, till the next morning. 
What knowledge came to us after the event we 
discreetly kept to ourselves. One young fellow, 
I remember, a druggist, imprudently hinted that 
he could tell a strange story if he pleased, and it 
seems that towards midnight he had been wakened 
out of his sleep by the Vigilantes passing his drug- 
store on their way to the calaboose which adjoined 
it. It was said that the young man looked out 
into the night and saw a dozen masked men, that 
he heard the dialogue that ensued between the 
leader of the Vigilantes and the constable on guard, 
that he followed the party to the bridge (a most 
unwise proceeding), and witnessed the lynching. 
For a brief season this youth was the hero of the 
hour; then a quiet, middle-aged citizen, a man 
with a square brow and chin, and a pair of keen 
blue eyes, was seen to enter the drug-store, and — 
mirabile dictu !— after this the mind and memory 
of Peeping Tom became a blank. He had seen — 
nothing; he had heard—nothing; he knew — 
nothing. But observant persons remarked that ~ 
this young gentleman’s face, normally as ruddy as 
David's, had turned of a sudden a dirty grey-green ; 
so we may infer that the quiet, middle-aged citizen 
did not call upon his fellow-townsman to pass the 
time of day, or to buy drugs. 

According to the gentlemen who write with ease 
upon any subject within or without their ken, the 
West is now tame. My own experience is this: 


Ranch Life IOI 


a man in search of what is technically called 
“trouble” can find it on the Pacific Slope very 
quickly ; the man who minds his own business and 
keeps a civil tongue in his head is as safe in the 
wildest parts of the West as he would be in Lon- 
don — perhaps safer. Looking back, I can recall 
many deeds of violence: men stabbed or shot in 
drunken brawls, stage-coaches “ held up” and robbed, 
trains stopped and looted, banks sacked, and so forth, 
not to mention the horse and cattle thieves who 
used to infest our part of Southern California. But 
to-day, you will find few desperadoes, and those few, 
like the rattlesnakes, live in the brush hills far from 
telephone and telegraph. In the ’80’s it was not 
uncommon to meet the knights of the road at 
the taverns and saloons just outside the towns. 
In our county, during my time, the infamous 
Dalton gang of train-robbers owned a small ranch 
not far from ours. The notorious Black Bart has 
been pointed out to me. This gentleman always 
worked alone. Wearing a long black mask, he 
would not hesitate to “hold up” a stage-coach. 
When he had robbed the passengers, whom he 
paraded in line, he would politely request them 
to remount and be gone. Then he would pin to 
the trunk of a neighbouring tree a copy of verses, 
commemorating the event in quaint English, and 
signed by himself. I was given to understand that 
Black Bart was even prouder of his “ poetry” than 
of his exploits as highwayman. 

But even to-day, young Englishmen settling upon 
cattle ranches on the Pacific Slope would do well 
to mind what company they keep. I remember 


102 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


one poor fellow, the son of a parson, who came 
to us many years ago. He arrived with an amaz- 
ing kit. Pistols and knives lay meekly by the 
side of manuals of devotion. He was armed cap-a- 
pie against the assaults of the world, the flesh, and 
the Devil. My brother and I looked at these 
weapons and advised the owner of them to keep 
them, where they were, at the bottom of a port- 
manteau. But he objected to this, being the son 
of a man who belonged to a church militant. Then 
we explained to him that a fight in California was a 
very different affair to a row with an English rough. 
It is, in fine, a combat & ouwtrance. At the time I 
am writing of, if one man struck another, the blow 
or slap was regarded generally as a deadly insult, 
only to be wiped out with blood. The man who 
was struck drew his pistol, if he carried one, and 
fired instantly. If he had no pistol or knife on his 
person, he went in search of these weapons, and, 
further, deemed it no shame to lie in wait for his 
antagonist, and to shoot him down like a dog when 
he came within range. If you care to consult the 
records, you will find dozens of cases of what 
people in Europe would pronounce cold-blooded 
murder, in which the murderer has not only been 
suffered to remain at large, but has won for him- 
self the respect and esteem of the community whose 
unwritten law he has vindicated. “It don’t pay to 
fool with that feller,” is the popular verdict; “he 
is too quick with his gun.” In such cases it 1s 
disgraceful to sustain defeat. I knew an Irishman 
whose daughter had married a crack-brained fellow, 
the terror of our district. Finally, this Greek met 


Ranch Life 103 


another Greek, who dropped him dead in his tracks. 
Shortly afterwards, I was passing the Irishman’s 
house, and marked a red-headed urchin playing 
on the porch. In reply to my question: “ Whose 
boy is that ?” the Irishman murmured mysteriously : 
“Sorr—’tis me daughter’s husband’s chi-i-ild.” 
The name of the vanquished and the dead was 
too inglorious to be mentioned. 

The parson’s son listened attentively to what we 
said, but he remarked in conclusion: “Of course T 
shall be careful, but —” He never finished the 
sentence; we inferred from the tone that his 
father’s son did n’t want to fight, but—/ Not long 
after he struck a man, a foul-mouthed, drunken 
blackguard. Before the parson’s son knew what 
had happened, he was stabbed, and he died a few 
hours later. The man was arrested, tried by a jury 
of his peers, and acquitted / 


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RANCH LIFE—II 


Cy our ranch, we wore canvas overalls. My 

brother used to say that the unfastening of 
a large safety pin left him in condition for a plunge 
into the pool at the bottom of our corral. Yet on 
Christmas Day (and also upon the Queen’s first 
Jubilee) we solemnly arrayed ourselves in dress 
things and dined & la mode. 

We had many pets. One —a goat — gave us a 
deal of trouble. He was a remarkable beast, with 
a cultivated taste for sheet music, and he could 
swallow, whole, Sunday editions of San Franciscan 
newspapers: a feat never accomplished by mortal 
man. If anything was missing on the ranch, such 
as a monkey-wrench, or a button-hook, or a packet 
of tobacco, we always knew where it was — inside 
the goat. Finally he took to roosting on the piano, 
for neither bars nor bolts kept him out of our 
sitting-room; and he had a playful habit of ap- 
proaching you very quietly from behind and then 
— Bif! We loved that goat, but the time came 
when we had to choose between him and our Lares 
and Penates. It was no use giving him away, 
because he refused to be a party to the transaction, 
and always came back more wicked than _ before. 
Our Chinaman said he was a devil. So he was 
condemned to death, and three of us drew lots to 


108 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


decide who should be the executioner. I shall not 
reveal upon whom that lot fell, but the man who 
slew the goat has never been quite the same since. 
He carries the brand of Cain. 

We had also a tame pig that answered to the 
name of Dolly. Dolly was a thoroughbred Poland- 
China, and she used to follow me about like a dog 
and eat out of my hand. Dolly became enormously 
fat, and after a time refused positively to budge 
from the kitchen door, transferring her affections, 
after the manner of her sex, from her lawful lord 
and master to another, the cook, who wooed her 
wantonly with wash. Dolly was eaten; and we 
have never dared since then to speak disparagingly 
of cannibals. We had also a parrot that was pos- 
sessed not of one but of a dozen devils. Some 
parrots attain a great age, but this bird died young 
—I am glad to say. Of course we tamed many 
colts: a grave mistake unless you intend them for 
a circus. It is easy to teach a horse to shake 
hands, and waggle his head, and stand on a tub, 
and lie down; but you cannot teach him a sense 
of the fitness of things. I remember a black whom 
I used to drive as leader of a pony tandem. He 
was on such intimate terms with me that he 
never questioned his right to do as he pleased. 
This perfidious wretch would not only stop when 
he came to a hill, but also lie down, flat on his 
back with all four legs in the air, —a disgraceful 
object. 

Speaking of horses reminds me of an incident. 
Some neighbours and friends of ours had a horse 
called Alcalde. Alcalde was a most respectable 


‘ATLLVO fO HONNE V 


Ranch Life 109 


person, but like all of us he had his failing: he 
would flick his tail over the reins. Now it hap- 
pened that my friend was of a nautical turn, and 
in his youth he had learned the art of tying 
wonderful knots. Accordingly, one day, when he 
was about to take his wife for a drive, he tied down 
Alcalde’s tail so tightly and so securely that not a 
wiggle was left in it. Now it happened that only 
that morning my friend’s wife had turned on the 
water, — water, you must understand, is very pre- 
cious on a ranch in Southern California, — and, alas! 
she had neglected to turn it off, being distracted 
possibly by household cares; so the water had 
flowed away, leaving the family tank empty and 
cracking beneath the ardent rays of the sun. Con- 
ceive if you can the wrath of a husband condemned 
by a wife’s carelessness to pump many hundreds 
of gallons of water! You may be sure that he (he 
was an Englishman) told his unhappy wife she had 
committed the unpardonable sin, and she, poor soul, 
apprehending the magnitude of her offence, held 
her peace (which is remarkable, because she was a 
daughter of the West). Perhaps — you may draw 
your own conclusions — the husband was sorry 
that he had spoken so harshly, and thought that a 
drive behind a fast-trotting horse would establish 
happier relations between two who should be one. 
Be that as it may, after the drive was over, he be- 
gan to unharness Alcalde, his wife standing by and 
talking to him. The traces were unhooked, the 
breeching straps unbuckled, and then Alcalde was 
commanded to leave the shafts. But Alcalde, wise 
as Balaam’s ass, never stirred, for he knew that his 


110 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


tail was still fast to the buggy. Thereupon my 
friend took the whip and applied it smartly to 
Alcalde’s quarters. Alcalde, who had doubtless 
been nursing his wrongs throughout that afternoon, 
and who now was given an opportunity, as the 
lawyers say, to show cause, retaliated by kicking 
the buggy into a heap of kindling wood. My 
friend’s wife watched this performance with interest, 
and when it was over she turned to her husband 
and said quietly: “ My dear, after this, I shall turn 
on the water and let it run as often and as long as 
I please.” 

Of the hired men and girls who honoured us by 
working for wages which an English curate would 
not despise, Il could write currente calamo, but I dare 
not do it, for I feel like the stout gentleman who 
remained in the plains, because he was sensible 
that in the hills he might begin to roll, and go on 
rolling, till he rolled out of the world altogether. 
I have so much material that I dare not cut the 
wire which holds the bale together. One or two 
stories, however, may be pulled out, without dis- 
turbing the rest. We employed a man who in his 
youth had had an encounter with a circular saw. 
The saw, in such cases, generally has the best of it ; 
and on this occasion two of our hired man’s fingers 
were left in the pit. Upon one of the remaining 
fingers he wore a diamond ring! And he actually 
told me that his hand “kind o’ needed settin’ off.” 
It never seemed to strike the poor fellow that the 
proper place for that maimed hand was his pocket. 
He used to wave it about — so my brother said — 
as if it were a Pampas plume. 


Ranch Life VIt 


Another anecdote illustrates that amazing lack 
of a sense of proportion which characterises the 
people of the West. We had a girl, as cook, who 
was always leaving us to assist at the funerals of 
her relations. These died one after the other. 
Finally the mother died, and the girl asked for a 
week’s leave. At the end of the week I drove up 
to her father’s house to fetch Jane, and he (the 
father) came out to speak to me. Naturally I 
murmured a few words of condolence. 

“Yes,” he replied mournfully, “ poor Jane, poor 
girl, she has had bad luck,” he seemed to ignore 
his share in it; “she’s lost in one year,” he began 
to reckon on his fingers, ‘ yes, —Tom, Mamie, her 
uncle Charlie, her mother, and to-day, this very 
morning, she has lost Dick.” 

“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, confounded by 
such unparalleled misfortunes. “You have lost 
Dick! Let me see, he was your youngest boy, 
wasn’t he?” 

“No,” said the man, gravely, “Dick was poor 
Jane’s canary bird. She thought the world of it. 
And it died this morning. Too bad, —ain’t it ?” 

Max O’Rell, in one of his lectures, pointed out 
the radical difference between the French servant, 
Marie Jeanne, and the English Mary Jane. “Marie 
Jeanne,” he would say, “puts her wages into a 
stocking and puts that stocking into a hole in the 
ground; Mary Jane puts her wages into a new 
hat, puts the hat on to her head, and gets photo- 
graphed in it.” I wish it were possible to repro- 
duce Mons. Blouet’s quaint, ironical accent, and to 
show you the quirk of his eyebrows. I do not 


112 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


know what he said about the Californian hired 
girl, — possibly he never had the honour of meet- 
ing her. 

Many queer characters lived within a small 
radius of our ranch-house. I dare say we appeared 
equally queer to them, for I often intercepted winks 
and grins not intended for my eyes which bespoke 
a keen sense of the humorous. Reciprocity is a 
blessed thing, and I am happy to think that we 
afforded some of our friends as much amusement 
as they furnished us. One most remarkable instance 
of how much stranger truth is than fiction came 
under our immediate notice: a case of Enoch 
Arden. There were two brothers, and the eldest 
married a wife, who bore him children. Then, 
tired perhaps of domestic joys, he sailed away — 
seemingly for ever. Now the younger brother had 
lived beneath the elder’s roof, and he knew that 
his brother’s wife was as gold that has been tried 
in the fire; accordingly, when the years passed and 
the elder never returned, nor sent word that he was 
alive, it seemed good to the younger to marry his 
brother’s wife, which he did, and in due time became, 
in his turn, the father of several children. And 
then, like a bolt from the blue, the man who had | 
disappeared reappeared, descending “ perpendicu- 
lar,” as Sterne would say, with a“ me voici mes 
enfants!” What happened? If youcome to think 
of it, this is a nice little problem — something akin 
to Mr. Stockton’s Lady or the Tiger riddle. Here 
were two husbands, two fathers, — and one wife! 
The problem was solved to the entire satisfaction of 
all persons concerned, including Mrs. Grundy, who 


Ranch Life 113 


is not quite so particular in the West as she is in 
Mayfair. It was obvious, you will admit, that the 
elder had the law on his side, but only a tenth of it, 
for the very substantial nine-tenths were and had 
been for many years in the possession of the younger. 
It is also obvious that the elder had no such passion 
for his spouse as, shall we say, Juliet inspired in the 
heart of Romeo. He had deliberately forsaken her. 
Still, it is not impossible that he had often re- 
pented, thinking, may be, of his children’s faces, 
and the old homestead, and the savoury dishes that 
his wife could make (for she was an excellent cook). 
Mind you, he had not been lost ina sub-arctic forest, 
or living on a desert island, or doing anything, in 
short, which could be pleaded as an excuse for his 
absence and silence. The story is tragic from an 
English or New England point of view. You will 
say at once that the sailor went back to sea. Nota 
bit of it. He bought a piece of land hard by, and 
settled down comfortably as his brother’s neigh- 
bour. He did not want—so he said—to make 
any “trouble;” but he wished to see his children, 
and his brother, and the mother of his children. 
So he acted according to his convictions, and 
the people said Amen. It seemed to them, as it 
seemed to the sailor, the only sensible thing to 
do. 

In the brush hills were many squatters — wild 
folk, living the primal life, half-clothed, half-starved, 
drinking coffee made from roasted barley, eating 
what they could shoot, and not unfrequently what 
they could steal. A friend of ours, a foreigner, a 


man of breeding and culture, went to live amongst 
8 


114 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


them. One day, I asked him the why and the 
wherefore of it. “I will tell you,” said he, very 
gravely. “I have lived, as you know, in ze capi- 
tals of ze vorld. And I came to ze conclusion zat 
society was a big monkey-house, and zat all ze 
monkeys were trying to pull each ozer’s tails. But 
I will tell you—entre nows—ze monkeys in ze 
backwoods of California are worse, far worse, zan 
ze monkeys in society!” 

Some of the men, however (they are generically 
known as “Pikers,” because many of them came 
originally from Pike County, Missouri), if found 
lacking in the “small, sweet courtesies of life,” 
have, none the less, some interesting attributes. I 
knew one capital fellow who in happier circum- 
stances would have become a naturalist of note. 
He was what is called “a market hunter;” and 
none was more familiar than he with the habits 
and habitat of game. He seemed to know by 
instinct where the big trout might be found, and 
could catch them with his hands; he was the 
finest stalker I have ever met; he used to come 
striding into town with dozens of quail, when 
other market hunters would tell you that there 
were no birds in the country; he could always | 
predict the coming of the snipe and wild duck, 
of which he shot thousands.annually; and he 
was, in his youth, as strong and as handsome as 
Hercules. Another man was an ornithologist, a 
daring fowler and scaler of cliffs. He performed 
the almost impossible feat of robbing a condor’s 
eyrie. These birds are larger than the South 
American condor, with a spread of wing exceeding 


Ranch Life 115 


ten feet, and a beak powerful enough to crack the 
shank bone of a sheep. Our friend captured a 
young condor and nourished it successfully for 
some weeks. Then he asked us to arrange with 
the Zoological Society for its purchase and ship- 
ment, but, unfortunately, before we could do so 
the bird died. These rapacide are only to be 
found, I believe, in the County of San Luis Obispo, 
and in the mountains that le near'the seaboard in 
California Baja. Another Missourian, a cousin of 
the last, was also a market hunter and a naturalist. 
He had made a special study of wild bees, the bees 
that hive in holes in the steep sandstone cliffs and 
those also who hive in rotten trees. From the sale 
of the honey taken from them, from the sale of game 
and venison (the latter swb rosa) and fish, both sea- 
fish and trout, this son of Arcadia supported him- 
self, his wife, two brothers, his wife’s mother, and 
a large family of children! He often told me that 
he could not work, using the word work in its 
Western significance; yet, in his own calling, he 
laboured more assiduously and to better purpose 
than two ordinary hired men. 


I have not entered into a detailed account of our 
ranch duties, because these will be treated in the 
appendix. 

Of our amusements something may be said. At 
one time we played polo, and I believe I am en- 
titled to the credit of introducing the game to the 
Pacific Slope. We used to play regularly in ’83, 
and I should be very interested to know if the 
game was played West of the Rocky Mountains 


116 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


at an earlier date. The vaqueros delighted in it, 
and proved amazing players, although it was im- 
possible to teach them team play. Each played 
for his own hand, and each rode as if he had a 
dozen lives. I can remember one memorable game 
when four of us Englishmen played against four 
vaqueros. Half the county witnessed the match, 
and the excitement was tremendous: the women 
standing up in the spring waggons and shouting, 
and the men betting and cursing. The umpire had 
a sorry time of it, for our opponents broke every 
rule, written or unwritten. The game was drawn: 
each side winning two goals. We should have won 
hands down had our antagonists ridden ponies like 
ours under standard size. But we had conceded to 
them the odds of riding what horses they pleased, 
and as many as they pleased. So they outgalloped 
us from first to last. But it was a glorious match! 
Every man who played was more or less hurt; but 
no bones were broken, and no money changed 
hands. Some people imagined that we made the 
game a draw on purpose. I, as captain, can testify 
that we played to win, and were within an ace of 
losing. 

We had plenty of fun apart from polo, breaking 
our ponies and training them to jump. And we 
practised throwing the lariat, although we never 
became skilful with it. There were no race- 
meetings in our county till the County Fairs were 
organised; but one man would match his horse 
against another’s, and these matches would gener- 
ally take place upon the Pizmo sands, a magnificent 
race-course fifteen miles long and fifty yards wide. 


Ranch Life 117 


Here also were held the clambakes and barbecues: 
Homeric feasts whereat the meat was hung upon 
long willow spits, roasted over glowing wood-coals, 
and eaten with a sauce cunningly compounded of 
tomatoes, onions, and chiles. These delightful en- 
tertainments were given and attended by Span- 
ish people for the most part. The fair sefioritas 
would bring their guitars, and sing those pathetic 
love lilts which have a charm so distinctive and 
peculiar and ephemeral, for they are passing with 
the people who sang them, and will soon be utterly 
forgotten. After the barbecue, the men would 
smoke, and often take a nap, and then would 
follow some feats of horsemanship. A race be- 
tween a caballero and a man afoot to a post twenty- 
five yards distant, and back, was always well worth 
watching. As a rule the man beat the horse on 
account of the difficulty in turning. 

Some of the country dances were amusing. Jack 
always took his Jill to these functions, and certain 
unwritten laws were rigorously observed. It was 
not considered good form to take your partner out- 
side the ballroom. After the dance, you led her to 
a seat, and, bowing, deserted her. One English- 
man, at his first village dance, got himself into 
what might have proved a serious scrape. He 
had no Jill of his own, and being introduced toa 
pretty one belonging to somebody else, made him- 
self agreeable. The girl danced with him, and was 
then taken for a short stroll outside beneath those 
stars which seem to shine more brightly in Cali- 
fornia than anywhere else — particularly when you 
are young. I must not presume to say what passed 


118 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


between the pair, but I am sure nothing of more 
importance than a few idle compliments, for the 
maid was very pretty, and she danced like a sylph, 
and the man—JI knew him well—could turn a 
phrase. When they returned to the dancing hall, a 
waltz had begun, and Jack now appearing to claim 
it, little Jill was easily constrained to give it to 
the other. My friend told me afterwards that he 
marked a ring upon her forefinger, a gold ring with 
a diamond set in the middle of it, and he was rather 
surprised when she refused to leave the heated 
room after the waltz was over. She blushed too 
when he begged her to go to supper with him, and 
said, without assigning any reason, that that was 
quite impossible. The Englishman, unconscious of 
giving offence, sat down and entertained his part- 
ner to the best of his ability. Suddenly, a young 
farmer strode across the room, and, standing in 
front of the maid, said in an angry voice: “Give 
me my ring.” 

“ But —” protested the maid. 

“Give me my ring.” 

As she was pulling it from her finger, the English- 
man understood. He had been annexing some- 
body’s best girl! So he rose up, and grasping the 
youth’s arm led him to the door and into the road, 
where apologies and explanations were offered and 
accepted. 

These dances always began with a Grand March, 
a very solemn and silent function, a parade of Jacks 
and Jills walking arm in arm to the sound of 
appropriate music. During the quadrilles the steps 
were called by a Master of Ceremonies, the language 


Ranch Life 119 


used being for the most part French, although I did 
not find this out for a long time. We, being Eng- 
lishmen, made a sad mess of these steps — which 
were often peculiar and complex; but the word 
“Swing Partners,” never failed to adjust our diffi- 
culties and blunders. I can well remember one 
dance in a small village at which this command 
was given so often that I ventured to ask my 
partner if, in her opinion, the Master of Ceremonies 
knew what he was doing. “He’s rattled,” she 
replied glibly. “Whenever he forgets, he says, 
‘Swing Partners, and while we’re a swingin’ he 
thinks over what comes next. I think ‘Swing 
Partners’ more interesting than ‘ Sachez, or ‘ ala 
main left, — don’t you?” 

Now in those days “ Sachez” and ‘a la main 
left” were manceuvres executed with great dignity 
and grace; you accorded your partner nothing 
more than the tips of your fingers in the latter, 
whereas in the former you advanced and retreated 
upon the tips of your toes. But at “Swing Part- 
ners,” you grasped the young lady firmly round the 
waist, and were not rebuked too severely if her 
feet, in the abandon of the pirouette, swung clear 
of the ground altogether. Such freedom would be 
eyed askance in the large towns, but I am talking 
of the hamlets of Southern California — long ago. 
Accordingly, I assured my partner that in my 
opinion “ Swing Partners” was — interesting. 

When you are introduced to a young lady in the 
country, she will probably repeat your name. Mr. 
Robinson begs to present Mr. Jones to Miss Smith. 
Mr. Jones murmurs “ Miss Smith ;” and Miss Smith 


120 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


murmurs “Mr. Jones.” If Mr. Jones be English, 
she is sure to add: “From London, I presume.” 
This always annoys an Englishman of the upper 
and upper-middle classes, because he does not wish 
to be taken for a cockney. I can recall meeting 
two ladies who were not from the country, but 
essentially town-bred. They too “ presumed” that 
I was from London. I said, “ No.” 

“Perhaps,” said the younger of the two, “you 
have been in London?” and on my admitting as 
much, she continued: “And perhaps you have 
met a friend of ours, Mr. Simpkins ?” 

I regretted that I had not the pleasure of Mr. 
Simpkins’ acquaintance, but the lady was not satis- 
fied. “Hngland”—I make no doubt that her 
thoughts ran in this strain— “is a small country. 
These men must have met some time and some- 
where.” Accordingly she smiled and murmured: 
“He has curly hair and he was connected with a 
large firm, yes, a very responsible firm — the jewel- 
lery line. Are you sure you have never met 
him ?” 

“ Never,” said I. 

“ He had a jealous wife,” she insisted; “and his 
hair was beautiful: black and curly — was n’t it, 
Sadie 2?” 

“He was an elegant gentleman,’ assented Miss 
Sadie; “and his wife was — terribly jealous.” 

I hinted that curly hair and moral rectitude did 
not always, so to speak, trot in the same class. I 
have no doubt that Mrs. Simpkins was not jealous 
without reason. 

In ’86 the rise in the value of land, with increased 


Ranch Life 121 


taxation and a fall in the price of cattle, turned 
many rancheros into farmers. The big Spanish 
grants were cut up and sold in small tracts to 
Eastern and mid-Western buyers. These men 
fenced their farms with barbed wire, built ram- 
shackle board-and-batten houses and barns, and 
talked glibly of cmprovements. Across the fair face 
of the Southern Californian landscape was inscribed 
the grim word—Ichabod. In an incredibly short 
time, the superb trees — the live oaks, white 
oaks, madrones, sycamores, and cotton-woods — were 
chopped down. A spirit of utilitarianism was 
abroad, smiting hip and thigh, sparing nothing, 
not even the ancient mission of San Luis Obispo. 
It stands to-day smugly respectable in a cheap 
modern overcoat of concrete and paint. The pic- 
turesque tiles have been thrown to the void; the 
pillars and arches have been pulled down; and the 
padres’ garden — a cool sequestered pleasance, fra- 
grant with herbs whose very names and uses are 
forgotten — has been subdivided into town lots! 

Once, upon the steps of the church, I met an old 
Spanish woman, whose withered face was framed 
in a soft black shawl, most becomingly draped. 
She chattered of the pleasant yesterdays, and I 
asked idly if she approved the changes that had 
been wrought in the ancient building. 

“My American friends,” she answered in her own 
tongue, “tell me to wear a jacket with big sleeves, 
and to buy a bonnet, but, sefior, this shawl suits me 
best. And the Mission was getting like me —ugly 
and wrinkled; but I wish they had left it — its old 
shawl.” 


122 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


My brother and I sold our cattle, and began to 
sow wheat in our valleys and on our hills. Some 
of the neighbours planted out large orchards and 
vineyards; others opened stores. Churches and 
school-houses were built. Everywhere, even in the 
brush hills, was heard the buzz of the big threshing 
machines, the skirl of the circular saws, the clang 
of the hammer on the anvil; all the sounds, in fine, 
of what is called Prosperity. 

The tiny hamlet that lay upon the outskirts of 
our ranch became a bustling village. My brother 
and I rubbed our eyes, just as Rip Van Winkle 
rubbed his when he returned to the town that he 
had known as Sleepy Hollow. But if the dust was 
still in our eyes, we were soon sensible that those 
around us were wide awake. The change from past 
to present was as the contrast between Jacob and 
Esau. The vaquero, rough, honest, brave, and 
chivalrous, had galloped away to other pastures ; 
in his place stood the farmer, the smooth-talker, 
the man of guile, cunning, and crafty. Gone too 
were the long days in the saddle, gone with the 
quail and the wild ducks, and the deer and the 
antelope. Our ploughshares were bright, but our 
guns rusted in their cases. 

On a wheat ranch, the work begins before cock- 
crow, and it ends when you fling yourself, spent 
and aching, upon your bed. For in a new country 
leisure is seldom found on a farm. There is so 
much that clamours for adjustment and readjust- 
ment: trees must be felled and split up into posts ; 
post-holes must be dug (two feet deep) ; wire must be 
stretched ; stumps must be taken out; brush must 


Ranch Life 123 


be burned off; and so forth —ad infinitum. And 
above us hung the impending sword of uncertainty. 
Our county had not then passed the experimental 
stage. Speaking personally, I was always conscious 
that no matter how hard we worked, that the har- 
vest would be reaped by others: that they would 
profit by our mistakes. 

Of the many mistakes that we made, it is pain- 
ful but expedient to speak. We planted vineyards 
and were compelled to plough them up when they 
came into bearing, because we had chosen varieties 
ill-adapted to our particular soil; we (I speak now 
of my brother and myself) planted orchards of 
prunes and apricots and apples and pears; and 
they came to nought because we lacked the special 
knowledge that is now the inheritance of the 
Western horticulturist; we tried to breed fine 
fowls, prize pigs, fast trotters, and we failed, not 
because we lacked intelligence or energy or pa- 
tience, but because we didn’t know how, as a child 
would say. 

And we attempted to do too much, as our neigh- 
bours did. To use a homely expression, salted and 
peppered to suit the Western palate: “ We bit off 
more ’n we could chew.” 

Upon the ordinary ranch, of course, mixed farm- 
ing has become a necessity. In early days, you 
seldom found milk or cream upon the tables of the 
big rancheros. The wheat farmer bought his vege- 
tables, his hams and bacon, his eggs, his fruit, his 
Thanksgiving turkey,—everything that was con- 
sumed in his house. This policy was justified then 
by the price of wheat; it can be justified no longer. 


124 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


The petty farmer, who to-day buys anything at 
the local store except tea and coffee and sugar and 
clothes, is either a fool or a spendthrift. 

It is so easy to have a “home” on the Pacific 
Slope: roses bloom perpetually ; all fruits and vege- 
tables grow in profusion and perfection; the dairy, 
the poultry yard, and the hog pen should keep 
the table abundantly supplied. What ruined the 
farmers in the hard times was not drought, nor 
low prices, nor bank failures, but big store bills 
and big mortgages. If the farmer and his wife 
and his sons and daughters had been content to 
wear canvas and fustian, to eat only what was 
raised on the ranch, to work together — the hus- 
band and his sons behind the plough and harrow, 
the mother and daughters in the dairy and poultry 
yards —they would have weathered the storm. 
Instead of this, they kept up appearances. The 
ranch was mortgaged and crop-mortgaged, and every 
acre sown to wheat: a dishonest speculation, which 
proved disastrous also. 

I have known some happy farmers —a few. If 
you wish the soil to bless you, you must wrestle 
with it, as Jacob wrestled with the angel. And 
the fight must be— without gloves and to the 
finish. Kid-glove farmers are the most unhappy 
of all. And the soil will stain your hands and 
roughen them; and the hard toil will warp your 
mind as it will bend your back. Great loss is 
involved; and the gain may not be easily com- 
puted. And yet despite an experience which has 
been unfortunate, I firmly believe that life in the 
open air, beneath the genial skies of the Pacific 


Ranch Life 26 


Slope, upon a rich and generous soil, ought to be 
a life worth living. 


“ The secret lore of rural things, 
The moral of each fleeting cloud and gale, 
The whispers from above that haunt the twilight vale.” 


These to me have inexpressible charm, a charm the 
greater perhaps because they may not be lightly 
apprehended. To the farmer whose heart is in his 
work, there may, there must come many trials and 
disappointments, for he is the plaything of the 
elements, the victim of laws that he cannot con- 
trol; but there will come also, in the fulness of 
time, the harvest, the golden sheaves that a man 
can take with him when he dies. To the farmer 
in the West whose heart is not in his work, I can 
only say that it were better for him if he had 
never been born. 

For the seamy side is there: rough, encrusted 
with frustrated hopes, scored by many harsh lines, 
like the faces of the women who work too hard. 
Always you are haunted by the sullen spectre of 
a dry year, the dry year that comes, it is true, 
only once in twenty years, and leaves when it 
does come the hearts of the farmers as colourless 
and arid as the brown, bleak hills which encom- 
pass them. In some years, too, the rain falls capri- 
ciously, bringing plenty and prosperity to one, to 
another want and misery. I have stood day after 
day watching the green spears of wheat as they 
turned sere and yellow, bending at last in abject 
supplication for the moisture that came not; and 
I have seen, how often! the blight and wire worms 


126 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


ravaging a landscape, making it leprous and un- 
clean. On the orchards and vineyards fall frosts 
and scale, transmuting the silvery buds into charred 
cinders, blackening the green- shoots and tender 
leaves till the trees would seem to be draped in 
crape, mourning for their dead blossoms. 


And here, in this land of sunshine, as elsewhere, 
disease spares not, and if you are living far from 
town and doctor, you must wait in torment for the 
help that is so long in coming. Your child, your 
wife, is dying perhaps, and you sit beside what is 
dearest to you in all the world, straining your ears 
to catch the sound of the galloping horse that may 
bring life or find death. 

I have already spoken of the sense of isolation. 
If you have led the gentle life, if you have depended 
largely upon others, if your nature craves the fric- 
tion of human intercourse, if fine music, beautiful 
pictures, the playhouse, the cathedral, have become 
to you not superfluities but necessities, then ranch 
life will surely be hateful and unprofitable. 

The domestic difficulties drive some housewives 
distracted. Ona ranch it is hard to keep servants, 
even if you are rich enough to pay them well for 
their services. Sometimes, for many weeks, a mis- 
tress is compelled to do her own cooking; she can- 
not buy what she wants from the village stores ; the 
meat is tough and poor in quality; the groceries 
are adulterated. These things are not trifles. 

What affected us more than anything else was 
the consciousness that we were living in a cwl-de- 
sac. Happily, my brothers and I had so much in 


Ranch Life 127 


common that we were more or less independent of 
others. Yet this very fact contracted our sympa- 
thies ; our circle, instead of widening, grew smaller 
and smaller till it contained nothing but ourselves. 
When we stepped out of it, 1 remember, we were 
always amazed to find out how unconsciously we 
had lost touch with civilisation. Great affairs that 
were interesting the world that thinks and reads 
excited in us but a tepid interest; we were queerly 
sensible that nothing mattered very much except 
the price of cattle, and the amount of feed in the 
pastures, — all the rest was leather and prunella. 

I have been tempted to dwell only upon memo- 
ries that grow brighter and more fragrant as the 
years roll by. How often, after a hot summer’s 
day, I have watched the brown foothills, as the 
purple shadows were stealing across them. It is 
then that the breeze from the ocean stirs the tremu- 
lous leaves of the cotton-woods; it is then that the 
cattle wind slowly across their pastures, leaving 
the cafions and gulches where they have lain dur- 
ing the sultry hours; it is then that a golden haze 
envelops all things: a glamour as of the world 
unseen, a mirage so fair to the eye, so cunningly 
interwoven with fact and fancy, that the realities 
of life, no matter what they may be, seem to melt 
away into the gathering shadows. 

And after the sun has set, the air is filled with 
enchanting odours, — the odours of a land that the 
Lord has blessed, the scent of herbs innumerable, 
the balmy fragrance of the pines, the perfume of 
the wild flowers, a pot-pourri of essences distilled 
by night alone. 


128 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


These are dear to the sons and daughters of the 
West: the promise, so to speak, of better and hap- 
pier days, when life on the Pacific Slope will be 
purged of what is mean and sordid, purged and 
purified. 

This is the dream of those who love the West. 
Is it only a dream, a vision of Utopia? It would 
seem that only cities please a generation not con- 
tent with rural joys. Worldly wisdom, what 
Maurus Jokai calls our evil angel, tells a young 
man that he can never make a fortune on a ranch, 
which is true. It is also true that the same young 
man, nine times out of ten, will make no more 
than a bare living in the town, but this knowledge 
is withheld from him. Only the very few have 
the money-making capacity; only the very few 
can come to their full stature in the over-crowded 
streets of a big town; the many die in middle 
age, worn out and weary, sick in mind and body, 
paupers in all that constitutes true wealth. At 
the mines, on the cattle ranges, in the orchards 
and vineyards, on the farms, these same men, 
working as hard and patiently, would preserve 
their health, achieve independence, and learn at 
length the lessons that only Nature can impart, 
the lessons which teach a man not only how to live. 
but how to die. 


BUSINESS LIFE 


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BUSINESS LIFE 


OME years ago, an article appeared in the “Cos- 
mopolitan Review,” entitled: “The Young 
Man in Business.” It was written by the editor 
of the “Home Journal,” Mr. Edward Bok. None 
reading the article carefully could fail to mark two 
qualities in it: the sincerity of the writer, and his 
cock-a-whoop faith in his creed. Mr. Bok, I be- 
lieve, came to America as a boy with no credentials 
save those that are inscribed upon an honest face, 
with no capital save health, strength, and common- 
sense. To-day he is a rich man, widely known and 
respected. Some people laugh at Mr. Bok because 
he caters and caters successfully to a certain class 
of readers. Perhaps he is, in a sense, the William 
Whitely of journalism, the Universal Provider. 
You may be sure that Mr. Bok never laughs at 
himself —he hasn’t time. Life to him is a syno- 
nym of effort. Watch Sandow when he is putting 
up his three hundred pound bell; you will mark 
a frown upon his face. Singers are trained to 
smile sweetly when warbling; did you ever see a 
tenor smile when he was standing on tip-toe at- 
tacking the high “C”? Never. In fine, effort 
warps and twists the face, as it warps and twists 
the body. This was abundantly set forth between 
the lines of Mr. Bok’s paper. The writer spoke 


132 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


convincingly of the fierce competition that rages 
around all trades, all arts, all sciences. He made 
it plain that to succeed —as he interprets success 
—you must not only work hard, you must work 
harder than anyone else. Whatever pace be set, 
do you set a faster. If your competitor works ten 
hours a day, do you work twelve. You must read 
the books, and those alone, that have a direct bear- 
ing on your work; you must talk to the people, and 
to them alone, who can push your fortunes; you 
must eat and drink and make merry, bearing in 
mind the penalties that wait on excess; you must 
beware of the club, the theatre, the campus, because 
these will extinguish the sacred fires of energy. I 
am not quoting Mr. Bok verbatim, but in sum and 
substance that is what he said. Reading the arti- 
cle, I was sensible that nothing short of this eternal 
manifestation of energy, this perfervidum ingenium 
which seems to be the peculiar heritage of the 
Scandinavian, would prevail. The mere recital of 
what ought to be done made. my bones ache. 

Since, I have never thought of Mr. Bok without 
thinking also of the fable of the two frogs. The 
frogs, you will remember, fell into a bucket of cream. 
One of them, conscious of weakness, knowing that 
night was coming on, that he could not scale the 
slippery sides of the bucket, that it would be hope- 
less to try to keep afloat till morning, incontinently 
drowned. The other struggled and struggled, and 
was found next morning by the milkmaid alive 
and well — upon a pat of butter! We are not told 
any more; but you may be sure that the hero sang 
the song of the churning to all the frogs in Frog- 


“LSVa ONIMOOT *“LAAMLS LANYVIN 


Business Life 123 


land, and became a great and shining example to 
his race for all time. 

Now Mr. Bok’s paper —as has been said — laid 
stress upon the comparative value of effort, but he 
laid still greater stress upon the superlative value 
of concentrated effort. According to him, it is ne- 
cessary to place all your eggs in one basket — and 
to watch that basket. 

Unhappily, this advice does not commend itself 
to the Native Son of the Golden West. He likes 
to place his eggs in many baskets; and then he 
sets himself the task — thereby wearing himself 
to skin and bone — of trying to be in two places 
at one and the same time, — like Sir Boyle Roche’s 
bird. If you had access to the ledgers of the men 
who have become bankrupts in the last decade, 
you would find, under Profit and Loss, that the 
profits made in the bankrupts’ regular business had 
been squandered and lost in half a dozen or more 
wild-cat enterprises. They will generally plead in 
extenuation that they have had bad luck; which 
reminds one of the story of the man who murdered 
his father and mother, and then invoked the mercy 
of the Court upon the ground that he was an 
orphan. 

In a certain town I know there is a sign, upon 
which is inscribed the following legend : — 


“ HOME-MADE BREAD: JOB PRINTING: 
RUBBER STAMPS.” 


Bread, of course, demands in the making clean 
hands; job printing is more defiling than pitch. 
One person was baker, printer, and rubber stamp 


134 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


manufacturer. I ordered a rubber stamp, and 
arranged to call for it at a certain hour. It was 
not ready at the stipulated time, because — so said 
the baker —the dough had been troublesome that 
morning. When I called again later, the stamp 
was still unfinished, because —so said the printer 
— some job work had been promised by noon, and as 
the dough had not risen properly, the type-setting 
had been necessarily postponed. It was a case of 
Stick won’t beat Dog; Dog won’t bite Pig; &c. 

This robbing of Peter to pay Paul is the particu- 
lar sin of most Western business men; it clogs the 
wheels of progress; it palsies prosperity; it keeps 
capital seeking investment in the vaults of the 
banks. In hard times it spells stagnation. After the 
collapse of the land boom, I heard many a man say: 
“JT have to pay what I owe, but nobody pays my 
bills receivable.” (A curious perversion of fact. 
No money changed hands at all. In the county 
where I was living at that time, we went back to 
the primitive methods of bargain and barter.) 

This state of affairs is profoundly immoral. It 
obscures all distinctions between meum and tuum ; 
it makes honest men thieves against their will. 
Amongst a people who venerate evolution, and 
regard the word as a fetich, who inscribe upon their 
coins E Piuripus UNvM, this policy, if persisted 
in, will surely achieve degeneration and disinte- 
gration. 

That I am speaking within my brief, none will 
dispute who is familiar with the history of Banking 
in the West. We have, it is true, Bank Commis- 
sioners, who are paid by the people good salaries to 


Business Life 135 


perform certain duties, involving a periodical ex- 
amination of the business done by the banks, a 
report upon their financial condition, and, if this 
be deemed unsatisfactory, certain powers plenipo- 
tentiary in regard to a change of management, or, 
in extreme cases, the suspension of payments. The 
laws upon this subject could hardly be bettered ; 
the administration of them has become a farce. 
The Commissioners are often ill-chosen; their work 
is too hastily done; they consider the feelings of 
the Board of Directors, whom they know personally, 
rather than the depositors ; and consciously or sub- 
consciously they conceal rather than reveal fraud. 
I used the word subconsciously advisedly. There is 
a sentiment in the West, underlying all conduct, 
which the Native Son fondly calls tolerance: a 
sentiment which wilfully blinds itself to things as 
they are, and prattles sweetly of things as they 
ought to be. In a country where the unforeseen 
nearly always happens, the Bank Commissioners 
doubtless justify themselves by predicting good 
whenever they are confronted by evil. Spero 
infestis should be taken as their motto. It is 
obvious that these gentlemen should be compelled 
to do their duty, or their office abolished. At pres- 
ent, they are a menace to the community, who, for 
the most part, have faith in them —a faith sorely 
tried of late. I know of cases when unhappy per- 
sons allowed all they possessed in the world to 
remain in the keeping of those whom the Bank 
Commissioners publicly proclaimed to be solvent 
and trustworthy, and who were proved shortly 
afterwards to be neither the one nor the other. 


136 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


An anecdote illustrates the point of view of the 
Bank Commissioner. I can vouch for the truth of 
it. A man was indicted by the Grand Jury for 
embezzlement. At the trial it was abundantly 
shown that he had misappropriated money held in 
trust by him. But the verdict of the jury was Not 
Guilty. A friend of mine remonstrated with the 
foreman. “Oh, yes,” said that gentleman, “he took 
the money sure enough, but, you see, the poor devil 
did n’t take much.” 

Let us return to the Banks. Nearly all the wise 
men of the West are bankers, or connected with 
banks, because it is (or was) obvious to them that 
it is safer to play with other folks’ money than 
with your own. It seemed to these gentlemen, 
who possessed all the qualities necessary to suc- 
cess save second sight, that land had a certain 
definite value, a value easily to be determined by 
the experts in their employ. As a matter of fact, 
land, like any other commodity, is worth what it 
will fetch, neither more nor less. Accordingly, in 
defiance of the principles of banking, large sums 
were loaned upon real estate, sums tied up for a 
term of years. During the great boom, hardly a 
bank in the West refused money to its regular 
customers when the security of a first mortgage 
was offered in exchange, and so it came to pass 
that when the boom collapsed, when bad _ prices 
and dry years confronted the mortgagors, when 
principal and interest became overdue and delin- 
quent, hundreds of thousands of acres fell into 
the hands of the banks, who were in consequence 
forced to either sell them or farm them, both 


Business Life tan 


the sale and culture of land being lines of busi- 
ness which they were ill-qualified to undertake. 
The land in most cases came under the ham- 
mer, and was knocked down to the highest bidder 
at a price equivalent to perhaps one fourth of 
what the mortgagor had paid for it. This up- 
heaval of land values paralysed the best brains 
and energies in the West. Even those who had 
paid in full for their land, and owed no man any- 
thing, were terror-struck. An Englishman sud- 
denly told that the bag of sovereigns he had 
slowly collected during a life of labour and self- 
denial was nothing more than a bag of crown 
pieces would present an analogous case; and it does 
not require a vivid imagination to conceive what 
his feelings would be.. It is perfectly true that 
the fictitious value of most of the lands west of 
the Rocky Mountains was steadily maintained by 
those who were unable or unwilling to sell their 
properties, but none the less it was in the air that 
we were not upon terra firma at all, but encamped 
on shifting sands. 


“Honour” amongst business men is a delicate 
question to discuss, but one germane to this chap- 
ter. If you talk to capitalists in any of the 
European cities, they will be certain to impugn 
the Western sense of honour. These gentlemen 
draw odorous comparisons between their methods 
and ours. Judged by their standard, we fall short, 
— that is certain ; because in an old country it pays 
to be honest, whereas in a new country the Lord 
would seem to only help those who help them- 


138 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


selves freely from other folks’ piles. The Chosen 
People are a concrete example of this, for they 
pilfer and prosper after a fashion quite impossible 
overseas. But I imagine that an impartial judge 
would pronounce the difference, ethically consid- 
ered, to be one ’twixt Tweedledum and Tweedledee. 
We have no “guinea-pig”’ system in the West; we 
are not hypocrites; we don’t take very much (com- 
pared with others); and what we do take is always 
published in the newspapers. If you read the 
“Times” diligently, you will come to the conclu- 
sion that a rich man can do no wrong; a Western 
editor will prove to you conclusively that a rich 
man can do no right. In “Aurora Leigh,” Mrs. 
Barrett Browning speaks of those who sit in easy 
chairs and damn the rows that stand. The Eng- 
lishman, snug in his easy chair, is given to cheap 
condemnation of those who stand, and that is why 
he is so beloved by the nations. When you have 
nearly all that the Gods can give, it is not difficult 
to be virtuous — as Becky Sharp observed. 

Of the many in business upon the Pacific Slope 
who are honest we hear nothing, which reminds 
me of a story. At the time of the last Presiden- 
tial election, when the claims of Free Silver were 
being generally exploited, the following was over- 
heard: “Where are the Gold men?” demanded a 
Popocrat, a street orator, who was holding forth to 
a crowd in sympathy with his dogmas, “ where 
are they? I don’t see them. I don’t hear them. 
Where are they?” After a pause a deep voice 
answered: “I’ll tell you where they are, they ‘re — 
at work.” 


Business Life 139 


The live-and-let-live philosophy of the West is 
slowly changing its skin. Adversity has taught 
us to check our accounts. Not so very long ago 
a store-keeper found, after an annual stock-taking, 
that a saddle was missing. He instructed his 
book-keeper to charge all the customers who were 
cattle-men with one saddle. “Those,” he argued, 
“who have not bought a new saddle will protest.” 
The book-keeper obeyed instructions, but not a 
single bill was protested. Such laxity is no longer 
the rule, but the exception. 

In all big businesses, in the offices of the trans- 
portation companies, in the saloons and _ restau- 
rants, in the hotels and places of entertainment, 
you will observe automatic tills that register the 
sums paid, and make peculation upon the part 
of employés almost impossible. This ingenious 
machine has taught the employed to rely not upon 
what they can steal, but on what they can law- 
fully earn; as a factor in the ethical development 
of the working classes it is justly entitled to men- 
tion. Before it was introduced, employers, when 
estimating future profits, always deducted a cer- 
tain percentage for undiscovered thefts. At one 
time I employed a large gang of Chinamen to cut 
wood and cord it. They were cunning fellows, and 
their tricks were not easily detected. For instance, 
they would pile the wood on a side-hill, or around 
a stump, or the wood in the centre would be loosely 
corded, so that the tale of cords, when I, in my 
turn, scid the wood, would be short. . I measured 
the wood myself, but, despite my intimate knowl- 
edge of their heathen arts, I was regularly robbed. 


140 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


Finally, I deducted from the money due to them 
ten per cent, to cover fraud that had escaped my 
eye. They did not object to this tax, and my 
cook said that I was “heap smart, same as ’Melican 
man.” I commend this policy to all who employ 
Chinese wood-choppers. 

I went into active business in the year 1890, and 
the business — involving the sale and subdivision 
of large tracts of land—brought me at once into 
contact with many sorts and conditions of men: 
bankers, merchants, journalists, politicians, parsons, 
lawyers, and of course farmers. Our offices were 
open from nine to four to all comers, and anything 
that pertained to the development of the county 
or state was discussed freely and at length. The 
harvest moon of prosperity was just beginning to 
wane on the Pacific Slope, but land was still in 
good demand, and our correspondence was very 
large. Every scheme of importance, every enter- 
prise of moment, challenged our interest and atten- 
tion. To my father-in-law, the head of the firm, 
was entrusted also the management of a street 
railway and of a large hotel. An Investment and 
Development Company, of which I was secretary, 
and the members of a committee formed for the 
purchase of a right-of-way for a great railroad 
used to meet daily in our private room. I men- 
tion these things, that may perhaps be considered 
irrelevant, because it will be seen that being identi- 
fied with a firm which had done and was still doing 
an immense business, I had exceptional opportuni- 
ties of studying many phases of business life, and 
the characters of business men. 


Business Life 141 


What impressed me most, I remember, was the 
fluid nature of the credit extended by capitalists to 
all willing to buy and improve land. Credit alone 
opened up the country and developed it. And 
credit established also a state of interdependence 
between man and man which brought in its train 
some curious results. Debtors, sensible that a 
golden fetter linked each and all of them to a 
common creditor, Capital, grew fearful of offending 
that creditor. Many excellent plans devised for 
the public weal, and for no other purpose, were 
nipped 7 the bud, because men could not be per- 
suaded to vote against the will of those to whom 
they were indebted. There is no such slavery as 
debt. From the debtor’s point of view, the very 
cardinal virtues must grovel in the dust before that 
false god — Policy. In the name of Policy every 
debtor’s knee must bow. 

As time passed, men began to chafe beneath their 
chains, to fret and fume in secret. Finally, the 
freemasonry of misery binding them together, they 
began to talk openly of rebellion and repudiation. 
Debt bred the Popocrat, the Silverite, the man who 
wanted something in exchange for nothing. Debt 
set class against class. 

Thus it will be seen that credit, percolating every- 
where like a river in flood, irrigating the waste 
places, making the desert to bloom and blossom, 
accomplished great good and great harm. But the 
harm is passing away, the good remains. A clever 
writer once said that if you wish to change a man’s 
character, you must change his point of view. The 
point of view of the Native Son has changed en- 


142 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


tirely during the last decade. Plastic, quick-witted, 
eager to excel, with immense recuperative and re- 
constructive powers, he is not so reckless as of 
yore; he has learned humility; he is beginning to 
understand himself — and his limitations. The 
heart of the Native Son is in the right place, 
but his head has been cocked at a wrong angle. 
And you can forgive him much on account of his 
youth: he is not that detestable object —an old 
sinner. 

The business man of the West burns his candle 
at both ends. Asa youth, his recuperative power 
is immense; as he nears middle age, it dwindles and 
flickers till nothing but a spark is left. He never 
rests. As soon as breakfast is over, he hurries to 
his office and begins work at once; luncheon is 
bolted in ten minutes, food not easily digestible 
being chosen, then more work. His dinner hour 
finds him jaded, in no physical condition to eat and 
digest a large meal; yet you will see him consume 
half a dozen courses with an appetite sharpened 
perhaps by a cocktail or two. After dinner, does 
he keep quiet? Not he. The club, the theatre, 
or his everlasting work claim him. His busy brain 
responds to the stimulus of debate, or emotion, or 
greed: it grinds on and on, not even stopping when 
he crawls, spent and weary, between the sheets of 
his bed. 

An inscrutable Providence has given America the 
English tongue, a medium of speech unsuited to a 
people rather Gallic than Anglo-Saxon in their 
quickness of apprehension and power of articula- 
tion: that is why Americans talk French so much 


Business Life 143 


better than we do—and English too for that 
matter. But a Volapuk of home manufacture 
would be better than either for a nation who has 
plenty to say and but little time to say it in. I 
remember giving a friend the name of my London 
tailor. When I saw my snip some months after, he 
thanked me for sending him a good customer, but 
he added: “He was a queer gentleman, sir.” I asked 
for an explanation. “He was in such a hurry, sir, 
that he would n’t try his clothes on.” That reminds 
me of another story. I had a large water scheme 
to submit to a New York capitalist. He told me 
that his time was so filled up it would be impos- 
sible to talk over the matter unless I would waive 
insular prejudice and discuss business at dinner. 
I dined with him, bringing maps and reports, and 
three times during that dinner he was disturbed by 
men wishing to see him! In apology, he observed 
that he was sailing to Europe on the following 
Wednesday, and that his engagements were “crowd- 
ing” him. “If you are going to England,” said I, 
“let us meet at my club in London, and go into this 
scheme thoroughly.” He stared at me and laughed. 
“Why did you not tell me that before?” he ex- 
claimed. “I have always a little leisure over 
there.” Then I demanded the name of his steam- 
ship. “I am not sure whether I shall sail on the 
‘Teutonic’ or ‘St. Louis,” he replied. “As it is 
winter I can secure a berth on either at the last 
moment, and there is a difference of one hour and 
a half in the times of departure. An extra hour 
and a half in New York means many dollars to 


”» 


me. 


144 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 
Truly does the Western poet sing : 


“‘T look in vain for traces of the fresh and fair and sweet 
In yellow, sunken faces that are drifting through the street ; 
Drifting on, drifting on, 
To the scrape of restless feet ; 
I can sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street.” 


It is interesting to contrast two faces often seen 
side by side in Western theatres and places of 
entertainment: the Anglo-Saxon and the Teuton. 
The German, stolid, phlegmatic, round, and rosy, 
has worked perhaps as hard as or even harder than 
the restless, keen-eyed, sallow-cheeked man at his 
side ; but now he is taking it easy. He does not 
chatter between the acts to his wife or fiancée; he 
absorbs the sights and sounds in front of him with 
evident gusto, but he gives nothing back. The 
Native Son, on the other hand, is giving rather than 
taking, he is entertaining his companion, instead 
of allowing the people on the stage todo so. The 
German goes to bed to sleep soundly till the mor- 
row; the Native Son lies awake for half the night, 
pursued by a Comus rout of vagabond thoughts. 

Again, ask the German what he reads. You will 
be surprised to find that a big fellow whom you 
have contemptuously stigmatised as a beer-swiller 
has read and assimilated the masterpieces of Goethe, 
Schiller, and Heine; he talks intelligently of the 
great historians and metaphysicians; he will tell 
you of the triumphs achieved by his fellow-country- 
men in pathology and therapeutics. But what will 
particularly strike you, is the man’s capacity for 
absorbing and retaining facts that may prove of 


Business Life 145 


service to him in his trade or business; his mind 
is a storehouse, wherein may be found the food 
best adapted to support and prolong life. The 
Native Son’s mind, on the other hand, is a show- 
room full of “notions,” a heterogeneous collection, 
containing much that is quaint and ingenious and 
amusing, but little that is useful and enduring. 

If the Native Son has any respect for himself 
and his race, he must learn to husband his resources, 
instead of dissipating them. Systematic reading 
of what is best and most inspiring in our literature, 
careful attention to exercise and diet, rest and re- 
freshment alternating with work and fatigue, would 
regenerate the toilers of the West. 


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ANGLO-FRANCO-CALIFORNIANS 


HAVE already spoken (figuratively) of a stone 
wall which the Anglo-Franco-Californians have 
built around themselves. Within that wall may 
be found a wonderful and exact presentment of 
European life: English men-servants, French cooks 
and dresses, décadent pictures, five o’clock tea, eight 
o'clock dinner, and what is inseparable from all 
these good things —ennwi. And yet a fly lurks 
within the ointment of their luxury: the sense 
that by the West they are regarded as a joke, an 
extravaganza. Within the stone wall is what Dis- 
raeli used to call the sustained splendour of a 
stately life; without sits Ridicule singing ribald 
songs. 

Of the many things English to which Americans 
have a right to strenuously object, nothing is more 
objectionable than the stone wall, whether it be 
concrete or abstract. In England it has definite 
meaning, a raison Wétre, but even in England it is 
an open question whether the stone wall has not 
kept out more than it kept in. In the West, the 
stone wall is an anachronism, more, an impertinence. 
I do not wish to be misunderstood. Life would be 
intolerable without a certain amount of privacy 
The exclusiveness that keeps an uncongenial neigh- 
pour at arm’s length is justifiable on the plea that 


150 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


his tastes and habits differ from ours. It is not 
justifiable on the plea that we are intrinsically 
better. The Anglo-Franco-Californians are accused, 
perhaps unjustly, of posing as being better than 
the people who are not upon their visiting lists. 
Only Omniscience can determine so nice a question ; 
but if they claim to be better, the onus of proving 
it lies on them; when they have done so, it is 
probable that the people will cheerfully admit the 
supremacy. As Professor Peck pointed out, Colonel 
Roosevelt may be considered an aristocrat, because 
he has proved himself to be more patriotic, more 
unselfish, more courageous — better, in fine, than 
the average citizen. 

The Anglo-Franco-Californians have what few 
possess in the West, —the means and the leisure 
to do what they ought to do, the things that worka- 
day folks are sadly constrained to leave undone. 
Many of them soberly realise their opportunities 
and responsibilities. The spirit that impels Dives 
to cheerfully loan to exhibitions his pictures, and 
china, and plate, the spirit that drives him from his 
comfortable library into the Pandemonium of poli- 
tics, the spirit that makes him cheerfully endure 
the hardships and perils of a campaign, is his good 
angel; the spirit, on the other hand, that drives 
him to the uttermost parts of the world in search 
of what can only please or profit himself is his 
demon, no matter how angelically disguised. 

American readers will remember a certain fancy- 
dress ball given in New York, and the excitement 
it created. When an army of the “ unemployed” 
was marching to Washington, when times were 


Anglo-Franco-Californians 151 


troublous all over the country, when it seemed to 
thoughtful men that the chain which links labour 
to capital was about to break, so fierce was the 
strain put upon it, one of the leaders of society 
issued invitations to a ball which was to bear the 
same relation to ordinary balls as the entertain- 
ments of Lucullus bore to the every day dinners 
of ancient Rome. As a matter of fact, the cost 
of this ball was absurdly exaggerated, but the prin- 
ciple is what concerns us. Much ink was spilt in 
setting forth the pros and cons of the case. It was 
shown that so far from the ball being an injury to 
the poor, the benefits accruing to them from the 
large sums of money put into active circulation 
amongst a score of industries would very measur- 
ably relieve a vast deal of distress. And yet the 
sentiment on both sides of the Atlantic set dead 
against what was termed the elevation of the 
Dollar. The Ball was a grievous blunder on the 
part of Capital, because lavish display during a 
season of want and suffering is and always will be 
cruelly inexpedient and inept. 


The Anglo-Franco-Californians have both added 
to and subtracted from the prejudice against things 
“English,” —a prejudice that nothing short of an 
awful war waged by the English-speaking peoples 
against the rest of the world will be strong enough 
to uproot and exterminate. Curiously enough there 
is no such prejudice against things French which 
are surely not above criticism. I remember a smart 
equipage that used to be seen daily at Del Monte 
some years ago. A Californian confessed to me 


152 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


that he did not like it, because it was English. I 
explained to him that the whole thing, just as it 
stood, — horses, harness, and vehicle,— was not 
English at all but Austrian. He eyed me dubiously. 
Then he said: “ Well, it looks English any way.” 

The American nation borrowed our national air 
and set to it words of their own. It is now part 
and parcel of Uncle Sam’s dearest possessions, and 
many of his children fondly believe that Uncle Sam 
composed the music, just as many English peasants 
are convinced that the Bible was originally written 
in the vernacular. In the same spirit, English 
customs that formerly were eyed askance have been 
adopted and naturalised. 

When the first English drag rolled through the 
streets of San Francisco, the street arabs flung 
stones at it, regarding it as a symbol of what they 
abhorred: the stage-coach, so to speak, of Class Dis- 
tinction, whereon the few could be driven through 
life, exalted above the many. To-day there are 
many drags, and the gutter-snipes cheer as they 
roll by, freighted with youth and beauty, not be- 
cause their democratic principles have forsaken 
them, but because they realise that to them per- 
sonally the coach brings pleasure and profit, — the 
joy of beholding a perfectly appointed equipage ; 
the profit of reflecting that one day they too may 
sit in the seats of the mighty. 

I can remember when it was hardly prudent to 
walk abroad in breeches and leggings. The small 
boys, if they refrained from throwing stones, would 
pelt you with ironical remarks. “Give that feller 
the whole sidewalk —he needs it,” was a favourite 


Anglo-Franco-Californians 153 


observation ; or, if you wore white polo unmention- 
ables, “Say, Mister, ain’t you forgot your pants ?” 
Anything, in fine, that differed ever so slightly 
from what they, as Californians, were accustomed 
to, provoked ridicule and displeasure. Servants in 
livery (the livery being regarded as a badge of 
servitude), dog-carts, ponies with hogged manes 
and bang-tails, knickerbockers, English saddles and 
harness, and the like, were absolutely hateful to 
them during the ’80’s. To-day, these prejudices 
are evaporating. Indeed, the pendulum is swing- 
ing far the other way. I remember being asked 
to a luncheon given at the Burlingame Country 
Club in honour of some distinguished New York- 
ers who had acted as judges at the San Francisco 
Horse Show. We drove down to the Country Club 
upon coaches belonging to members, and I, the 
Englishman (the only Englishman, so far as I can 
recollect), out of all that large party wore the 
ordinary clothes of the American citizen. The 
others were attired in the latest sporting fashion. 
Nor did their garments provoke criticism from the 
foot-passengers. And yet, not half a dozen years 
before, curiosity taking me to a revival meeting, 
I had been publicly apostrophised by the gentle- 
man (white) who conducted the proceedings. It 
happened that I had been in the saddle all day, 
and was wearing an old check shooting coat and 
a pair of well-worn breeches. I seated myself 
upon the bench farthest from the preacher, and 
was rather astonished to find myself an object 
lesson to the assembly. “There sits one,’ ex- 
claimed the revivalist, pointing a finger of scorn 


154 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


at my coat, “who toils not, neither does he spin. 
And Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like 
unto him.” This was so obvious to the meanest 
understanding that the speaker’s assurance seemed 
superfluous. I know now that he was protesting 
against a costume that, in a sense, distinguishes 
the man who rides from the man who walks. The 
same spirit inspired another gentleman of humour 
and imagination to enroll himself in a hotel register 
as “John Jones, and valise,’ merely because the 
last entry immediately above his ran: “Thomas 
Smith —and valet.” 

I mentioned just now the Burlingame Country 
Club. The history of that club has, I think, 
peculiar interest, because it is the epitome, the 
substantial sum and substance of what the Anglo- 
Franco-Californians have accomplished in a single 
decade. In its way it is unique, because it does 
encompass and manifest so much that is good in 
contemporary French, English, and American life. 
Such as it is, moreover, it must be seriously 
reckoned with as a factor in the development of 
the Pacific Slope. It has passed the experimental 
stage; it stands upon a firm social and financial 
basis; it has withstood ridicule, envy, and internal 
dissension. The word club will mislead English 
readers, for the Burlingame is not, as Hurlingham 
or Ranelagh, a mere place of amusement, but a 
colony where people live—some of them all the 
year round —a colony of persons who have tacitly 
agreed to obtain, regardless of cost, the comforts of 
life, and to rigorously exclude the mean, the sordid, 
and the common. Burlingame is a model village 


Anglo-Franco-Californians res 


of the rich. Nature has done much for the place; 
art has done more. It lies upon the park-like foot- 
hills that slope gently to the Bay of San Francisco. 
In the wooded cafions and gulches may be found 
the “cottages” of the members, houses built for 
the most part for comfort rather than show; houses 
with broad and deep verandahs, with large living 
rooms, with cosy corners. Within, you will mark 
no silken and velvet hangings, but the freshest of 
chintzes, the most exquisite linen, that simplicity, 
in short, which is so delightful and so costly. 
Here the women wear the plainest clothes, while 
the male gladly lays aside his cut-throat collar 
and assumes instead the soft and becoming stock. 
But stock and skirt must be cut by an artist. The 
hypercritic at Burlingame might complain that art 
had just failed to conceal art. The négligé is too 
studied. But the whole is amazing. You have 
polo, tennis, golf, pigeon shooting, bathing, boating, 
and a score of minor amusements to distract your 
leisure. You can hire from the club stables a 
well-appointed four-in-hand, a tandem, even an 
Irish jaunting car, at a price considerably less 
than you would pay in London. You have all 
the advantages of country life in France or Eng- 
land. <A pack of drag-hounds—some five and 
twenty couple of well-bred English fox-hounds — 
meets twice a week during the season. Coaching 
parades (at the last there were eleven coaches and 
thirteen tandems), steeplechases, pony racing, flower 
shows, give the cottagers opportunities of filling 
their houses with guests. 

It will be seen, therefore, that Burlingame, as 


156 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


an institution of the Pacific Slope, has claims to be 
considered. But this is exactly what the “ others ” 
refuse to do. The funny man uses the place asa 
peg whereon to hang some ancient jokes; the “old- 
timer” condemns it as being “too high toned”; the 
man who wants America for the Americans pro- 
nounces it too English; the moralist insinuates that 
the smart set are bold and bad; the rake finds 
it slow; and so forth. Some of these charges are 
true; most of them are false. The smart set in 
England is both bold and bad; the smart set in 
New York is bold, and hopes in time to be bad; 
the smart set on the Pacific Slope is neither bold 
nor bad. On the contrary, in contrast to the 
somewhat lax manners and morals of early days, 
it is punctiliously conventional, almost Pharisaical 
in observance of Mrs. Grundy’s unwritten laws. 
At Burlingame, for instance, the ordinary amuse- 
ments of the gilded youth of the West — gambling, 
drinking, and debauchery —are strictly tabooed. 
No debauchee can play polo properly or ride 
straight across country. No drunkard can play golf. 
In fact, Burlingame, as an influence for good, has 
done, is doing, and will do more for the rich and 
the sons of the rich than even they can estimate. 
Unconsciously it is setting a standard by which 
not only the rich but the poor will learn to profit ; 
but this standard will profit neither if it be kept 
under lock and key. 


Of things English (and French) that do not bear 
transplanting, the Anglo-Franco-Californian had 
best beware. I remember a story in (I think) 


Anglo-Franco-Californians 157 


“Le Petit Journal pour Rire.” One Frenchman is 
absurdly dressed as an English sportsman ; another 
finds fault with his appearance: “ Alphonse, tu as 
Vair diablement béte.” 

“Ca mest égal,” replies the Anglomaniac com- 
placently, “ Powrvu que pare le chic Anglais.” 

On the Pacific Slope the chic Anglais cuts some 
queer capers. You will find married women bear- 
ing crests on notepaper: a solecism not unknown 
in England amongst people of quality. I told one 
dame that no woman bears her father’s crest, and 
that it is not the best form to use her husband’s; 
but I’ve no doubt she thought me an officious 
and ignorant ass. There is a story in New York 
of a lady who chose for armorial bearings a shield, 
argent, with a bend, sinzster ! 

These are the ha’penny matters, but fraught 
with a certain significance. The English custom 
of “tipping” servants has also come to the Pacific 
Slope, where servants receive already enormous 
wages ; nearly twice as much as is paid in England. 
This might have been left overseas. More, the 
people who “tip” deem it necessary to give gold, 
utterly regardless of those whose pockets are lined 
with silver. The docking of horses’ tails, too, in 
a fly-infested country, in a country moreover where 
these same horses are regularly turned out to 
grass, is not to be commended merely because it 
is English. 

But the characteristic which more than any 
other stirs the spleen of the Native Son, and which 
is far more easily acquired than an English accent 
(which after all is funny without being vulgar), is 


158 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


that you-be-damnedness which has so endeared 
Englishmen to all foreigners. Now in England a 
Cambyses’ vein has its uses. It would seem as 
if the Captain were no Captain without his choleric 
word, but the same in the mouth of an American 
is rank blasphemy against common-sense, kindli- 
ness, and humour. I am always impressed by the 
Briton who buys one railway ticket and occupies 
a whole carriage. He is so truly sublime, so monu- 
mental, that you would lke to thank him warmly 
for the pleasure he has given as a—spectacle. 
But the Californian, poor fellow, cannot assume 
the god so easily. When he attempts the Olympian 
nod, no spheres are shaken — only the sides of the 
witnesses. An Englishman can look superior. A 
Californian, stiffening his mobile face into the 
solemn, stolid, stupid mask of the heavy British 
swell, looks exactly what he is—an ape. 


IX 


THE ENGLISHMAN IN THE 
WEST—I 


W i 


ay Pe 
oahy , 


IX 
THE ENGLISHMAN IN THE WEST—I 


YOUTH, we are told, once swore that he 

would fire the Atlantic; on trial he proved 
too feeble to strike a match! So colossal a failure 
is pathetic. The abyss between promise and per- 
formance may only be spanned by pity or ridicule. 
And who is heartless enough to laugh at the poor 
fellow! Did his friends, we wonder, temper his 
hot braggadocio with cold common-sense? Doubt- 
less. Yet one fears that their attitude towards the 
weakling was ungracious. Some premonition that 
the boaster would live to become importunate, a 
clog, a bore, perhaps a corpse to be buried, soured 
the milk of their kindness. Sensible of their 
own merits, his demerits become a reproach, ay, 
a menace to peace of mind. They might have 
urged him to fire the Thames, or even a teaspoon- 
ful of water; but a failure at home would provoke 
offensive comment. So they gave him a box of 
matches and set him afloat upon the ocean. 

In this spirit heads of families in England send 
their fools abroad. If Johnnie fails, he will fail 
at a distance; and then sorrow at his mishap will 
be computed inversely according to the square of 
the distance between father and son. 

Johnnie, of course, takes himself very seriously. 


He is not going to fail, not he. And he studies 
ll 


162 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


profoundly not the getting, but the spending of the 
gold that will be his. He scatters a largess of 
promises. The dear old governor shall have that 
piece of land he covets. The Mater shall spend 
her winters in the Riviera, Kitty will look sweetly 
pretty in a pearl necklace. The dear old governor 
coughs nervously; but Kitty and the Mater kiss 
Johnnie; and they drop a tear or two together 
afterwards; for they know in their hearts that 
Johnnie’s promises and cheques will be honoured 
at only one place, the bank of Love. 

Let us skip the farewells, and follow Johnnie 
to New York. As he is morbidly anxious that he 
should not be mistaken for an American citizen ; 
he wears a golfing suit instead of the frock coat 
and silk hat that are as much de rigueur on Fifth 
Avenue as in Mayfair. Crowned with a cap, he 
parades his motley up and down a crowded thorough- 
fare, serenely unconscious that only the bells are 
missing. However, he lingers not in Gotham. He 
pines for the Pactolian west, for the boundless 
plains where he can spread his wings, and soar. 
So he “takes the cars,” and they take him across 
that wonderful New World, which, despite its amaz- 
ing charm and beauty, seems so very painfully new 
to Johnnie. He is sure to air his impressions in 
the smoking-room of the car, and he will believe 
that the bagman by his side, who listens with such 
courteous interest, is mightily affected. Presently 
the bagman asks those two significant questions: 
whence and whither; and in reply to the latter 
Johnnie confesses vaguely that he means to make 
his pile somehow and somewhere, but his plans as 


The Englishman in the West 16 3 


yet are hardly inchoate. The bagman, who has 
made plans and brought them to a successful issue 
ever since he was breeched, abhors a vacuum and 
tries to fill it. The “filling” amuses the other 
passengers and does no harm to Johnnie. Soon he 
is stuffed like a Michaelmas goose, although still 
unplucked. Alas! the plucking comes after the 
roasting. 

He has now, we will say, reached the Pacific 
Slope. The sense of distance — the miles that 
stretch between himself and home — affects him 
strangely. Contrast colours his opinions, dyes them 
from drab to red. In a country as yet unfenced, 
young men, he finds, ride where they please, setting 
their own pace. Johnnie reflects that if his horse 
should run away there are no barriers to stop him. 
This robs the adventure of danger. In England are 
many pitfalls, many hedges and ditches. Who 
dares ride across country with a loose rein? But 
in California — 

Who-whoop ! Let her go, Gallagher! 

Once in Santa Cruz, a bland Mongolian mounted 
a horse, and the beast straightway bolted in the 
direction of some steep cliffs. “Where are you 
going, Quong Wo?” yelled an American. 

“T no sabee,” replied the Celestial. 

In this spirit of nescience Johnnie vaults into 
the saddle and gives his bronco the spur. He does 
not know where he is going, but the bystanders 
know very well. 

Sometimes he goes over the cliffs, and that is the 
last of him. Poor, poor fellow! Who is respon- 
sible for this pitiful end? Not he, assuredly. Per- 


164 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


haps his best qualities have hounded him, hot foot, 
along the Devil’s Causeway. Generosity, pluck, 
mirthfulness, a desire to please, have brought him 
to grief. When the dear old governor opens the 
letter that tells him his son is dead, does he realise 
that he signed the lad’s death-warrant ? 

But these desperate rides seldom end fatally. 
Johnnie has a tumble or two, and sooner or later 
he decides humbly to go a-foot. He will tell you, 
if you happen to meet him, that he has sown his 
wild oats, and means to soberly and sedulously seed 
the future with wheat. This means buying a 
ranch. None of his people — he assures you — 
have soiled their hands with trade. “I’m not 
fitted for anything of that sort,” he concludes cheer- 
fully ; and heaven knows that he speaks truth. So 
he buys an orchard, a vineyard, a cattle ranch, a 
wheat farm, or a dairy. You can take your choice, 
as he does, of these alluring industries. In the end 
it will make as little difference to Johnnie as it 
does to you sitting snug in your chair. Whatever 
basket receives the eggs, they inevitably will be 
smashed ! 

Had you the magical carpet, you could transport 
yourself to his new domain, where your host will — 
be delighted to show you his pony, hog-maned and 
bang-tailed, and also his keg of Glenlivet (for he is 
a hospitable chap), and his big canister of tobacco, 
and “that cafion yonder, where, by Jove, the quail 
simply swarm, my dear chap,” — and many other 
things animate and inanimate in which at present 
he is keenly interested. The crops, you may observe, 
look patchy, as if wire-worms were at work, or the 


The Englishman in the West 165 


trees in the orchard have the scale, or perhaps the 
“hoppers” are eating the vines, but Johnnie can 
greet even the woolly aphis with a grin. “It’s not 
quite so simple as I thought it was, this ranching,” 
he confesses over a pipe and a toddy. “I’m—I’m 
going behind this year; but next year I shall make 
pots o money! You bet your life!” 

Who is brute enough to retort that so far from 
betting one’s life upon a result so very dubious, it 
would be folly to hazard a farthing? Yet one is 
miserably sensible that Johnnie ¢s betting Ais life, 
and that the odds are against him. 

Meantime he wears his tweeds, and is happy. 
For a season, knickerbocker breeches made for hap- 
piness with Johnnie ; so do polo boots, and pigskin 
saddles, and brier pipes. But the sight of these 
insignia of the broken brigade brings tears to the 
heart. It is like seeing a well-cut dress-coat on 
the back of a tramp. As the years pass, Johnnie’s 
English clothes wear out and are thrown aside; but 
the breeches remain, stained and discoloured, a sym- 
bol of what has been, and what in all human prob- 
abilty can never again be. Note the warp and 
woof of -the stout cloth: wool all through, no 
shoddy. Johnnie too was made of good stuff, and 
has worn well; but he is stained and discoloured, 
thin and patched, torn by adversity, a scarecrow. 
These breeches have other significance. They are 
Johnnie’s protest against the overalls of Western 
life. They advertise the wearer’s contempt of 
public opinion, his ineptitude, his utter lack of a 
sense of proportion. Think of thick Scotch tweeds 
and thick Scotch stockings in hot, dusty Southern 


166 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


California. The mere thought irritates a sensitive 
skin. Yet you may see these garments any day 
you please to walk through Los Angeles. There 
they are in the glare of a semi-tropic sun, as ab- 
surdly out of place as a mackintosh in “the Sahara 
desert. 

An Englishman whom the writer knows used 
to drive tandem in California. Once, coming out 
of a livery stable, his leader slipped and fell 
upon the asphalt pavement, rolling over like a 
shot rabbit. He had no groom with him, no 
friend. He dared not descend from his lofty 
perch, because the wheeler was kicking savagely, 
but some good Samaritan set the leader on his 
legs and cunningly unravelled the tangled skein 
of traces and ribbons. As he drove on, these 
words drifted after him: “It takes lots of trouble 
to be an Englishman.” 

Johnnie, of course, despises American whisky 
and American methods. He drives his four work- 
horses after the fashion of his kinsman of the 
Coaching Club. He would scorn to call the reins 
“lines,” or to hold them, western fashion, in both 
hands; he dearly loves to turn sharp corners — 
smartly. One day he turns too smartly: the 
waggon is smashed, the horses injured, the harness 
ruined. “By Gad,” exclaims Johnnie. “We took 
a toss—didn’t we?” 

These accidents —one a week would be a fair 
average —are not altogether displeasing to his 
neighbours. Indeed, Johnnie’s little ways have 
not commended him to the favour of what he 
calls “the unwashed.” He prances upon Yankee 


The Englishman in the West 167 


corns, sublimely unconscious that he is inflicting 
pain, or, to do him justice, he would be more con- 
siderate. Many years ago, a sprig of English 
nobility called upon a compatriot, at what was 
then the most fashionable hotel in New York. In 
the corner of the room was a coaching horn. The 
mere sight of this filled my lord with a fine frenzy. 
Before he could be stopped, he had seized and 
was tooting it with all the strength of his lungs. 
Bell-boys came a-running, and later a note from 
the manager. His lordship promised to make an 
amende honorable. “You see,” he told the chief 
clerk, “I’ve always understood that in the States 
a man could toot his own horn wherever and when- 
ever he pleased. So I naturally supposed, you 
know, that he could toot another fellow’s, if he 
wanted to.” This explanation was not considered 
satisfactory. 

Johnnie always gathers round him other Britons 
as helpless and impecunious as himself. Some of 
these are remittance men, who go to town when 
the cheque comes from home, and when the money 
is squandered return to Johnnie’s beans and bacon. 
Of these gentlemen more will be said presently. 
They belong for the most part to the rapacide, 
and must not be confounded with either the wild 
or the domestic goose. 

When Johnnie’s domain is taken from him (under 
foreclosure proceedings), he seeks work where he 
can find it, and the search wears out shoe leather. 
Farmers know that he failed to take care of his own 
property ; how —they ask pertinently — can he be 
trusted to take care of theirs? Finally, some com- 


168 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


patriot offers the dole of board and lodging. One 
man was known to many sheep-owners in South- 
ern California as El] Fraile (the friar). An ardent 
Roman Catholic, he had a prodigious memory glutted 
with odds and ends of learning: all of it quite 
unavailable for work-a-day uses. What El Fraile 
did not know about the ante- and post-Nicene 
Fathers was not worth knowing. He herded sheep 
badly, although it was his duty to herd them well. 
Yet he had a fine sense of humour! One day he 
was sent to town to buy groceries, and on his return 
the other herders marked on his usually pleasant 
face a most villainous and hang-dog expression. 
Examined, he confessed with groans that the store- 
keeper, a German Jew, had slapped his cheek. And 
he had submitted tamely to the insult because with- 
out provocation he had kicked the storekeeper’s dog! 
So he had accepted his thwackings meekly as a pen- 
ance. For a week he moped; then he went again to 
town and returned to the ranch in fine feather. He 
had caught the storekeeper cheating a child, and had 
thrashed him soundly with a stout pigskin belt. 
The friar grew very peculiar as time went by, and 
the vaqueros said that he had surely eaten of the 
“loco” weed, and was now crazy. His greatest 
and indeed his only pleasure was confessing his 
sins. To reach the confessional, no obstacle was 
too great to be surmounted. In winter, holding a 
heavy stone in each hand, he would wade through 
boiling torrents that the greasers pronounced im- 
passable. In his haste to deliver his soul he would 
outstrip the stage to Santa Barbara. His appear- 
ance, you may be sure, was no less disordered than 


The Englishman in the West 169 


his wits: he wore a ragged, grey flannel shirt, a 
pair of tattered pantaloons, and huge Bliicher boots. 
Father X , of the Mission, who was rather par- 
ticular, and with whom El Fraile loved to walk, 
gave the poor fellow a long, white dust coat; but 
the friar, finding it inconveniently long, trimmed 
off the skirts with a blunt clasp-knife, and when 
he came to the pockets cut around them, doubtless 
considering that they were too useful to be sacrificed 
to mere symmetry. Wearing this mutilated gar- 
ment, he used to take the air in the padre’s com- 
pany. Finally, he informed his friends that a 
vision had been vouchsafed him: the Blessed Vir- 
gin had personally assured him that he was ap- 
pointed by Heaven to fill the pontifical throne, and 
must accordingly betake himself to Rome. He 
dared not disobey, he said; so El Fraile, without 
purse or scrip, drifted away from the ranges and 
out of our lives. 

Requiescat in pace. 

Religion, however, offers its sublime consolation 
to few. Asa rule, Johnnie steeps his past in drink. 
When he audits his accounts with fate and finds 
that the assets are nil and the liabilities past com- 
puting, he throws down his tools and hies him 
to the demijohn. Some whisky kills quick; but 
there are Englishmen proof against sheep-herder’s 
delight. One fellow has been drinking it steadily 
for thirty years. During all this weary time he 
has received each week from his mother the “ Lon- 
don Graphic;” and each week when it comes he 
staggers to the nearest bar, and exchanges it for 
one drink! 


170 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


In or out of his cups Johnnie damns the country 
for his failure. The country, need it be said, is not 
to blame. No finer country than California lies 
out of doors. Others— plenty of them — succeed 
where Johnnie and his friends failed. Had he 
given undivided attention to his business, he too 
would have succeeded. But from the start he 
misinterpreted that grim word—work. He pro- 
nounced ranching simple. Had he been taught 
that nothing in life is simple, that in the strenuous 
competition of to-day no hour may be wasted with 
impunity, no dollar squandered, no trifle ignored 
—had he mastered these, the principia of life’s 
science, he might, who knows, have graduated with 
honours. 

To be crowned with laurel abroad, this sort of 
teaching must begin at home. Perhaps the fool 
will never learn his lesson. A youth not clever 
enough to pass into the army or navy, the Civil 
Service, or the learned professions, not quick-witted 
enough for the Stock Exchange or business, a hope- 
less duffer in short at all that pertains to genteel 
bread-winning, — such a lamb as this must be kept 
in the fold, not suffered to stray into the stony 
places of the world. 

True ; but what can you do with him at home ? 

Let him serve his sovereign as a soldier or a sailor 
in the ranks ; let him be apprenticed to some honest 
trade; let him become a hewer of wood, a drawer 
of water ; let him fill any position, however humble, 
under the eye and egis of authority, rather than 
be driven forth into the wilderness to perish 
miserably. 


The Englishman in the West 171 


We can hear paterfamilias fuss and fume when 
he reads the last paragraph. “What! My son an 
apprentice?” Yes, dear Pooh-Bah, even your son. 
You and Madam placed that empty head on his 
shoulders. See to it that it is not filled with lead, 
or whisky, or worse ! 

“His sisters must be considered,” growls the 
father. “They will lose caste if Johnnie is selling 
ribbons across a counter, or working as a labourer 
in the fields.” In this democratic age, it is doubtful 
whether any person would care twopence what 
Johnnie was doing. If the sisters were nice girls, 
they would not lose caste ; and if they did find the 
houses of a few snobs closed to them, what of 
it? But if Johnnie owes something to his sisters, 
do not they also owe something to him? Is it 
right to push a weak-minded lad outside the circle 
of their influence? Wellington, I believe, in his 
Peninsular campaign, directed that the lists of cer- 
tain soldiers reported for punishment should be sent 
home to the men’s respective parishes, there to be 
nailed up on the church door. Johnnie is just the 
sort of fellow who would have a wholesome awe 
of such publicity. He goes to the devil abroad, not 
knowing his destination, as has been said, but at 
home he goes to church. However, there may be 
cases in which it is expedient that Johnnie should 
be sent to America or the colonies. Then, teach 
him first a trade. A blacksmith, need never herd 
sheep; a cobbler will never lack butter to his 
bread. And who would not sooner see his son a 
good mechanic, rather than a starving, solitary, 
homeless, and friendless — gentleman ! 


172 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


The fathers of the fools are, as a rule, army and 
naval officers retired on half-pay. What a pathetic 
procession they make, these veterans of the Crimea 
and the Mutiny! You meet them in every country 
town: two and two, marching stiffly, keeping step 
to the drums and fifes of precedent and prejudice, 
chests well inflated, clothes well brushed — clean, 
kindly, honourable men. And their sons — so say 
they all—must be also gentlemen. God knows 
one wishes for their sakes it might be so; but is it 
possible? Is it practicable ? 

“My lad is a fool,” a major-general complained 
to the writer, some years ago. “What shall I do 
with him?” 

“Don’t send him to America or the Colonies un- 
less you first teach him a trade.” 

“There is no place for my son in trade, sir,” re- 
plied the veteran, stiffly ; “and no place for him at 
home,” he added grimly. | 

Did this Roman father probe the true signifi- 
cance of his words? Had he no bowels of com- 
passion for the infirmity of his boy? Did he 
deliberately determine to expose the weakling, to 
let him die out of sight, whilst he, the father, 
kept immaculate his bubble reputation as a gen- 
tleman? The lad in question was sent forth abso- 
lutely unequipped for the struggle (although his 
breeches were cut by Tautz), and he died. Who 
killed him ? 

For the wise, the strong, the patient, and the 
thrifty there is gold everywhere ; for the weak and 
the witless there is no gold anywhere, only the 
hard quartz in which the metal was once imbedded. 


The Englishman in the West 173 


In England, the beggar gets the crumbs and pity of 
the rich; abroad, he gets not bread but stones, not 
pity but contempt. 

In the name of mercy, keep your fools in the 
family. 


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N addition to the family fool, the types of Eng- 

lishmen to be found on the Pacific Slope include 

the parson’s son, the fortune-hunter, the moral idiot, 
the remittance man, and the sportsman. 

Of the parson’s son one might quote the French 
proverb: a cobbler’s child is not the best shod. It 
would seem that many of the Children of the Church 
of England are not shod at all. They wander bare- 
foot through the stony places, kicking furiously at 
the flints of convention. Win their confidence, and 
they will confess that the shoes provided by their 
sires were too tight. Accordingly, they discarded 
them at the first opportunity. Asa rule, they go 
without shoes to the end of their days — which are 
not very long in the land of the West. You meet 
them everywhere: beachcombing by the summer 
seas of the Pacific, tending bar, selling cigars, herd- 
ing sheep; and on most of them is the brand. of 
Drink. 

The fortune-hunter, on the other hand, is always 
well-shod in boots cut by a crack London crafts- 
man; and he shuns the wilderness as he would a 
poor relation. His credentials are his clothes and 
his impudence. It may be said of his impudence 


that it passes all understanding and endures for 
12 


178 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


ever. If this gentleman bears a small handle to 
his name, his ultimate success is almost certain. 
This is curious, for Western women are not snobs 
nor vulgar (till they settle down in England, where 
they soon catch the national disease), and the 
obvious fact that our fortune-hunter has not been 
able to secure a mate in his own country would — 
one would suppose — discolour his reputation. Not 
at all. He anticipates comment by maintaining 
that the English Miss is dull, dowdy, and impos- 
sible. When the daughter of the West marries the 
fellow and follows him to England, she soon learns 
that the English Miss is often dull, sometimes 
dowdy, and always impossible — to the wrong man. 

One girl with a sense of humour and great expec- 
tations from a rich father told me an amusing story. 
A fortune-hunter paid her attentions and finally 
entreated her—as she put it to me—to provide 
him with a permanent home. “ But,” she protested, 
“T understand that you are engaged, or as good as 
engaged, to another young woman.” The fellow 
smiled reassuringly. “Don’t let that trouble you,” 
he replied. Six weeks later, notwithstanding the 
snubbing he got from the heiress, he proposed again. 
“But you are not free to offer me marriage,” she ~ 
remarked; “you are still engaged to that girl.” 
Nothing daunted, the seeker after good board and 
lodging replied once more: “And I tell you now, 
what I told you then—don’t worry. That little 
affair can be easily arranged!” “So can this,” 
retorted she. “Don’t you dare, sir, to come near 
me, or to speak to me again.” 

I have nothing to say against the belted earl 


The Englishman in the West 179 


(with nothing left but his belt) who can offer a 
woman rank and position in exchange for her 
shekels. And who will throw even a pebble at 
the girl to whom getting the best of everything 
regardless of cost is a vital instinct, the girl who 
justifies her upbringing by buying as husband the 
most expensive article in the market? Such matches 
turn out indifferently well, because, as a rule, the 
contracting parties are under no delusion in regard 
to the nature of the bargain. The adventurer I 
speak of has nothing to offer an heiress except him- 
self: goods, it is true, upon which he places an 
extravagant valuation, but goods invariably more 
or less damaged. Most of these gentlemen assume 
a military style and title. They have been Cap- 
tains in crack regiments. But it is indiscreet to 
ask these warriors the names of their corps, or 
indeed any questions concerning the past; and 
what information they do give in regard to such 
matters needs more than a pinch of salt. The big 
hotels are the happy hunting grounds of these 
sportsmen ; and it is not easy for an American man 
to keep calm when he sees them firing—so to 
speak — into the “ brown”: missing many, of course, 
wounding a few, and bringing to bag perhaps one 
pretty bird who deserves a happier fate. It is 
comic — were it not tragic—to study their meth- 
ods. Listening to the Captain, one might even 
infer that the American girl is not quite good 
enough for one who has worn her Britannic Majes- 
ty’s livery. This attitude is the master-key which 
unlocks the hearts of the fair. Some of the gilded 
girls are sensible that a plain citizen who cannot 


180 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


ride to hounds or shoot driven grouse, who bears 
no crest and wears no livery, is unworthy of them ; 
accordingly, when they meet a man who in his 
turn mounts the pedestal, they look up to worship, 
instead of looking down to despise. 

The Moral Idiot is sent abroad because England 
is too right and tight a place for him. In the West 
he finds a climate and a people more adapted to 
his idiosyncracies. If you wish to play the dog in 
England, well-meaning friends insist on the muzzle 
and the chain. In the West you can run riot. 

I remember a man who charmed the good and 
bad of his acquaintance by his geniality and fine 
presence. He was the son of an officer in a crack 
regiment, and although he had failed to pass into 
Sandhurst, he had taken high honours as a bachelor 
of those arts which please everybody except per- 
haps the Army Examiners. This one raced down 
the slopes of Avernus! He was so big and so 
powerful that those of his fellow-countrymen who 
tried to stop him were simply knocked head over 
heels, or else were constrained to follow him. But 
we hoped that he would pull up before he reached 
the bottom, because he was so cheery, so generous, 
so plucky, and because — strongest argument of all 
—nhe had such nice people, whose very photographs 
—so to speak —were letters of credit. Now the 
photographs of, let us say the Family Fool’s nearest 
and dearest are generally kept under lock and key. 
Poor Johnnie, with all his stupidity and simplicity, 
is dimly aware that he cannot digest his husks be- 
neath the reproachful eyes of those fond angels, 
his mother and sisters; so he lays their portraits, 


The Englishman in the West 181 


face downwards, at the bottom of his portmanteau, 
where he cannot see them, nor they him. But our 
Moral Idiot wa’ alflicted with no such sentimental 
scruples. His photographs stood — blushing, so it 
seemed to me—vupon the mantelpiece of his room, 
whence they witnessed many a shameful scene; and 
beside them were other pictures of other women 
(although one might ask Heaven if they were in 
truth of the same sex); and seeing this it was 
obvious that nothing would suffice to stop the run- 
away, that, morally speaking, he was dead. Not 
long after his body died also. 

The Remittance Man is the curse of all new 
countries, although in a sense he is nobody’s enemy 
but his own. The monthly dole he receives from 
home serves to keep his body, but it plays havoc 
with his soul. Asarule the remittance is squan- 
dered within three days; and then follows a period 
of incubation, perhaps of repentance, during which 
the poor fellow lies snug on his ranch, or in his 
squalid room, if his tastes be urban. The homes 
(?) of the remittance men are curiously alike; an 
epitome, in fact, of the men themselves. If the 
remittance man be still young, a ranchero of three 
years’ standing, you will note in and around his 
cabin the half-effaced signs of labour; a garden full 
of weeds, a cypress fence untrimmed, white-washed 
outbuildings now stained and discoloured, but once 
as clean and bright as the steel bits and stirrups 
which our friend brought from home. If you are 
of a curious turn of mind, the dust-heap at the 
back is worth exploring. The upper strata reveal 
a sorry collection of tomatoes and sardine cans; 


182 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


but stir the heap to its depths and you will find 
terrines and glass jars; the empty flesh-pots of 
Egypt, —relics of those happy days when Jim — 
many remittance men are called Jim,—had hope 
in his heart and cash at his bankers. In this 
heap, too, are many bottles: from the aristocratic 
flask of maraschino to the plebeian pint of stout. 
Jim will inform you with honest pride that he 
knows how to do himself well. Inside his house, 
a three room board-and-batten shanty, is a dismal 
collection of household effects, and if you are easily 
shocked, it would be prudent not to enter the 
kitchen. For Jim never washes up unless he is 
expecting company, and you have caught him nap- 
ping, for he is never so happy as when asleep. 
He will be sure to ask you to have a drink out 
of the demijohn that stands in the corner of the 
sitting-room, and, warmed by whisky, he may re- 
late some of his misadventures. He planted out 
an orchard of Bartlett pears, but the jack-rabbits 
barked and destroyed his trees; he then planted 
alfalfa, which the gophers ate; then he bought 
some Jersey cows, and that year his pasture was 
accidentally fired and all the feed burnt up. You 
will note that Jim, and the gentlemen like Jim, 
generally begin with some enterprise that exacts 
special knowledge (which they don’t possess), 
patience, and hard work. They try to run before 
they can crawl. Itis a kindness to turn the talk 
into the domain of sport, for Jim cleans his gun, 
if he cleans nothing else, and he generally owns 
a handy dog who lies at his master’s feet and is 
the best company that Jim keeps. Jim’s eye 


The Englishman in the West 183 


brightens as he speaks of the quail and ducks, and 
he will tell you that he and a pal are thinking 
seriously of shooting for the market next winter, 
only he will add it is “a beastly grind shipping 
your birds in good condition.” Most things are 
“a beastly grind” to Jim and his friends. They 
keep no cow, because a cow must be driven in from 
the pasture and milked twice a day. You will 
mark few hens about the barn, for Jim will tell 
you that, in a country where coyotes and coons are 
many, it is necessary to lock up your hens each 
night in a marauder-proof hen-house. And that, 
too, is a “beastly grind.” Poor Jim blushes through 
his tanned skin when he asks you to stop and take 
pot-luck with him. Presently he retires into the 
kitchen, and you are left alone in his sitting-room. 
Here you will be sure to mark a curious assortment 
of old clothes, boots, a few books, a hunting-crop, 
some English illustrated papers and magazines sent 
regularly to Jim by his kind sisters and aunts at 
home, and many pipes. Upon most of these arti- 
cles lies the dust of the West: that fine sand 
which drifts invisibly into everything — even into 
the hearts of men like Jim. You feel, perhaps, 
that you would lke to buy a broom, to sweep and 
garnish, but your labour would be wasted. Dust, 
the dun dust of life, settles thick upon the Remit- 
tance Man. And he —this is the pathetic part of 
it — does not care. He has sold the birthright of 
a gentleman: the right to be well-groomed in body 
and mind, for a— remittance. 

While you sit dreaming by the hearth, Jim has 
found a few eggs, and cooked a meal that tastes 


184 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


better than it looks. He has made some tortillas 
(pancakes) and the stew is excellent. Jim has a 
huge pot into which he puts his game, some toma- 
toes, an onion or two, and a double handful of rice. 
It is needless to add that a remittance man has no 
garden of his own. His vegetables are given to him 
by his neighbours, humble hard-working folk to 
whom Jim isa sealed fountain of mystery. They 
cannot understand how it comes to pass that a 
“high-toned, highly-educated, English gentleman” 
is content — like the fat weed on Lethe’s wharf — 
to rot at ease, when, if he chose to exert mind and 
muscles, a life of honourable endeavour lies within 
his grasp. But then they know nothing of the 
vampire which sucks from Jim’s veins the good red 
blood of every ambition. Let cruel charity fasten 
her fangs in their throats, and they too would 
shrivel into paupers and parasites. Take from Jim 
his dole, force him to work, and he may attain unto 
the full stature of a man. 

As arule remittance men live in a small colony 
of their own. Co-operation is no empty word to 
them ; it spells a little polo, a little golf, billiards, 
cards, and so forth. Play with these fellows is the 
serious business of life, and yet they talk glibly 
enough of their work! What a queer smack the 
word has in their mouths! 

I remember a trio, whom my brother and I (we 
were reading “Trilby”) used to call —les trois Ang- 
liches. Arm in arm they would parade up and 
down a broad road that had no beginning and no 
end. It was not a quarter of a mile in length, but 
smooth and level as an ivory tablet. High cliffs, 


The Englishman in the West 185 


almost but not quite inaccessible, lay to the north 
and south; to the east was a summer sea; to the 
north, running the length of the road, a number of 
gay booths flanked a huge hotel. You could not 
wish for a brighter, more mirthful, fresher scene 
than this road presents in the middle of July ; for 
it is Pleasure’s Rialto, where the weary workers of 
Southern California come for a too brief holiday. 
It is, in effect, all that is left of the lotos land. 
And here the busy bodies of the Pacific Slope find, 
what they so sorely need, rest and recreation. But 
we never saw the three remittance men strolling 
leisurely from booth to booth, turning and return- 
ing, inhaling and exhaling the essence of the place, 
inspecting its simple wares, tasting and savouring 
its cakes and ales, without reflecting that they were 
not visitors but prisoners in this pleasance: hug- 
ging their chains it is true, but none the less — 
captives. Did they, I wonder, turn sometimes a 
wistful glance to the cliffs? Who can tell? They 
had their share of brains; they had been educated 
at famous schools; they came of good stock. And 
not one of them was fit to black the boots of an 
honest ploughboy. 

Perhaps the Sportsman is the best type of Eng- 
lishman who comes to the East, always excepting 
those distinguished travellers — diplomats, officers 
of the Army and Navy, and the like — who merely 
flit through the country on their way to Australia 
and the Far East. He belongs to the upper and 
upper-middle classes; and as a rule has the tall, 
slender, wiry figure of the man inured to hardships, 
the man who can ride, or shoot, or fish, all day and 


186 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


every day, and be none the worse for it. These 
Nimrods acquire a knowledge of the West at first 
hand. They see many phases of life; they talk 
with rich and poor, with gentle and simple, with 
honest men and knaves. Living themselves the 
primal life for many months, facing boldly the 
perils of the wilderness, apprehending, as they must, 
the obstacles that confront the pioneer, they can 
and do assimilate the facts, — those facts so indiges- 
tible to the traveller who sees a new country through 
the windows of a Pullman drawing-room car. More, 
leaving the wilderness they approach civilisation 
by degrees, passing over the trackless forest, then 
the blazed trail, then the foot-path, the rude coun- 
try road, the highway, and lastly the shining 
rails. 

The Native Son can never quite understand why 
these thin, sun-scorched, silent men take all that 
concerns sport so very seriously ; they wonder how 
such men, possessed of energy, patience, powers of 
endurance, can hold themselves aloof from the 
traffic of the world. And it takes an Englishman, 
and a lover of sport, to answer the question. To 
those to whom “the long results of time” are an 
inheritance, there comes a nostalgia for life under 
new and more stirring conditions. The war of great 
cities, the ignominies and indignities of the modern 
struggle for money, or fame, or bread, drive them 
into the silent lands, into the enchanting solitudes 
of mountain and forest. Let it be remembered that 
these men have enough money, and the striving for 
more may mean the robbing of another. From this 
point of view, their abstention becomes surely a 


The Englishman in the West 187 


virtue. But the energies inherited from fathers who 
worked hard and to good purpose cannot be denied ; 
and these energies sustain the explorer, the hunter, 
and the naturalist. What else would drive a man 
into the pestilential swamps of equatorial Africa, or 
into the boreal twilight of a sub-arctic forest ? 


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HE side-show of a big three-ring circus, where 
you may view at your ease and leisure the 
freaks, is to my mind more amusing than the show 
itself; for nowadays the senses are stunned by the 
ordered confusion of a triple entertainment. In like 
manner the thoroughfares of modern life have be- 
come so crowded and noisy that one turns with a 
sigh of relief into the alleys and byways that run 
to and from them. 

Americans, I believe, have a keener appreciation 
of what they call “the side-show” than we. Per- 
haps in a new country there are more side-shows, 
but I doubt it. I know of a cathedral town in the 
south of England where four great classes live 
cheek by jowl: the military, the Dean and Chap- 
ter and clergy, the masters and boys of a great 
public school, and the ordinary townsfolk. By 
those who like to bet on certainties, a sum might 
be wagered that here within the shadow of four 
ancient institutions could be found more side-shows 
than in any city of the West; only you would 
have to search for them patiently. In the West 
the side-show is on the side-walk! Take, for in- 
stance, the side-shows of religion: Theosophy, Spirit- 
ualism, Christian Science, and the like. In England 
these entertainments are-—so to speak — not 


192 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


licensed by the Lord Chamberlain, but in America, 
and particularly in the West, you can dance the 
hula-hula upon the tables of stone, and none will 
interfere. 

Since the exposure of Madame Blavatzky, Theoso- 
phists have split up into camps: those who still 
believe in the priestess of Isis, and those who don’t. 
The priestess, it will be remembered, unveiled Isis ; 
then in her turn she was unveiled, and the veil of 
mystery that encompassed a most remarkable woman 
was rent in twain. Reading the evidence of fraud 
that was submitted, it would seem incredible that 
any sane person should still believe in Madame 
Blavatzky, but so itis. Theosophy, however, being 
esoteric in its teaching, appeals to the few; whereas 
Spiritualism appeals to the many, the many who — 
as the immortal Barnum observed — like to be 
humbugged. It is true, of course, that a counterfeit 
coin does not impeach the value of the gold piece, 
but the most ardent Spiritualist will not deny that 
the bad coins have had an enormous circulation. 
Much of the so-called phenomena of Spiritualism 
has been explained by science, a little still remains 
—inexplicable. But the men of science who have 
given the subject attention, assert that science will ~ 
reveal what is now hidden and will do it without 
the assistance of spirits. The Homes and Slades 
and other wizards who fairly enchanted alike be- 
lievers and sceptics have been proved charlatans ; 
but the mediums who advertise in the newspapers 
— unselfish women, for the most part, who, remain- 
ing poor themselves (their fee is only a dollar), de- 
vote their lives to making others rich — increase 


The Side-Show 193 


and multiply. To certain minds the psychic powers 
of the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter born 
with a caul are incontestable. 

The number of mediums, clairvoyants, astrolo- 
gers, and palmists in San Francisco alone is most 
significant. One cannot doubt that curiosity is the 
besetting sin of the mob, but beyond and above it 
lies the worship of the visible rather than the in- 
visible. The mob does wish to put its fingers into 
the wounds, to see, to hear, and to feel. The curi- 
osity that drives some sorrow-stricken soul to the 
“parlours” of an illiterate stranger to learn news, 
however small, of the one who has passed into the 
world unseen may be condemned, but it is at least 
human and intelligible. And if proof of immor- 
tality is to be vouchsafed us from one whom we 
would not deem fit to dine at our table, or even be 
included in the circle of our casual acquaintances, 
shall we refuse it on that account? Here is a ques- 
tion which each must answer for himself. In the 
West it would seem that in some wells not Truth 
is found, but carbonic acid gas. But the motives 
that drive the mob to the ladies I have mentioned 
are not always so ingenuous. Many seek them for 
the most sordid reasons: for advice in regard to 
investments and speculative enterprises, for love 
philtres, for, in effect, a special knowledge of the 
future which they, the seekers after an unknown 
god, may transmute into dollars and cents. 

The Christian Scientists, however, are cutting the 
sround from beneath the feet of the Theosophists 
and Spiritualists. I have carefully read Mrs. Mary 
Eddy’s book, “ Health and Science,” and was not 

13 


194 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


surprised to find that the good and the tender and 
the true, which illumine so many of its pages, have 
been taken from the New Testament. Indeed one 
might say of “Health and Science” what was said 
by a wit of another book: “There is much that is 
new in it, and much that is true ; only what is new 
is not true, and what is true is not new.” Mrs. 
Eddy bottles the wine of Christ and sells it under 
her own label. The metaphysics in the book were 
made long ago in Germany. And the stories of the 
miracles would astonish all of us were we not 
familiar with what is going on at Lourdes, and 
Sainte Anne d’Auray, and a dozen other places. 
According to Mrs. Eddy and her school, matter is 
not; Berkeley also said there was no such thing 
as matter, and the wits retorted that in that case it 
did not matter what he said. I have met many 
Christian Scientists, and I have noted that matter 
is not when, and when only, there is nothing really 
serious the matter. If the child of a woman pro- 
fessing Christian Science happens to be bitten by a 
rattlesnake, you will find that she sends hot-foot for 
the nearest doctor, and the antidote he prescribes is 
administered promptly. There is a profane story 
about a man tormented by toothache; the sufferer 
was assured by a Christian Scientist (the name 
challenges a smile, because Christian Science is 
endorsed by neither orthodox Christians nor men of 
science) that he was the victim of his imagination, 
that if he would sit still and allow his mind to 
dwell upon the true substance of life, what has 
been wrongly termed the idealities, weening it from 
the trivial shadow, his throbbing molar, he would 


The Side-Show 195 


infallibly become sane and whole. The sufferer 
was willing enough to try the experiment, and did 
sit silent and absorbed for nearly half an hour. At 
the end of that time the Christian Scientist asked 
sweetly how he felt. “I feel, Madam,” he replied, 
“like a damn fool.” 

The men of the West owe much to Mrs. Eddy, 
for her teaching has wrought some wonderful cures 
amongst anemic, hysterical, drug-poisoned women. 
A physician told me that Christian Science was 
a specific for nervous affections. He also told me 
that a colleague of his, an Agnostic, had been treat- 
ing a Catholic patient for one of those obscure 
lesions to which female flesh is heir, and that, 
despite his efforts, the patient had steadily grown 
worse. But she was quite confident that if only 
she could visit Lourdes, her health would be mirac- 
ulously restored. The doctor gravely and truth- 
fully assured her that in his opinion holy water of 
Our Lady would wash away her infirmities; and, as 
it was impossible for the patient to undertake a 
journey overseas of some seven thousand miles, he 
begged her to send for some of the water, which the 
lady did; and, having absolute faith in the elixir, 
recovered her health and strength ! 

It is curious to mark in a new country that men 
run after strange gods as soon as they forsake the 
faith that sustained their fathers, but we are con- 
cerned now not with ethics but side-shows. Per- 
haps the side-show is more amusing when one 
individual occupies the stage. This was emphati- 
cally the case with Richard Hobson, the hero of 
the Merrimac, better known perhaps as the Hero 


196 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


of the Merry Smack. After his achievement he 
was turned into a side-show. As one of the news- 
papers put it: “The American women are trying 
to make a star-spangled ass out of our national 
hero;” and the women came perilously near to 
doing so. The hero was kissed into exile, it was 
said; and at one place more than two hundred and 
fifty fair adorers stood in line, and patiently and 
rapturously awaited their turn to be embraced. 
Lieutenant Hobson accepted this homage with an 
humble and grateful heart; but one hardly likes 
to think what would happen if similar sweet cour- 
tesies were offered to Admiral Dewey or to Sir 
Redvers Buller. 

Hobson, willy-nilly, was made a side-show ; Joa- 
quin Miller, the poet of the Sierras, made himself 
one: surely a greater offence. It will hardly be 
believed in England that this man, who has written 
some of the finest poetry in the English language, 
should join a variety show and exhibit himself 
nightly, in costume, to all comers. One would as 
soon expect to see an archbishop dancing the horn- 
pipe in Ratcliff Highway. 

There are many side-shows. The word is often 
used to express an zsolated sense of the ridiculous. — 
A person in our county was preaching on behalf 
of Total Abstinence. To clinch his argument, he 
cited the case of his own father who had destroyed 
a vineyard in full bearing rather than make wine 
of the grapes. We were profoundly affected by 
this, and felt that it was a privilege to sit at the 
feet of such a man’s son. Some weeks later, this 
parson was in the office of a friend of mine, and the 


The Side-Show 197 


talk turned upon Californian wines. “ As a matter 
of fact,” said the parson, “most of the vineyards 
now in full bearing don’t pay, because the wrong 
varieties were planted out. My poor father made 
that mistake, and he was forced to root up every 
vine.” My friend told me this story (he had heard, 
of course, the sermon), and I asked him if he had 
allowed the parson to escape without a word of pro- 
test. “If I had let him know that I heard his ser- 
mon I should have spoiled the side-show. Now 
whenever we meet I shall have it all to myself.” 

I remember another story, told to me by a 
gambler. A gambler in the West is higher by 
a few rungs of the social ladder than the white- 
coated gentleman who dispenses drinks across a 
bar. I gleaned this important fact from a bar- 
tender many years ago. I had asked if a certain 
friend of his tended bar. “What!” he exclaimed, 
«tend bar? Not on your life. He plays — keerds.” 
My gambler was a character, as indeed are most of 
these knights of the green cloth; and he was not 
averse to relating — to sympathetic ears — his ad- 
ventures by land and sea. He had heard, it seems, 
that a notorious poker-player had taken passage 
upon a certain steamer, where high play was not 
forbidden (as it is to-day on nearly all steamship 
lines). Billy (my friend) wishing to shiver a lance 
with this champion also booked his passage, and 
so in due time Greek met Greek. “Of course,” said 
Billy, in telling the story, “I played ’possum, and 
Mister Man hadn’t a notion that I knew the very 
first thing about poker; but he did know that I had 
about four thousand dollars in my inside pocket 


198 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


and I saw, by the fire in his eye, that he meant in 
due time to annex ’em. We played several games 
before he went to work; and he allowed me to 
win most of his small change. Well, sir, about 
the fourth day, after dinner, he asked me to share 
a bottle o’ wine” (champagne) “ with him; and after 
that he said he felt like a little game, and I told 
him that I was with him, and that I’d never felt 
more like a winner — which was so. Four of us sat 
down, and we fooled away about two hours. Dur- 
ing that time I had collected the six, seven, eight, 
nine, and ten of diamonds. I took no face cards, 
for | knew he’d miss them in his shuffle. Pres- 
ently he dealt me three Jacks, and in the draw he 
got the fourth. He could play poker, that feller, 
for although I was watching him close I could n’t 
see any monkey business. Pretty soon only him 
and me was left in, and the pot was a big one. 
‘You’d better quit, said he, pleasantly, ‘my hand 
is a corker. I know how to deal, my boy, and it 
will cost you one thousand dollars to gaze on my 
hand.’ He was quite the gentleman, and I played 
up to him. ‘You are not a good dealer,’ said I, 
‘for you’ve given me a better hand than yours; so 
although I hate to take a friend’s money, still as 
you insist, I’ll see that thousand and go two thous- 
and better. Two minutes after there was eight 
thousand in the pot and we showed down. He 
had four aces, and when I spread out my flush 
sequence you’d ought to have seen his jaw drop. 
He took his medicine without a whimper, but — 
Great Scott !— that face of his was a— side-show !” 

It is a side-show when a man says something 


The Side-Show 199 


humourous, being himself unconscious that he is 
affording amusement to others. One day a man 
came into our office, and observed in the course of 
conversation that he was about to take a little holi- 
day: “My brother-in-law,” he added, “is a mighty 
sick man, and the doctors are going to operate 
on him. It will kill the poor fellow sure.” My 
brother, to whom he was speaking, looked sympa- 
thetic, but the man seemed to enjoy discussing de- 
tails. In conclusion he casually observed: “ Well, 
I’m not making this trip for pleasure only. I 
hope to ring in a little business.” The story would 
be funnier if one substituted mother-in-law for 
brother-in-law, but I have told the tale without 
embellishment. 

Alphonse Daudet (I think) said that he had 
attended many amusing funerals, and doubtless he 
was alluding to the side-shows. In the West —as 
I have already pointed out—the funeral has often 
the characteristics of the wake. I remember at- 
tending an imposing function which had been en- 
trusted to the Knight Templars, of which exalted 
order the departed had been a member in good 
standing. The Sir Knights attended in full uni- 
form, and the exercises — as they are called — took 
place in the double parlours ofa large hotel. The 
relations and intimate friends of the dead man 
occupied the inner parlour; the rest of us sat in 
the outer. At a certain stage in the proceedings 
the officiating minister invited those of us who 
wished “to view the remains” to walk into the 
inner room: a detestable custom that still prevails 
in many parts of America. A pair of female ghouls 


200 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


promptly availed themselves of this gruesome op- 
portunity, and while they were absent two ladies 
came in, and, seeing the vacant chairs, sat quietly 
down in them. Presently the ghouls returned, 
glaring at the intruders. Finally, one of them, 
giving indignation words, said in a loud whisper: 
“Madam —these are our chairs.” Now chairs 
being at a premium, I wondered what would hap- 
pen. The lady who was addressed looked up 
and smiled blandly: “ Your chairs?” she repeated, 
sweetly. “Oh, dear, no! They belong to the 
hotel.” 

At another funeral of a county official I marked 
the extravagant grief of the widow, who with diffi- 
culty was restrained from flinging herself into the 
grave. Speaking of this afterwards to a friend, 
he said, rather brutally I thought: “That was 
side-show. I know that woman. She has made 
her plans already. She will marry again within 
six months.” She married again in three months. 

This appreciation of the side-sshow means much 
to the people who live in the West, particularly to 
those who live in the towns and cities. To the 
average man of business, as to Dr. Johnson, a green 
field is like any other green field ; Brother Jonathan 
has no stomach for Nature’s varied bills of fare; 
Bills Payable and Receivable engross his attention. 
But he studies mankind (not womankind) far more 
closely and to better practical purpose than John 
Bull, and the study brings with it its own reward. 
Curiously enough, he obeys the poet’s rather than 
the philosopher’s injunction. His knowledge of 
others, sound though it be, loses much of its value 


The Side-Show 201 


because study of himself, that intimate self-analysis 
which teaches a man his potentialities and limita- 
tions, has been neglected. In the West you see 
many men floundering in a quagmire of difficulties 
into which ignorance of their own powers has 
enticed them. An American overrates himself, 
whereas the Briton underrates others. An Ameri- 
can, again, is truly thankful and grateful to those 
who furnish him with entertainment; the English- 
man is slightly contemptuous. In England the 
cap and bells provoke a malicious laugh ; in America 
a kindly smile; the Englishman is so morbidly 
afraid of making a fool of himself that he is often 
blind to the fact that others have performed that 
office for him; a son of the West begins by making 
a fool of himself, and thereafter considers himself 
entitled to make a fool of others. 

In the West there is always “ side-show” when- 
ever sickness comes to a family. You may be sure 
that if the doctor has prescribed plain diet for a 
child prostrated by a bilious attack, some fond 
sister or aunt will appear at the bedside with a 
chicken fricassee, made with cream, or possibly a 
frothing cup of chocolate, or some other delicacy 
equally unsuitable, and the patient is allowed to 
swallow these rich foods because, if he did n’t, the 
kind cooks would feel badly. 


yt ! 
di ryt 
i 


vias é i 9) 
yt soa nN \ 98) 


ai 
bi ie Ue 
a) Hi MOAN 
¥i« i 
oon j 


eke 


—~ 


POT-POURRI 


. 


XI 
POT-POURRI 


N the West all men, women, and children read 
the daily papers — between the lines; but they 
want the lines exaggerated, particularly the head- 
lines, which faithfully interpreted tell the busy man 
all that he cares to know. I shall never forget 
what was said of a certain governor of California at 
the time of the great strike at Sacramento. The 
militia had been called out, and everybody expected 
serious trouble. To some, civil war seemed impend- 
ing ; traffic was suspended ; business was at a stand- 
still. During this crisis, the Chief Executive, for 
reasons which he has never given to the world, was 
lying safe and snug at his country place in the 
South, pursuing a policy of what may have seemed 
to him masterly inactivity. Commenting upon his 
absence, one of the big San Francisco dailies said 
in the editorial column: “Oh, what a tower of 
strength Governor M has been to the State of 
California in the hour of her need!” That — and 
nothing more. The history of this strike is a con- 
crete example of the contention that the Press 
reflects humourously public opinion, a mirror of 
snvisible convexity which distorts things and per- 
sons seen therein. On the Pacific Slope generally 
the sympathy of the people hovered above the 
strikers. It appeared to them a case of the Man 


206 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


with the Dollar versus the Man with the Hoe. Mr. 
Eugene Debs, who posed for a brief season as the 
Napoleon of Labour, and his staff issued the most 
stirring manifestoes, and more than one thoughtful 
man believed that a certain prediction made by Mr. 
Herbert Spencer at a farewell dinner was about to 
come to pass. I cannot quote Mr. Spencer, but 
he foresaw the vast opportunities which a dem- 
ocracy offers to the man who can play popular tunes 
upon public opinion. Mr. Debs twanged his harp, 
and America listened — and was profoundly affected. 
In my county, it was hardly safe to criticise the 
music or the musician. Later, writing of another 
man, Mr. Ambrose Bierce remarked : 


“ He fiddled his fiddle-did-dee 
Till the bows and the strings 
Were invisible things ; 

And a vibrant blur was he.” 


To the people with whom I came in contact, people 
lacking even an elementary knowledge of the prin- 
ciples of political economy, Mr. Debs was a vibrant 
blur upon the landscape. What had _ heretofore 
been clear to them — their own property rights, for 
instance — became suddenly obscured. And _ this 
obscurity reflected by the Press became a pea-soup 
fog, a Cimmerian darkness. Fogs, however, even 
London fogs, eventually lift. A brisk breeze from 
the lungs of the people cleared our skies. And 
why? Because some ill-advised wretches derailed 
a train. No matter how thick a fog may be, if 
you chance to stumble over a dead body you will 
know it. The people of California stumbled blindly 


Pot-Pourri 207 


upon a corpse, and, lo! the scales fell from their 
eyes. In a jiffy it was quite obvious to the mean- 
est understanding that innocent blood had been 
wantonly spilled, that a shameful and brutal deed 
had been done beneath the flag and in the name 
of Labour. Coincident with this 1,400 cars of Cali- 
fornia fruit were side-tracked in Chicago, and the 
fruit spoiled! Instantly the common-sense of the 
public asserted itself. As quickly the Press recorded 
the fact. Of the mob of gentlemen who write 
with ease what they are told to write hardly one 
was left to champion the cause of the strikers, and 
soon after Mr. Debs was clapped into jail, and we 
heard no more of him. It was the sense of the 
West that he had not only fiddled but fuddled 
away a great political opportunity. 

There are some people West of the Rocky Moun- 
tains who take the Press seriously. One gentleman 
I know fathered a bill which provided for the justi- 
fiable slaughters of editors by those whom they had 
lampooned. No doubt the gentleman in question 
had suffered much and often, but being a public 
man he ought to have known that you cannot kill 
an editor with a bullet; you are far more likely 
to kill yourself. The Press received the bill with 
intense appreciation of its ludicrous aspect. One 
wit gravely contended that all newspaper men were 
fair game, but he demanded a close season — say 
one month in the spring — wherein the brethren of 
the pen might increase and multiply in peace! 
You can hoist such engineers with but one petard 
which they regard as peculiarly their own — ridi- 
cule. A story went the round of the newspapers 


208 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


about a poet who wrote some verses entitled: 
“Why do I live?” The editor to whom they 
were submitted returned them with these lines: 
“You ask the question— Why do I live? We 
will answer it. Because you sent your poem to us 
instead of bringing it.” 

The Western Press exasperates the travelling 
Briton, for things British are invariably caricatured. 
On the French stage milor is always presented 
with big protruding teeth and long, red whiskers, 
what were once known as Piccadilly weepers. 
Without these credentials, so to speak, he would 
not be accepted or recognised. In the West the 
people know nothing about England, and the Press 
faithfully records that ignorance. 

With infinite regret I state as my profound con- 
viction that the majority of persons living West 
of the Rocky Mountains rejoices when Britannia 
mourns. Salt it as you will (and as you must) 
abuse of England is greedily gobbled up. The 
demand creates the supply, a fact well understood 
by the editors of newspapers. The statement that 
a Boer, under the protection of the white flag, has 
treacherously shot an Englishman is branded as a 
lie by most Western journalists. The statement 
that Tommy Atkins has been guilty of a similar 
act of treachery is proclaimed as truth — despite 
the testimony of such witnesses as —let us say — 
Mr. Julian Ralph, an American. A clipping lies 
before me as I write, in which the writer says that 
the Boers are twice as brave as the British soldiers. 
Yet the American correspondents in the field have 
all testified that the Boer dare not face the British 


Pot-Pourr1 2.09 


bayonet. An Englishman would make no insidious 
distinctions between Spanish and American valour ; 
a Westerner wallows in odorous comparison, and 
the stronger the odour the more he likes it. The 
word “hireling” has been applied again and again 
to our soldiers most offensively. In a sense they 
are hirelings; so were Roosevelt’s rough-riders, so 
are the Boers, and the soldiers of every nation on 
earth. The use of such adjectives plainly proves 
that the Western man in his heart wishes to insult 
and offend Englishmen. 

It is time therefore that England understood 
that the vapourings of after-dinner orators upon 
the unity of the Anglo-Saxon race, upon blood 
being thicker than water, upon our kin beyond sea, 
and so forth, are somuch smoke. The Americans 
are not Anglo-Saxon, but an amalgam of Teuton, 
Kelt, Latin, Slav, and Anglo-Saxon. We happen 
to speak a language somewhat similar to what 
passes current in the United States; we are also 
Uncle Sam’s best customer and his biggest credi- 
tor; we have ideals in common; laws in common, 
Shakespeare and Milton in common; England and 
America have, in short, what has been called a 
“manifest destiny” to work (not together but 
apart) for that which makes for the enlightenment 
of the world and the progress of civilisation; but 
we are not brothers, nor cousins, nor good friends 
—and that is the naked truth. I am speaking of 
the Pacific Slope, although I am of opinion that in 
the East also the masses are hostile to England; 
and I have yet to meet an intelligent Englishman 


who has lived his life in the West who does not 
14 


210 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


share my views on this unhappy subject. On the 
other hand, many of my friends in the West, and 
those connected with me by marriage, contend that 
no Englishman can possibly apprehend the spirit 
of the West, and that “things”—as Truthful 
James would say—‘“are not what they seem”: 
that deep down in the Western heart are respect 
and esteem for the British nation. In reply I 
submit that this sentiment of affection is so deep 
down that, so far as I am concerned, it is absolutely 
out of sight. 

None the less my friends may be right when 
they assert that the majority does claim kin with 
us, for has not the inimitable Mr. Dooley remarked: 
“They annoy us so much that they must be mim- 
bers of our own family.” 

In England the great newspapers direct and mould 
public opinion upon matters not to be apprehended 
without special study. In the West the busiest 
man must do his own thinking. He might borrow 
the opinions of others, but this, as a rule, he is 
loath to do. Professor Hopkins, speaking of the 
Transvaal war, says: “I hold no brief for England, 
but while she serves God and man I rejoice in her 
triumphs. For God is served when Man is bettered. | 
This was the case in India. It is true of Egypt. 
It is true of the many little lands she holds around 
the earth. It will be proved again in South Africa 
when Boer authority yields to the higher civilisa- 
tion.” Captain Mahan says of the Boers: “Their 
right to administer the country as they please de- 
pends upon the use they make or have made of 
that power. Personally I believe they ” (the Boers) 


Pot-Pourri 211 


“have greatly failed and have forfeited that right. 
I believe the Boer Government and general admin- 
istration to constitute a corrupt and oppressive 
oligarchy. Is it possible that there are Ameri- 
cans who in face of the records really believe that 
the Transvaal rather than Great Britain stands for 
the cause of political liberty and purity of admin- 
istration ? ” 

Captain Mahan may well ask such a question. 
And the answer to it ought to stimulate the sense 
of justice and fair play upon the part of his fellow- 
countrymen. The majority of Americans do believe 
that the Transvaal stands for the cause of political 
liberty. And they would sooner listen to the 
impassioned rhetoric of a Parkhurst than the well- 
weighed utterances of a Mahan, an Alger, or a 
Hopkins. 

None the less, thoughtful Americans with whom 
I have talked on this subject are of opinion that 
truth prevails in the end. 

It is impossible in a book like this to defend the 
Imperial policy of England or to indict the Ameri- 
can misconception of that policy, but I cannot for- 
bear quoting a few lines clipped from an editorial 
which appeared in the “San Francisco Chronicle” 
under date November 19, 1899; a fair sample of 
the food supplied by Western journalists : — 


‘‘The records of the Transvaal show that a very mod- 
erate tax is imposed upon the net output of the gold 
mines of the Rand. ... To the Boer’s credit it must 
be said that not one instance has been cited against him 
of maladministration of justice to the stranger who has 
invaded his country.” 


212 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


Not one instance ! 

The man who wrote this leader was wilfully per- 
verting the facts in obedience to the dictates of the 
Man in the Street. 

Do the people who read such stuff know that the 
Transvaal Government threw into prison British 
subjects who refused to bear arms against the 
Zulus? Do they know that the property of British 
subjects was confiscated without trial? Do they 
know that the very moderate tax (indirect as well as 
direct) imposed upon the gold miners of the Rand 
brought them to beggary and starvation? Let 
those who doubt the unparalleled corruption and 
oppression of the Boers read such books as “The 
Transvaal from Within,” “Side Lights on South 
Africa,’ or the Blue Books. 

I will cite one more instance of deliberate mis- 
representation upon the part of the American Press. 
When famine and plague were ravaging India in 
1897, Mr. Julian Hawthorne was sent by the “Cos- 
mopolitan Magazine” to report at length upon the 
condition of the natives and the efforts made by the 
British Government to ameliorate their unhappy 
lot. Mr. Julian Hawthorne —as all the world 
knows —is the famous son of a more famous father, 
and no better choice could have been made. To 
such a man public and private doors alike were 
flung wide open. He saw and described the horrors 
of starvation and disease, and what he wrote was 
widely read and as widely discussed. My numbers 
of the “Cosmopolitan Magazine” which contain his 
report are tossing about somewhere between Hamp- 
shire and Cape Horn, so I cannot quote Mr. Haw- 


Pot-Pourri 213 


thorne verbatim, but he testified in no meagre 
words to the Herculean task successfully under- 
taken by Her Majesty’s Government; and he said 
flatly that no other Government could have done 
as much, confronted as it was on all sides by pre- 
judice, fanaticism, and the most _heart-breaking 
ignorance of the laws of hygiene. And yet in 
this same magazine appeared an editorial comment, 
indicting in scathing language the very methods so 
handsomely commended by Mr. Hawthorne, and 
these editorial comments were copied by the West- 
ern Press. No honest man, reading them, could 
doubt that Mr. Hawthorne had found in India 
British indifference, intolerance, and inefficiency. 
To those too busy to read the articles of the special 
correspondent, these excerpts represented the facts. 

I have said in a previous chapter that the tide of 
prejudice against English methods and institutions 
will turn when English and Americans fight under 
a common flag. That day may be nearer than some 
think. It is an open secret that the German 
Emperor has cast covetous eyes upon the Brazils. 
Germany, not England, will challenge that famous 
Monroe Doctrine which has been flaunted so often, 
and so unnecessarily, in the faces of English state- 
men. And when that day dawns the United States 
will appeal—and not in vain —to her kinsmen 
overseas. 

It is significant that the Anglophobia which dis- 
colours the judgment of so many Americans has 
failed to inspire a similar sentiment upon this side 
of the Atlantic. The people of England grudge 
America none of her triumphs. The Stars and 


214 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


Stripes provoke the most enthusiastic cheers when- 
ever they are unfurled. According to the Western 
Press, this is cupboard love. John Bull is por- 
trayed as Iscariot betraying Brother Jonathan with 
a kiss. But let it be noted that I am not speaking 
of English statesmen who may or may not have an 
axe to grind. I am speaking of the masses, who 
do not care a rush about politics, but who do 
honestly profess a kindly affection for a great nation 
speaking a common tongue.1 

In conclusion I wish to say on behalf of the 
Western Press that it is only partly responsible 
for a condition of affairs which may be illumined 
by light from within rather than from without. 
Newspapers are printed to make money; and that 


1 Many Englishmen are distressed at the difference between our 
tongue and the lingua Americana. Uncle Sam cuts the “u” out of 
favour. Why does he add an “e” to whisky? Is it not better 
straight? Again, in America latinised words are pronounced 
(very properly) in accordance with the continental pronunciation 
of Latin. Westerners say “tonsileetis,” not tonsilitis. Why then 
do they pronounce the word we call. quineen — quinine? Such 
““cussedness”” bafiles the philologist. The vowels we shorten are 
broadened in the West, and vicé versd. The native son lends a 
richness to the “o” in coffee seldom found in the drink. A cow- 
boy grins and jeers if you pronounce “ calf” according to the rule 
laid down in the Century Dictionary. 

The use of the letter “r” jars upon ears proof against twang 
and drawl; for twang and drawl are in a sense distinctive of the 
nation, although they may annoy a sensitive British ear at first ; 
but the burr of the “r” (in such words as dinner — dear — your -— 
Arthur) is the peculiar heritage of the lower class in England. A 
lady of quality may speak through her nose; a sprig of nobility 
drawls his vowels; but you never hear the plebeian “r” in an 
iinglish drawing-room except from the mouth of a servant, or from 
a guest whose claims to recognition are other than those of birth. 
In fine, the “r” is a gutter-bred consonant, and will remain 
anathema so long as distinctions of caste exist in England. 


Pot-Pourri 215 


newspaper makes the most money which caters 
successfully to the greatest number of readers. 
The journalists of the West are neither ignorant 
nor prejudiced. But they are free lances fighting, 
and fighting hard, for little more than bread and 
butter. Their taskmasters instruct them to weave 
ropes out of sand, to make bricks without straw. 
One man, a man of letters too, told me that he had 
instructions from his boss to embellish fifteen out 
of the sixteen pages of his newspaper with either 
a murder ora suicide. The sixteenth, the editorial 
page, was kept immaculate, because —so said my 
friend —7zt was never read! Bits of description — 
a visit to a children’s hospital, the departure of a 
troopship, a presidential election— are done de- 
lightfully, charmingly, with a gift of vivid expres- 
sion, an informing joyous humanity, a sparkle and 
sympathy seldom found in the columns of the great 
London dailies. But “no talent,” to quote George 
Lewes, “can be supremely effective, unless it act in 
close alliance with certain moral qualities.” The 
Western Press is profoundly immoral, because it 
deliberately throws a glamour of attraction upon 
vice and crime. I could cite a score of instances, 
but one will suffice. For many months two train- 
robbers, Evans and Sontag, set the police of Cali- 
fornia at defiance. These men were brutes, endowed 
with the redeeming qualities of the wild beast — 
courage and endurance. Upon these qualities the 
Californian Press pounced. Day after day columns 
of brilliant description were devoted to the ad- 
ventures, the hairbreadth escapes, the thrilling ex- 
periences of two desperadoes. One enterprising 


216 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


journalist —at the peril of his life — actually 
sought them out, and his account of that inter- 
view, an admirable piece of work, was read with 
breathless interest by every man, woman, and child 
on the Pacific Slope. So cunningly, so artistically, 
so diabolically (in a sense) were the virtues of these 
ruffians set forth, that their vices melted from the 
public sight. Sober citizens observed to the writer: 
“ After all, — such fellows deserve to escape.” 

The venality of the Western Press does not make 
for immorality, because (like a drunkard reeling 
through the streets) it is seen, and serves as a 
warning. More, the Press is not nearly so venal 
as the Man in the Street believes it to be. I have 
often been asked dpropos of a kind review of my 
novels: “What did that cost you?” Some papers 
are notoriously in the pay of certain corporations; 
and others—TI speak from personal experience — 
do not hesitate to demand blackmail from men with 
large interests at stake. And yet I am strongly of 
the opinion that the people themselves, not the pro- 
prietors of the newspapers, are chiefly to blame, and 
the remedy is so obvious as to need no mention here. 
Lest some English reader may be tempted to curl an 
“unco guid” lip, it may be well to add that the finan- 
cial papers of the city of London are more venal and 
more unscrupulous than the papers of the West. 

I have met many Western journalists and am 
greatly indebted to them for much kindness and 
courtesy. For the most part they are Bohemians, 
of a type that is passing away in London. With 
some it is always either a feast or a famine; after 
a successful “scoop” the wine flows freely, and you 


Pot-Pourri 217 


meet them in the smart restaurants or in the clubs, 
ordering the best of everything for themselves and 
their friends. When the dun days come they lie 
low, and drink “steam” beer and eat the humble 
sausage —“bag o mystery,” as it is called in Lon- 
don. Rain or shine they are full of “grit” and 
humour and charity. I must mention one in par- 
ticular, a prince of good fellows, the late Dan 
O’Connell, a nephew of the famous Irishman, and 
like him in many respects. I remember a day’s 
shooting I had with him many years ago. We shot 
nothing — for there was nothing to shoot; but we 
carried with us good store of what Dugald Dalgetty 
called “‘provaunt”; and we had a glorious time, 
supplied by Dan, who was truly inexhaustible. 
To the Western journalist the world is an oyster, 
which he hopes to open with his quill; it behoves 
him therefore to keep that quill in some toughen- 
ing mixture such as printer’s ink. Not long ago 
I was walking with my father-in-law in San José, 
a pretty town in California known as the Garden 
City. Rounding a corner, we came upon a fellow 
talking to three small boys and an old woman. 
We halted and listened to a most amazing jargon, 
something quite inarticulate and incoherent. As 
we moved on, my father-in-law said that the man 
was “practising.” He was learning, in fine, his 
trade. One feels sorry for the three small boys 
and the old woman, but seemingly they had no 
objection to play the part of strop. I once asked 
a lady-barber how she learned her art. If you 
come to think of it the question bristles like the 
beard of a buccaneer. What man is brave enough 


218 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


to submit his cheek to the virgin blade of a lady- 
barber? Not I assuredly. She answered quite 
composedly: “Oh, I practised on my husband — 
he didn’t mind.” And the public “doesn’t mind” 
the practising of the journalist, not even when the 
pen pricks or stabs. It (the public) demands some- 
thing stimulating, pungent, well-spiced, and if the 
pepper makes it sneeze, what of it ? 

But you cannot explain all this to the travelling 
Briton. 

Politics in the West, even more than in the East, 
is a profession, a profession moreover that exacts 


undivided energies and which unfits a man for 
other callings. No citizen is so stupid and in- 


capable as to be ineligible for state service as a 
candidate, but the people, as a general rule, are 
unwilling to entrust their interests to a gaolbird. 
I remember two men who were candidates for 
the office of District Attorney. One had served 
before, the other was a young man conducting his 
first campaign. The veteran was speaking in a 
small town, and after setting forth his own claims, 
he spoke as follows of his opponent: “My friends, 
I understand that Mr. X is in every sense a 
worthy and honourable man, but I ask you to re- 
member that he has never been tried —he has 
never been tried.” 

“That’s so,” exclaimed a voice. “You’ve been 
tried, old man, hav’n’t you? And convicted too, by 
Golly !” 

After due inquiry it appeared that the veteran 
had, indeed, been indicted for horse-stealing, and 
convicted. He was not elected. 


Pot-Pourri 219 


A hayseed and shirtsleeve campaign is peculiar 
to the West. The candidate, born of poor but 
honest parents, makes up accordingly. For a sea- 
son he shuns soap and water, leaves the hayseed 
in his hair, travels about in a ramshackle buggy, 
and thereby harvests most of the votes of his sock- 
less brother man. One of these fellows was speak- 
ing at our county town. He held out a pair of 
singularly dirty hands, and assured us that he 
could wield the lariat better than he could the pen, 
that he was more at home in the corral than on 
the rostrum. Whereupon a sage sitting behind me 
observed with a inimitable drawl: 

“ Yes — he prefers the smell of manure to that of 
rosewater.” 

A seat in the State Legislature entitles the holder 
to write “Honourable” before his name. I knew 
one man who boasted that during his two years at 
Sacramento he had paid off a heavy mortgage on 
his ranch. He was not re-elected, but he remained 
“honourable” till he died. Such gentlemen begin 
their careers by attacking some wealthy corpora- 
tion. They end as staunch supporters of the people 
they have assailed, for—as one of them once 
observed to me— political opinions are subject 
to modification. To the man “with the sack,” 
Anglicé, the millionaire, the word legislator is 
practically a synonym for blackmailer, although 
the majority of state senators and assembly-men 
would refuse scornfully a direct bribe. The Devil 
has many baits; witness the parson who rejected 
gold and preferment, but swallowed greedily a 
garter. 


220 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


And yet the practice of bribery is robbed of half 
its virulence, because it is done openly —coram 
publico. More, the present political system — the 
machine, as it is called — works fairly well, for the 
bosses and wire-pullers serve a fickle public, and 
are constrained, willy-nilly, to behave themselves. 
One of the best known bosses of California has 
never made a penny out of his politics. He loves 
power, of course, and he controls his “ gang” with 
the unerring skill and instinct of a dictator, but 
outside of politics he is known and respected as 
an honest and honourable man. He will talk 
quite frankly about himself and his methods. “If 
I want a thing,” he says, “I don’t fool about 
with understrappers, but [ go to headquarters and 
ask squarely the price to be paid. If I can pay 
that price—good. If not, I bear no ill-feeling, 
and I always try to give value received. I buy 
and sell political privileges in the open market.” 

Our methods in England are not so very dis- 
similar. | 

Not long ago an experiment was made, which 
failed. A young man of large wealth and good 
education presented himself as candidate for an 
important municipal office. In the clubs and in 
the streets it was confidently asserted that the 
“boss” had had his day. And it really seemed 
to be so. None doubted that the candidate was 
honestly anxious to inaugurate a new and happier 
system; that he was sacrificing himself and his 
interests on behalf of the state. A great many 
infamous jobs upon the part of the city super- 
visors had inflamed the public mind, and the can- 


Pot-Pourri 221 


didate promised the people that if he were elected 
the ‘spoils system” should cease, that patronage 
should only be given where it was deserved, that 
the money-changers should be scourged from the 
city’s temples, that, in fine, executive ability, econ- 
omy, and integrity should succeed rapacity, im- 
providence, and depravity. He was elected. But 
notwithstanding his efforts, evil still prevailed and 
multiplied; the machine was fighting the man, 
and the man had only the moral support of his 
friends too busy with their own affairs to lend 
him a helping hand. The man had his raw and 
undisciplined levies, which the machine mowed 
down with golden shrapnel. I have not the fig- 
ures, but I think it was abundantly proved that 
the City Treasury found vice less costly than 
virtue. 

Optimists, however, predict a change. And it is 
certain that public opinion will demand a cleansing 
of the political stables. It is a question of time 
and money. Time in the West is money, and 
those who are destined to handle the brooms must 
be willing to sweep long and patiently. To-day, 
everywhere, there is an uneasy feeling that the poli- 
ticlans represent faithfully enough certain classes, 
and that it must always be so, so long as these 
classes flourish. Once a prizefighter was sent to 
Congress by a New England community, where- 
upon a wit said that the people had a right to 
be represented. In the West the “tough” ele- 
ment is slowly and surely disappearing, and with 
it will pass away the jobbery and corruption which 
taint practical politics. It is beginning to be under- 


222 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


stood that office-seekers, irrespective of party preju- 
dice, must make good their claims to be elected. 
Civil service reform is tickling the ears of both 
Republicans and Democrats, and the Auditors, the 
Recorders, the Postmasters, and the like, are being 
chosen because they possess qualifications other 
than impudence and a capacity for absorbing un- 
limited whisky. I can well remember a contest 
between a Republican and a Democrat for one of 
the most important state offices, an office highly 
paid, but involving great financial responsibilities. 
The Democrat was a Catholic and in possession of 
the Irish vote; he was a man of great personal 
charm, widely known, and very popular. He was 
also a saloon-keeper, a gambler, and a_ profligate. 
The Republican, on the other hand, was unknown, 
but his record as man and politician was clean. 
The politicians predicted an overwhelming majority 
for the Democrat; but, by virtue of that change in 
public opinion of which I have spoken, the Repub- 
lican was elected, and morality vindicated. I could 
cite a score of similar cases. 


Public Opinion, in a new country, is a slippery 
customer, a chameleon whose exact colour varies 
from hour to hour, a lightning-change artist: yes- 
terday, the apostle of the Monroe Doctrine; to-day, 
an ardent Imperialist; to-morrow, what? How- 
ever, despite this Protean faculty (perhaps because 
of it), Public Opinion in the West, while it has 
tolerated and even cherished a certain absolutism 
verging on tyranny in regard to the conduct of 
Western affairs, has also been quick to profit by 


Pot-Pourri 223 


the mistakes of those who live in the East. And 
the absolutism which for so many years sanctioned 
moral laxity and ignorance, has become now pas- 
sive rather than active. Men still drink, but they 
no longer boast of being drunkards; the illiterate 
have no hang-dog air as in Europe, but they are 
quaintly sensible that silence becomes them better 
than speech; the loose-livers prefer the by-ways to 
the roaring thoroughfares. I remember a man who 
was always prating that he was self-made. <A fellow- 
citizen with a sense of humour finally silenced him. 
‘You are self-made; yes,” he murmured, “and we 
may concede perhaps that you are as good as God’s 
creatures, but are you any better ?” 

Public Opinion in the West serves one sauce to 
the gander and another to the goose. Outside of 
smart society, it is held to be a sin for a woman to 
play whist for small stakes, although Progressive 
Euchre parties for valuable prizes are customary 
and perfectly proper. In the hamlets and small 
towns kissing games are played with ardour by 
church members in good standing, but dancing is 
tabu. Certain expressions, common enough in Eng- 
land, are held to be improper west of the Rocky 
Mountains; if used at all they should be draped, 
which to my mind makes them indecent at once, 
even as a fig leaf makes the nudity of a statue 
conspicuous. Mr. Anthony Comstock, amongst 
other things, objected to the cupids so delightfully 
drawn upon the cover of Life; shortly after a 
famous cartoon appeared in that paper in which 
horses, dogs, and all animals were invested with 
pantalettes. In the West, the stranger and pilgrim 


224 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


will do well to remember that certain subjects 
must always be presented — in pantalettes. 

I intended to devote a chapter to Western Art 
and Literature, but on both these fascinating sub- 
jects I am unwilling to speak. The reader will 
remember the story of the undergraduate who was 
asked to name the minor prophets: he refused, on 
the ground that he was not in the habit of making 
invidious distinctions. In writing of the authors 
and artists of the Pacific Slope, it is hardly possible 
to avoid invidious distinctions. From what samples 
we have already: such landscapes as Keith’s, for 
instance, and such poetry as Joaquin Miller's and 
Miss Coolbrith’s — we may confidently expect both 
in Art and Literature something sui generis. Some- 
thing entirely different from what the East has 
given us. Much as I admire the subtlety and 
delicacy of Mr. James’s and Mr. Howells’s art, | am 
sensible that they deal with what is secondary 
rather than primal. The grandeur of the Pacific 
Slope is elemental, and the. form in which that 
grandeur will find adequate expression will cer- 
tainly not be a préciosité of diction. I remember 
Mr. Ambrose Bierce falling foul of the words “ local 
colour,” which, like other phrases, has become shop- 
soiled. But for lack of better words, these do 
convey definite meaning. The colour of Californian 
skies and seas and mountains and flowers 7s local. 
At least I have seen nothing like it elsewhere. 
The colour of that great Silent Land to the north 
of the Golden State is local. The adjective may 
be detestable, but we seem to have no other. And 
so we may predict that the picture, or poem, or 


Pot-Pourri 225 


novel, which will represent the West as it is will 
be conceived and executed in a spirit absolutely 
original, differing in form, although not inferior in 
form, from what we have already. If style be 
“the stamp which makes thought current,” the 
thinkers of the Pacific Slope must mould a die of 
their own. They cannot expect their message to 
the world to be franked by others. Improperly 
stamped, it must be sent to the Dead-Letter Office. 


15 


XI 


ETHICAL 


(ith Lane ( me 


XIII 
ETHICAL 


i i a Western town or village the first thing likely 

to catch the eye of the traveller (indeed it was 
invented for that purpose alone) is the sham front 
of his hotel. Upon examination he will mark that 
nearly all the stores and buildings are built to be- 
cuile the imagination. Even the livery-stables, 
board-and-batten barns, unpainted, roofed with 
shakes (not shingles), present a solid and fire-proof 
appearance when seen from the street; brick has 
been used possibly, or stone. And yet none is de- 
ceived: the thing is obviously sham, obviously built 
for show. 

Is there not something pathetic in this? It isa 
sort of mild hypocrisy which, like a Scotch mist, 
pervades the atmosphere. The men who leave old 
countries for new must be profoundly conscious of 
the difference between the old and the new; they 
are for ever adjusting, so far as they can, this dif- 
ference. Lacking the real thing, they try to console 
themselves with its counterfeit presentment. And 
the consciousness that despite their efforts the 
thing is a sham has a curious effect for good and 
evil. For good, inasmuch as each man recognises 
the false and wishes to substitute for it the true. 
Were he content with the adobe huts that satisfied 
the Hispano-Californians, were he willing to lie in 


230 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


the sun, to eat, to drink, and to dance, aimless and 
listless, the plaything of the present, he could not 
call himself American. He must struggle upward 
towards the ideal, be it attainable or not. The little 
girl plays with her doll, thinking innocently of the 
baby that may one day lie in her arms; the boy 
toots his penny trumpet, hearing the clarion note 
of the man. Who would rob these children of their 
illusions, who is not charmed and touched by their 
sweet monkey tricks? And yet what more pitiful 
than the sight of a grown woman or a strong man who 
has not learned to put away the toys that belong 
to youth alone. And so with the children of a new 
country, who cares to laugh at the sham fronts of 
the houses, knowing that these are card castles to 
be rebuilt of brick, and stone, and marble — by 
and bye ? 

The same spirit that makes men build false fronts 
to their houses, forces them to “keep up appear- 
ances” in everything else. They pay the price of 
lies —the word is too harsh, perhaps —by being 
constrained, as the poet tells us, to lie on still. 
Finally the lie masquerades as truth; the liar be- 
comes convinced that he is an honest man. George 
IV. believed firmly that he had taken part in the 
battle of Waterloo. Once he appealed publicly to 
the Duke of Wellington, asking the great com- 
mander if it were not so. The Duke replied grimly : 
“T’ve always heard your Majesty say so.” 

The writer has seen a country practically bank- 
rupt, banks tottering, tradesmen unable to meet or 
collect their bills, farmers in despair; and this 
condition of affairs was not the effect of low prices, 


AN ARTESIAN WELL, 


Ethical 23% 


drought, and a collapsed boom, but the more 
subtle manifestation of doing business under false 
pretences. 

It was then that the moral weakness of the com- 
munity showed itself. The silver question was the 
topic of the hour. The leaders of the movement 
for what was called the “rehabilitation” of silver 
published pamphlets and small books by the mil- 
lion, These were easily read and digested. For 
many years the theories of the Silver men had 
attracted little attention. Now, of a sudden, these 
theories, in the mind of the crowd, became demon- 
strated truths. A French philosopher, Monsieur 
Gustave Le Bon, says that Napoleon was of opinion 
that the one figure in rhetoric of serious importance 
was repetition. The Silver men were sharp enough 
to grasp this truth. They kept on saying that if 
Uncle Sam passed a law making silver legal tender 
for all debts, at the ratio of sixteen ounces of silver 
to one of gold, their debts — and they were all in 
debt — would straightway be cut in half, silver at 
that time being worth as a commodity in the world’s 
market about half the face value of the dollar. 
Men’s minds were so inflamed, and their greed so 
quickened, that ordinary arguments were of no 
avail. The Gold “bugs,” as they were called, tried 
to stem the tide with dignified remonstrance. “ We 
can’t have too much silver,” said one street orator ; 
“T never had too much silver — did you?” Such 
talk passed current as wit and logic. I pointed out 
to a man that the debts of Uncle Sam to Kurope 
were contracted on the understanding that they 
were to be paid in gold; that in obedience to a 


232 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


fundamental law, the cheaper metal would drive 
from the country the dearer; that America would 
be drained of its gold, and that these debts to 
foreign countries would be surely repudiated. My 
friend was in no way dismayed. “ Look here,” he 
said pleasantly, “that ’s an argument for and not 
against us. We ought to built a ring fence around 
the United States and then we’d cabbage these 
millions that you say belong to Europe.” 

Finally, the champions of gold were constrained 
to fight the Silverites with their own weapons. 
The country was flooded with more pamphlets 
mainly in answer to a man Harvey, the author 
of “Coin’s Financial School.” Other causes — 
notably better crops and prices in the great mid- 
west —combined to turn the trend of popular 
opinion. To-day, Silver, as a great political issue, 
may be pronounced — dead. 

That Adversity taints men’s sense of justice is 
a post hoc propter hoc argument. Not adversity, 
but ill-regulated prosperity preceding hard times 
really taints the people. I can remember the 
settling-up of the Arroyo Grande valley, one of 
the most fertile valleys in the world. When I first 
came to California it was a wilderness of weeds and 
willows — what the Spanish call “monte.” When 
the “monte” was cleared, the soil proved peculiarly 
adapted to the growth of vegetables, and in partic- 
ular the common white and brown bean. It 
soon became famous as having produced the larg- 
est onions in the world. Its pumpkins, too, and 
its carrots and beets were colossal. This valley 
belonged to a friend of mine, who sold it in small 


Ethical 259 


subdivisions to the first settlers. They made a 
small cash payment, and gave their promissory 
note, secured by mortgage for the balance of the 
purchase money. In less than five years all these 
bean-raisers were rich. They built large houses, 
furnished them with Brussels carpets and oak 
furniture, bought their daughters pianos, clothed 
their women in silk and satin, and, in fine, spent 
lightly what they had lightly made. During the 
hard times of 1897 and 1898, I rode through this 
valley, and learned that nearly every farmer in it 
was bankrupt. 

However, next time, when the wind of adversity 
blows keen and cold, their sails will be closely 
reefed. 

English people, stay-at-home folks, condemn this 
extravagance and recklessness. But to me it is 
plain that nothing else could have reasonably been 
expected. Here is a country out of which, within 
the last forty years, have been taken tons and tons 
of gold, not to mention other precious metals. Its 
lands held at a few cents an acre have enhanced 
fabulously in value. Its products are found in 
every market in the world. And this enormous 
wealth fell, for the most part, into the hands of 
poor and obscure men. 

I can remember a small experience of my own. 
There was a tract of land adjoining my ranch for 
which the owner asked some eight dollars an acre. 
It was similar in soil and so forth to my land; so 
I decided to buy it, and went to England for the 
money. In the frosty English atmosphere, my 
speculative instincts were nipped. Six months 


234 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


later I returned to California. The land had been 
sold to a friend of mine. And he had resold it, 
during those few months, for thirty dollars an 
acre ! 

To show how curiously the moral currency — to 
borrow Frederic Harrison’s fine phrase — may be 
debased in a country subject to an amazing infla- 
tion and deflation of values, I will cite a remark- 
able case. The town of Santa Cruz sold some 
bonds in New York. These bonds had been placed 
in the hands of an agent who, after the sale, bolted 
with the cash. Thereupon Santa Cruz repudiated 
the sale. The Supreme Court, however, decided 
against the town, and made it honest. It is proper 
to add that this attempted rascality provoked em- 
phatic condemnation from the State of California. 

Nearly all the public buildings in the West are 
monuments of bad faith upon the part of the 
builder, contractor, architect, and those paid offi- 
cials to whom the care of such important matters 
is assigned. The new City Hall in San Francisco 
is a pyramid of fraud incredible: the concrete 
example of a prodigious “job.” 

Speaking of public buildings, it has always seemed ~ 
to me an incomprehensible blunder upon the part 
of a people who are shrewd beyond all others in 
adjusting means to ends that the designing and 
construction of school-houses, for instance, are en- 
trusted to Tom, Dick and Harry, instead of to a 
Board of State Architects, specialists appointed for 
life, qualified to prepare suitable plans and see them 
honestly executed. Throughout Southern Califor- 
nia, where the sun shines steadily for more than 


Ethical 235 


three hundred days in the year, the school-houses 
lack awnings and broad verandahs. Economy for- 
bids, you reply. Not so. Most of these gimcrack 
shanties are embellished with towers and cupolas. 
The instinct for display manifests itself in crude 
and vulgar decoration: friezes, panels, mouldings, 
what in short the people themselves call — frills. 
The moral effect of this upon the plastic minds of 
the children is not to be ignored. The girls learn 
to set an extravagant value upon appearance. Ask 
the druggists of the Pacific Slope how much money 
is spent by maidens not out of their teens upon 
complexion washes, arsenic wafers, hair dyes, beauty 
masks, bust developers, and — nose-machines ! 

In fine, the gentle art of pretending to be what you 
are not is ardently pursued in the West, although, 
like the will o’ the wisp, it leads into quagmires. 

The teachers in the schools and the pastors of 
the churches are not responsible for a condition of 
affairs which they strive (for the most part in vain) 
to ameliorate. Their efforts are handicapped by 
public opinion which assigns them a place too low 
in the social scale. In a new country, the inter- 
preters of the spiritual lie beneath the heel of the 
material. Nearly all the ministers of the gospel 
are shockingly under-paid, and eating their bread 
and butter subject to the caprice of a committee of 
women. Above the head of the preacher impends 
a tempestuous petticoat. 

The day must dawn when the men of the West 
will see the necessity of exalting the ministers of 
the gospel above the ignominies of work-a-day life. 
Now, they (the ministers) are constrained to beg, 


236 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


and borrow, aye, and steal the bread which should 
be theirs of right. I remember one man who went 
to a friend of mine to buy some timber. A poor, 
country parson, he had no ready money to pay 
for his timber, but he promised faithfully to pay 
within ninety days. More than a year elapsed and 
payment was not made. The parson had mean- 
time been confronted by many trials and tribula- 
tions: his small stipend was not regularly paid; 
his wife and children were sickly; he was sensible 
that his influence over a scattered flock was lan- 
guishing. The merchant called upon him. “I 
have come to tell you,” said he, “that a preacher 
of the gospel ought not to promise what he cannot 
perform. It will pay you, sir, to be honest.” 

As if any man could walk upright with pebbles 
in his shoes! 

In the West the churches are filled with women ; 
the men are conspicuously absent. Talking with 
them on the subject, they say frankly that the en- 
tertainment provided is not to their liking. Divine 
service, without good music, fine singing, and an 
up-to-date sermon from an eloquent preacher, has 
no claims upon their consideration. 

I often wonder what the children who are sent 
regularly to Sunday School and church think of 
the father who never accompanies them. They 
must indulge in some curious speculations, because 
there can be no quibbling, no double-shuffling con- 
cerning the issues involved. The children are 
solemnly warned that he who is not with the God 
of the Christians is against him; and they are told 
again and again that public worship is an act of 


Ethical 237 


allegiance, that a Christian goes to church to pro- 
claim his loyalty and fealty, even as a soldier — no 
matter how well he knows his drill — attends 
parade. The men who say that they worship their 
Maker under the blue dome of Heaven are styled 
blue domers ; but these gentlemen, I fancy, are not 
likely to shatter their health by a too zealous and 
protracted observance of their religious exercises. 
Many are professed Agnostics; but the Churches 
of the West have more to fear from the men who 
profess Christianity and do not practice it, who 
send their wives and children to church, while they 
remain at home, who talk glibly of duties and 
liabilities which they themselves ignore, than from 
the disciples of Huxley and Ingersoll, whose influ- 
ence, like their teaching, is negative and passive. 

And yet, religion — which has been so happily 
defined as a charter of happiness, not a bill of pains 
and penalties —is not dead but only sleeping in 
the souls of these men. The extraordinary sale of 
Sheldon’s book, “In His Steps,” proves this. Accor- 
dingly it would seem that Protestantism — for I 
am not speaking of the Church of Rome — lacks 
flexibility ; it does not adapt itself to the spiritual 
needs of the breadwinner. 

But virile vigorous teaching can only come from 
the mouths of virile vigorous men; and few of 
these are unselfish enough to enter professions ill- 
paid and ill-considered. The average American 
father does not wish his son to be a schoolmaster 
or a minister of the gospel; for, in his opinion, 
these gentlemen occupy a lower rather than a higher 
plane than the banker and merchant. 


238 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


It is pleasant to testify that there are few Phari- 
sees and hypocrites west of the Rocky Mountains. 
In this land of sunshine, men possess the virtue of 
transparency: their deeds, whether for good or evil, 
are not obscured. Let a drunkard reel through 
the streets, an object lesson to all, rather than le 
whisky-sodden behind the bolted door of his own 
chamber! It is easy to know the men of the West. 
They talk freshly and frankly upon all subjects 
that are vital: religion, politics, love, hate, the 
topics which are carefully draped and masked else- 
where. But, subject to that instinct for display 
which impels some bankers to pile their counters 
high with big gold pieces, these wares of life, too 
garishly set forth, became shop-soiled and cheap- 
ened. When the Nevada Bank of San Francisco 
reopened its doors after a certain financial crisis, 
the gossips predicted an immense show of gold. 
They were disappointed; but the verdict of the 
Man in the Street was: “ We know that they have 
it; why should they show it?” Millions lay in the 
vaults, the more potent to inspire confidence be- 
cause unseen. 

If snobbishness (as defined by the Century Dic- 
tionary) be a term applied to one who is servile in © 
spirit or conduct towards those whom he considers 
his superiors, and correspondingly proud and inso- 
lent towards those whom he considers his inferiors, 
then the children of the West are not snobs. The 
pettiness and meanness which characterise the rela- 
tions between the upper, middle, and lower classes 
of England are conspicuously absent. Class distinc- 
tions increase and multiply in California; but poor 


Ethical 239 


professional men — doctors, dentists, lawyers, dom- 
inies, and parsons — are not snubbed by their more 
prosperous fellow-citizens. Teachers and preachers 
—as I have pointed out in another chapter — 
are underpaid; they are not treated as penniless 
curates and ushers in England — with supercilious 
indifference. Poverty, indicating physical or intel- 
lectual weakness, is pitied rather than despised. 
An example will make clear the difference be- 
tween the two countries. An English gentlewoman 
of my acquaintance accepted a position as enter- 
tainer at a large spa. It was her duty to sing and 
play in the evening; but the manager assured her 
that if she were known to be upon the hotel staff, 
the snobs stopping under the same roof would treat 
her as a servant. The lady accepted the hint, 
passed as one of the guests, and was overwhelmed 
with gratitude and civility. In the West, the same 
lady would have received more attention by pro- 
claiming herself to be a professional working for 
board and lodging. 

And yet if Thackeray’s definition of the word 
“snob” be accepted: “He who meanly admires 
mean things,” the people of the West cannot escape 
criticism. Sharp practice, the meanest and most 
detestable of social crimes, is almost universally 
approved. Doubtless there is much sharp practice 
in England, but the sharpers do not brag of it. An 
English lawyer may fleece his client, a doctor may 
overcharge his patient ; but these gentlemen do not 
publish to an admiring world the amount of the 
plunder. I know of one case (amongst many) where 
a “shyster” lawyer built a ten-thousand-pound 


240 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


house out of the fees received for the winding-up 
in less than a year of a dead man’s estate. Strangers 
admiring the mansion are always told the story. 
One man remarked to me that the fellow was not 
really as smart as some supposed, because he might 
have taken more. 

Other mean things unduly admired in the West 
are parades and processions with their dismal acces- 
sories of blaring bands, fire-crackers, penny whistles, 
and cheap oratory ; self-assertion and self-advertise- 
ment, and an inordinate appetite for show. These, 
of course, are the small defects of great qualities ; 
but it is doubtful whether they are regarded as 
defects at all by the Man in the Street. In com- 
mon with us, too, the children of the West have a 
“lick-spittle” love of titles. Max O’Rell said that 
the United States contained sixty-five millions — 
mostly colonels, but he said nothing about the 
colonels’ wives. Mrs. Doctor Jones, Mrs. Judge 
Smith, Mrs. Major Robinson annex their husbands’ 
titles with as little scruple as they assume his crest 
(if he has one) on their notepaper. There is a story 
of one eminent jurist who refused peremptorily to 
allow his wife to call herself Mrs. Judge X ‘ 
This gentleman was given to the use, not the abuse, ~ 
of cocktails, despite the protests of Mrs. X : 
who was a pillar of some temperance organisation. 
It happened one night that his Honour returned 
home for the first time in his long life in a condi- 
tion which he described afterwards as “mellow.” 
His wife received him in silence, assisted him to 
bed, and waited patiently till the next morning. 
As the judge was finishing his second cup of tea, 


Ethical 241 


she remarked acidulously : “Judge, after what oc- 
cured last night, I shall for the future call myself 
- Mrs. Judge X .’ The husband shook his head. 
“Madam,” he said, “I regret as much as you do 
that — er — the unforeseen came to pass last night ; 
but it has not, I assure you, altered in any sense 
our relation to each other. I am still judge of the 
Supreme Court of California, and you, my dear, are 
only the same old fool you always have been.” 

In trying to understand the character of a people, 
it is necessary to find the master-key. What is 
it in the West? A worship of the visible? a. 
_the answer be in the affirmative, many doors are 
unlocked. 

In England, the women, the very best of them, 
profess an ethical standard lower than it ought to 
be, because they wish to please the men. In the 
West, the men profess a higher standard (and pro- 
fess it not the least hypocritically) because they 
wish to please the women — and children. 

This wish to please —a delightful trait — has, 
when pushed beyond certain limits, a corroding 
effect upon character; it leads to the shirking of 
disagreeable duties, to a morbid fear of giving 
offence, to a tolerance of evil which soon becomes 
indifference; it ends by making pleasure — that 
form of pleasure which exacts continuous change 
and excitement —the supreme good. 

According to Arnold, education is an atmos- 
phere. If this be so, it is important that the air 
should be kept fresh and pure. Fresh it is in the 
West; is it pure? Let the parents answer that 
question. More, are they soberly of the opinion 

16 


242 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


that the free-and-easy, go-as-you-please, what-’s-the- 
odds-as-long-as-you-’re-jolly atmosphere of so many 
Western homes is free from baneful germs, the 
more deadly because invisible? The optimist con- 
tending that all’s well with the world is a better 
fellow than the pessimist who maintains the con- 
trary. Give me the joyous colours of hope, not the 
sable of despair, the shield of Ivanhoe, not the Dis- 
inherited Knight’s. And yet the creed of that 
sneering host (enrolled beneath the banner of some 
fifth-rate De la Rochefoucauld) who holds that evil 
underlies all human conduct, that the good action 
is inspired by the bad motive, touches, as extremes 
always do touch, the vainglorious “I believe in — 
myself” of the rising generation. 

Of political immorality, the wholesale bribing of 
legislatures, municipal corporations, debauching of 
the Press, —I use the words current in California, 
—something has been already said. When the 
secret history of California is given to the world, 
it will be admitted that such men as the late 
Senator Stanford, for instance, was absolutely forced 
either to fight the devil with his own weapons, or 
sacrifice the efforts and earnings of a lifetime. It 
is certainly not for Englishmen who know anything ~ 
of their own political history to throw even the 
smallest pebble at such men. I hold no brief for 
expediency, but in the development of new coun- 
tries it would seem that good does follow bad, and 
that a state may be compelled to take one step 
backward before taking half a dozen forward. 

There is an almost universal desire to live in- 
tensely, rather than peacefully and comfortably. 


Ethical 243 


The native son talks contemptuously of “rusting 
out;” he assures you that he proposes to wear 
out. I have never liked to tell him to his face 
that it is quite possible to rust out and wear out 
at one and the same time. I submit that a man 
is rusting when he avoids, whether of choice or 
necessity, the good company of books, pictures, 
and men wiser than himself; when he is blind to 
the freshness of fields wet with dew, to the glory 
of the skies; when he is deaf to the music of the 
woods. The mills of work-a-day life in the West 
grind exceeding slow, and the rust lies thick upon 
the men between the stones; but they do not know 
it, or knowing it, do not care. Juvenal’s famous 
line will occur to some of my readers: Ht propter 
vitam vivendi perdere causas. What is more pa- 
thetic than the spectacle of a strong man who 
has gained his millions and lost his capacity for 
enjoying life? I can tell you. The spectacle — 
so often seen in the West — of the man who has 
atrophied all the diviner qualities in the quest of 
wealth which he does no¢ find. 

Some of my readers will remember an anecdote 
of Bethel, afterwards Lord Westbury. He was 
famous as one of the most able and unscrupulous 
lawyers of his day. In one of his cases he had 
instructed his junior to call him promptly if 
the unforeseen presented itself. Shortly after the 
junior sent for him, and informed his chief that 
a certain judgment had been cited by opposing 
counsel which practically blew them out of the 
water; further argument, in the junior’s opinion, 
would be wasted. Bethel rose to reply. He ad- 


244 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


mitted frankly that the judgment cited was incon- 
testably adverse to his client’s cause ; and then, with 
his accustomed fluency and most impressive man- 
ner, he proceeded to show that this judgment had 
been reversed on appeal, and was therefore worth- 
less. Opposing counsel was silenced. Bethel’s 
case was won. Some weeks after the junior 
came to him in chambers. “Do you know,” said 
he, “I cannot find any record of that judgment 
cited by X , nor of its reversal on appeal. In- 
deed I am inclined to believe that such a judgment 
was never given.” 

“Ah,” murmured Bethel, in a voice indescrib- 
ably bland and insinuating, “that is also my 
impression.” 

This story is not irrelevant, because in the West 
such smart practice is admired and imitated. The 
gain is obvious; the loss hard to compute. Those 
interested in such matters may examine the vol- 
umes of the California Reports which record the 
history of certain trials connected with land titles. 
To the student of ethics I would commend in parti- 
cular the case of the Rancho de la Laguna de 
Merced, and the case of the Gabilan Rancho. In 
these, as in a hundred other somewhat similar ~ 
cases, might drove right to the wall; but the end is 
not yet. 

The late Mr. G. W. Steevens, in his amusing 
“Land of the Dollar,” speaks of the Pacific Slope 
as “rapid.” I cannot endorse the adjective. Mr. 
Steevens spent less than a week in San Francisco, 
and his own movements were so very “rapid” that, 
like a child in an express train, he may have 


Ethical 24.5 


thought that he was standing still and that every- 
thing else was going to Jericho at the rate of 
sixty miles an hour. Fond mothers reading Mr. 
Steevens’ prose would doubtless sooner send their 
sons to Jericho instead of San Francisco. And yet, 
humiliating as it may be to admit it, San Francisco 
is not in any sense more “rapid” than other big 
cities. Time was when she set a terrible pace; 
but to-day she “goes slow” in all things, as the 
merchants will testify. Los Angeles, lacking nine- 
tenths of the advantages possessed by the metro- 
polis, moves much faster. 


PN Ot ot 
BRP) i 
are 


he 


XIV 


BIG GAME SHOOTING 


re ioe 


XIV 
BIG GAME SHOOTING 


jie you want first class bear-shooting to-day, you 
must go to British Columbia and Alaska. When 
we came to Southern California, two big grizzlies 
had just been shot not far from our cattle ranch ; 
but we never had the luck to find one in our 
county, although we hunted diligently. One night, 
I remember, a huge fellow, judging by his tracks, 
passed within a few feet of where my brother and 
I were sleeping; but a grizzly travels fast and far, 
and owing to the thick brush we were unable to 
trail him next day. Dogs— small terriers — are 
almost indispensable, and these must be trained to 
their work. An old fellow in our county, where 
grizzlies were once extraordinarily plentiful, has 
told me many yarns, and, according to him, Ursus 
Horribilis is as easily killed as a big hog, if you can 
plant your first bullet in a vital spot. This man 
—he is still alive— used to shoot bear and deer 
for a living, and he shot more grizzlies than the 
famous Adams (whose book is still the delight of 
Californian boys.) More, he has the credit of a 
George Washington for unimpeachable veracity. 
According to this high authority, young grizzly 
bears often climb trees; but when they grow old 
and unwieldy they prefer the solid earth. Not far 
from our ranch house was a huge live-oak which 


250 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


served as a refuge for herders from the attacks of 
grizzlies. One poor fellow spent two sleepless 
nights in this tree, and on the following morning 
he threw up his job. His employer asked for 
reasons. 

“You hired me,’ retorted the man, “to herd 
sheep; but I’m a liar if I ain’t bin a herdin’ 
grizzlies.” 

The vaqueros used to lasso them. Upon one of 
our shooting expeditions, | just missed seeing this 
done. Two men we knew, sighted a monster trot- 
ting slowly across a piece of level ground. They 
galloped up to him and roped him fore and aft; 
then one of the men slipped from his saddle and 
emptied his revolver into the bear’s head. We 
examined the hide of this brute, the largest I have 
ever seen. The foreman of the ranch swore that 
he weighed eighteen hundred pounds; but this 
sounds incredible. We marked particularly the 
peculiar formation of the skull, the brow being set 
at an angle so acute as to turn any bullet unless 
it were fired from a balloon. For this reason old 
grizzly hunters will warn the tyro not to shoot at 
the head of a bear coming towards you. If you 
have the pluck to wait for him, he will stop and 
rear up; then let him have it in the chest. A side 
or flanking shot is the most certain. 

My first experience with bear is worth recording. 
I was walking down a path, leading my horse, and 
looking for deer. Suddenly my horse snorted, and, 
lo! four silver-tips (a cross between the grizzly 
and the cinnamon) stood directly in my path. At 
the same moment the horse tore the bridle from my 


Big Game Shooting 251 


hand and galloped back to camp. Meantime, the 
bears had not stirred, although the biggest of them 
was staring, disdainfully, straight into my eyes. I 
was idiot enough to drop onto one knee, and to 
fire pointblank into that grey grim face. The un- 
earthly roar that followed shook the firmament. I 
can swear that I was cool till I pulled the trigger, 
but that hideous bellow, running the gamut of sound 
between rage and surprise, and culminating in a 
shrill scream of agony, undid me. The air seemed 
to be full of bears. In a jiffy I was up a tree, rifle 
in hand. It is my honest conviction that I pulled 
myself up to the first branch with one hand: a feat 
I have attempted many times upon a _ horizontal 
bar, and never accomplished. Perched aloft, my 
wits returned to me. I looked down, peered 
through the leaves; the bears had vanished in the 
thick brush. Then I descended very cautiously, 
feeling no hero. 

Next day, my cousin and I encountered these 
same bears, although the biggest was not with 
’ them (which proves that my aim had not been 
amiss); and we cornered and killed one of them. 
We wounded him badly, and he took refuge in a 
small patch of brush. Outside this we waited 
patiently, but in vain. Finally, I fired at random 
into the middle of the patch, and then out he came, 
determined to kill or be killed. What a fine fight 
he fought! I suppose we were a hundred yards or 
more from him when he waddled, growling, from the 
brush, and each time we hit him, he would stop 
and roar, biting and scratching at his wound. But 
he came steadily on, and he never stopped till my 


252 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


rifle was against his head! When we skinned him, 
we found that he had been shot through the heart, 
through the lungs, through the head, and through 
the loins! 

Horses are terrified at the sight of bears, and I 
remember strapping the hide of this one to the 
pack-horse we had with us. Being somewhat cun- 
ning in such matters, we used the famous diamond 
hitch, and that horse bucked till I thought he 
would buck his own hide off as well as the bear’s ; 
but the hitch only tightened. Then he bolted, and 
we found him when we got back to camp, a sadder 
and wiser animal, peacefully grazing, with the bear- 
skin still on his back. 

The peculiar quality of a wounded bear’s roar 
must be heard to be appreciated. We had a cook 
who one day met a bear, and fired at it. The bear 
roared ; the cook fled. He came into camp (I was 
not there, but I can vouch for the truth of the 
story) screaming with fear; he entreated the 
“boys” to arm themselves; he swore that the big- 
gest grizzly on earth was about to join the camp, et 
cetera. The camp listened, finger on trigger, but no 
bear appeared. Upon cross-examination the cook | 
recited the facts: he had seen the bear under a 
tree; he had stalked it ; he had drawn a good bead; 
he had fired. Then the bear had pursued him to 
within a few yards of the camp. Finally the boys 
set forth, and, lo! under the tree where he had 
been first seen was poor bruin — stone dead, with 
a bullet through his heart. However, the cook 
still maintains that the monster (he was only a 
small cinnamon) pursued him for more than a mile! 


Big Game Shooting 253 


A. bear-hunter I used to know well told me a 
story that sounds apocryphal, but which I firmly 
believe. He employed an Indian, who always ac- 
companied him. One fine morning the pair sighted 
a large wapiti, which they shot and wounded. The 
Indian took the trail; but the hunter, knowing the 
habits of wounded deer, took a short cut across 
some hills, hoping to get another shot at the wapiti 
as it crossed a certain divide. He reached the 
divide and climbed a tree. Presently the wapiti 
came slowly up the steep slope ; the Indian followed, 
knife in hand; and then, behind the Indian, not 
forty yards intervening, waddled a huge bear. So 
intent was the Indian upon his quarry that he was 
unaware that he, in his turn, was being tracked, till 
a bullet from the trapper’s rifle whistled past his 
head and laid the bear low. 

It is certainly imprudent to tackle grizzly, silver- 
tip, or cinnamon bears on foot and alone, particu- 
lary in the brush thickets to which they nearly 
invariably retreat. Many a seasoned trapper has 
been killed or horribly mangled because he had 
the temerity to follow a wounded bear into the 
chaparral. Two men, side by side, can stop any 
bear; but beware the braggart who undertakes to 
show you bear and to help you kill them. I saw 
one of these fellows take to his heels at a critical 
moment, and he had previously boasted of slaying 
three grizzlies, single-handed, in one morning! Upon 
strength of this statement we engaged him as guide 
and protector. He never knew that we came within 
an ace of shooting him as he scuttled away. 

It would be as well to particularly mention at 


254 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


this point the unwisdom of engaging scouts and 
guides on no recommendation save their own. The 
small towns that lie upon the outskirts of the big 
forests and prairies swarm with these gentlemen, 
and very few of them are worth a pinch of salt. 
Your honest trapper is in the woods, not lounging 
about a saloon or hotel, and it is only he who can 
show you first-rate sport, and he, remember, may 
always fail. Pay him well, and let it be plainly 
understood between you that he is not to shoot 
without orders. I remember one man—a very 
fine shot— who advertised in the local paper as 
follows: “John Doe undertakes to show gentle- 
men and sportsmen wild goats. Success certain. 
It is always your goat.” 

There are numbers of small black bear upon the 
Pacific Slope, but these afford tame sport. They 
are easily treed by dogs, and easily killed. In the 
woods and forests near the coast of northern Cali- 
fornia and Oregon, you are sure to find them if you 
are patient; but all bears, remember, are extraordi- 
narily cunning and gifted with amazing powers of 
scent. I have been in skunk-cabbage swamps in 
Vancouver Island, where sign was plentiful, but 
bruin invisible; and once, in British Columbia, my — 
brothers and I found a thicket where the tracks in 
and around the berry patches were innumerable; 
but not a bear did we shoot or see. 

To-day, the best hunting ground is to be found 
upon the banks of the many rivers and streams which 
empty into the Northern Pacific. All bears love 
fish and berries, but, unfortunately (for the sports- 
man), at the time when the berries are ripe and the 


Big Game Shooting ys 


salmon running up the streams, the fur of the bear 
is not at its best. The trappers like to shoot bruin 
when he comes out of his winter quarters. But his 
spring coat soon becomes shabby, and then you 
must wait till he grows fat again. 

Reliable information can be obtained in either 
Victoria or Vancouver, and in the former town are 
several famous sportsmen who have shot every- 
thing that may be found in the forests of the 
North, from the rare musk-ox to the humble squir- 
rel. But these gentlemen can hardly be expected 
to reveal the whereabouts of their own happy 
hunting-grounds. They will gladly tell you what 
to take in the way of wmpedimenta, and what not 
to take; and they will tell you also not to look for 
caribou and sheep in the places where these ani- 
mals have been shot of recent years. If you can 
spare the time—and big game shooting is not to 
be undertaken in a hurry —it is wise to seek fresh 
ground, passing over the old en route to the new. 
Some parts of the country are more open than 
others, and after the first snows, the sheep and 
caribou are driven in search of food to ranges more 
accessible to the hunter. I believe October and 
November to be the best months for wapiti, cari- 
bou, sheep, and goats. The cold, it is true, is often 
intense; but there are no mosquitoes to drive you 
distracted, and the game is easily tracked. Many 
years ago, I spent the month of November in the 
North Park of Colorado, and although the mercury 
in my thermometer often fell below zero, and al- 
though our tent was as full of holes as a rabbit 
warren, we suffered not at all; and the sense of 


256 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


exhilaration, of physical vigour and vitality was 
delightful. At another time, my cousin and I were 
close to the Teton Basin, in Wyoming, whither we 
had wandered in search of bison. We secured four 
fine bulls (almost the last that were shot), and 
awoke one morning to find the snow falling, and 
the possibility of spending Christmas in the wilder- 
ness staring us in the face. For several nights 
in succession we slept out without a tent, and 
were none the worse; but the tyro will do well 
not to stray far from civilisation when winter is 
impending. 

I cannot advise the “tenderfoot” to hunt for 
wapiti in the woods. They may be found in the 
forests of Oregon and Washington, but only a 
seasoned hunter can stalk them successfully. The 
labour of cutting a path through dense woods is 
inconceivably trying to muscles and temper, and 
your impedimenta must be carried on your back, 
or on the back of your Indians. More, you may 
shoot—as a friend of mine did—some magnifi- 
cent specimens, and be unable to carry home your 
trophies. Upon the Eastern side of the different 
mountain ranges that stretch from Mount Shasta 
to the Arctic circle, the foothills are, generally” 
speaking, free from heavy timber. With a good 
field glass at your eye you can find your game, and 
approach it with the odds for, instead of against 
you. 

Wapiti, the finest deer in the world, are rapid 
travellers, and soon driven from a country. It is 
expedient to make a rule not to fire a single shot 
when entering virgin country. I know how tempt- 


Big Game Shooting Pay f 


ing it is to pot a grouse or a rabbit when there is 
nothing in the larder but “jerky” or bacon, but 
that one shot may drive a herd of these superb 
beasts to other pastures a hundred miles away! 
Once, I remember, we were constrained by our 
shikarri to leave our shot guns behind—a grave 
mistake. A month later we found ourselves on 
the borders of barren lands where there was no 
big game at all, and it seemed absurd to try and 
shoot small birds with Express rifles charged with 
one hundred and twenty grains of powder. So we 
borrowed from an old trapper we met an ancient 
flint lock, almost in pieces. The barrel of it was 
tied to the stock with string, and the flint would 
not strike sparks. We were actually compelled to 
fill the pan with powder and ignite it by means of 
a match. After stalking a sage hen, one of us 
would take aim; the other would strike the match! 
Shooting under such circumstances is not an un- 
alloyed joy. 

Wapiti often betray their presence by whistling, 
a queer sound different to the call of a bull moose, 
and quite indescribable. The monarch of the herd, 
he whose enormous antlers thrill you to the marrow, 
generally trots along in the rear of the others, 
pausing now and again to look round. I once 
missed a monster point blank at forty yards, be- 
cause I was fool enough to think that I could shoot 
him from the back of my horse. I had had an 
unpleasant experience with this same horse only a 
few days before, having dismounted in a hurry to 
take a snap shot at a running antelope. I missed 


the antelope, and nearly lost the horse, for he 
17 


258 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


absolutely refused to let me come within twenty 
yards of him for more than four hot and exasperat- 
ing hours. My cousin, who was with me, dis- 
mounted when I did, and his horse kept mine 
company. We were in an alkali desert at the 
time, and when eventually our animals suffered 
us to remount them, we swore solemnly that never 
again would we leave our horses untied. However, 
to return to my big wapiti: we had seen a large 
herd quietly grazing on the slopes of a bare hill, 
and recognising the futility of trying to stalk them, 
had sent a couple of men to drive them towards a 
divide in the mountains. We galloped to the same 
place, making a détour, and only arrived just in 
time. I took up a station some two hundred yards 
from my cousin, and marked with dismay the 
impossibility of tying my horse. Just then the 
herd began to ascend the slope at my feet, so with- 
out dismounting I hid behind a rock and awaited 
them. Long before I had seen through my glasses 
that the Nestor of them was unusually large, but I 
had formed no true conception of his truly immense 
size. I allowed all the others to pass, and presently 
he trotted by, very slowly, glancing now and again 
at the men half a mile behind him, apprehending ~ 
no danger from my cousin and me who were invis- 
ible and to windward of him. I fired as he was 
broadside to me, and missed him clean with both 
barrels of my Express. Before I could reload, he 
had passed my cousin, who blazed away at longer 
range, and, being mounted, also missed him as 
cleanly as I did. We clapped spurs to our animals 
and had a tremendous gallop over a very stiff and 


Big Game Shooting 259 


stony country, but we never got another shot at 
our quarry. 

Talking of missing, I. am reminded of another 
bitter experience that befell me many years ago 
near the Teton Basin in Wyoming. We had left 
our waggon, and taking a couple of pack-horses, 
made an excursion into a desolate country known 
as the “Bad Lands ;” bad they were indeed: bleak 
and sterile hills rising out of alkali plains! But 
here we are told, and here only, the last of the bison 
might be found, and here we found them. We 
camped near a small spring whose waters were as 
those of Marah, and made an early start the next 
day. Before ten o’clock we were nearly dead with 
fatigue, and consumed by an intolerable thirst. The 
sun streamed down upon the glistening alkali and 
up again into our aching eyes; the ground upon 
which we trod seemed to emit a sickly and over- 
powering heat. At noon my cousin returned to 
camp, but I rode on, glass in hand, scanning eagerly 
hill after hill, seeking in vain that small black 
blot upon the brown landscape which would surely 
prove a bull bison. And at last, as I was beginning 
to despair, I saw ¢wo blots. Bison they proved, but 
how to stalk them successfully taxed imagination 
no less than experience. Finally I dismounted, 
tied my horse, and began a long and tedious stalk. 
T was compelled to crawl more than half a mile, 
lying face downward on the burning sand. As I 
crawled I was sensible for the first time in my life 
of the horrors of thirst, for my tongue began to 
swell; but I can swear that I was happy, for my 
ambition, so [ thought, was about to be not satisfied 


260 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


but glutted. We had been assured by cattlemen 
and hunters, that the bison were almost extinct. 
To procure a specimen we had undertaken a long 
and dangerous journey into the heart of an unknown 
and sterile country. Now, not the prize, but the 
prizes, were within range. It never entered my 
head that a miss was possible, for as I crawled 
nearer, | saw that these were two immense bulls, 
big as barns, and seemingly quite unaware of my 
approach. They were lying down side by side. I 
crawled on till I came within eighty yards of them. 
Then I waited patiently till my heart stopped beat- 
ing. Long before, I had endured the rigours of 
“buck fever,” and I am sure that I was as cool 
as a man could be in such a place and beneath such 
a sun. But I missed them both! I made the 
mistake of firing at them as they lay. Had I 
whistled softly, they would have risen and stood 
still. I pulled trigger and saw the bullet strike 
the sand just beyond them. They scrambled 
up; and fearing they would run, I fired again with 
no result. Then they started towards me. In my 
haste I forgot to pull back the hammers of my 
Express. I wrenched it open, and rammed in a 
couple of cartridges. When I tried to close the 
breech, I realised, to my dismay, that the rifle was 
jammed. At the same moment the bulls saw me, 
and turned tail. I suppose they were six hundred 
yards distant before I got my rifle into working 
order, and then I pumped lead into the air till 
they were out of sight. After that I seriously con- 
sidered the propriety of shooting myself. Life 
seemed worthless after such a misfortune. I told 


Big Game Shooting 261 


myself that I should never have such a chance 
again. A truly wretched man rode into camp that 
afternoon. 

Next day, I shot a splendid bull, and shortly 
after, another; but sportsmen will understand me 
when I say that life has never been quite the 
same since the irreparable loss of those two sleep- 
ing beauties ! 

Speaking of the “ Bad Lands,” les mauvaises terres, 
one is reminded of the “dry camps.” A dry camp 
is a place where water is not. Nothing more for- 
lorn can be conceived. After a long day's travel in 
sun and wind, you are obliged to pitch your tent 
where night overtakes you. The water you carry 
is hot and tainted, and the horses, poor beasts, snuff 
uneasily as you drink your thimbleful; well do 
they know that their thirst is not to be quenched. 
Then the question — an awful question —arises : 
“Shall we go on on the chance of finding some 
spring, or shall we go back?” Success or failure 
hangs upon a word ; perhaps life or death ! Uncer- 
tainty wrinkles the faces of even the dogs. The 
men in your pay are sure to be sulky and peevish. 
The wage paid to them seems, doubtless, inadequate. 
The master, on the other hand, finds the responsi- 
bility a grievous burden upon shoulders already 
stiff and aching. At such times fancy dwells 
upon the comforts of a club. Hungry, thirsty, 
dusty, and dirty, one asks one’s self: “Is it worth 
while?” 

Looking back, I find my memory tenacious of the 
good rather than the evil. I have endured many 
dry camps, but I cannot faithfully describe one ; 


262 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


the outlines are blurred. When a man is fagged 
out of mind and body, sick at heart, as the old 
Latin primer had it, he takes no note of form or 
colour. Misery is grey and amorphous. On the 
other hand, the pleasant places grow greener as 
the years roll by. I can vividly recall a certain 
spot near a trout stream. Our larder was full of 
game : bear, venison, antelope meat, and small game. 
A deep, limpid pool invited us to bathe twice a day. 
The horses were up to their knees in bunch-grass. 
We slept beneath the pines, wooed to sleep by 
their plaintive sighs. We shot and fished and 
sketched; we ate and drank and slept; we were 
perfectly happy. 

Not very far from this Paradise I had a narrow 
escape. My cousin and I were sleeping side by 
side. It chanced that during the previous day’s 
ride we had seen a great many and killed a few 
rattlesnakes: a most exceptional experience. Sud- 
denly my cousin woke up, and saw, by the light of 
the moon, a big rattler crawling across my chest. 
He lay for a moment fascinated, watching the sinu- 
ous curves of the reptile. Then he quietly reached 
for his six-shooter. But he could not see the 
beast’s head, so he moved nearer, and, lo! ’t was 
not a snake at all—only the black and yellow 
stripe of my blanket that gently rose and fell as 
I breathed. Had he fired, this book might never 
have been written, for he confessed to me that his 
hand shook. 

Rattlesnakes have always inspired a certain terror 
in me, ever since I was struck by one. Fortunately 
I was wearing a porpoise-hide Field boot at the 


Big Game Shooting 2.6 3 


time, into which the fangs entirely failed to pene- 
trate; but I made—you may be sure — the record 
jump of my life. Some Californians have never 
seen one; but once seen or heard, Crotalus is not 
likely to be forgotten. 

The sportsman in search of moose had better 
make up his mind to go to Alaska. He could not 
do better than stop en route at Tacoma, where Mr. 
W. F. Sheard, the taxidermist, will be able to give 
him valuable information in regard to the hiring of 
Indians, and so forth. I hada long talk with Mr. 
Sheard in the summer of 797, and looked over his 
collection of trophies, the finest (I believe) in the 
world. I have never had the good fortune to kill 
a moose; but Mr. Sheard told me that it could be 
done in the swamps and woods of the Yukon, 
although stalking in such places is very hard 
and disappointing work. Since I talked with Mr. 
Sheard, other localities may have been discovered, 
nearer to civilisation, but I much doubt it. 

Caribou, the Barren-Ground Caribou (not the 
Reindeer proper), may be found in great numbers 
in certain parts of British Columbia. According to 
Mr. Warburton Pike, who has studied their habits, 
they annually migrate in huge herds to the barren 
grounds north of the Great Slave Lake. The wood- 
land Caribou (Rangifer Caribou) is a larger beast ; 
and they are still plentiful north of the Canadian 
Pacific line. 

The Blacktail (Cervus Columbianus) is found 
from one end of the Pacific Slope to the other. They 
sumply swarm in certain parts of the north, and 
the forests of Vancouver Isiand are full of them. 


264 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


In Southern California, in our own county, they 
were once equally plentiful; but the market hunters 
almost exterminated them in the early ’80’s. Since 
then the laws for their protection have been en- 
forced, and to-day they are increasing. 

The sportsman will find it hard to see them at 
first, for the grey of their coats melts at a short 
distance into the grey green of the chaparral. The 
best time to stalk them is at dawn in the dark of 
the moon, when they are feeding. After a cold 
night, you will always find them on the sunny 
sides of the cafions and gulches, and in the middle 
of the day they will lie in the thick brush near 
the crest of the hills. Some hunters wait for 
them at the deer licks, but this has always seemed 
to me a most tiresome and unsportsmanlike way of 
killing them. They ought to be stalked, and stalk- 
ing in Southern California exacts much patience 
and skill. The breaking of a twig will drive them 
out of a cafion, and, once afoot,it is almost hope- 
less to follow them. On the other hand, when they 
are lying down in the chaparral, they will let you 
walk close up to them, scurrying away like a 
rabbit at the last moment. 


1 Mr. Baillie-Grohman says that the blacktail (C. Columbianus) 
is the only deer found on the Pacific Slope. At the risk of differ- 
ing with such a distinguished authority, I must submit that there 
is in Southern California a blacktail which would seem to be a 
cross between the Columbian and mule deer, not being so big as 
the mule-deer of the Rockies, nor so small as the deer found in 
Vancouver Island. Mr. Van Dyke (author of “The Still-hunter ” ) 
and Judge Cotton speak of this deer as a variety of Macrotis. The 
mule-deer proper of Wyoming and Colorado is certainly not found 
in California. 


Big Game Shooting 265 


Antelope (the Prongbuck) were also plentiful in 
Southern California, and we have seen them on our 
ranch (and have shot them on the Carisa Plains 
beyond); but to-day they are very scarce on the 
Pacific Slope, and in California it is against the 
law to shoot them at all. I have shot a great 
many, and have watched large herds of them 
in Wyoming and Colorado. In California the 
vaqueros used to ride them down, an easy feat, 
if you have a horse that can both gallop and 
stay. 

Antelope gave me my first attack of buck fever. 
I was in a country where the antelope were ex- 
traordinarily plentiful, but I could not manage 
to hit one. I could smash a small bottle at a 
hundred and fifty yards easily enough; an ante- 
‘lope at the same range laughed at my bullets. 
However, I persevered, and one morning killed 
a fine buck stone dead. After that my nerve 
came back. 

Sheep and goat are considered hard stalking, but 
they are easily killed under certain conditions. 
Once, in the Selkirks, I shot six goats in as many 
minutes. I was above them, and when I fired, the 
herd ran straight at me. I could have clubbed 
one easily. It is well to mention that I had spent 
nearly ten hours in reaching my coign of vantage, 
an almost inaccessible peak. One of the goats fell 
two thousand feet after I had shot him; and I 
nearly followed him over the precipice, for the 
snow at my feet was crumbly and slippery, and a 
loose shale lay beneath. For the week preceding, 
my brothers and I had worn out shoe leather and 


266 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


patience without seeing a single goat. The month 
was November, and our camp thermometer fell 
each night below zero. The stalking, I remem- 
ber, was uncommonly stiff, because the snow hid 
all mantraps, and again and again we tumbled 
ignominiously between trunks of fallen trees, or 
tobogganed down slopes, nilly-willy, — misadven- 
tures which look trivial enough on paper, but 
which discolour and distort the pleasures of big 
game shooting. Bad bruises mean sleepless nights, 
and sport without sleep ceases to be sport. 

Many men think that hardships are part of the 
fun, but I am not of their opinion. Hardships, of 
course, must be endured cheerfully and patiently, 
but they need not be sought. For instance, it is 
folly to go into the wilds ill-equipped with food 
and bedding. My cousin and I were chaffed by 
the cowboys of Wyoming because our kit included 
rubber mattresses and rubber baths. These arti- 
cles occupied little space, but how largely they 
added to our comfort! 

One of the pains and penalties which wait upon 
a sportsman in the wilderness is being lost. Lost! 
What a word of ill omen! A word that in four 
letters embraces an encyclopedia. And the man 
who is cocksure of his bearings, who brags of his 
bump of locality, is, generally speaking, the first 
to go astray. Hills in a new country are amaz- 
ingly alike. A familiar contour beckons you; a 
cafion invites you to enter; a stream prattles 
sweetly of banks higher up, where you have 
camped before. In the forest the trapper blazes 
his trail, but in the open foothills he must trust 


Big Game Shooting 267 


to his compass and the landmarks; both often 
mislead. 

I was lost once for three days in the company of 
a cook and a box of sardines. There was nothing 
to shoot, not even a sage-hen, and the sardines 
disappeared at the first meal. On this occasion I 
learned that a short cut is the longest way home. 
The cook and I endeavoured to cross a range of 
hills on the other side of which were our camp and 
supplies; distant—so we estimated — less than 
twenty miles as the crow flies. We had an empty 
waggon with us, which we were forced to abandon 
(we retrieved it later), and we wandered round and 
round, compassless in an unknown sea of small hills 
and vales. Finally we struck the trail, and an 
hour later were sitting down to an immense meal, 
but I never, never stirred abroad again without a 
compass. 

I have said that in my opinion the late autumn 
and early winter are the seasons when game (ex- 
cepting bear) is most easily stalked and shot. But 
you must provide against cold, that may prove 
intense. Blankets are a sorry protection during 
nights when the mercury falls many degrees below 
zero, and I would strongly urge every sportsman to 
provide himself with a sleeping-bag and also a thick 
Tam o’ Shanter. During one of my expeditions | 
had a professional antelope-hunter with me, who 
was supplying a railroad with venison. And, curi- 
ously enough, he, a hardened veteran, was badly 
frost-bitten, whilst I, the tenderfoot, escaped scot- 
free. We carried a small stove amongst our 7m- 
pedimenta, and a blessed comfort it proved, being 


268 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


a source of light in the long evenings, as well as 
warmth. At the risk of provoking a laugh or a 
sneer I shall advise the tyro to add a rubber hot- 
water bottle to his kit. Upona night that is likely 
to prove extra cold, a good jorum of whisky and 
water and the hot-water bottle in combination will 
keep you snug and warm when others are shivering. 
It would be unwise to use the hot-water bottle 
regularly, but in cases of necessity it is worth its 
weight in gold. 

In conclusion, Big Game shooting, like everything 
else that is really worth while, exacts all the virile 
qualities. A cheery resolution to meet disappoint- 
ment and adversity with a grin will tide a man 
over many a weary hour. For this reason alone it 
is well to pick your “pal.” A churl, no matter 
what his other qualifications may be, will poison 
your pleasure ; and his sour looks will breed snarls 
and growls amongst your hired men. Some mighty 
hunters prefer to hunt alone with a trusty Indian. 
Most of us, however, have no stomach for pleasures’ 
unshared by a friend. Around the camp-fire, I 
have spent some of the happiest hours of my life. 
Would they have been happy had I been alone? I 
doubt it. 

No man should brave the hardships of the wilder- 
ness unless he be strong of body; and even the 
strongest suffer at first. Fora fortnight you sleep 
badly and wake stiff and unrefreshed, but when 
your apprenticeship is served, you reap a rare re- 
ward. The exhilaration of high health is a gift of 
the gods known to few who dwell in cities. The 
plain living, the pure air, the hard exercise, the 


Big Game Shooting 269 


exciting sport, bring an extraordinary vigour and 
vitality ; and yet I have seen men return from the 
hills and forests utterly worn out — physical wrecks. 
They had tried to do too much in too short a 
time. 

Verbum sap. 


“Ural 
rey 
Ate. 


tah oo’ 
Deine 


| afi ‘ I wha f Wy aie 4 
/ \y ‘ Or ae f a ote™ ioe (: 
SRM ES eh does OU ean ‘ w Maaaty ’ 
Git Naty : RARER RAG HA 
WH RS Nid «2, HC Wh CaN ay) aw eee 
4 ny NF is, aah of ae ule A Wigs i if ‘ 
{ i " ; . \ 


XV 


SMALL GAME SHOOTING—I 


ake 


o j } 
MN ee 


XV 


SMALL GAME SHOOTING—I 


PON and around our ranch were vast stretches 
of low sage-brush that harboured quail in- 
numerable. Then it was easy —not so very easy, 
for we were rank shots —to make big bags, and the 
difficulty lay not in killing the birds, but in the 
disposal of them afterwards. For our neighbours 
had no “use” for quails (nor for sweetbreads, which 
we obtained from our butcher for nothing); and in 
time we, too, tired of the bird’s peculiar flavour. In 
Kibroth-hattaavah, we are told, six hundred thou- 
sand men fed upon these birds for a full month, 
until the food became “loathsome” unto them; 
and it is said in California that no white man can 
eat one quail a day for thirty consecutive days: 
toujours perdrix ! 

Callipepla Californica, however, must not be 
confounded with the bob-white (Colinus Virginia- 
nus), nor with the tiny Chinese quail who is kept 
for fighting purposes, and to warm the hands of 
his owner. Our bird is the Beau Brummel of quail, 
a dandy at all seasons, even in extreme old age. 
Who does not admire his dapper surtout of grey- 
blue, his sporting waistcoat of brown and white, his 
black, glossy crest, his polished extremities, and 
his charming manners in captivity? 

And what superb sport he affords! 

18 


274 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


Near the ocean, separated from it by a long line 
of sand-dunes, blazing white in the sun, amethystine 
in the shade, lay our quail grounds. You could 
shoot till you were tired, then bathe, then lunch, 
then shoot again till dusk. It was never too hot, 
nor too cold. The sea-breeze kept you company, 
and in your ears was the melodious roar of the 
surf. The picture has stamped itself on our mem- 
- orles; in the foreground the grey-green sage-brush, 
soft, velvety, and aromatic; then the dunes fring- 
ing the Pismo Bay, and back of all, the enchanting 
Pacific, with the long, smooth rollers sliding across 
its placid surface, and crashing upon the hard, dun 
sand. A and I shall never enjoy such shoot- 
ing again. The quail would rise in enormous 
bevies, scatter out, and settle within fifty or a 
hundred yards. Then we would advance slowly, 
the retrievers well to heel, and flush the birds, 
singly and in pairs. One might suppose that the 
quail enjoyed the fun, so willing were they to le 
snug, so complaisant in giving the worst duffer that 
ever fired a gun a dozen chances. They scorned the 
thickets in those halcyon days, and always flew 
straight away, low and fast, and on a horizontal 
line. Z , a member of the English colony, | 
counted himself the laziest man in California, but 
even he shot quail fifteen years ago. This youth 
rose not with the lark, and, clad in flannel shirt 
and trousers, his red, good-natured face crowned 
with a sombrero, would ride bare-back— he was 
too lazy to saddle his pony —to pleasant Pismo. 
His bronco, a mild beast, never objected to carry a 
light fishing-rod beneath a coarse tail, that lay tight 


Small Game Shooting 275 


as the dorsal fin of a mackerel, between the gluteal 
muscles. Z , when questioned, would assure 
the native sons of the golden West, that in Eng- 
land, where the sun never shines, all horses, even 
hunters, were so trained to carry umbrellas — and 
many believed him! The story has an apocryphal 
twang, but it is true. With Z as mounted 
escort, A and I would drive to the shore in a 
roomy spring-waggon that held ourselves, our dogs, 
our ammunition, and a generous luncheon. Upon 
the beach were clams, big, juicy clams, good when 
fried, better still in chowder, and best of all baked 
in fragrant sea-weed; but we were faithful, I re- 
member, to sardines, potted meats, foie-gras, cheese, 
and marmalade ; and we drank freely of a wonder- 
ful brown sherry, the pure juice of the Californian 
grape; and we told the old, old stories of the birds 
we had just missed. We missed about three out 
of four shots. Often a stranger would join us, 
generally a pot-hunter, a ground sluicer, whom we 
held in contempt and derision (doubtless he thought 
us extravagant maniacs), and also in fear, justly 
considering the condition of his ancient ram-and- 
dam gun. As a rule, A would dismiss the 
stranger with words as sweetly seductive as the 
brown sherry. Sometimes we would encourage 
the unwelcome guest to lie. Once we met a youth 
who swore, by Jing! that he never shot quail ex- 
cept on the wing. 

“ Are you a good shot?” demanded A: 

“YT ain't an expert — yet,” replied the youth 
modestly. “But I pack home as many quails as 
most. Yes, sir, I do purty well fer a beginner, 


276 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


purty dog-goned well! Lemme see. Now, yester- 
day I went a-huntin’, and I packed along jest 
ninety-two cartridges, — no, I can’t lie to ye, boys, 
’t was ninety-three. I’d disremembered that one 
missed fire. Well, sir, I used up them shells, all 
but three, and I showed them to maw when I got 
home. You can ask her if it ain’t so. I’d three 
shells, gen’lemen, and jest eighty-one quails — all 
single birds. Yes, sir —all shot on the wing. 
Some day, boys, I hope to be an expert.” 

I can see my brother’s face as he listened atten- 
tively to this remarkable yarn. 

“My boy,” said A , solemnly, “you may or 
you may not become an expert quail-shot, but you 
are to-day the biggest liar in Christendom — bar 
none. And I’d like to shake your hand, and com- 
pliment you. If you’ll stay with us and tell us 
one more gilt-edged lie, we ll give you lunch and a 
glass or two of sherry.” 

The youth declined the invitation. 

After a time we learned to hit these gentle quail, 
and others learned the knack; and then, alas! 
came the railroad, and the subdivision of the big 
ranchos, and dozens of settlers, who slaughtered the 
birds in and out of season, on the ground and on 
the wing, till finally the sage-brush that they loved 
knew them no more, and the survivors —if sur- 
vivors there were — betook themselves to the chap- 
arral, to the tangled thickets of manzanita, to the 
tops of the coast range, anywhere and everywhere, 
away from the insatiable enemy. So the golden 
age of quail-shooting passed away. 

Of course some grounds still remain virgin terri- 


Small Game Shooting 277 


tory, but to reach these the sportsman must travel 
far from all settlements, and camp out. A and 
I annually organise at least one such expedition, 
and return with strings of the slain, now thankfully 
accepted by our neighbours ; but as both of us are 
more or less tied to the ranch, we have been con- 
strained to take to the mountains close at hand, and 
there have learned at last the art of shooting quail 
with all the odds in favour of the bird and against 
the gun. It is a day of small bags and very hard 
work, and we have been forced to study systemati- 
cally the habits and habitat of the game. Till a 
sportsman learns to do this, he may be said to be 
still unbreeched. 

For quail are crafty as foxes. For instance, we 
will suppose that a bevy has been flushed, and, 
rising out-of range, has flown a quarter of a mile 
and lit in a steep gulch bristling with brambles and 
scrub-oak, —a favourite place. The veteran will 
waste no time in following his quarry, for he knows 
that they will run swiftly up the gulch, across the 
crest of the hill, and probably be lost in a heavily 
wooded cafion upon the other side. When he 
stands, breathless, upon the spot where the birds 
settled, he is not surprised that they are not there, 
and, as he pauses, he probably hears a cock call 
half-way up the gulch, “ kah-kah-ka-o-o-w!” In 
reply there is a peculiar chatter from a bird, evi- 
dently concealed close by —@ sentinel; and after 
that not a sound; but the wise man will infer 
that the main body of the bevy 1s running ahead 
as fast as their sturdy, well-muscled legs can carry 
them. Again, we will assume that a big band has 


278 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


been duly scattered and fair sport enjoyed. The 
guns have beaten the ground thoroughly and know 
that perhaps a hundred birds are lying here and 
there within a radius of halfa mile. It is time for 
luncheon, and men and dogs are fagged out. The 
tyro will be sure to sit down, eat his sandwiches, 
and discuss the sport at the top of his voice. Not 
so the experienced market-hunter. He will steal 
quietly away, and munch his bread and cheese in 
silence and seclusion. Presently he will mark a 
cock-call, then another, and another. Before an 
hour has passed the bevy will have reassembled ; 
his dog will find them, and perhaps a better bag 
will be made than before. The tyro, on the other 
hand, must find another bevy, for the quail, hear- 
ing voices, have not come together. 

The finding of bevies in a rough country is no 
easy matter. Highly trained setters, field-trial win- 
ners who range at full speed are almost useless in 
the mountains. If you are happily able to keep 
them in sight they may stand to birds in places 
where two-legged creatures must crawl. As a rule 
the market-hunter finds his own bevies, drives them 
into country where the birds can be picked up 
when shot; and for this purpose uses a dog trained 
to range within twenty-five yards of his master. 
In a dry country like ours, where springs are scarce, 
the dogs should be lean as a coyote, hard-footed, for 
sticker-grass abounds, with the keenest eyes and a 
sensitive nose. An English setter, trained by a 
market-hunter, is in our opinion the best dog for 
work in the coast range, but some prefer the pointer. 
My brother still owns a veteran, half-spaniel, hali- 


Small Game Shooting 279 


setter, who was a wonder in his youth. He is not 
quite so accomplished as the retriever we have all 
heard of, who would stand on his hind-legs, shade 
his eyes with a paw, and mark down wounded 
birds falling half a mile away; but he made less 
mistakes and retrieved his quail more quickly 
and noiselessly than any thoroughbred I ever saw. 
However, we never used him to find the bevies; 
that part of the work we learned to do for our- 
selves. After rain and heavy fog, the birds will 
always be met with in the low brush, in sunny 
sandy patches, or amongst warm sandstone boul- 
ders. Upon fine mornings you are sure to flush 
them at the head of small cafions. Upon piping- 
hot days they seek the thickest brush and water, 
if water may be found. They have regular roost- 
ing-places and invariably work towards home of an 
evening. If it be raining you will explore the 
dense manzanita; and then, if you can drive them 
into low brush, they will lie like stones, and the 
whole bevy can be exterminated by a ruthless 
pot-hunter. 

The bevy “ located,” you will do well to consider 
the direction of the wind and the general lie of the 
country before planning the campaign. Upon the 
intimate knowledge of a dozen seemingly unimpor- 
tant trifles hangs success; one mistake spells fail- 
ure, fatigue, and demoralisation of dogs and men. 
The northern slopes of the foot-hills are covered 
with high chaparral, and the quail will make a 
desperate effort to reach what they know by long 
experience to be sanctuary. 

One fine morning, last October, we found a big 


280 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


bevy at the head of a cafion situated between our 
ranch and the ocean. There were three of us, the 
right number, A and I and our guest, a famous 
shot in the old country, hard to beat upon the 
moors or at a hot corner, but a heavy-weight, not 
quite at his ease beneath a Californian sun. To 
our left lay a fine stretch of sage-brush, intersected 
with small gulches; above this some open ground, 
and yet higher some steep sandstone cliffs. We 
decided to drive our birds into the sage, if Diana 
permitted; and by spreading out, by shouting, and 
with furious tapping of brush and branches, suc- 
ceeded in scattering the quail over the delectable 
slope. Then, in a straight line, our friend in the 
centre, we breasted the brush. Suddenly a single 
bird whirled into the air, turned sharply to the 
right, and whizzed at a double angle behind us 
and downhill A dropped him stone dead 
with his second barrel, and then asked our guest, 
at whose feet the bird rose, why he had not fired. 
Bruno trotted up with the quail, and the stranger 
examined it with interest. “By Gad!” he ex- 
claimed, with a jolly laugh, “it’s not eight inches 
long, and it frightened me out of my wits!” Five | 
minutes later we are in the thick of what may be 
called the hardest and finest wing-shooting in the 
world. The birds, with a strong trade wind behind 
them, twist and turn like snipe, dodging in and out 
of the taller bushes, flying upward, downward, to 
the right and left, skimming the ground, facing the 
guns sometimes, in a plucky attempt to regain the 
thick woodland behind us, and presenting in short 
every conceivable kind of shot. Fortunately we 


Small Game Shooting 281 


are fresh and in wind, so we kill half of the birds 
fired at,—a fair average in a rough country. In 
three quarters of an hour the fun is over, the 
runners are retrieved, and A opines that a 
dozen quail may be flushed in the cliffs above us. 
Climbing these is stiff work, and a brace escape 
untouched as we stagger on to the summit. Here, 
a détour is made in the hope of turning what birds 
may be found into the brush we have just left. 
Nor are we disappointed. The quail le snug 
amongst the warm boulders, and when flushed 
fly back—dropping like bullets down a_ well. 
A misses four in succession, and his dog looks 
at him in solemn disgust. After fifteen years’ prac- 
tice we confess that the knack of killing quail drop- 
ping with folded wings down a precipice has not 
yet been vouchsafed us. Two angles—for the 
birds curve outwards — must be nicely calculated, 
and also the speed of the object, which varies 
according to the strength and direction of the 
wind. The reader, at ease in his arm-chair, will 
kindly remember that a cliff has just been scaled, 
that each man carries fifty cartridges, some dead 
birds, and his luncheon, and that none of us is a 
youth. Thoroughly blown, we sit for a moment 
beneath the shelter of a scrub-oak, and Prince, with 
lifted head and paw, advises us that a quail is con- 
cealed in the thick foliage above. He must be 
dislodged by a stone, then he will fly slantwise 
from the top of the tree, close his wings, and drop. 
A offers to bet our guest two to one, in cigars, 
on the bird. It is agreed that the shooter must 
himself shy the stone and then fire. Our guest 


282 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


wins the bet, and quite recovers his temper. The 
night before he had talked rather contemptuously 
of quail-shooting; now he is humble, but very 
enthusiastic. 

We spend ten minutes on the summit, inhaling 
the crisp, fragrant air, and pointing out the different 
landmarks. Below, to the west, lies the Pacific. 
The herring are in the bay, and we can see the 
big pelicans a-fishing, accompanied by their para- 
sites, the gulls. Some streamers of grey mist steal 
quietly across the waters, and out of a fog-bank to 
the north comes the weird scream of a siren. We 
tell our visitor of the fish we have caught in this 
summer sea. We point out the marshes where we 
have slain hecatombs of ducks. Through the low- 
lying land, like a silver serpent, winds the creek 
that once swarmed with trout, and at its mouth we 
have caught and still can catch, steel-head trout, 
that take the fly and afford glorious sport for a too 
brief season each year. A points out a deep 
cafion where black-tailed deer may still be found, 
and sighs as he speaks of the countless herds of 
them that roamed through these foot-hills in the 
seventies and early eighties. <A is a laudator — 
temporis acti, and not without reason. 

Then we descend the cliff, and, passing through the 
sage-brush, bag a few more birds. The day being 
very warm, we are constrained to beat the thickest 
covers, and flush at last another bevy, that swings 
into a gulch and from thence scatters into high 
chaparral. We walk through the thicket close 
together, and miss many snap-shots. A woodcock, 
flitting through hollies, is an easier mark than a 


‘Small Game Shooting 283 


quail whizzing between scrub-oaks and grease-wood. 
Soon the brush becomes impassable, so we sit down 
and wait. Presently a cock calls, and our ears 
catch an answering note from a distant gorge. 
A glances at me and shrugs his shoulders. 
We know that a monstrous bevy rises in this 
gorge, but it is a labour of Hercules to dislodge 
it. Fired, however, by the presence of our friend, 
we agree to make an attempt after luncheon. So 
we retreat to a spring, water the setters, eat our 
sandwiches, smoke our pipes, and then plunge 
doggedly into a wilderness of manzanita. The 
stiff, red branches scourge us pitilessly as we 
struggle through, and before many minutes have 
passed the three of us are on hands and knees, 
crawling at snail’s pace up a steep hill. After 
twenty minutes’ climbing, when hope deserts us, 
when hearts beat furiously against ribs, and every 
bone and sinew protests against a further advance, 
we hear a soft cluck, cluck, cluck —as of feeding 
chicks, then silence, and then a vibrant whir-r-r, 
the frenzied fluttering of a thousand wings, a thrill- 
ing sound, sweeter in our ears than the bel canto of 
a Trilby, a sound that begins fortissimo and melts 
in an enchanting diminuendo into silence. We 
know where the birds have gone, and a laugh 
breaks from A ’s lips. The choir invisible has 
flown straight up-hill to a potrero, a piece of table- 
land covered with low brush, an ideal spot for 
quail-shooting. The October sun is blazing hot, 
and the perspiration streams from our faces as we 
crawl up and onwards, but the heat will anchor 
the birds as surely as if strings were tied to them; 


284 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


so we rejoice and smile grimly, thinking of the 
prospective slaughter of the innocents. 

When we tumble into the open, A calls a 
halt, and we sip a little whisky diluted with cold 
tea, and examine our guns. Then we advance 
slowly, our fingers tingling for the trigger. We 
have agreed to fire if the bevy rises out of range, 
so as to scatter the birds, and when we do flush 
them, a moment later, are amazed at the number. 
The sun is almost eclipsed, and they spread out as 
in the beaux jours d’antan, fan-shaped, settling like 
a soft, blue-grey cloud amongst the feathery lupin 
and sage. 

We made a tremendous bag, for the birds, living 
secure in what was practically a sanctuary, had 
seldom been shot at, and were comparatively speak- 
ing tame. They were flushed in pairs and threes; 
and our friend bolstered a reputation that had been 
sorely tested during the morning. But of course 
such sport is accidental: A and I count our- 
selves lucky if we bag a dozen birds apiece after 
eight hours’ hard work. It is safe to prophesy that 
the quail in the coast ranges will never be exter- 
minated, as few sportsmen are willing to undergo 
exercise that puts to the proof brains, lungs, heart, 
and muscle. All said and done, I know of no finer 
sport. It is, and always will be, the sport of Cali- 
fornia. You shoot ducks standing at ease behind 
a blind; you kill snipe wading leisurely through 
a marsh; you bring your wood-pigeon down from 
the skies as you lounge cool and collected beneath 
the shelter of the oak whose acorns are the bird’s 
food. But quail— unless you are prepared to wan- 


Small Game Shooting 285 


der far afield (and then the disposal of the game 
presents an almost insoluble problem to the ama- 
teur) —quail, I repeat, must be hunted scientifi- 
cally and killed, as has been said, with the long 
odds in favour of the bird. 

They pair in February, and the first brood hatches 
out about the end of April, the second about the 
last of June. When the hen begins to lay the 
second batch of eggs the male takes charge of 
the first brood. Often the birds do not pair, but 
remain in bevies, although the females, without 
doubt, lay eggs in another’s nest. If the hen be 
killed, the cock will hatch out the brood, and he 
sits on the eggs while his mate is feeding. 

Longfellow uses the verb pipe in connection with 
the bob-white, — 


“Tt was autumn, and incessant 
Piped the quail from shocks and sheaves ; ” 


but pipe expresses inadequately the peculiar note 
of the Californian bird. Indeed, no musical instru- 
ment, save the human throat, can produce a perfect 
imitation of a cock-quail’s call. I believe them to 
be accomplished ventriloquists, using their art con- 
sciously. A killdee will lure a boy from her nest 
by pretending to flutter along the ground as if 
badly wounded. And a quail is surely more in- 
telligent than a ring-plover. 


WARE 
ay 


W 


XVI 


SMALL GAME SHOOTING — IL 


XVI 
SMALL GAME SHOOTING. — II 


ESIDES quail — duck, swan, geese, snipe, grouse, 
pheasants, pigeons, doves, ptarmigan, hares, 
and rabbits may be shot upon the Pacific Slope. 
We used to make tremendous bags of duck, but 
to-day it is impossible to secure more than a few 
birds in marshes where ten years ago they were 
slain by the hundred. In certain parts of California 
and Oregon there are Duck Clubs, the exclusive 
preserves of millionaires, but public opinion, as I 
have already said, is bitterly opposed to game pre- 
serving, and the law imposes but a trifling fine for 
trespass. In consequence the Club records show 
a decrease in the numbers of birds shot, and the 
price of a canvasback in a good restaurant is some 
eight shillings. 

In the good old days, the ducks flew low, and 
seldom left the marshes. Four guns properly posted 
were sufficient to keep them flying up and down the 
sloughs from dawn to dusk. To-day they fly high, 
almost out of range, and soon depart for the ocean, 
returning to their feeding-grounds after dark. The 
big ducks, like canvasbacks, mallards, and sprigs, 
fly at a tremendous pace (some say ninety miles an 
hour), and to tear them down out of the skies taxes 
the skill of the sportsman and the quality of his 
gun. As they sail over your right or left shoulder, 
it is necessary to aim well forward of the tip of the 


290 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


near wing, for shot are dropping at sixty yards, the 
initial velocity (eleven hundred feet to the second, 
I believe) being less than is generally supposed. 
As a rule the shot goes under the bird. I can com- 
pare this kind of shooting with that of killing high 
rocketing pheasants driven out of hill coverts over 
guns posted in a valley. As with the pheasants, 
you must swing your gun with the bird and con- 
tinue the swing after you pull the trigger. The same 
golden rule holds good with ducks flushed out of 
rushes. They are rising fast, and unless the gun 
rises at the same angle and pace, the bird, although 
seemingly an easy shot, is missed or tailed. Speak- 
ing of driven pheasants reminds me of amazing 
blunders made by Americans upon this subject. For 
instance, so brilliant a writer as Mr. Charles Lummis 
in his excellent book on Mexico (I cannot quote 
verbatim) sneers at the Englishman who shoots at 
battues. According to these critics tame pheasants 
flutter up in clouds before the guns, and are ruth- 
lessly slaughtered Nota paper of any importance 

1 Since writing the above paragraph I have read a book on 
America called “The Land of Contrasts,” written by Mr. Muir- 
head. Mr. Muirhead is an Englishman, and in the chapter on 
Sports and Amusements he goes out of his way to stigmatise a | 
pheasant “shoot” at Highclere Castle as “a long drawn-out 
massacre of semi-tame animals.” Amongst the guns was Lord de 
Grey, the finest game-shot in the world. Those who have had 
the pleasure of seeing Lord de Grey shoot know that he cares 
nothing for easy shooting; that he prefers to stand back of the 
guns where the “rocketers” present the hardest shots. Mr. 
Muirhead says: “It is certain” (the italics are mine) “that the 
pheasants in the bag must have been nearly as tame as barn-door 
fowls.” It is sufficient to add that Mr. Muirhead, who writes 


most ably and convincingly upon most topics, is here writing 
nonsense. He can never have seen a good “shoot” in his life ; 


Small Game Shooting 2g1 


upon the Pacific Slope has withheld criticism upon 
this subject. Grouse drives, partridge drives, pheas- 
ant drives provoke bilious comment. It would be 
impossible here to write a full defence of methods 
approved by the cream of English and Continen- 
tal sportsmen, but it may be observed that driven 
birds are never easy, but on the contrary very dif- 
ficult shooting. They fly at a high rate of speed ; 
if hit, they are generally killed, and they present 
an infinite variety of shot. The old-fashioned 
sportsman liked to see his dogs work — and who 
does n’t ?— but modern agriculture, which strips the 
fields of stubble, has made this form of sport impos- 
sible in England. More, the old-fashioned sports- 
man, accustomed to shoot his birds from behind, 
would be sure to miss a rocketing pheasant driven 
at him. Indeed, so far as these big and rather 
clumsy birds are concerned, the only sportsmanlike 
way to kill them is by driving, and when they are 
flying over tall trees with a wind behind them it 


and any English sportsman could have told him that the pheasants 
at Highclere do not present easy shots. These birds, that in his 
ignorance the writer alludes to as barndoor-fowls, come out of the 
Highclere coverts high up and flying as fast as it is possible for 
pheasants to fly. To make such a bag as Mr. Muirhead records, 
the most extraordinary skill and endurance on the part of the guns 
are required. If the old-fashioned sportsman attempted to fire off 
as many cartridges as Lord de Grey did on this occasion he would 
probably be taken home on a litter, paralysed in his muscles and a 
prey to a splitting headache. Mr. Muirhead and gentlemen like 
him who write of English institutions should be more careful. 
The international misapprehension of so many subjects which Mr. 
Muirhead deprecates is largely due—as I have said before — to 
ignorance. Who would blame Mr. Lummis should he accept Mr. 
Muirhead’s indictment of battue-shooting as “ confirmation strong ” 
of his own published opinions ? 


292 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


takes an artist to touch them. Having digressed, I 
may as well continue down a path which has 
always proved thorny to me. English sport, as 
practised by the finest shots and riders in England, 
seems to be entirely misapprehended in America, 
particularly in the West. Years ago, I remember 
a long article on fox-hunting which appeared in a 
first-class weekly paper. From beginning to end 
the. writer displayed an ignorance of his subject 
that was absolutely monumental. I wrote an 
answer, temperately worded, giving a few statistics, 
stating what fox-hunting represented in dollars to 
English farmers, the number of men employed, 
the number of horses bred for hunting, and so 
forth. My letter was not inserted. It would be 
well for writers about to abuse modern English 
methods of shooting, to consult some text-book 
(there are many) of sport, and to learn what these 
methods mean for the masses. Not only do thou- 
sands of men find healthy and remunerative employ- 
ment, but hospitals and countless poor families 
throughout the land are given large quantities of 
wholesome and delicious food. It is not too much 
to say that if the game laws of England were 
abolished, game would never be eaten at all save 
by the very rich who could afford to import it. 
None the less, nearly all men not past the prime 
of life prefer good wild shooting when they can get 
it. And to most, a mixed bag has superlative 
charms. We seldom returned from the marshes 
without mallard, canvasback, sprig, redheads, teal, 
widgeon, and snipe, with here and there a goose or 
brant, and very occasionally a swan. There are 


Small Game Shooting 293 


other varieties of duck, — spoonbills (very poor eat- 
ing), wood-ducks, and butter-balls, — but the first- 
named gave us the finest sport. 

We imported a Berthon boat, which would fold 
up and lie easily in the bed of an ordinary spring- 
waggon. The boat held two persons and proved 
most useful, although very easily upset. As a 
rule we stood in high rushes, wearing long “gum- 
boots,” with decoys spread out upon the water 
in front. You crawled into your “stand” before 
daybreak, and mighty cold work it was, turning 
out of warm blankets into half-freezing water. As 
retrievers for ducks we found nothing better than 
spaniels: most of them are slow, but they keep 
warm and are easily trained. In the East, I am 
told, they employ trained ducks as decoys, but I 
have never seen them in the West. Some of the 
market-hunters use duck-calls, but the note must 
be faithfully reproduced or the ducks will take no 
notice of it. And every variety of duck has a 
different quack. 

I shall never forget those early mornings in the 
marshes: skies and water of the colour of amber, 
the marshes russet, with here and there a patch of 
emerald, — the bright green moss of some quagmire. 
Peering out of the tall “tules” we could see the 
duck approaching. The widgeon were innumer- 
able —lines and lines of them. As they saw the 
glint of our barrels they would soar up, and the 
morning’s light would blaze on their breasts. Com- 
ing straight over your head you wait till the bird is 
lost at the end of the swinging gun; then — pull, 
and down he comes — stone dead — with a mighty 


294 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


splash! The canvasback and mallards fly higher 
and faster in more solid phalanx. The wings of 
the widgeon seem to whistle: a sound not to be 
mistaken, but the heavier ducks come with a whir 
and a rattle. Soon the morning shoot is over and 
you return to camp and breakfast with many birds 
at your belt. Oh, those cheery breakfasts! And 
the good tobacco afterwards, and the talk and the 
chaff! Then the guns are wiped out, the cartridge 
belts refilled, and you draw lots to determine upon 
whom the task devolves of flushing the ducks for 
others to shoot at. Not till evening will the birds 
fly of their own accord. 

Fortune ordains that the shortest straw is drawn 
by you, so you walk briskly off to the lower end 
of the marsh, while the others post themselves at 
different points. You will have plenty of fun and 
plenty of hard work before you see camp again. 
Just round that corner is a small pool screened by 
low rushes, a favourite feeding-place of the mal- 
lards. Listen, and you will hear them. As you 
crouch down, your spaniel crouches too, and _ to- 
gether you steal through the rustling grasses. Con- 
found it! They are not to be caught. With a 
mighty whir-r-r, and Homeric quackings the splen- 
did birds take wing. You watch them fly up the 
marsh — too high up, you think, for the ambushed 
guns. Not so. Even as you strain your eyes into 
the blue, two of the birds fall, and the double report 
of the gun floats to your ears. Good old A ! 
His sixteen-bore (which the market-hunters regard 
as a pretty toy in comparison with their huge ten- 
bores) has vindicated the famous name upon its 


Small Game Shooting 295 


barrels. As you plod on you hear another double 
shot and turn sharply, but the ducks are now 
beyond your sight. Halt! What is that? A line 
of geese, grey geese, not the white and uneatable 
variety. Are they to be stalked? For be it 
known that the grey goose is a wily bird, hard 
to kill as a Boer burgher behind the rocks of his 
veldt. Anyhow it is worth a trial, so you tie the 
spaniel — much to his dismay —to a sage-bush, 
and stop his whimpering with a gentle cuff. Then, 
flat on your stomach, you wriggle slowly towards 
the thin grey line. Presently you stop, for as luck 
would have it, a cowboy is riding near the geese. 
They will let him come quite near, and he may 
take a pop at them with his six-shooter. Then 
the odds are they will fly over your head. Just 
so. The geese rise majestically, and the old gander 
leading them steers straight for the Polar Star. 
The birds fly in a “V”-like wedge, one behind the 
other, and you pick out the third on the left. By 
Jove! They must be higher up than you sup- 
posed. You have hit the fourth. He comes sail- 
ing down with a broken wing, and you give him 
the second barrel as he tries to make off into the 
rushes. What a superb bird it is! 

The spaniel licks your hand as you untie him, 
and smells delightedly the goose, which you hide 
» at the foot of the sage-bush. There is now a big 
piece of shallow water in front of you covered 
with widgeon. These you flush for the benefit of 
those behind you. They rise far out of range and 
presently you hear a fusillade from the north. 
Here they come back again. You are snug behind 


296 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


a clump of “tule,” and get a nice right and left as 
they whistle over. One falls dead at your feet; 
the other, wounded, strikes the slough, and the 
spaniel is after him in a jiffy. The duck dives 
and the dog is puzzled. He turns to you implor- 
ing eyes. You wave him toward a mass of weed. 
There is a flounder and a gurgle. Good dog! 
What a nose he has! 

At the lower end of the marsh you flush a jack- 
snipe and miss him clean. Evidently the early 
rains and heavy frosts in Oregon have sent the 
snipes south. This will be glorious news to take 
back to camp. Meantime you are stirring up the 
duck, getting a few shots here and there and driv- 
ing them north. The “boys” are blazing away and 
must have a bag already. Gad! how hot it is! 

When you return to camp, the gwisado, or Spanish 
stew, 1s scenting the air, and you fall to with an 
appetite worthy of it. The recipe for this savoury 
dish is as follows: Into a large iron camp-pot you 
put some butter, in which you fry brown a couple 
of large onions carefully shredded. Then you add 
the contents of two big tins of tomatoes and three 
dried chillies. Plenty of salt and what game may 
be in camp fill the pot. The whole must simmer 
in the embers of a camp fire for four hours. After 
eating your lawful share of this you can say with 
the poet, — 


“¢ Fate cannot harm me, I have dined to-day.” 
If, however, you consume more than is needful, 


Indigestion, masquerading as Fate, may present a 
bill of pains and penalties. 


Small Game Shooting 297 


After dinner comes the inevitable nap, the siesta 
of the Lotus Land, and then the camp is put in 
order. At five you prepare for the evening shoot. 
Then follows supper, and the yarns and songs of 
the camp-fire ; and so—as old Pepys has it —to 
bed. 


Snipe-shooting is perhaps more fascinating than 
any other kind of sport because it comes so seldom. 
In our county I have known a couple of years to 
pass without our bringing to bag more than a few 
birds. And even in the best of seasons, they come 
and go mysteriously : here in legions to-day — gone 
to-morrow. 

We had the right of shooting snipe in a marsh 
belonging to a friend of ours, and here we have 
passed many days for ever marked with red. Our 
friend was a Southerner, upon whose genial face 
hospitality was writ large, and his wife was a 
Scotchwoman, a daughter of the Land of Cakes; so 
you may believe that we fared well beneath their 
roof. Not only were the snipe plentiful, but we 
were sure also of shooting many ducks — widgeon 
especially —and bordering the marsh was some 
capital quail-ground. Shooting snipe is a knack; 
a knack, however, that some men never acquire, 
partly perhaps for lack of practice, and partly be- 
cause they will shoot at the bird as it goes away, 
instead of just above it. A snipe rises as it flies, 
a quail does not, and I have seen good quail-shots 
miss snipe after snipe although —as they always 
explain to me afterwards — they were “dead on” 
to their bird. 


298 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


Most men wear long gum-boots when walking 
through a marsh, but they make the feet very hot, 
and unless they fit perfectly are likely to chafe the 
heel badly. My brothers and I found that lght 
shoes and stockings, which could be quickly changed 
and dried, were the proper foot-gear, and in these 
we could tramp up and down a marsh all day in 
perfect comfort. 

In a country where stock is, — cattle, hogs, and 
horses, —look for your snipe in those parts of the 
marsh where the stock has broken the ground. 
This is a hint worth having, for we have noticed 
without exception that the birds always select such 
places; and often we have tramped over miles of 
seemingly splendid snipe-ground without flushing 
a bird, and then crossing a fence into an enclosure 
used by hogs, have filled our bags. 

You cannot work your ground too carefully, for 
snipe, when they are not wild, lie close,— another 
reason which accounts for many misses. A great- 
uncle of mine told me to murmur “snipe on toast” 
before pulling the trigger — capital advice, by which 
I have profited. It is curious why a snipe should 
upset the nerves, but most sportsmen will testify _ 
that it isso. His peculiar “scape” as he swiftly 
and silently whirls into the air startles even the 
veteran ; because, perhaps, it is in itself an exclama- 
tion of surprise. 

In the West (perhaps in the East also) the 
tenderfoot is sure to be told of an original and 
certain method of catching snipe. The “boys” 
will solemnly assure him that snipe will fly into an 
open sack at night, provided a lighted candle or a 


Small Game Shooting 299 


lantern is held behind it. The travelling sports- 
man will do well to listen with keen attention to 
this ancient joke, and to accept with pleasure an 
invitation to bag snipe, insisting of course that his 
kind friends should accompany him to the nearest 
marsh. When he has set his sack and lit his candle, 
he can slip back to camp, and the expression upon 
the faces of the others when they return will be 
worth seeing. 


Grouse and pheasants are found for the most part 
in the northern woods, and it is seldom that more 
than a few birds can be shot in a day, There are 
many varieties of grouse, and many local names for 
the same variety. Prairie-hens, sage-hens, and 
ptarmigan are grouse, but the birds most common 
in the woods of the Northwest are Canace ob- 
scurus and Canace Canadensis. Canace obscurus is 
aptly called the Fool Hen, for the bird will sit on 
a pine bough and allow you to shoot at it again 
and again. For such sport a rook rifle is the only 
weapon (or a pistol). We appreciated these birds 
most in a pie. The other grouse are not so easily 
bagged, but the shooting of them at any time is 
poor sport compared with that afforded by quail 
and duck and snipe. Of pheasant-shooting on the 
Pacific Slope I am not qualified to write, having had 
little of it. Attempts have been made to breed and 
preserve the English variety (Phasianus colchicus), 
but —so far as I am aware — with little success. 
The bird found in Oregon comes, I believe, from 
Japan (versicolor), and does well in certain places. 
It would be extremely interesting if the State of 


300 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


California would undertake the breeding and pres- 
ervation of the English pheasant in some such 
place, let us say, as the Yo Semite Valley, which 
might be made a sanctuary. A pheasant is ex- 
tremely delicate when young, but an old bird is 
hardy enough, and I am of the opinion that a sus- 
tained and practical effort to add this splendid 
specimen to the list of Californian game-birds would 
be crowned with success. 


Dove-shooting is capital fun. In southern Cali- 
fornia the doves are to be found in most stubble 
fields after harvest, but only the tyro will care to 
shoot them as they flutter up in front of the gun. 
The sportsman will take his stand toward sunset 
near some pool or spring where the birds fly to 
water. If the spot is properly chosen, he will 
have an hour’s excellent sport. The birds fly at a 
great pace, presenting every kind of shot, circling 
and swooping, now high, now low, and being about 
the same size as a snipe are no easy mark. In our 
part of California and particularly upon our ranch, 
the dove-shooting used to be superb, but it is to- 
day only middling, for reasons that I am unable to 
guess at. Certainly much more land is ploughed, 
and the doves feed on the wheat and barley that 
is left on the fields, and the weed known as dove- 
weed still grows in profusion, but the birds are 
decreasing in numbers. Fat, they are nearly as 
good to eat as ortolans; lean, they are only fit for a 
pie. Curiously enough, we never experienced the 
slightest difficulty in disposing of our dead doves. 
Nothing exasperates a man more than to shoot 


Small Game Shooting 301 


game which cannot be eaten, and I have seen the 
day when a brace of mallard were hardly worth a 
“thank you” to our neighbours, but the doves were 
never refused. 

Speaking of game as food reminds me that all 
over the Pacific Slope, ducks, snipe, and quail are 
as a rule vilely cooked. I except the clubs, a few 
restaurants, and of course many private houses. 
The ducks are overdone and sometimes stuffed with 
sage and onions! The quail are split in two and 
broiled. The snipe are robbed of their trail and 
baked till they are dry and tasteless. Quail in 
particular demand considerable care in the cook- 
ing, and—if the weather permits — should be 
well hung. Many housewives skin them! They 
should be carefully plucked, draped with bacon, 
and roasted. The more you baste them, the better 
they will be, and they should be served, like 
English partridges, with gravy and breadcrumbs. 
We always add bread-sauce (against which there 
is a prejudice in the West), and enthrone them on 
squares of crisp, well-buttered toast. There are 
many other methods, but this preserves the deli- 
cate flavour of the bird and prevents the flesh 
from becoming dry and tough. In camp we cook 
them with tomatoes and corn, allowing them to 
simmer for hours, and so treated they may be 
highly commended. The Indians covered them, 
feathers and all with clay, and placed them in hot 
embers; then the clay was chipped off, the feathers 
coming away with it, and the bird eaten. I have 
tried this recipe, — only once. 

The wood-pigeons are plentiful in the fall of the 


302 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


year when the acorns are ripe. If the acorn crop 
fails, you see few pigeons, and at all times they 
are very wild. However, in the morning and even- 
ing they fly across certain divides in the hills, and 
a couple of guns posted behind blinds may enjoy 
good sport for an hour or two. Here again you 
are confronted with the difficulty of giving away 
your birds, for the wood-pigeon is a tough customer 
to eat, as he is to kill, and his flesh often has a 
bitter and unpalatable flavour. 

Of the hares (jack-rabbits) and rabbits (the 
cotton-tail), there is not much to be written. I 
can remember the time when jack-rabbits were 
never eaten, and the prejudice against them still 
lurks in the breast of the Native Son. When free 
from disease they are a wholesome and delicious 
food, and make a civet fit for Lucullus. In Fresno, 
where the jack-rabbit is a plague, the farmers 
systematically drive the rabbits into an enclosure, 
where they are killed by the thousand. In some 
parts they are coursed; and in early days the 
vaqueros used to ride them down,—a by no means 
easy feat. For a reason that I cannot logically 
defend, this form of sport always seemed to me 
cruel. I once saw a rabbit chased by a horseman, 
and at the end it leaped from a high cliff into the 
Pacific. But the argument that would condemn 
the vaguero would condemn also the fox-hunter, 
so I made no protest at the time, although I have 
never taken part in that particular form of sport 
again. The ethics of the chase are in a Gordian 
knot that I for one am unable to cut. 

The cotton-tail, darting from bush to bush, is 


Small Game Shooting 303 


good to shoot, and when shot good to eat, — his flesh 
being white and delicate in flavour as a chicken’s. 
They abound in the brush foot-hills and have fur- 
nished food to many a poor squatter. 

Sportsmen coming to the Pacific Slope for the 
small game shooting will not be disappointed if 
they engage as guide a professional market-hunter. 
I have always found these men to be capital fel- 
lows, excellent shots, fair camp-cooks, and learned 
in the lore of Arcadia. They will provide the 
camp equipage, dispose of the birds shot, and good 
sport will be assured. Commission merchants in 
Portland, Tacoma, San Francisco, or Los Angeles 
will furnish the traveller with the names and ad- 
dresses of a dozen Nimrods. It is wise, also, to 
have a chat with the local gunsmith. He will be 
glad to sell you your cartridges and to give you 
some practical hints. But, remember, information 
gleaned at second-hand must always be well salted. 
And in making a contract with a market-hunter, it 
will be wise on your part to fix his remuneration 
according to the sport he shows you. You can 
afford to be generous if he takes you to the best 
places, and your money will be well spent. 


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XVII 
SEA FISHING 


HE fish to be described in this chapter are 
the tuna, the king-salmon, the albicore, the 
yellow-tail, the black bass (or Jew-fish), the hali- 
but, the bonito, and the barracuda. These, taken 
with rod and line, will furnish the sportsman with 
three months’ ample entertainment. 
The following excerpt from an article written by 
my friend Professor Charles F. Holder for the Cos- 
mopolitan magazine is worth quoting : — 


“The activity of the tuna is only comparable to that of 
the tarpon. I have seen them leap ten or fifteen feet in 
the air, while they have been known to jump over the 
boats in pursuit of them. Sportsmen from the East have 
devoted weeks to this fish, hoping to win fame and 
honour by taking one on a rod, but so far the tuna has 
harvested the rods, reels, and lines, and is still master of 
the situation.” 


Since those lines were written in 795, some 
twenty-nine sportsmen have succeeded in bringing 
this superb fish to the gaff. The first was killed 
by Col. Morehouse, of Pasadena, in 1896. 

As the tarpon is to the fish that swim in Atlantic 
waters, so is the tuna to the finny tribes of the 
Pacific. Conceive, if you can— for imagination 
staggers behind reality —a gigantic mackerel from 


308 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


five to seven feet in length, and weighing from one 
to three hundred pounds,—a marvel of strength, 
speed, symmetry, and colour, which bears about the 
same relation to the coarse and monstrous black 
bass that the royal Bengal tiger does to the hippo- 
potamus, or Phebus Apollo to Daniel Lambert! 

My introduction to this prince of the Pacific was 
on this wise. My brother and I were trolling for 
yellow-tail off the Island of Santa Catalina. The 
sun had just risen above the low fog-banks that 
obscured the mainland, and was dispersing with 
gentle authority the children of the mist that 
loitered upon the face of the waters. Around us, 
in palest placidity, was the ocean — vast, vague, and 
mysterious ; abeam, snug in the embrace of bare 
brown hills, slumbered the tiny town of Avalon. 
We could see plainly the red fagade of the big 
hotel, the gleaming canvas of a thousand tents, and, 
dotting the surface of the bay, long rows of pleas- 
ure boats, gay with white, green, yellow, and blue 
paint, whose reflected colours danced and sparkled 
with joyous significance; for these tender tints, 
resolved into sound, murmured a rondo of recrea- 
tion and rest,—a measure enchanting to the ears | 
of work-a-day Californians, whose holidays are so 
few and far between. 

Suddenly, out of the summer sea, a flying-fish — 
the humming-bird of ocean — flashed athwart our 
bows; and then, not a dozen yards distant, the 
waters parted, and a huge tuna, in its resplendent 
livery of blue and silver, swooped with indescrib- 
able strength and rapidity upon its quarry, catching 
it, mirabile dictu! in mid-air. In a fraction of a 


LEAPING TUNA CAUGHT BY. CHAS. F: 


HOLDER. 


Sea Fishing 309 


second the deed was done; the ocean, recording the 
splash of the leviathan, rippled applause; and our 
questions pattered like hail upon the somewhat 
hard understanding of our boatman, a son of 
Alsace. 

“Yes,” he said, his white teeth in curious con- 
trast to a lean, bronzed face, — “‘ yes, messieurs, that 
is a tuna, — a two-hundred-pounder, at least!” 

Then he swore stoutly that they were not to be 
taken with rod and reel. There were men, not more 
than two or three, who boasted that they had killed 
tuna with nothing more formidable than a ten-ounce 
rod and three hundred yards of fine tarpon-line. 
These gentlemen — so said the man from Alsace — 
were amateur fishermen, and, of necessity, accom- 
plished liars. He could le himself, upon occasion, 
but in a modest way. 

“Look you, messieurs,” he added earnestly, “I, 
mot qui vous parle, have fished here for these many 
years; I have seen these fish jump fifteen, yes, 
twenty feet high into the air; I have lost lines and 
lines — shark lines and Jew-fish lines that are strong 
enough to hold a steer; and the tuna breaks them 
like this — Pouff! Gentlemen from Florida,.mes- 
sieurs, have come to Avalon with rods and reels 
that have cost hundreds of dollars, but they go 
away without the tuna— leaving their tackle on 
the beach !” 

For the week following we fished for yellow-tail ; 
but our thoughts were with the tuna — of him we 
dreamed by night and talked by day. We met the 
hero who had captured the first fish in 796, and 
absorbed the words of wisdom that fell from his 


310 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


lips. We sat at the feet of another hero, Mr. W. 
Greer Campbell, who had fished persistently for 
more than a month, and, eclipsing all records, had 
brought five tunas to the gaff. Both he and Col. 
Morehouse had fished for tarpon in Florida; both 
awarded the palm to the tuna. 

“The tuna,” said Mr. Campbell, “knows all the 
tricks of the tarpon, and a few of his own. Both 
belong to the mackerel family, but the tuna is the 
high muck-amuck of his clan. You fish for tarpon 
sitting in a boat, with the bait upon the bottom ; 
you must troll for tuna behind a power-launch.” 

The days passed, and the speaker added three 
more fish to his bag; two were gaffed in one day! 
Four other men had a fish apiece to their credit — 
no more. 

“ How do you do it?” we asked. 

“T fight them from the start,” he replied, “and 
keep on fighting. I know what my rod and reel 
can stand, and I have the best boatman in southern 
California. Much of the credit is due to him.” 

Finally, business summoned the hero elsewhere, 
and my brother and I secured James Gardner, 
Campbell’s boatman. We also engaged the same 
launch that Campbell had used, and in my hands 
were placed the rod and reel that had done such 
effective work. When my brother met me in the 
hall of the hotel at 3.30 the next morning the spirit 
of prophecy was upon him. He vowed that he had 
slept but a brief two hours, and had dreamed of a 
gigantic tuna which he had hooked and fought. 
But the issue of the combat had been left in 
doubt. 


Sea Fishing 311 


“T’m not sure,” he said, and his face was pale 
beneath the flicker of a single lamp, “ whether I 
killed the fish, or whether the fish killed me!” 

We sallied forth into the darkness and glanced 
anxiously seaward. A faint light illumined the 
bay, and across the eastern horizon quivered a bar 
of silver. 

“They ’re off Abalone Point,” said Jim a minute 
later. “Listen!” 

Indeed, splashes were distinctly audible; the 
sounds floated heavily across the grey waters, and 
our hearts throbbed responsively as we seated our- 
selves in Jim’s boat, facing the stern sheets, and 
side by side. The baits were already prepared: 
two flying-fish, some fourteen inches long. Each 
was hooked through the head; another hook, con- 
nected by piano-wire with the first, was sewn on to 
the fish’s belly; a wire trace, a yard long, and a 
stout brass swivel completed the lure, which we 
attached by means of a clove-hitch and a bowline 
to our lines. Then the launch slipped her moor- 
ings, we dropped the baits into the water, and paid 
out thirty yards of line. The game had begun! 

As we gripped our rods, Jim whispered encourage- 
ment and advice. 

“We'll get a strike within ten minutes — sure! 
You’ll think you’ve snagged a submarine island, 
and then the reel ’l1 tell you that you ’ve hitched to 
a shootin’ star! Don’t snub the son of a gun too 
much, but check him. When the strike comes, you 
just holler, ‘Let go!’ I guess I’m on to my job, 
and I’ll gamble that you don’t lose more’n three 
hundred feet of line before this boat will be goin’ 


312 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


with the fish. We’re playin’ in big luck to find 
tunies right here the very first time ye go out.” 

His oars were lying in the rowlocks as he spoke, 
and the painter was in his strong hands; the launch 
was nearing Abalone Point. But now, alas! no 
musical splash proclaimed the presence of the tuna. 
We sped here and there, now close to the beds of 
kelp, now heading straight to sea; boxing the com- 
pass in a vain quest. 

“There they are!” yelled the man in charge of 
the launch. “ Dead astern!” 

He put his trim little vessel about as we strained 
our eyes and ears; we could see nothing and hear 
as much. The senses of those who go down to the 
sea in ships are quickened abnormally ; we were 
land-lubbers, and realized the fact with shame. 

Zip! Zip! Z-e-e-e-e-e-e! 

My brother’s reel was screaming for help. Ina 
second Jim had dropped the tow-rope and seized the 
oars ; in two seconds, the blades were gripping the 
water ; in three, we were slackening speed ; in five, 
we were going astern in the wake of the tuna. 
The supreme moment had passed. Still the line 
hissed and smoked through the rings, and the reels 
shrieked more hoarsely and fitfully as the strong 
leather brake was applied. 

“ Check him — check him, sir!” shouted Jim. 

“T can’t,’ groaned my brother. “I might as 
well try and check a runaway locomotive.” 

I had reeled in my own line and was, watching 
the point of my brother’s rod. In fighting these 
Titans, both hands are needed for the reel. The 
butt of the rod is placed under one knee, and 


Sea Fishing Zo 


' gripped as a bronco-buster grips his saddle; the rod 
passes over the other knee, and the point of it 
quivers some three feet above the boat’s starboard 
quarter. To keep rod, line and fish in this posi- 
tion, and in no other, is the duty of a first-class 
boatman. 

“By heaven, he’s off!” said my brother, and I 
groaned in despair as the tip of the rod straightened. 

“Not he,” cried Jim, cheerily. “Reel in, sir, for 
your life!” 

And he did reel in—thanking the gods that he 
owned a Vom Hofe patent multiplier. For the 
tuna was still on, and charging like a bull bison. 

“Look out for the turn!” said Jim.. “When he 
sees the boat he’ll twist like a swallow.” 

The warning came not an instant too soon; the 
tuna fled kelpward, and the reel wailed a miserere 
that echoed in my heartstrings. If the fish reached 
that leafy sanctuary, he was safe. 

“Turn him!” said Jim, between his teeth. 

My brother clapped both thumbs to the brake, 
but the pride of the Pacific rushed on. 

“ Harder!” said | — “harder!” 

“Lift your leg, sir,’ suggested the guileful James. 

My brother obeyed, eying doubtfully the slen- 
der tip. The rod was brand-new, —a raw stripling 
facing the heavy guns for the first time. Would it 
stand the awful strain? By Jove — yes! 

“He’s turning!” said Jim joyfully. “The tunies 
don’t like kelp. Now he’ll put to sea, where we 
can handle him.” 

And, as he said, the tuna put to sea, steadily, in 
a straight line; no ocean-going yacht could have 


314 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


steered a truer course than he. And the light boat 
followed. I lit a pipe and smiled complacently. 

“Tt’s all right—eh, Jim?” |. 

“All right? Not much! It’s never all might 
with a tuna till he’s in the boat.” 

We skimmed over the water faster than a man 
could row; then without warning, the boat slack- 
ened speed. The fish was sounding and sulking. 
My brother smiled for the first time, and held up 
his left hand, which was trembling. 

“Don’t you rest, sir,” said the relentless James. 
“Lift him —lift him! When he takes it easy, you 
worry him.” 

My brother sighed and obeyed — using his left 
leg as a lever. Five minutes’ pumping brought the 
tuna with a rush to the surface; Jim, backing 
water, approached the quarry, and some forty feet 
of line were reeled in. Then the tuna sounded for 
the second time, and the forty feet of line hissed 
back through the rings. 

“He’s a big ’un,” observed Jim. “It may take 
three hours of this work to kill him!” 

My brother’s dream flitted across my memory. 
A glance at his face was not reassuring. Fifteen | 
minutes’ excitement and hard manual labour had 
set their seal upon him. The tuna could stand 
severe punishment; of my brother’s capacity for 
the same I was not so confident. 

“This ain’t a game of croquet,” said Jim, crown- 
ing my unspoken conclusions. “There was X ; 
He was blooded, too, but it came near killin’ the 
old man. After the fish was gaffed he lay in the 
bottom o’ the boat, limp as a dish-rag — petered 


Sea Fishing 315 


‘out, by Golly! We just poured brandy into him, 
and he’s left the tunies alone since that mornin’ — 
Thunder! What’s he doin’ now?” 

The monster had turned, and was towing the 
boat with renewed vigour towards Banning’s Bay 
—an inlet bristling with rocks and glutted with 
kelp. For forty minutes the combat was Homeric, 
but might prevailed. The tuna slowly but surely 
neared the shore. Then the inevitable came to 
pass: the line parted! 

We whistled for the launch, which hovered near 
us, and began again; but the fish were no longer 
feeding. Nota strike was registered. Yet we saw 
thousands of tuna. An enormous school of them 
was playing off Lone Point, a cape some six miles 
from Avalon. Through the multitude and around 
we passed and repassed. The fish were leaping 
with such vigour that acres of water were churned 
into foam; but our baits were unmolested. 

We returned to the hotel in time for a nine- 
o'clock breakfast. The adjective “keen” but feebly 
describes our condition. Both launch and _ boat, 
with their respective owners, were engaged for a 
fortnight; yet my brother’s thumbs were so sore 
and swollen that the effort of holding knife and 
fork proved a feat almost beyond his strength. 
During that day our tongues wagged deliriously. 
The tuna fever was upon us. 

A week glided by, bringing to us bitter dis- 
appointment. We fished patiently, morning and 
evening. The propeller of our launch had a busy 
time of it. Each inlet, cove,and bay between Seal 
Rocks and the Isthmus was explored, but the tuna 


316 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


would not strike. Despair draped us as with a 
garment. Early rising and loss of sleep provoked 
dyspepsia and irritability. My brother and the 
boatmen stared askance at me: the odious word 
“Jonah” festered in their hearts and trembled 
upon their lips. I began to ask myself seriously 
if indeed I had cast a spell upon these exasperat- 
ing fish. The very newsboys eyed us with pity. 
The outspoken sympathy of our waitress became 
insupportable. The presence of an importunate 
photographer was an insult. This wretch — he 
was on the ragged edge of eternity more than 
once — inspired in us a murderous hate: he dogged 
our comings and goings; he crushed us with inane 
questions ; he turned us from Jekylls into Hydes! 

But our purpose never wavered. We had come 
to Catalina Island to kill a tuna; a tuna—one at 
least — must be killed. 

“Warburton Pike,” said my brother, “spent two 
years in the Arctic Circle after musk-ox. In this 
lotus land we can, if necessary, pass the rest of our 
lives!” 

But fate demanded no such sacrifice. According 
to Jim, who had studied the habits of the tuna, a 
pernicious ground-swell and the absence of flying- 
fish were responsible for our ill-fortune,—a case 
of cause and defect. One heavenly morning the 
ground-swell was not, and the flying-fish were so 
plentiful that they banged their heads against the 
boat. 

“This time,” said James, “we shall have a 
strike.” 

Ten minutes later I hooked a fine fish! He 


Sea Fishing 317 


carried out nearly two hundred yards of line, and 
tried all the tricks known to the mackerel tribe: 
he rushed here and there like a mad coyote; he 
sounded and sulked; he towed the boat more than 
five miles; he circled round us with the speed of a 
planet careering through space; he jerked the line 
till it was taut and musical as catgut; he tested 
every aching sinew in my body, every fibre of the 
stout rod, every strand of that cutty-hunk line. 

But he came at last to the gaff! 

He was so done that he floated belly-up to the 
steel, and never quivered when it pierced his silvery 
side. He fought like a lion; he died like a lamb! 
His beauty, moribund, was indescribable: the deep 
peacock blue of his back melted with exquisite 
gradation into burnished silver, and from nose to 
tail he glittered with an iridescence that would put 
mother-of-pearl to the blush. We marked the dor- 
sal fin snug in its sheath, the pectorals folded to 
the side and almost invisible, the mighty tail. And 
in the moment of triumph we wondered if the law 
of the survival of the fittest had been vindicated. 

Time —one hour and five minutes; weight — 
125} lbs. 

Upon the morning following we had three strikes, » 
and lost three sets of hooks and many yards of 
line. The next day was a blank; the day after, we 
watched a four-and-a-half-hours’ fight between a 
tuna and Col. Morehouse. The fish proved the 
victor, but mercifully spared the life of our friend. 
This famous struggle was chronicled at length in 
all the local papers. Then Sunday brought us 
rest and hope. Upon Monday morning at 3.55 we 


318 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


struck into two fish — simultaneously! I lost mine 
in five seconds, and with it nearly two hundred 
yards of line. My brother was more fortunate — 
his fish put to sea; and Jim persuaded me to leave 
the boat and try trolling from the stern of the 
launch. For an hour and a half I trolled without 
a strike, then I rejoined my brother. His fish was 
still on, apparently as vigorous as ever. Jim re- 
cited the old, old story that is always new to a 
sportsman. The tuna had towed the boat some 
eight miles; he had played all the tricks; he had 
shown amazing strength, speed, and bottom; he 
must, in Jim’s opinion, prove a giant of the giants 
—the largest that had ever been hooked! 

For three hours and twenty-five minutes my 
brother fought that fish! At last, inch by inch, 
he neared the steel—a yellow-tail gaff, not three 
feet long. Jim leaned far over the gunwale. 

“‘He’s as big as a whale,” he yelled. 

Then I caught a glimpse of him, as he surfaced 
within a few feet of me. He was seven feet long 
at a conservative estimate, and thick in the 
shoulder as any prize-fighter. A-two-hundred-and- 
fifty-pounder if he weighed an ounce! 

Then, as the gaff flashed in the air, he turned and 
fled ; the reel shrieked in mortal agony. Ye gods 
and fishes! Would that wild rush never end? 

“He must have taken two hundred feet!” I 
gasped. 

“ Two hundred yards!” replied my brother as the 
monster paused; “neither more nor less.” 

The day before he had spliced a new two-hun- 
dred-yard line on to what was left of the old one. 


Sea Fishing 319 


I could see the splice vibrating between sky and 
sea. 

“He ’1l come now,” said Jim. “ Reel in, sir.” 

The fish still tugged and strained —but feebly. 
My brother admitted frankly that he personally 
was “cooked.” Very slowly the good winch did its 
work. Presently I saw the purple back, and once 
more Jim seized his gaff. Then —how can I de- 
scribe the catastrophe ?—even as Jim made his 
pass, as a who-whoop began to gurgle in my throat, 
as my brother’s set features relaxed, as doubt be- 
came certainty,—the fish broke water. I heard 
the splash, saw the tail strike the line, and caught 
Jim’s agonised groan, — 

“He’s off!” 

There is an ancient story concerning a man who 
took a load of Dutch cheeses up a very steep hill. 
As the waggon reached the summit, the tail-board 
broke and all the cheeses rolled from the top of the 
hill to the bottom; but the teamster said never a 
word. A bystander sympathetically invited him to 
swear. “No,” replied the man solemnly. “It’s 
no use, friend; cussin’ won’t help me. I—TI can’t 
do the subject justice !” 

My brother and I were stricken dumb. 

Tuna may be caught off Catalina Island, which 
lies within three hours’ travel of Los Angeles, from 
May to December; but they do not strike unless 
the flying-fish are in the neighbourhood. June is 
the best month. It is wise to troll as close as pos- 
sible to the kelp, skirting the bays and inlets. The 
tuna, like the seals, drive the flying-fish into the 
bays and keep them there. Moreover, a tuna can 


320 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


be handled to much greater advantage in shallow 
water, provided — bien entendu — that he is steered 
clear of the kelp. If hooked in deep water, he may 
sound at once. If he does this, in the fulness of 
his strength, no cutty-hunk line can stop him. 

As I write, a letter has just come from my friend, 
Professor Holder, who held the record of 98 with a 
fish that scaled 183 lbs. He tells me that he 
caught the first tuna of 99, upon the 26th of May. 
This fish tipped over the boat and was brought to 
gaff in forty minutes. Col. Morehouse of Pasadena, 
who caught the first tuna in ’96, now holds the 
record with a fish of 251 lbs., caught in three hours 
and a half. A Mr. J. H. Woods, of Lima, Ohio, 
deserves honourable mention, having (with the as- 
sistance of his boatman) played a large tuna for 
fourteen hours and fifteen minutes! 

The tackle to be used should be of the best. 
Hardy Bros. of Alnwick-on-Tweed, and Edwin Vom 
Hofe of New York may be trusted to furnish the 
stoutest rods and reels. In Florida, tarpon fisher- 
men scorn to use line heavier than eighteen-ply; 
the tuna has not yet been captured with a cutty- 
hunk finer than twenty-one; twenty-four is the 
favourite. When your quarry sulks he must be 
lifted, or at least snubbed ; a fine line under such a 
strain snaps like pack-thread. A sixteen-ounce rod 
(split bamboo) should be bound from the butt to 
within three feet of the tip. The broken rods, so 
far, have generally snapped within a foot of the 
reel, I understand that Mr. Hardy has built a 
double-cane tarpon-rod with steel core. With such 
a rod, binding, doubtless, is unnecessary. 


Sea Fishing 321 


The king-salmon stands next to the tuna in my 
affections, and may be taken with rod and reel in a 
dozen different localities on the Pacific coast, but 
seldom south of Santa Barbara. Monterey bay is a 
famous hunting-ground. At Santa Cruz are found 
boatmen, tackle, bait, and in the season, dozens of 
enthusiastic fishermen. My brothers and I have 
caught numbers of these fine fish off Port Harford. 
They vary in size from eighteen to forty pounds. Sir 
Richard Musgrave, I believe, holds the record witha 
monster of seventy pounds, taken with rod and reel 
at the mouth of the Campbell River. A cast of this 
salmon can be seen in the museum at Victoria, and 
no less august a paper than the Spectator chronicled 
its capture. 

The bait is a fresh sardine, or, failing that, a large 
spoon. The rod should be light, stiff, and not too 
short ; the reel should hold not less than five hun- 
dred feet of fifteen-ply cutty-hunk line. The 
authorities disagree as to the use of a sinker, but no 
rule can be laid down. I use a light sinker, and 
instruct my boatman to pull slowly in and around 
the schools of sardines, herrings, and anchovies, 
upon which the salmon feed. Failing in these 
tactics, I have substituted a heavier sinker, and 
trolled below the schools of bait; the salmon have 
then bitten freely. Of their comings and goings 
knoweth no man with certainty. December, Jan- 
uary, February, and March are the best months, 
but, like wapiti, they shift their quarters with exas- 
perating swiftness. Instruct your boatman to wire 
you the news of their advent, and lose not a moment 
in taking the next train to the fishing-ground, 

21 


322 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


-I think sea salmon-fishing is especially to be com- 
mended because the fish visits this State during the 
dullest season of the year. (I speak, of course, from 
a sportsman’s point of view.) And they bite freely 
during the day. Early rising is quite unnecessary. 
Moreover, the hills and vales of California are wear- 
ing spring’s mantle; even in December the bleak, 
brown slopes of the coast range begin to glow with 
tender tints, and the turbulent trade-winds are rag- 
ing elsewhere. Upon land and sea lies the promise 
of peace and plenty, and the charm of this Friih- 
lingslied cannot be set down in printer’s ink. 

The salmon makes a game fight, but he must miss 
the ice-cold waters of his northern home. His first 
rush is not always the worst. Sometimes he comes 
like a lamb to the steel, but at sight of it sounds 
with the speed of a stone dropped into a well. He 
is a past-master in the art of hammeringa line In 
the clear waters of the bay where I fish you may 
see him, deep down, shaking his thoroughbred head 
and striking the line with his tail. As he nears the 
surface you mark the superb proportions that are 
his insignia of royalty. Light coruscates from his 
silvery scales as from a Golconda diamond. He 
looks what he is —a king. 

I leave His Majesty with reluctance, and turn to 
my friend the yellow-tail, sometimes called the 
white salmon. To the salmon, however, he is not 
even of kin. He belongs, strangely enough, to the 
pompanos (these delicious fish are esteemed by 
epicures an extraordinary delicacy), to the caran- 
gide, and his particular style and title is Seriola 
dorsalis, Until quite recently this handsome fellow 


Sea Fishing 323 


was not found north of Point Conception, but of 
late large catches have been made in Monterey Bay. 
I have caught them off Pismo wharf in San Luis 
Obispo County, but Catalina Island is their home. 
Here they may be taken with rod and reel for nine 
months in the year— from April to December, and 
taken by the score! 

The yellow-tail is stronger and speedier than the 
salmon, but he has a plebeian love of kelp, and is 
tricky as any street Arab. No spoon with seduc- 
tive shimmer will tempt the Beau Brummel of 
Catalina. He turns aside from smelt and sardine 
if they swim ever so slightly askew, and he seldom 
swallows tainted bait — unless cast to the void as 
chum, when he proves himself less particular than 
a turkey buzzard. If he disapproves the lure he is 
apt to rub himself contemptuously against it, with 
results that (to him) must prove amazing. Many 
foul-hooked fish are caught thus. 

You troll for this dandy, sitting comfortably in a 
chair facing the stern sheets, and the boatman who 
knows his business will use plenty of chum and row 
around, not through, the schools of fish. At Cata- 
lina, James Gardner, Arnold Hotson, William Sar- 
now, Harry Elms, and Mexican Joe, have studied 
carefully the habits of the yellow-tail; a blank day 
with any of these men in the boat is almost impos- 
sible. Out of one school it is not uncommon to take 
half a dozen fish. 

The wise man hugs the kelp forest, but keeps 
an eye to seaward, for the presence of a school of 
yellow-tail is not to be mistaken. As soon as the 
fish strikes, the boatman must pull from the shore, 


324 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


even at the risk of breaking the line. For this 
reason slightly stouter tackle than that used for 
salmon is necessary. The first rush is always 
magnificent, and the reel sings shrilly, high up 
in alt. I myself use a twelve-foot rod, light and 
flexible, that describes under pressure the most 
enchanting parabola. The rods sold as yellow-tail 
rods in San Francisco and Los Angeles would serve 
excellently well as gaff-handles, but they are poles, 
nothing more nor less, and most singularly ill- 
adapted to the uses to which they are put. They 
are so short and stiff that a fish smartly turning 
will snap a twenty-four ply line as if it were 
thread. I believe my rod was the longest ever 
seen upon Avalon beach, but many good sportsmen 
expressed approval of it. My brother used a light 
lance-wood rod, some nine feet long, which was in- 
expensive and effective. Yellow-tail tackle — rods, 
reels, lines, and hooks —can be bought in Avalon. 
No first-class articles, however, are kept in stock. 
These fish vary greatly in weight, running from 
fifteen to sixty and even seventy pounds. We used 
eighteen-ply line, but fifteen, I am convinced, is the 
sportsman’s size, and of this, five hundred feet are 
amply sufficient. After the first mad rush the fish | 
generally heads toward the boat; you think he is 
off the hook, but are soon most agreeably undeceived. 
As a rule, he resorts immediately to sounding and 
sulking. Under firm pressure he will surface, and 
sound again, repeating these tactics till he has ex- 
hausted both himself and you. So savagely does he 
sound that most fishermen wear a specially con- 
structed belt, an abdominal protector that holds 


Sea Fishing 325 


securely the butt of the rod. I prefer, personally, 
to fish for yellow-tail as one must, willy-nilly, fish 
for tuna,— with the butt beneath my right knee, 
and firmly grasped there, and the point of the rod 
above the starboard quarter of the boat. The left 
leg, over which the rod passes, can be used to advan- 
tage as a lever, and both hands can thus be devoted 
to the reel. 

At times the yellow-tail may be taken at the 
Isthmus by casting from the shore. The water is 
shallow and free from kelp, and the fun fast and 
furious. Unfortunately, the Isthmus is fifteen miles 
from Avalon, and the prospects of sport are precari- 
ous. When the fishermen draw their seines the 
yellow-tail follow the small fry into the shallow 
water, driving them ashore, thus supplying the 
angler with an abundance of fresh bait. Unless 
you actually see your quarry, casting at the 
Isthmus is labour wasted. 

In trolling for yellow-tail the bait should swim, 
not spin, at least thirty yards behind the boat. 
Authorities disagree upon the nice question of giv- 
ing the fish the butt when he strikes. Tweedledum 
says “Sock it to him!” Tweedledee asserts that 
the handsome knave will hook himself more surely 
if not interfered with. Personally, I side with 
Tweedledum. arly in the season, certainly to 
the end of July, the best grounds are to be found 
between Jew-fish Point and Church Rocks. After 
the first of August the largest catches are made 
between Lone Point and the Isthmus. The ama- 
teur will be guided in such matters by the pro- 
fessional experience of his boatman. 


326 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


The sea-bass affords capital sport, but he is not 
to be taken at Catalina after the middle of July. 
Later he may be found farther north; as I write 
(August 11th) the waters of Port Harford Bay are 
swarming with these fish. They are caught in nets 
at almost all seasons of the year, but in different 
localities. At Catalina they begin to bite freely 
about the middle of April. You must troll for 
them with a big smelt as a lure, and a fifty-pounder 
will give you a hard fight. Yellow-tail tackle 
should be used, and a short rod. I emphasise this, 
because the sea-bass is a sounder and sulker, and 
must be pumped to the surface again and again. 
He combines in his handsome person the beauty 
of salmon and yellow-tail, possessing the silvery 
scales of the former and the golden iridescence of the 
latter. A certain coarseness mars his appearance ; 
he lacks the quality of salmon, and sometimes he 
plays the poltroon and comes sluggishly to the gaff. 

The albicore may be taken with rod and reel at 
Catalina throughout the year; but you cannot make 
certain of his capture at any time. He likes plenty 
of chum, and the best lure is a mackerel or a flying- 
fish. He is a tuna in parvo, and knows all the 
tricks of his tribe. In weight he ranges from forty 
to seventy pounds; he loves blue water and plenty 
of company ; he is frolicsome as a kitten, strong as 
a tiger-cat, and a voracious glutton. 

His first cousin, the bonito, worthily sustains the 
family traditions as a fighter anda dandy. He is 
no sulker, and taken with an eight-ounce rod and 
trout-tackle, affords glorious sport. His rushes to 
and fro are positively bewildering to the most ex- 


He A. VAGCHELE, BLACK BASS—LARGESDT 3205005; 


cree. es ie a 


Pear 


le 


Sea Fishing 327 


perienced angler, and you are never certain of him 
till he strikes his own death knell upon the bottom 
of the boat. He may be hooked with jig, spoon, 
dead or live bait, and is to be found in the spring, 
summer, and autumn, between Point Conception 
and San Diego. My brothers and I have caught 
them at Port Harford and Pismo in August, Sep- 
tember, October, and November. 

These fish, like all mackerel, run in schools, and 
may be corralled, so to speak, by the abundant use of 
chum. I commend casting for them from the stern 
of a boat, and a small mackerel spinner is a deadly 
lure ; if this fails, a sardine or anchovy may succeed. 

I must emphasise, even ad nauseam, the necessity 
of employing light tackle when fishing for bonito. 
At Catalina, yellow-tail rods and lines are generally 
used, even by sportsmen. The fish are mercilessly 
reeled in, knocked on the head, and ultimately 
thrown away as refuse. Stout cutty-hunk line is 
about as well adapted to play an eight-pound fish, 
as an elephant gun would be to kill a quail on 
the wing. Bonito, moreover, should be salted and 
smoked; their bellies, delicately broiled, make a 
breakfast-dish fit to set before Lucullus. 

To the halibut I am under obligations for many 
hours of excellent entertainment. He is not an 
aristocrat either in appearance or by birth, but he 
is a fighter, strong and speedy, and a heavy-weight 
withal. At Port Harford, during the late summer 
and fall, he may be taken with spoon, or dead bait. 
A heavy sinker must be used, as this fellow feeds 
on or near the bottom, and your boatman must be 
instructed to row slowly and hug the shore. The 


328 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


fish strikes vigorously, stampedes with terror when 
he feels the barb, but soon tires. My heaviest hali- 
but scaled twenty-eight pounds ;. but fish weighing 
several hundred pounds are often taken with hand 
lines! They are found anywhere and everywhere, 
but seldom linger long in the same place. A friend 
of mine, who has studied their habits, says they 
bite most freely when the water is clear, and as the 
tide begins to flow. This has been our experience. 

The barracuda comes last but one, and, like the 
bonito, merits better treatment than it receives at 
the hands of sportsmen. At Catalina, during the 
months of May, June, and July, these fish are 
slaughtered by the thousands. The power-launches, 
at times, are nothing else but shambles reeking with 
blood and slime; the stands of the boatmen hang 
heavy with them every evening; and the importu- 
nate photographer drives a roaring trade. 

The barracuda seldom weighs more than ten 
pounds, and affords fair sport if taken with light 
tackle. Any lure will serve, if he be biting, but he 
is an expert at disgorging. You will know him 
long before you see his lithe, sinuous body, by reason 
of his arrowy rushes and habit of shaking the hook. 
He seldom sounds, and never sulks, but easily tires. 
I have seen millions of these fish lying together, 
packed like sardines, side by side, motionless and 
deep down. At these times they never feed. Again 
I have seen them playing upon the surface of the 
water, lashing the summer seas into foam, too busily 
employed to make way for launch or row-boats, and 
falling, of course, an easy prey to both. 

The black bass, Stereolepis gigas, is, I believe, not 


Sea Fishing 329 


often caught north of Point Conception. He is a 
huge beast, as truly peasant as the tuna is prince, — 
coarse, ugly, strong, and obstinate. He feeds in or 
near the kelp, and is a lover of carrion, particularly 
the red flesh of tuna or albicore. But the bonne 
bouche that he prefers to aught else is a live white 
fish or rock bass, carefully hooked below the dorsal 
fin. Mr. S. M. Beard, so I understand, was the first 
man to capture this monster with rod and reel. In 
a number of Outing, — which I regret to say I have 
been unable to procure, — Mr. Beard has described 
the fight, which lasted many hours. The fish 
weighed two hundred pounds. 

Since then Mr. Rider has held the record of the 
largest fish taken with rod and reel (line not thicker 
than twenty-four ply), a record beaten last summer 
(99) by Mr. T. S. Manning, who brought to gaff a 
bass of 330 lbs. Mr. Ridev’s fish weighed just three 
pounds less. 

The two bass shown in the accompanying illustra- 
tion were caught by me on a hand line. [I fished 
for two days —eight hours a day — anchored off 
Silver Cafion, Catalina Island, in a ground-swell that 
exacted tribute from a boatman who had served a 
sixteen years’ apprenticeship to Neptune; I held in 
hand my rod, with tuna reel and line attached, but 
had not a single strike. However, even with hand 
lines, black bass-fishing is exciting and not without 
a leaven of danger. Woe to the wight who fights 
the Jew-fish without gloves! I have seen scars 
that attest the Sheeny’s strength and the angler’s 
carelessness; a finger might easily be lost in such 
an encounter, 


330 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


This fellow approaches the bait with gutter-bred 
caution and suspicion, and bears it hence ready to 
drop it at an instant’s notice: The fisherman feels 
but a gentle nibble, and allows the line to slip 
through his fingers. When six feet of it are gone, 
he stands up, and strikes! The massive hook must 
be driven home into a jaw that is hard and tough 
as sole leather. Then the monster flies kelpward, 
and must be turned if possible. He shows fair 
speed, but is a sluggard compared to the tuna. 
None the less he tugs and strains with right good 
will, putting your biceps and triceps to the proof. 
Give him slack and he escapes; no fish that swims 
can rid himself of a hook with greater ease than 
he. Finally, the steady strain tells upon his craven 
spirit, and he floats passively to his death. As he 
lies alongside a stringer is passed through his gills 
and out of his mouth and the ends made fast to 
the ring in the stern sheets of the boat. Then the 
boatman dispatches him with a single thrust of a 
keen knife. Dying, he manifests those vast mus- 
cular forces that properly exercised would have 
given him life and freedom. With his broad tail 
he churns the water into foam; with every roll of 
his gigantic body he threatens to overturn the 
boat. It is magnificent, but it is not sport! 

My largest black bass weighed three hundred and 
twenty pounds. 


The charm of sea-fishing is cumulative. Apart 
from the infinite variety of the sport itself, and 
above it, is the mysterious spell of ocean, of which 
so many men, from Ulysses to Louis Stevenson, 


Sea Fishing aa 


have testified. And here, in southern California, 
where winds blow but blithely and storms are not, 
who can resist the sweet voice of the Pacific? To 
those who live upon the seaboard she calls night 
and day, in simple language that needs no inter- 
preter. To the sportsman she promises much goodly 
entertainment and exercise ; to women and children 
she warbles joyously of health and happiness; to 
the weary bread-winner she whispers — REsv. 
Yet how few of us give ear! 


XVIII 


FRESH WATER FISHING 


XVIII 
FRESH WATER FISHING 


HEN many years ago an English officer was 

sent to Oregon — the Great Emerald Land 

—to report to the English Government upon its 

value and resources, he is said to have written these 

words: “Country not worth a d n. Salmon 
won't take the fly!” 

And this curse — for so an angler will regard it 
— still clings to the lovely streams and rivers of 
the north. The salmon refuse to rise to the fly. 
However, they snap at the glittering spoon and 
other baits,and once hooked, a salmon in condition 
will prove as game as the fish of Canada, Scotland, 
or Norway. 

On the Pacific Slope there would seem to be five 
species of salmon : the king-salmon (the tyhee or 
quinnat), the dog-salmon, the blueback, the hump- 
back, and the silver-salmon. Dr. Jordan, President 
of the Leland Stanford Junior University, and an in- 
ternational authority upon ichthyology, says: “Of 
these species the blueback predominates in the Fraser 
River and in the Yukon River, the silver-salmon and 
the humpback in Puget Sound, the king-salmon (or 
quinnat) in the Columbia and the Sacramento, and 
the silver-salmon in most of the streams along the 
coast. Only the quinnat has been noticed south 
of San Francisco. Of these species the king-salmon 


336 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


and blueback habitually ‘run’ in the spring, the 
others in the fall.” 

In the rivers near Mount Shasta, such as the 
Pitt River and the Macloud, the strength of the 
current and the numerous obstacles in the streams 
and along the banks add immensely to the sport. 
More than one angler has had to swim to save his 
fish, and if you happen to hook a ten-pounder in 
the rapids, you will be ready to swear that he is 
three times his actual weight. Accordingly, the 
sportsman who is unable to leave California would 
do well to make Sissons his headquarters. Sissons 
can be easily reached by train from San Francisco 
or Portland; but it is hardly necessary to add that 
if you want fishing extraordinary you must be pre- 
pared to camp out. There are very few places on 
the Pacific Slope where a man can enjoy first-class 
sport and sleep every night in a good hotel near the 
railroad. 

Most men have their favourite spoon, but I pre- 
fer what is known (I think) as an Eel River spoon: 
of the size used for large steelhead. Sometimes the 
salmon only take a lure that looks as large as a 
sardine tin, but my brothers and I have had better 
fortune with the small article. It is impossible to 
lay down any rule. For the rest, ordinary salmon 
tackle is required. A Greenheart rod — about 
fourteen feet long (with several tips)— is more 
likely to stand rough usage than a split bamboo, 
and is easily spliced if broken. The simpler the 
reel, the better. Some American anglers use auto- 
matic reels, but for salmon spinning and trolling, 
the stout winch which was good enough for our 


“AVAULS LAOWL NVINWOXITVO V 


Fresh Water Fishing 337 


grandfathers will prove in the end the most satis- 
factory. I should like to be able to say a kind 
word for American tackle, for the very best articles 
are superb, but there is an enormous quantity of 
trash on the market, and the middleman makes his 
profit out of the trash. Moreover the best is very 
expensive. I speak from bitter experience, when I 
urge the traveller to buy nothing but the best, and 
to buy that, if he can, in England, where he will 
pay just half what the crack Eastern makers will 
demand for their wares. Tackle, unfortunately, 
cannot be tested in a shop. I have bought flies 
and lines and traces which on the closest inspection 
seemed as good as they could be, and have had to 
throw them all away after a week’s fishing! Most 
of the so-called waterproof lines “knuckle” after a 
few days’ work! } 

If time is no object to the angler, I should advise 
him to travel straight to Victoria in Vancouver’s 
Island, and on the rivers north of this pleasant 
town he will find, between the first of April and 
the end of October, sport so good that unless he 
is very keen he runs the risk of becoming glutted 
with it. He will learn on arrival that trout-fishing, 
not salmon-spinning, is the one topic of anglers, for 
trout take the fly, and the fishermen of Victoria 
hold the spoon in contempt. 

No matter what river you choose, the fishing 
(nine times out of ten) must be done from a canoe. 
With a little practice two men can fish comfortably 
out of the same boat. You drop down stream till 
you come to a likely place, and then throw out a 
small anchor. The streams are wide, and the water 


338 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


very clear; so itis important to get out as much line 
as possible, casting your fly close under the bank. 
The rainbow trout average about a pound apiece, 
but five and six pounders are not infrequently 
caught. My brother and I would change ends 
every half-hour, for the man in the bow of the 
canoe fishes the left side and the man in the stern 
the right side of the river, and a change eases the 
muscles. As soon as a big fish is hooked, it will be 
prudent for the other fellow to reel in and lend a 
hand with the landing-net. A hint as to the use 
of the net. Many fine fish are lost at the supreme 
moment because the net is improperly used. The 
fish floating exhausted to the side of the boat is ladled 
out of the water as if he were a spoonful of por- 
ridge. If he has a kick left in him, he will resent 
this treatment, with a result that may be left to 
the imagination of the reader. And the more 
troubled the water, the more likely he is to break 
the line when he sees the fatal net. He should 
be tenderly coaxed half-way between the stem and 
stern of the canoe, and the net noiselessly held 
behind him. Then relax the strain, and in a jiffy 
he is in the toils. This rule is laid down, I sup- 
pose, in all the text-books, but I have seen it more 
honoured in the breach than the observance. 

The fly of flies for these turbulent northern rivers 
is the Jock Scott, of the size used in Scotland for 
small grilse. Buy plenty of these, tied by the best 
man you know, and take others of the same size and 
colour, like the Silver Doctor, the Silver Grey, the 
Silver Wilkinson, the Blue Boyne, and that deadly 
insect, the Alexandra. These, I am aware, are all 


Fresh Water F ishing 339 


salmon flies, but you can buy them of the smallest 
size, and in bright weather, on clear water, they 
ought to prove deadly. If a fish rises short, put 
on a smaller fly, and remember the Scotch maxim, 
“A bright fly on a bright day, and a dark fly on 
a dark day.” Toward dusk, the Coachman, the 
Royal Coachman, the Coch-a-bondhu, and the White- 
wing may be tried. The March Brown, the Red 
Spinner, and all the hackles are excellent. You 
will catch most of your trout early in the morning 
and after six in the evening, but there is generally 
a splendid rise in the middle of the day which 
seldom lasts more than three quarters of an hour. 
Not the least part of the fun is poling up the 
rivers, and the passing of swift rapids exacts a 
nice adjustment of muscle and brain. The Siwash 
Indians are adepts at this work, and you will see 
one seemingly feeble old man poling a heavy 
bateau against a stream that you would pronounce 
irresistible. Those who can punt always fancy 
themselves at this game, till they have found out 
by trial the difference between rivers like the 
Thames and, let us say, the Cowichan. The man 
who poles uses his knee against the gunwale of 
the boat, and obtains thereby immense power. If, 
however, his pole should slip, the man’s centre of 
gravity being outside the boat, it is almost impos- 
sible to avoid a bath. The secret of poling, like the 
secret of wrestling, is using the strength of what is 
opposing you. If the current strikes the canoe at 
a certain angle, a slight effort on the part of the 
poler will send the boat up stream. Suffer the 
stem to swing ever so slightly, and the canoe will 


340 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


be whirled round and round like a leaf in a mill 
race. 

Sometimes you can wade, particularly in summer 
when the water is low. For this work you want 
wading-boots, not too light, and a fishing bag, not 
a basket, with two watertight compartments, one 
for the fish and the other for your fly-book. A 
good fisherman nearly always presents a workman- 
like appearance, and details seemingly unimportant 
must not be neglected. A badly fitting coat, for 
instance, will cause intense annoyance and discom- 
fort. You should buy a Norfolk jacket with what 
is called an expanding pleat, a coat which gives the 
arms full play. The inside pockets of this must be 
large and lined with waterproof which you can 
take out, wash, and dry. 

Of the trout which swim in Pacific Slope rivers 
and streams, the largest is the steelhead (Salmo 
gairdnert), often miscalled the salmon trout, be- 
cause the flesh is pink. These fish may be caught 
in most streams in the spring, and afford excellent 
sport, running in weight from four to fourteen 
pounds. They take the spoon more readily than 
the fly, but we have caught very many with the. 
latter. My brother was fly-fishing one afternoon 
and hooking fish after fish, to the intense astonish- 
ment of a youth on the opposite bank, who was 
using the worm with no success. He (the youth) 
was not able to see the fly, but he concluded from 
my brother’s actions that whipping the water was 
the only way to catch fish; accordingly he began 
thrashing the surface of the stream with worm, 
float and sinker, to my brother’s great delight. He 


Fresh Water Fishing 341 


worked away for nearly an hour and finally crossed 
the river and begged my brother to tell him why 
the fish were rising in one part of the stream and 
not in another. 

Next to the steelhead in size comes the cutthroat 
trout, to be known at once by the deep orange- 
coloured blotches under the throat. After the cut- 
throat follows the glorious rainbow trout, which — 
according to Dr. Jordan— may be distinguished 
from the young steelhead by the smaller scales of 
the latter, — there being in the rainbow trout about 
130 in the lateral line, and in the steelhead about 
150. Last but not least is the Dolly Varden, 
which, in salt water, grows to an immense size, and 
which swarms in the streams and inlets of the 
North. 

These are the principal species, but there would 
seem to be many varieties. From the culinary 
point of view, trout vary in an extraordinary degree. 
Out of the same creel, filled with fish of the same 
species, caught in the same place, some prove deli- 
cious and others only middling. In Lake Cowichan 
we found a hideous parasite, something like a 
lamprey, which attaches itself to the big trout. 
The fish afflicted by this loathsome reptile were 
always thin and out of condition, and showed but 
poor sport. In the streams this parasite is washed 
off by the swiftly flowing water, but in the rivers 
we caught trout with the mark of the beast upon 
them. 

Speaking of lake trout, I am inclined to believe 
that if you want to capture the monsters you must 
troll for them at a depth which demands the use 


342 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


of a heavy sinker; and the heavier the sinker the 
worse the sport. We caught some leviathans in 
Lake Cowichan, using immense spoons, but the fish 
taken on the surface with grilse flies were always 
small,— under two pounds. Fishing in the lake 
we invariably caught twice the weight of fish taken 
in the river, but we soon grew tired of the lake, 
whereas the beauty and charm of the river never 
palled. To those who are not prepared to camp 
out, no better place than the Cowichan Hotel can 
be found. It is within a few hours’ travel of 
Victoria, and situated upon the edge of the lake. 
You can jump from your bed into eighteen feet of 
pellucid water! And the hotel is most comfortable. 
You are provided with boats and luncheons, and 
dinner is served when you return, no matter how 
late the hour may be. In most American hotels, if 
you miss the regular meals you must go without 
proper food, but across the border the tavern- 
keepers are more considerate. What man will 
leave a river when trout are rising freely? But 
it is hard indeed after a strenuous day with rod 
and pole, to return home to cold meats and a 
colder welcome. 

Trout-fishing in California, particularly in south- 
ern California, and in smaller streams of Washing- 
ton and Oregon, is tame sport. As a rule, the 
fish are very small, averaging about a quarter of a 
pound, and in many places may be caught by the 
sackful! 

It is almost impossible to get reliable information 
about good trout-fishing in streams and rivers. 
The lake-fishing is another matter. I have found 


Fresh Water Fishing 343 


it to be a rule without exception that if you insist 
upon first class sport, you must pay a stiff price 
for it. To reach rivers that are not, comparatively 
speaking, fished out, you must travel far and wide, 
and then —as with small game shooting — there 
is the problem of what to do with your fish. In 
the North, the Siwash Indian will smoke them for 
his own use in the winter, and if you go far afield, 
it will be necessary to take one or two of these 
fellows with you. They can be hired, according 
to their age and accomplishments, at a wage some- 
where between fifteen and forty dollars a month. 

You will find three rods, with extra tips, quite 
sufficient: one, as I have said a Greenheart, the 
other a split bamboo for light work, and a stout 
trolling-rod. You will do well to take a rifle with 
you, for sooner or later (particularly in the fall) 
you are sure to see a bear. Bruin loves fish, and 
when the salmon are running, he will stand on a 
sand bar and scoop them out of the water. More- 
over, upon the banks of all the northern rivers 
berries grow in great and varied profusion, and 
Bruin is a glutton for fruit. Black-tail deer too are 
common, and if Fortune smiles upon you, it is 
possible that you may have a shot at a wapiti. 

If you can sketch, your enjoyment will be doubled. 
The colour of this Far Northwest is enchanting. 
And the cool, lonely woods possess a fascination 
that some artist may learn to transfer to canvas. 
The great age of the moss-bearded pines and 
spruces and redwoods pricks the fancy. Beneath 
their fragrant boughs primal man still wanders. 
To the artist, these ancient groves are the sanctuary 


344 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 


of the past, into which the pilgrim of to-day should 
pass reverently as into aisles hallowed by centuries. 
Through them roll the great rivers to the sea. 
Standing in the shade of the huge ferns, I have 
seen the canoes of the Indians glide by swiftly and 
in silence. The men at prow and helm are as 
graven images of bronze. A minute passes and 
they are gone — whither? But the pines and 
cedars remain. 

Now and again you hear the mournful cry of the 
loon, the bird banshee of the lakes, —a cry so plain- 
tive, so pitiful, that it would seem to be the sobbing 
protest of life against laws under which life has 
being. Or the silence is fractured by the crash of 
some falling tree, and you remember that a few 
miles away is a logging camp, and that the years 
of even the patriarchs are numbered. 

To those who have lived in this Silent Land, and 
who are constrained to return to the noisy market- 
places of the world, there comes a nostalgia of the 
woods and streams, a yearning love that feeds upon 
the memory and is never satisfied with its food. 

What message do these solitudes hold? What 
secret? And for whom will they break the silence — 
of the centuries? Surely some Daniel will inter- 
pret for us the writing upon these shining walls. 
And the message, we may predict, will be strong 
and tender and true, —a gospel of purity and peace, 
of rest and of renunciation also. 

May we live to read that message ! 


APPENDICES 


I 
A FEW STATISTICS 


HESE statistics are taken for the most part from 
the “Commercial Statistician ” for 1900 published 
by the San Francisco ‘‘Chronicle.” I am under obliga- 
tions to Mr. M. H. De Young for permission to use 
his figures. It will be seen at a glance that the fruit 
industry in California has received at last the attention 
it deserves at the hands of the world. In the Annual 
Report of the California State Board of Trade written 
by General Chipman, the Chairman of the Industrial 
Resources of California, I find this significant paragraph, 
which I quote in full: “The year of 1898 was a year 
of drought in portions of the State, and it was a year of 
much injury from frost. It has been generally supposed 
that the fruit industries, as well as the cereals, suffered 
severely, and that there would be a large falling off in 
shipments. Let us examine the tables. They were made 
from the returns of the Transportation Companies, and 
represent actual shipments to points in other States. 
For the data as to shipments by rail, I beg to acknowledge 
my obligations to Mr. A. D. Shepard, General Freight 
Agent of the Southern Pacific Company, and to Mr. 
W. E. Bailey, Auditor of the Santa Fé System. The 
shipments by sea are compiled from the annual issue of 
the San Francisco ‘Journal of Commerce.’ 

“In 1897 we sent away of fruit (including nuts), wine, 
brandy, and vegetables, by rail and by sea, 48,072 car- 
loads (of ten tons each). In 1898 we sent away 56,149 
carloads. The following table compactly shows the gain 


348 Appendices 


and loss of each class carried into the table, expressed in 
carloads of ten tons each. 


TABLE OF GAINS AND LossEs, 1897 AND 1898 COMPARED. 


Carloads of 10 Tons each. 


Kinds. 1897. 1898. Gain. Loss. 

Green deciduous. 7,235.0 OY ee 261.8 
Citros froita "60: 9,854.7 | 18,065.9 8,211.2 SUAS ane 
Dried fraitis! ))./ 00s 7,515.9 | 7,666.3 150.4 
Walaa ee sie 3,906.5 | 4,779.6 873.1 
1 7 AR Rept 580.8 581.6 8 tah eel 
Canned fruits. . . T.G4G/4 Ty | DBZ yb onus 2,124.4 
Vegetables. . . . 4.794:6 1). 3,847.0 4 vane sos 888.6 
Wines and brandy . 6,897.8 | 9,014.0 | 2,116.2 

fhe a Ne 48,071.7 | 56,149.6 | 11,351.7 | 3,274.8 

Net gain, carloads | .....]..... 8,076.9 


‘¢ Remembering the frost damage in certain localities and 
injury from drought, where water was not obtained for 
irrigation, this is certainly a most gratifying result. The 
increase in citrus fruit cannot fail to challenge notice. 
The best previous year for this fruit was 1895, when we 
sent away 11,582 carloads. But 1898 exceeds that year 
by 6,476 carloads, and 1897 by 8,211 carloads. It is 
also gratifying to note that of 1898 shipments of oranges 
589 carloads went from Northern California. Since we 
commenced to ship oranges from the north, the record 
stands: 1893, carloads, 4; 1896, carloads, 81 ; 1897, car- 
loads, 286 ; and last year, 589. Considering that the first 
oranges to ripen come from the north, and go into home 
consumption largely, this is an encouraging showing. 

‘The increase in raisin shipments over 1897 was 873 
carloads. The largest previous shipment of raisins was 
in 1894, being 4,695 carloads; the industry began to 


Appendices 349 


decline after that year. I think its recovery is directly 
attributable to the placing of a protective tariff duty 
upon Zante currants (a competitor of raisins), towards 
the accomplishment of which this Board exerted a very 
considerable influence. To the present schedule of duties 
is due also a better feeling as to the citrus industry. 
The large increase in wines and brandy gives evidence 
of better times for the producer. The increase was about 
30 per cent over 1897.” 

I now append a table showing the gains of ten years. 


1888. 1899. 

Dried prunes, Ibs... . . . 8,050,000 96,500,000 
Figs, BAD Aah hs Bae 175,000 2,000,000 
Raisins, . eee Ma LAE 19,000,000 66,000,000 
Peaches BiG .S 7 teh ual dial te 8,650,000 8,000,000 
Apricots, meen eed te the 3,250,000 5,000,000 
Apples, PUM y ae aD le tach ire 550,000 5,000,000 
Pears, Hon Whaat eee ee 150,000 5,000,000 
Plums, or Mulla envied. \k & 365,000 2,500,000 
Beet sugar Pe orak ee sankey 4,280,000 42,500,000 

RE MIRE EN SO) ne Kea linea: ratte Ye 44,470,000 232,500,000 


Of canned fruits put up in cans weighing two and a half 
pounds, and packed in cases containing two dozen cans, 
we find in 1888, 1,368,000 cases, and in 1899, 2,900,000 
cases. Of fresh fruit sent East in 1895, there were 4,568 
carloads against 6,469 carloadsin 1899. Of oranges, there 
were 1,325,000 boxes exported in 1895, against 3,654,000 
boxes in 1899. I cannot quote the figures for 1888. 

In looking over the above tables, it will be noted that 
the crop of apricots and peaches in 1899 was small. The 
crop of 1897 in apricots (dried fruits exported) was 
30,000,000, and the exported crop of dried peaches in 
the same year 27,150,000. 


350 Appendices 


CEREALS. 
Our Wheat Crop. 


Our wheat crop for 1899 was about an average 
one. The acreage and yield since 1893 have been as 
follows, according to the estimate of our State Board of 
Agriculture :— 


ACREAGE AND YIELD SINCE 1893. 


Year Acreage. Bushels. Per Acre. For U.S 
1893 2,875,307 31,964,559 11.1 11.4 
1894 2,587,568 26,071,510 10.0 13.2 
1895 2,033,938 20,779,832 10.2 13.7 
1896 2,423,585 29,655,174 12.2 12.4 
1897 2,665,943 30,586,310 11.4 11.4 
BARS (0 hb iatad ei se 12,404,166 Ar 

1899 2,995,445 30,833,333 10.2 


The relative position of California as a wheat producer 
has been as follows for the past three years : — 


Wueat Crop, 1897. 


Bushels. 

WVU LY ats ie fi a) ay ee 
United: States). <5 wale) sie... (90, bale eet Ge 
COM EOPRI iis yg eM ce Sai a 32,394,020 

Wueat Crop, 1898. 

Bushels. 

WE ced. secon! Bak oe peat), ng ae en ae 
WIG (SURES oo. as \ ts | se ls Nae 710,000,000 
Calstornie i. scl ay we ie ote 12,404,166 

Wueat Crop, 1899. (Estimated.) 

Bushels. 

Worlds seg) Bo it A 
United ‘Sbates i) alco ie tenet wit 717,300,000 


Californie 3p. 5, is. 45. \ at tea tae 30,833,333 


Appendices 351 


From the foregoing we may infer that, roughly speak- 
ing, California usually produces about 6 per cent of the 
wheat crop of the United States and 1 per cent of the 
world’s crop. 

The value of the wheat crop of the State for the last 
three years, including the estimate of 1899, has been as 
follows :— 


1897 at $1.40 percental . . . . . . $27,159,720 
1898 at $1.15 a A rage Boca 6,670,000 
1899 at $1.05 “ UR ill oe). celal ws 6! ee tN 


The prices per bushel are 84 cents, 69 cents, and 63 
cents for the respective years. 


The Barley Crop. 


Next to wheat the principal cereal crop of the State is 
barley, of which we export large quantities to Europe for 
brewing purposes. The requirements of barley for malt- 
ing purposes are light colour, plump grain, and weight 
not less than forty-six pounds to the bushel. It must be 
clean and free from broken grains. The quality of our 
barley is such that it finds the highest favour with 
European brewers, and we always have an assured mar- 
ket at the highest prices for all the barley which we can 
produce that complies with brewing requirements. Barley 
is a comparatively small item of the grain exports of the 
United States, and of the total shipments California 
furnishes by far the greater part. In fact, the United 
States exports of barley fluctuate almost in a direct 
ratio with the size of the California crop. For example, 
in 1897, when California produced 26,309,325 bushels 
of barley, the exports from the United States were 
11,237,077 bushels (fiscal year 1898), while of the crop 
of 1898, which in California amounted to but 11,413,043 
bushels, the exports from the United States fell to 


tes Appendices 


2,267,403 bushels. Since the harvesting of the crop of 
1899 exports of barley from this State have rapidly 
increased, and, for the first time in the history of the 
State, our exports of barley have exceeded those of wheat, 
the comparative figures from the Ist of July to this 
writing being as follows : — 

Barley and wheat exported since July 1, 1899: 


Centals. Bushels. 
WY eG Sat ea a VeP ABLES 2,441,858 
Barley Marea eh et) aah’ ve Seen Riga 5,196,130 


The value of the barley exported exceeds by more than 
$300,000 the value of our exported wheat. It will also 
be noted that during the first six months of shipments 
of the crop of 1899, the exports of barley from California 
alone have been more than double those of the previous 
full fiseal year from the whole United States. 

Our production of barley since 1893 has been as 
follows :— 


CALIFORNIA BARLEY PRODUCT — BUSHELS. 


Year. Acreage. Product. Per Acre. 
1893 702,321 16,780,952 23.8 
1894 972,449 20,834,470 21.4 
1895 1,071,998 22,913,617 21.4 
1896 918,384 19,837,094 21.6 
1897 1,052,373 26,309,325 25.0 
A) 1 Od TR ae, 11,413,043 


1899 | *971,847 | 20,782608 | 21.3 


* Estimated. No figures of acreage of 1898. 


Prices of barley are materially lower than last year, 
when the great deficiency in our crop raised the prices 
for feeding to a figure only limited by the price of im- 
ported maize. A price of $1.25 per cental would perhaps 


Appendices 963 


be a fair rate at which to estimate the value of the barley 
crop of 1898, and 85 cents is perhaps a fair estimate of 
the value of that of 1899; upon this basis the crop 
of 1898 was worth $6,562,500, and that of 1899, 
$8,075,000. 


Corn and Oat Crops. 


There are no reliable statistics of the corn and oat 
crops of the State. The State Board of Agriculture 
collects the data of acreage of all cereal crops as reported 
by the County Assessors, and upon the best information 
attainable estimates the yield per acre, and from these 
computes the total crop. The Secretary of the Board 
does not pretend that these figures are reliable, but only 
that they are the best approximations that can be made 
with the means supplied by the State. They are pub- 
lished only biennially, and this is not the year for their 
publication. There are no commercial estimates, although 
“ ouesses” are sometimes made. I am therefore only 
able to reproduce the figures given last year, which are as 
follows : — 


Crops or Corn AND Oats. 
Corn. Oats. 


Acres. Bushels. Per Acre.} Acres. Bushels. Per Acre. 


1893 | 71,676 | 2,319,257 | 32.3 | 61,039 | 1,406,350 | 23.0 
1894 | 98,011 | 2,613,516 | 26.6 | 120,229 | 3,384,007 | 21.4 
1895 | 93,945 | 2,556,500 | 27.2 | 111,367 | 3,160,661 | 27.4 
1896 | 85,531 | 2,602,730 | 30.4 | 116,527 | 3,433,920 | 30.0 
1897 | 81,264 | 2,753,000 | 33.7 | 122,253 | 3,670,500 | 23.0 


Oats are not considered a profitable crop in California, 
except in the moist lands. 
It will be noted above that the yield in bushels of wheat 
23 


354 Appendices 


per acre, while it compares favourably with the yield per 
acre in other States of the Union (being about eleven 
bushels per acre), is less than one-third of what is obtained 
in England, and one-fourth of what is harvested per acre 
in Denmark. This is significant. American farmers do 
not, as a rule, prepare the ground properly; they use 
little guano, and summer-fallowing is the exception rather 
than the rule. Those who have given this important 
subject the attention it deserves, are of opinion that im- 
proved methods will enhance enormously the average 
yield of wheat per acre throughout the United States. 


WINE. 
1888. 1899. 
Wine in gallons . . . 7,305,000 . . 13,150,000 
MIscELLANEOUS. 

1899 Wool Crop 29,500,000 Ibs. 

ae Hops 8,325,000 “ 
1898 Butter 23,691,321 “(No returns for 99.) 

i Cheese 5,148,372 << 


I regret that I am unable to obtain reliable figures in 
regard to other industries: cattle, hogs, horses, the bean 
crop, the olive crop, the amount of honey, etc.; but 
the returns from the lumber industry obtained for the 
first time are not without interest. The commercial 
woods of California are redwood, sugar pine, yellow pine, 
spruce, cedar, and fir. The returns show the output for 
1898 in thousand feet. 


REpDwoop. SuGAR PINE. YELLOW Pine. SPRUCE. CEDAR. Fir. 


276,451 42,176 180,454 22,688 2,015 24,210 
Total Redwood) 3s. ee a, PGS SG 
Total all otharg.) .( 0) 2) is ie | eh eae 


Total all Binds |) 6) \sdvat) del ie eee! OOS tee 


Appendices 


355 


THE MINERAL PRODUCTIONS OF CALIFORNIA FOR 


SEVEN YEARS. 


Compiled by Cuaruzs G. YALE, Statistician. 


Under the direction of A. S. Coorrr, State Mineralogist. 


1893. 

Quantity.| Value 
50 $2,250 
50 2,500 
950 161,250 
32,000 192,036 
7,910,563 593,292 

none none 
3,319 49,785 
103,900 801,750 
24,855 67,284 
72,603 167,555 
239,682 21,571 
_ 12,422,811 
628,272 
1,620 14,280 
50 2,000 
250 2,000 
333 24,975 
_— 301,276 
271,500 256,875 
1,093 10,930 
270 4,050 
~ 40,000 
590 26,795 
383,179 190,667 
— 68,500 
— 27,000 
470,179 608,092 
15 517 
30,164 | 1,108,527 
99,600 199,200 
50,500 213,000 
— 26,314 
— 537,157 
3,000 1,000 
400 17,750 


eT EC . | | | — | ——_ 


1891. 
Quantity.| Value. 
Antimony, tons. . none none 
Asbestos, tons 66 $3,960 
Asphalt, tons 4,000 40,000 
Bituminous rock, tons 39,962 154,164 
Borax, pounds . . | 8,533,337 640,000 
Cement, barrels 5,000 15,000 
Chrome, tons 1,372 20,580 
Clay (brick), M. . — — 
Clay (pottery), tons 100,000 50,000 
Coal, tons. . 93,301 204,902 
Copper, pounds . 3,397,455 424,675 
GIG Arai te tiirati'a — 12,728,869 
Granite — 1,300,000 
Gypsum, tons . 2,000 20,000 
Infusorial earth, tons none none 
[ron ore, tons = _ 
Lead, tons 570 49,020 
Limestone and Lime _— 300,000 
Macadam, cu. yds. — = 
Magnesite, tons . 1,500 15,000 
Manganese, tons 705 3,830 
Marble . . — y 
Mineral paint, tons 22 880 
Mineral water, gals. 334,553 135,959 
Natural gas 5 — 30,000 
Onyx and Travertine — 2,400 
Petroleum, barrels 
Of 294 pele } 323,600| 401,264 
Platinum, 0z8. . . 100 500 
Met TER Ibe. flasks || 92,904 | 1,036,386 
Rubble, tons . —~ — 
Salt, tons . 20,904 90,303 
Sandstone . —~ 100,009 
Serpentine, Bi ft. _ ~- 
Silver _ 953,157 
Slate, squares - 4,000 24,000 
Soapstone, tons. . _ _ 
soda, tons. «. « “« os = 
Tin, pounds... 125,289 27,564 
Totals)... 6 $18,872,413 


1892. 
Quantity. Value. 
none none. 
30| $1,830 
7,550 | 75,500 
24,000! 72/000 
11,050,495 | 8387787 
5,000} 15,000 
1,500| 227500 
100,000 | 50,000 
85,178 | 2097711 
2,980,944 |  342°808 
— | 12,571'900 
ie 1,000,000 
2,000} ” 20,000 
none none 
680| 54,400 
Le 300,000 
1,500} 15,000 
300 3,000 
ue 115,000 
25 750 
331,875} 162,019 
ies 55,000 
ei 1,300 
385,049 | 561,333 
80 440 
27,993 | 1,139,600 
93,570 | 104,788 
as 50,000 
ae 463,602 
3,500} 21,000 
162,000} 32,400 
$18,300,168 


$'8,811,261 


356 Appendices 


THE MINERAL PRODUCTIONS OF CALIFORNIA FOR 
SEVEN YEARS. (Continued.) 


1894. 1895. 1896. 


Quantity.| Value. | Quantity.| Value. | Quantity.| Value. 


Antimony, tons. . 150 $6,000 33 $1,485 17 $2,320 
Asbestos, tons . . 50 2,250 25 1,000 none none 
Asphalt, tons .. 11,698 233,800 25,525 170,500 20,914 362,590 
Bituminous rock, tons 31,214 115,193 38,921 121,586 49,456 122,500 
Borax, pounds . . {11,540,099 807,807 |11,918,000 595,900 |13,508,000 675,400 
Cement, barrels . 8,000 21,600 16,383 32,556 9,500 28,250 
Chrome,tons . . 3,680 39,980 1,740 16,795 786 7,775 
Clay (brick),M.. . 81,675 457,125 131,772 672,360 24,000 524,740 
Clay (pottery), tons 28,475 35,073 37,660 39,685 41,907 62,900 
Coal, tons. . . 59,887 139,862 79,858 193,790 70,649 161,335 
Copper, pounds. . 738,594 72,486 225,650 21,901 |} 1,992,844 199,519 
Gold skh 55 eas - 13, 923, 281 _ 15,334,318 aaa 17,181,562 
Grane: cic ei _ "295, 797 — 297,667 — 278,588 
Gypsum,tons . . 2,446 24,584 5,158 51,014 1,310 12,580 
Infusorial earth, tons 51 2,040 none none none none 
Tron ore, tons . . 200 1,500 none none none none 
Lead, tons .. 475 28,500 796 49,364 646 38,805 
Limestone and Lime _ 337,975 _ 457,784 — 332,617 
Macadam, cu. yds. 441,967 369,438 840,650 700,987 646,646 510,245 
Magnesite, tons. . 1,440 10,240 2,200 17,000 1,500 11,000 
Manganese, tons . 523 5,512 880 8,200 518 3,415 
Marblex. 0 — 98,326 ~~ 56,566 _ 32,415 
Mineral paint, tons. 610 14,140 750 8,425 395 5,540 
Mineral water, gals. 402,275 184,481 |. 701,397 291,500 808,843 337,434 
Natural gas . . — 79,072 — 112,000 — 114,457 
Onyx and Travertine _— 20,000 —_— 12,000 = ; 

eee wale t} 783,078 | 1,064,521 | 1,245,339 | 1,000,235 | 1,257,780 | 1,180,793 
Platinum, ozs. . . 100 600 150 900 162 944 
Gee vey Ine se 30,416| 934,000| 36,104] 1,337,131] 30,765 | 1,075,449 
Rubble, tons. . . 219,933 295,400 | 414,038 394,952 | 313,973 329,639 
Salt, tons.) 4.) % 49,131 140,087 53,031 150,576 64,743 153,244 
Sandstone. . . — 113,592 — 35,373 = 28,378 
Serpentine, — feet — —_ 4,000 4,000 1,500 6,000 
Silvers ost 4 — 297,332 — 599,789 — 422,464 
Slate, squares . . 1,800 11,700 1,350 9,450 500 2,500 
Soapstone, tons. . none none 25 375 none none 
Boda. OBE eh ihe) 1,530 20,000 1,900 47,500 3,000 65,000 
Tin, pounds: .° . + _ — — — — _— 


_ FE | | Ss 6s | 


etal icine ea $20,203,294 $22,844,664 $24,291,398 


Appendices 357 


THE MINERAL PRODUCTIONS OF CALIFORNIA FOR 
SEVEN YEARS. ( Continued.) 


1897. 

Quantity. Value. 
mnimeny. tong ys 3. et; 25 $3,500 
Asphalt, tons . . ssi ia ih 22,697 404,350 
Bituminous rock, tons ah ac ae 45,470 128,173 
RPMS HOMES RA.) slay 'yenedieit § 8,000 1,080,000 
Cement, Teter ee OL ori ty 18,000 66,000 
Clay (brick), 1 RS Rea ae cy OO 97,468 563,240 
Clay (pottery), PROT ya.) ay aera ie 24,592 30,290 
Coal,tons .. sifted eahware ne 87,449 196,255 
Copper, dais ee aon aya 13,638,626 1,540,666 
Gold . A RUC MYMEL NEN 0 — 15,871,401 
Granite, cu. ft. . ~ de R RS QUUI 339,288 188,024 
Gypsum, ARE eet cits SIE! Yates a 2,200 19,250 
Infusorial earth,tons ... . 5 200 
PML ABOMNGE S050 gk 596,000 20,264 
LO a) 287,800 252,900 
umestone, TOMS 0s). 66. ea 36,796 38,556 
Macadam, toms;.;. os fa. 5 487,911 313,087 
Magnesite,toms . .... . 1,143 13,671 
Maneranese, tons < .). |... 504 4,080 
Marble, CHAE SB OREN AE Date ae 4,102 7,280 
Mineral Ba a i ghee 1,155,280 8,165 
Mineral waters, gals5. . . . , 1,508,192 345,363 
Watural vas) cu.ft. 29.0.0. 63,920,000 62,657 
Having, blocks,,Mo . 6... 1,711 35,235 
Elam, os. 150 900 
Petroleum, rere treamery 5) ornare 1,911,569 1,918,269 
Quicksilver, 11 TERRI 8 26,648 993,445 
BROS Bane Cbg 333,212 287,025 
Salt, tons. . Say KP ueu a 73 67,851 157,520 
Sandstone, cu. ft. ai ie erat SM ia Re 77,000 24,086 
Serpentine, 1 Pa RR SS aa 2,500 2,500 
NT RA OSE Ge NB aT — 452,789 
Pkite; Sqmaresy Le Uae 400 2.800 
Soda, LORS FT Lae sh tis 5,000 110,000 

PP ORAE A pe vcrant att at tre ay ans $25,142,441 


TE eT SO Oe 


358 Appendices 


Tur RELATIVE PosiTION OF CALIFORNIA TO OTHER STATES. 


Population . . . Twenty-second | Honey ........ First 
Wealth, percapita. ... First IPFUIMIES vs2 lei viels fei Veh u eta sis First 


BIZO A 6) feltiasere Lite seeeetidiedace i BECOLE OPAMP ES!) lert acta ite) Leta ianirs First 
Savings deposits . . . . Fourth BEANS j6i')/5, ost Peace Ihe First 
Gold output . . . . . . Second WOOL! five lice eration elidel te eee enn 
Wheat yield . . . . . . Second BOTH se Pert is ae ett e a aie First 
Raisins’. 6.16 cs ple eh iyety eo) (AES (IN EREB Ns) Ais ter hal ata he Biot iaath (OCOHE: 
LOPS) res erie sh evnsy Petal OCC ONG df RERDS 9) het clin?) aitigeeitat Nea hts First 
Barley jes\re sc se etiouned) <5 SGCONE Lemons. . . sie First 
ay eros | ayes kp eialars Fifth Expenditure for ee . . Kighth 
Bamber) (5) 3); 50 js Wee, SeconG. Ooicksilyer stele ce eon First 
Wines .... =. =. +. . ~~ First | Teachers’ salaries (average). First 


CONDITION OF CALIFORNIA BANKS. 


281 Banks. 285 Banks. 282 Banks. 
RESOURCES. 1897. 1898. 1899. 
Bank premises. . . . . | $7,174,93288 | $7,105,03431 | $6,865,426 30 
Other real estate... 15,130,612 03 | 17,594,326 88 | 18,334,109 40 


Invested in stocks, bonds 
st peal ier aly >| 40,292,194 19 | 52,340,237 14 | 66,297,031 54 


Loans on real estate . hid 116,794,723 21 | 111,283,35018 | 107,104,395 41 


L ks, bonds, and 
eect oy PERS Ae 18,458,983 18 | 19,041,115 21 | 20,631,893 72 


Loans on other securities . : 4,449,314 29 7,295,105 59 7,298,780 31 
Loans on personal security 51,109,071 30 57,815,271 76 60,326,997 84 
Money onhand . . 24,001,393 01 31,242,296 76 | 31,968,016 03 
Due from banks and bankers 21,875,832 36 23,451,148 01 34,312,678 36 
Other assets . 1. . . . 3,128,399 17 3,724,645 74 5,307,639 11 

Totals . . . . . . |$302,415,455 62 | $330,892,531 58 | $358,446,968 02 

LIABILITIEs. 

Capital paid up $52,224,381 85 | $50,870,258 21 | $46,801,318 62 
qink eels and Profit 1] 97,549,123 39 | 28,296,58414 | 29,128,504 78 
Due depositors. . - - - 206,481,600 45 | 232,709,284 16 | 256,864,395 47 
gjecny sl ean and Saas rt 100,545 71 177,718 29 491,478 95 
Due banks and bankers. 9,292,573 04 12,380,739 94 14,044,910 68 
Other liabilities . ... 6,767,231 18 6,457,946 84 11,121,359 52 


Totals . . . . . . | $02,415,455 62 | $330,892,531 58 | $358,446,968 02 


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II 
HORTICULTURE 


HE first questions for the would-be horticulturist to 
determine are: industry and locality. In Cali- 
fornia he has the choice of hill or valley, of the seaboard 
or the interior, of climates which include the snows of 
Shasta in the north, and in the south the everlasting sun- 
shine of San Diego. Of the many industries which 
challenge attention, it is sufficient to name the prune, the 
apricot, the peach, the olive, the apple and pear, and the 
citrus fruits : the lemon and orange. 

The settler of course wants as much as he can get for 
his money ; and I take for granted that he has, or will 
have, a wife and family. It behoves him, therefore, to 
consider not soil and climate alone, but those advantages, 
social, educational, and religious, lacking which life in a 
new country may prove not worth the living. A man of 
small means cannot afford to make mistakes ; he has no 
capital to squander in costly experiments ; and it is cer- 
tain that he will make mistakes, that he will lose both 
time and money, unless he is prepared to profit by the 
experience and advice of others. On this account alone 
it is absolutely necessary to select a locality where the 
industry adopted has passed the experimental stage. 
Most young Englishmen, particularly those of the upper 
and upper-middle class, make their homes in places where 
Ishmael would starve. They try to combine two things 
which have no affinity for each other, viz., sport and 
money-making. Accordingly, they buy cheap land far 


Appendices 361 


from civilisation, and discover too late that a little rough 
shooting is but a sorry equivalent for poverty, isolation, 
and wasted endeavours. 

In horticulture the best soil, the best climate, the best 
advice are none too good for the man whose future happi- 
ness and prosperity are at stake. And so, if prune-grow- 
ing be the industry chosen, I would urge the settler to 
buy land in Santa Clara county in preference to other 
counties, not because the prune will not thrive elsewhere, 
but because the prune output of this county is nearly 
three times greater than the entire product of the rest of 
America, and has a larger income from its fruit than any 
other county in the world. In like manner, the man 
who proposes to devote his energies and capital to the 
cultivation of oranges and lemons would be justified, in 
my opinion, in going south, to Orange, Riverside, Los 
Angeles, or San Bernardino counties, instead of north to 
Oroville ; not because the Oroville oranges are in any 
respect inferior to those grown in the south, but because 
the south is par excellence the citrus fruit belt of the 
world. And let it be remembered that land (even in the 
heart of Santa Clara county) varies immensely: you will 
find thin, gravelly, unproductive soil side by side of the 
richest alluvial deposits. 

The settler will ask — How can I, a stranger, tell the 
good from the bad? The answer is obvious, and lies on 
the tip of a thousand tongues. In a thickly settled com- 
munity scores of persons may be found who will tell you 
the history of the piece of land in question. Find out what 
crops grew thereon, who owned it in the past, the nature 
of the subsoil, the depth to water, and so forth. It is 
inexpedient to accept blindly the testimony of one wit- 
ness as to the merit or demerit of any piece of land, parti- 
cularly if that witness be owner or agent ; but Truth may 
be found, if you seek for her diligently. 


362 Appendices 


Cheap land is nearly always poor land. And it will 
pay the horticulturist to give more than its value for the 
good rather than Jess for the bad. The men who have 
failed as fruit-growers bought, as a rule, cheap land, 
planted cheap trees, and employed cheap labour. 

The highest priced land lies within a few miles of the 
large towns, but on that very account it offers irresistible 
advantages to the man of small means. While your 
trees are coming into bearing, you must support yourself 
by labour, or by the sale of berries and vegetables and 
eggs and poultry. In the big fruit-growing districts of 
California, men, women, and children can earn good 
wages picking, packing, and canning the fruit, while the 
merchants gladly buy the small products of the farm. 
In fine, a man of muscle and intelligence can make a 
handsome living upon a few acres near a large town, 
whereas he would probably starve upon a government 
claim of 160 acres five-and-twenty miles away. 

Let it not be forgotten also that proximity to a town 
enables the horticulturist to sell his crop, either on the 
tree, or picked, or dried, without any tedious and perhaps 
expensive delays. More: if, for reasons unforeseen, he 
wishes to go elsewhere, his land near a town will sell 
quickly ; in the hills, far from railroad and civilisation, 
a ranch, however good, may hang for years upon the 
owner’s hands. 

I submit some figures, but I anticipate criticism of 
them, for I am aware of the amazing discrepancy between 
the experience of two men, let us say, living side by side, 
growing the same fruit, both successful, both entitled to 
speak with authority. My figures, collected at first hand, 
represent the mean between extravagance and a too rigor- 
ous economy. 

Roughly speaking, the cost of setting out a vineyard, 
or an orchard of prunes, or peaches, apricots, apples, 


Appendices 363 


olives, or cherries, is about the same. Citrus fruits are 
more expensive, as will be seen. And the profits are less 
variant than one might suppose, if an average be struck 
between the fat and lean years. The income should be 
at least ten percent on the total investment, and often 
very much more. 

Table showing prices of land per acre : — 


Hill land for deciduous fruit... . . . . $30 to $50 
Valley land for deciduous fruit .. . » «100: to. 200 
Land, without water right, for citrus ee gis) ey As 
Land, with water right, for citrus fruits . . . 200 to 300 
Land, with water right, and of the choicest qual- 

ity, near Riverside . . . . . . « » 800 to 400 
Orchard in bearing of deciduous fruit elle 8 SOO tee 
Orchard in bearing of citrus fruit . . . . . 500 to 2000 


These prices are for land in the choicest localities and 
situated near large towns. Some land companies in the 
State undertake to sell valley land, plant it to trees, 
deciduous or citrus, care for the same during three years, 
and then turn it over to the purchaser. Their figures 
average per acre $250 for deciduous fruits, $300 for olive 
trees, and $350 for citrus fruits. I cannot commend this 
system of purchase. Corporations are said to have no 
conscience, and it is obvious that a company cannot give 
to these orchards the individual care they need. An 
orchard is like a kindergarten: each tree in it has its 
idiosyncrasies. If you do not wish to do your own work, 
it is possible to find in the districts I have named reli- 
able orchardists who will take charge of your property. 
I have made contracts with such men to plough, culti- 
vate, prune, and supervise orchards of deciduous fruit at 
rates ranging from $8 to $12 per acre. These rates do 
not include, of course, the picking and drying of the fruit. 

In Santa Clara county, an orchard of prunes or apricots 


364 Appendices 


in full bearing should pay a net profit of $100 per acre. 
Many pay more, very many pay far less. In and around 
Riverside and Orange are groves of ten acres which pay 
an annual income of $3,000, but an average grove is not 
nearly so remunerative. At the same time, what man 
has done, man can do, and the horticulturist who fails 
nas generally nobody but himself to blame. 

I can remember the time when wiseacres predicted 
that horticulture in California would be overdone. Since 
then the different fruit-growing industries have assumed 
a stupendous importance, and to-day California’s orchards 
and vineyards bring in more money than the exports of 
her cereals. A glance at the statistics at the end of this 
appendix will satisfy any intelligent person that —as 
Horace Greeley predicted more than forty years ago — 
“Fruit is destined to be the ultimate glory of California.” 

With new markets opening in the Philippines and all 
over the Far East, with an ever-increasing demand for 
her wares at home and abroad, with cheaper transporta- 
tion, with co-operation on the part of producers, with 
better and more economic methods of handling her pro- 
ducts, Horticulture in California holds out her arms to 
the world, not overdone, not played out, but young, fresh, 
and vigorous— another Atalanta, rejoicing because she 
has outstripped all competitors. 


A Suort CareEcHIsmM OF INTEREST TO HoRTICULTURISTS. 


Q. What is the cost of planting one acre to prunes, 
peaches, apricots, or vines ? 

A. The prune is par excellence the fruit, for although 
an apricot or peach orchard costs no more to cultivate 
and care for, and the peach bears in three years, yet these 
fruits — while they command a higher average price than 


Appendices 305 


the prune —are more subject to climatic changes. It is 
better to have an average crop of prunes every year than 
_a bumper crop of apricots one season and a total failure 
the next. In the estimates submitted, cost of trees is 
not counted in. Prunes may be bought (the French is 
the leading variety) from 4 cts. up to 7 cts.; apricots, 
8 cts. ; peaches, 8 cts. and 9 cts. Vine cuttings are worth 
90 cts. to $2 per thousand, and the cost of setting out a 
vineyard, with the vines from seven to eight feet apart, 
and cultivating the same till maturity, is about two-thirds 
that of setting out an orchard of prunes where the trees 
are one hundred to the acre. 

The following estimate was taken from the books of a 
responsible prune-grower. It is the total cost of setting 
out and caring for a fifty-acre prune orchard, including 
every expense item: not omitting interest, computed at 
9 per cent on original investment, and the cost of 
squirrel poison, etc. I believe that orchards can be set 
out and maintained for much less, but the man who 
bases his figures upon mine is within safe territory. 


FEM EE soe kt NORE BTS 

2nd “ LA aaa oe) La 577. 

ord.“ Saar aie te 503. 

4th “ VF a eae ae 499. 

Sth “ 0 Cheep ae 571. 4 crop may be counted on. 
oy A IOS aN Feng a ¥ ee 


In the 7th year the orchard comes into full bearing. 

Roughly speaking, it will be seen that the annual cost 
of an orchard per acre after the first year is about $10. 

The second estimate submitted is from an orchardist 
located upon our ranch. He is thoroughly responsible 
and capable. He is willing to agree with any intending 
purchaser to plant an orchard to prunes, to take care 
of it entirely for the sum of $20 per acre for the first 


366 Appendices 


year, $11 per acre for the second year, and for every 
succeeding year $10, turning over to the owner the pro- 
ceeds from fruit after the fourth year, less expenses of 
picking, drying, etc. 

Q. In how many years do these trees bear remunera- 
tive crops ? | 


Peace 47s Pe ied eh tig, vo ey Het | fe ee ne 
PRNCE fads aie tay tes Mas ie a ein st et aE ee 
PRATER fe) EY se Vleet lie. Weing /iny, Maoeeneog lO. ee 
VORB a Src SMD her Urner oh 9 ont ence ee ten 


Q. What is a remunerative crop ? 

The value of a crop is determined by the laws of 
supply and demand, but generally speaking a small crop 
commands a big price, and a big crop a small price. The 
wise man must strike an average between the $2,000.00 
received for the crop of cherries from one acre, and the 
total failure from an acre of the same fruit near by. 
Roughly speaking a fair prune orchard in full bearing 
should net to the owner not less than $100 per acre per 
annum, taking the average price of the green fruit at one 
cent per pound. To-day it is lz and 2 cts. per pound. 

Q. How may pests be combated ? 

It is a fact that in California means have been found 
to successfully destroy all pests that attack trees or. 
vines. In the brief limits of a pamphlet it is impossible 
to describe at length the different methods of the lead- 
ing horticulturists. Exact information can, however, be 
obtained. In no other part of the world have orchards 
and vineyards suffered so little as here ; no danger need 
be apprehended from this source by the _ horticulturist 
who is willing to profit by the experience of others. 

Q. What is the cost of lumber, rough and surfaced, 
and commodities ? 


Appendices 367 


Rough lumber . . . . . . $13 00 per thousand 
Surfaced lumber . =... . 2100 “ o 
LE Ue Oe Oe Sy OF Rae ee | 
22 RAR OP a 25 “ pound 
Lc Us Ra Ele AULD MA BE BE TO. by 
pt ee aS i * 
Meee NES Se bee cai! 09 “ " 


Clothing and furniture are as cheap now as in the 
Eastern and mid-Western States, and a working man can 
feel comfortable in canvas overalls every day of the 
year. 

Q. What employment can be found by orchardists and 
vineyardists ? 

Fruit-picking in the orchards and vineyards, and work 
in the canneries, dryers, packing establishments, and 
Wineries give employment to thousands of men, wornen, 
and children. In the winter and spring there is work to 
be obtained by any man in possession of a stout team. 
None need be idle. Labour is worth from $20 to $40 
with board. A good mechanic will work and supply his 
own board at $3 to $5 per diem. Cooks command $25 
a month and board. Second girls $15 a month. Girls 
from the East can always find employment at these figures, 
The supply of female help is far below the demand. 

@. Can money be made in the poultry business, with 
berries, melons, etc. ? 

Yes; eggs and poultry always command a ready sale 
and a fair price. Turkeys, geese, ducks, and chickens 
do well throughout the year. The poultry yard of a 
thrifty orchardist should pay easily for the clothing of 
the family. Broilers average from $3 to $5 per dozen, 
eggs from 15 cts. to 30 cts. per dozen. Berries, melons, 
vegetables, etc., can easily be raised and sold or traded 
at local stores. California produces an enormous crop of 
berries, and every farmer ought to raise, between the trees 


368 Appendices 


of his young orchard sufficient vegetables for his own use, 
and enough besides to pay his butcher’s bill. 

Q. Is it wise to purchase land with a small capital 2 

The writer is honestly of the opinion that California 
is one of the few places in the world where a man may 
start in business with a small capital. The State has 
been settled up and developed by persons who for the 
most part brought no money. While it is desirable to 
bring capital here, many men have been and are to-day 
making money without it. 

Q. Is the present a good time to purchase — and 
why? 

Most assuredly. The wise trader buys on the bumps 
and sells on the slumps. The stringency of the times 
a drought, — the first in twenty years,—and the gen- 
eral stagnation and depression following the disastrous 
boom of 86 and ’87, have combined to place values below 
par, and according to expert authority a healthy reaction 
is now in order and almost inevitable. 


III 
VITICULTURE 


OOD wine, we are told, needs no bush, but Cali- 
fornian wine is sold in England under a brand 
advertised extensively as the “ Big Tree.” Without in 
any sense depreciating this brand, it is proper to say that 
the best Californian wine is not sold in England at all. 
And it is not easy to obtain it in California. A friend of 
mine has in his cellars a certain Rhine wine some twenty 
years old, which he pronounces justly ‘a perfect dream ;” 
but of this, I understand, there is hardly any left. Of 
the wines on the market, the best Burgundy of the Swiss- 
Italian colony, the sauternes of Livermore name, and 
the clarets made from the Lafite grapes (the Cabernet 
and Cabernet Franc) may be highly commended; while 
ports and sherries and other sweet wines made in South- 
ern California find a fair market. So far the champagnes 
of the Pacific Slope have lacked the quality that distin- 
guishes the French wine, but Mr. Paul Masson, of San José, 
is selling an article of uncommon merit; and he is enthu- 
siastically of the opinion that champagne of the finest 
flavour, sparkle, and purity will in time be produced in 
his cellars. 

Viticulture in California has steadily prospered in spite 
of disappointment, disease, and litigation. In early days 
a rough wine, ‘tinto,” was expressed from the Mission 
grape by the Padres, and vines can still be found about 
the old adobe Missions more than a hundred years old, 
which still bear heavily. Mr. Nutting, writing on this 
subject, says : — 

24 


370 Appendices 


‘* The oldest regular Mission vineyard known to me is about 
ten acres, planted in 1847 by the pioneer, Peter Lassen, on 
what is now the Stanford ranch at Vina, and it is more vigor- 
ous and prolific than some of the young vineyards of more 
popular varieties.” 


In 1880 more than 80 per cent of the 35,000 acres of 
vineyard in the State were of this quality-lacking variety ; 
but to-day, out of 150,000 acres of vineyards, more than 
60 per cent of the red wine is made from the Zinfandel 
grape. However, as the Secretary of the Italian-Swiss 
colony well points out, the Zinfandel can hardly be 
considered as one grade, because it varies according to the 
location and the soil in which it is grown. 

The disappointment of which I have spoken overtook 
the men who, recognising the possibility of making wines 
of a high commercial standard, staked their time and 
money and special knowledge against the ignorance and 
prejudice of their fellow-citizens. The claret made from 
“quality ” grapes came into competition with the rough 
red wines expressed from grapes that yielded five or more 
tons to the acre. The public generally were not able to 
discriminate between what was wine and what was not ; 
in the East, those who did know the difference bought 
up the best wine at a price far below its value, and sold 
it under French labels, at an exorbitant profit, to the rich 
Californians. Many of the wine-makers were ruined, and 
the State as a wine-producing State was condemned, 
because only the worst wines were sold as Californian. 
This state of affairs was bad enough; worse followed. 
The phylloxera attacked the vineyards, and destroyed 
millions of vines. Then, when a brighter day seemed 
about to dawn, when resistant varieties were coming into 
bearing, when the public was just beginning to recognise 
the merits of the best Californian wine, when, in short, 
it seemed to the most conservative that the wine industry 


Appendices 371 


was likely to. become a stupendous factor in the pros- 
perity of the State, a fresh disaster set its iron heel upon 
the vineyardists. The merchants, with that short-sighted 
policy which has always distinguished their relations 
with the producer, sought to monopolise the profits of 
wine-making, and succeeded for a season. Then co- 
operation on the part of the wine-makers brought about 
an armed peace, which terminated in open war. Finally, 
the claims of buyer and seller have been adjusted, and 
now —and not till now — wine-making would seem to 
have passed the experimental stage, and to have settled 
down into an organised industry which, properly managed, 
offers more than ordinary inducements to the prospective 
settler. I repeat 2f properly managed. Wine-making is 
an art, —an art, moreover, which would seem to be the 
peculiar possession of the Latin race. None the less, I 
am of opinion that the Englishman or American borrow- 
ing the experience of the Frenchman and Italian, and 
adding to it the results of his own observation and analy- 
sis, will beat the Latin in theend. Foreign wine-makers, 
I have noticed, cling like limpets to old world methods, 
but if there is one thing certain in regard to viticulture, 
it is that certain varieties of grapes vary enormously’ 
according to soil, climate, and elevation, and it is equally 
certain that the foreign wine-maker in California does 
not sufficiently take these variations into account. 
Wine-making, however, requires not only experience, 
but a large working capital. The prospective viticulturist 
will do well, therefore, to confine his attention to growing 
grapes and selling them to the wineries. He can rely 
upon a price varying according to the season from $9 to 
$12 per ton. If he raises two and a half tons to the 
acre, his gross profits will lie between $22.50 and $30 
per acre. Deducting 50 per cent for working expenses, 
interest on capital invested, etc., the net profit should 


372 Appendices 


average, year in and year out, not less than $13 an 
acre, —a fair return from land that may be bought from 
$25 to $45 per acre. And it must be remembered that 
a vineyard is a permanent investment, and exacts less 
care and attention than a prune orchard or an orange 
grove. It is absolutely necessary to make no mistakes 
at first, either in the choice of your land, the buying of 
your cuttings, and the cultivation of the vineyard during 
the first five years. 

I cannot do better than conclude these few remarks on 
wine and wine grapes with a clipping from an article 
which appeared some few months ago in the San Fran- 
cisco “ Chronicle :” — 


“Californian wine can compete with its European rivals, 
and, as to quality and price, to the great advantage of this 
State. The only drawback is the roundabout means of trans- 
portation. Californian wines have to be sent from here to 
New York, thence to England, and from there to the South 
American countries, because there is no direct line running 
either from this port or from the East. But it looks as if this 
hiatus would soon be a thing of the past. Several projects 
are maturing which promise the establishment of lines of 
&teamers from New Orleans and New York to those South 
American republics which can be counted upon to consume 
a large proportion of the wine produced in California. The 
completion of the Nicaragua canal would also give us the 
required outlet, and of itself would go far toward solving 
the problem that has so long troubled those in the wine 
trade of securing markets for the wines grown in this State. 
Meanwhile domestic consumption is increasing, slowly, it is 
true, but yet it is growing, until now 20,000,000 gallons of 
our dry wines are drank in the United States, and a trade is 
springing up with England, Belgium, Switzerland, and Ger- 
many which promises to attain considerable proportions. 


1 The Panama Canal is now in the possession of New York 
capitalists. 


Appendices 373 


Inquiries as to the handling of California wines are being 
received by San Francisco dealers that show that if the 
American tariff be placed in operation in the West Indies a 
large trade can be expected to be built up in Cuba and Porto 
Rico, where the middle and upper classes are accustomed to 
drinking Spanish and French productions, and will welcome 
the pure and low-priced vintages of California. In time, and 
if the trade be pushed, the Philippines will take off our hands 
millions of gallons of our low-grade wines, and it has been 
suggested that if the Government of the United States would 
place wine on its ration list so that it might be mixed with 
the unhealthful water of the tropics, the lives of many of the 
troops whom it will be necessary to maintain in the Philip- 
pines and the Antilles would be saved, and at the same time 
the vinicultural industry of California would be greatly bene- 
fited. Taking all these possibilities and probabilities into 
consideration, our annual average production of 20,000,000 
gallons of dry wines should be as a drop in the bucket, and 
the time should not be far distant when every hillside in 
California should be set out in vines, and the amount of wine 
produced for home consumption and for export to our new 
territories and to other markets which stand ready to receive 
them, should rival that of the famed countries of Southern 
Europe.” 


RalIsINns. 


California produces as fine a raisin as that of Malaga, 
and one that keeps much better and is far cleaner. I 
have not lived in Fresno, which is the chief raisin dis- 
trict (it has about 35,000 acres in Muscat grapes, about 
three-fourths of California’s raisin acreage), but I know 
from reliable sources that raisin-growing is a pleasant 
and profitable occupation, and that the industry was 
never more prosperous than it is at the present moment. 
The crop for 1899 was 66,000,000 pounds (not counting 
the raisins consumed in the State), an increase in one 
decade of nearly 50,000,000 pounds: a result which must 
challenge the serious attention of the would-be vineyardist. 


374 Appendices 


A raisin vineyard bears well in four years from plant- 
ing, and the fruit is dried in small trays by the sun alone. 
Each tray makes about seven pounds of raisins, and as 
there is no dew in raisin-growing districts, the grapes dry 
by night as well as by day. Experience alone tells the 
vineyardist when the raisin is sufficiently dried, but the 
methods are simple and inexpensive. A seeding-machine 
has been lately invented which extracts all seeds and 
turns out a raisin fit for a pudding. The inventor has 
certainly earned the undying gratitude of the busy house- 
wife. Bare land can be bought at prices ranging from 
$50 to $200 an acre, and an acre in bearing ought to 
average year in and year out one ton of raisins. I 
learn with pleasure that the raisin-growers of Fresno, 
after a year’s experience, have renewed their organisa- 
tion for two years. Co-operation on the part of small 
farmers, fruit-raisers, and vineyardists is essential to their 
prosperity. 

It is almost superfluous to add that no man who is 
intending to grow raisins should fail to visit Fresno, 
where he will learn more in a week than he could glean 
from fifty books on the subject. Fresno is now enjoying 
somewhat of a boom, owing to the flourishing condition 
of the Coalinga Oil fields. 


IV 
BEET CULTURE 


TN Beet Culture California retains her leadership in 
factory capacity and output of beet sugar, and seems 
likely to do so. The factories in California have a daily 
capacity of 8,500 tons of beets, while all the other facto- 
ries in the Union combined average 8,300 tons. The 
sugar beet is raised in and around the following localities : 
Alvarado, Watsonville, Chino, Los Alamitos, Crockett, 
Spreckels, Oxnard, and Santa Maria. 

The statement of the cost of raising beets and the profits 
derived therefrom is taken from the books of a beet farm 
near San Juan, and is quoted by Mr. Claus Spreckels, 
the father of Beet Culture in California. 

It will be noted that in the case quoted above the land 
was rented. This land asa rule belongs to the owners 
of the factories, and so far the contract system of leasing 
land to farmers has worked well. Under the contract 
system the farmer has the assurance that he will get his 
money promptly at an agreed price upon the delivery of 
his product. He has also the advantage of the factory’s 
expert advice upon all questions relating to the culture 
and harvesting of the beet. On the other hand, the 
farmer who owns his own land makes a larger profit, and 
consequently takes greater risks. Time —as General 
Chipman has well pointed out — will settle the present 
difference of opinion as to whether the farmer should be 
paid on the basis of the richness of the beet, or by the 
ton regardless of its purity or the sugar it contains. 


376 Appendices 


Cost | Cost 
Total cost. per per 
acre, | ton. 
EXPENSES. 
Rent of 238 acres at $7.00 per acre . . | $1,666.00} $7.00| $.37 
First ploughing ... . . $340.00 
Second ploughing. . . . . 396.65 1,236.65} 5.19] .28 
Cultivating and harrowing . 500.00 
Sowing—labor ..... 85.00 
Use of drill . . . pte 28.80 Lee AM ee 
Seed, 2,830 pounds at tencents .. . 28300} 1.19} .06 
Thinning nie 1,100.00} 4.62] .25 
Cultivating and weed cutting, « one man 
and two horses, thirty days at $3.00 . 90.00 38] .02 
Ploughing out, one manand team, ninety- 
five days at $3. OO hs 285.00; 1.19; .06 
Topping and loading into waggons, 1335.3 
days at $1.00 . . 1,335.30] 5.61] .30 
Hauling 3 miles to switch, at fifty cents 
perton . . 2,225.50) 9.35] .50 
Freight on railroad to factory . a fea 2,225.50| 9.35] .50 
Cost of knivesand hoes ..... . 20.00 Ai Dimes! 
Cie) 9) ied Oe OO ens SG CPANEL MRO SA 300.00} 1.26] .07 
Totalexpenses . . . . . . . {$10,880.75 |$45.72 |$2.44 
INCOME. 
4,451.275 tons of beets, at lity 00 . . . |$17,817.22 |$74.86 |$4.00 
Sale of beet 0) 0 ; ayia 4 oe 200.00 84] .04 
Totalincome ... .. . . .« |$18,017.22 |$75.70 |$4.04 
Net profit . ... . +. . . . | $7,136.47 |$29.98 |$1.60 


General Chipman, from whose report to the San Fran- 
cisco Board of Trade I take my facts, goes on to say :— 


“California is destined to become the beet sugar plantation 
of America as it has already become the orchard of America, 
because pre-eminence must be accorded and must surely come 
to that State where the conditions necessary to success, both 
in the growing of the beet and its manufacture into sugar, are 
most favourable. ... Briefly summarised, these favourable 
conditions are: earlier maturity of the beet, earlier opening 


Appendices 377 


of the campaign, longer season for harvesting, longer run of 
factory, greater yield per acre, greater per cent of saccharine, 
immunity from frost, immunity from rain at critical periods, 
and ensilage or ‘ pitting’ of the beets avoided.” 

The land adapted to beet culture in California extends 
through the interior valleys from Tehama County in the 
north to San Diego in the south, and along the entire 
California sea coast, and in the coast valleys — about 
750,000 acres. 

Constant cropping to beets is injurious to land, but the 
rotation of crops and slight fertilisation adjust the losses 
of potash and lime. According to an authority, land 
sown to wheat after beets will produce a twofold yield. 

The price of the best beet land varies from $100 to 
$250 per acre, according to its location. 


Vv 
IRRIGATION 


HE drought of 1898 taught the people of California 
the lesson of irrigation. Before the secularisation 
of the Missions the Padres dug many ditches, and water 
was carried to their vineyards and orchards from a long 
distance, involving enormous labour on the part of the 
Indians, labour in those days being compulsory for the 
most part. To-day, power will be found cheaper than 
the systems which bring water to land in obedience to 
the law of gravitation. In 98 we bought and operated 
two pumping plants which worked admirably; and it 
must be remembered that when you are dependent upon 
water supplied by a company from some huge reservoir 
there is always the grave danger of the water failing at 
critical times. In the Salinas valley, for instance, gigan- 
tic sums were expended in digging canals, but when these 
were dug, the river from which the water to fill these 
canals was to be taken, dried up, and the enterprise was 
temporarily wrecked. There are many parts of Cali- 
fornia, notably in the counties of Kern, Tulare, and 
Fresno, where the water obtained from the canals does 
not fail, but speaking generally it will pay the small 
farmer to own his own pumping plant. 

I cannot do better than quote in full a memorandum 
on this subject written by Mr. William H. Mills, to 
whom I am indebted for many courtesies. Mr. Mills 
is widely known as a brilliant writer upon all subjects 
connected with the resources and development of Cali- 
fornia. He says:— 


Appendices 379 


“Fruit raising, vine growing, and small farming in Cali- 
fornia will depend for their success in a very great measure 
upon the artificial application of water. These applications 
have proven profitable, and will continue to be so under favour- 
able conditions without irrigation, but they are far more 
profitable with it. Every orchardist and vineyardist ought 
also to be a gardener, and, in order to diversify the products 
of the land, irrigation must be resorted to. Clover, berries, 
gardens, orchards, and vineyards should be found on the 
same holdings, and should occupy the attention of the cultiva- 
tor of the soil in their various seasons. ‘This diversity would 
in a measure equalise the demand for labour throughout the 
year and greatly improve the labour conditions. Irrigation 
will enable the orchardist and vineyardist to supply his table 
with poultry, eggs, milk, butter, vegetables, and fruits, and 
thus confer upon his holdings its first and paramount duty of 
affording him a complete subsistence. The problem of living 
having been solved, the question of profit would become more 
certain and happily less important. 

“The ancient methods of irrigation will be superseded by 
modern and more economic methods. This revolution will be 
referable to the cheapening of mechanical power and the 
increased efficiency of pumping machinery. Under the old 
method a main canal carrying water at an elevation to lay a 
certain district under irrigation was necessary. Its construc- 
tion and maintenance were costly, while the application of 
water to lateral ditches was also costly and unsatisfactory. A 
gravity supply of water can be passed over a surface where 
the decline is constant. There are no lands sufficiently level 
to make more than 60 per cent of their surfaces subject to 
irrigation from any point of elevation in their vicinity. 

“There are seasons in which the excess of precipitation 
makes drainage a problem difficult of solution. In such 
seasons, a costly water system constructed after the old plan 
of canals with lateral farm ditches is uneconomic as well as 
useless. ‘The money invested in it earns nothing in such 
seasons, and as a rule in the country in the northerly portions 
of the State the level areas have more to fear from excessive 
precipitation than from drought. 


380 Appendices 


“If it be suggested in answer to this statement that the 
summer months are dry months and that the application of 
water during the heated term will enable the cultivator of the 
soil to avail himself of the superior productiveness of the 
summer months, the answer is that the application of water 
by canals and lateral ditches produces in all countries where 
the practice has been in vogue swamp conditions on the 
lowest lands, unless a supplemental costly system of drainage 
is resorted to, and besides, as already noticed, it cannot be 
applied to the entire surface of the land. 

‘“‘ Naphtha or gasoline engines have furnished a very cheap 
power for pumping, while improvements in pumps have made 
their use far more economic than the application of water by 
the more primitive and crude method of ditches. Of course, 
the water must be brought toa point from which it may be 
pumped economically, and this can be done in three ways: 
first, by a main canal, which is tapped only with the suction 
of pumps. Such a canal would cost less and would be more 
permanent in its construction, because it would not be con- 
structed with reference to supplying water to laterals. Second, 
by the use of the channels of living streams. For the most 
part the irrigable lands of California are accessible to streams. 
Third, by the sinking of wells. Concerning this latter, it 
should be noted that an irrigated country soon fills with 
water, and wells in such a country afford an ample supply for 
such portions of land holdings as need irrigation. The eco- 
nomic use of the pump is also greatly reinforced by the - 
facility with which, in modern times, electrical power is 
transmitted at cheap rates. 

“Some practical experiments in pumping were made in 
various parts of the State during the drought season of 1898. 
It is stated on seemingly reliable authority that there are not 
far from two thousand irrigation pumps in operation in the 
county of Santa Clara alone. For the most part these are 
using wells, and their use has proven beneficial and economical. 

“In Capay Valley, with irrigating machinery, pumping from 
Cache Creek was practised and highly satisfactory results 
obtained. It was found that a six-inch pump, using a fifteen 
horse-power gasoline engine, was capable of delivering forty- 


Appendices 381 


two thousand gallons an hour (700 gallons per minute) at the 
end of an eight-inch pipe two thousand feet in length at an 
altitude of thirty feet above the surface of the water. This 
would give two hundred and fifty gallons to each of 168 trees 
per hour, a little in excess of the equivalent of one inch of 
rainfall. Ten hours’ pumping, allowing 250 gallons to each 
tree, would give a daily efficiency of the pumping machinery 
equal to 1,680 trees, or fully sixteen acres a day. Excluding 
the labour of handling the pipes, which was usually performed 
by the owner of the orchard, the cost was $5 per day. The 
cash outlay, then, tofthe orchardist, excluding his own labour, 
was $5 per day for the application of 250 gallons to each of 
1,680 trees through a pipe line two thousand feet in length. 
At a greater elevation than thirty feet the efficiency of the 
machinery was reduced. Careful arithmetical observation, 
however, demonstrated the practicability of supplementing 
the pumping station at the creek with pumps stationed at the 
end of the pipe line to reach still higher elevations, and 
practically demonstrated the superior economy and advisa- 
bility of pumping as a substitute for ditches. Every portion 
of an orchard, however uneven its surface, could be reached 
with the pipe line, and from a single pumping station, where 
the highest point of the land was below thirty-five feet eleva- 
tion, approximately 500 acres of alfalfa could be irrigated. 
The application of 27,000 gallons to each acre could be made 
for 334 cents per acre. This is the equivalent of one inch of 
rainfall, or the equivalent of three inches of rainfall on each 
acre could be made for $1 per acre; or the application of the 
equivalent of one inch of rain at three different times in the 
season for the same sum, not including the labour of moving the 
machinery or the necessary movement of the pipes over the sur- 
face of the land. The experiment brought plainly to view the 
fact that at below thirty-five feet elevation above the surface 
of the water the entire cost, including all the labour employed, 
would be the equivalent of one inch of rain for forty cents an 
acre, or at most $1.25 for the application of this one-inch 
equivalent three times in a season. 

“The machinery used for these experiments was constructed 
on a truck, movable from point to point, and the result ob- 


382 Appendices 


tained was very highly satisfactory. Over an accessible sur- 
face the water was evenly distributed, and when the irrigation 
was completed, there was no injurious excess in low places or 
deficiencies upon the higher elevations of the surface. 

“The equipment with which these results were obtained 
embraced the following: One 15 horse-power gasoline engine, 
one 6-inch centrifugal Krogh pump, one truck 8-inch tread 
of tire, three thousand feet of 8-inch wrought-iron pipe with 
fittings, including priming pump, jack screws, oil tank, and 
duck cover; and cost $2,000. 

“The capacity of the equipment was equal to the duty of 
irrigating throughout the season 500 acres of land, and upon 
that area would supply all the water necessary for any species 
of cultivation desired, whether of alfalfa or orchard. Its 
capacity was equal to 1,200 acres of orchard land, and, as 
already noted, the original investment was but $2,000. 

«To recapitulate these conclusions, the experiment in Capay 
Valley demonstrated that a stationary pump, eliminating the 
cost of trucks designed to make the equipment portable, with 
2,500 feet of pipe, cost less than $1,500. For orchard pur- 
poses the efficiency would be equal to the duty of irrigating 
1,200 acres of orchard or 500 acres of alfalfa throughout the 
entire summer season, and the application of 135,000 gallons 
of water to each acre during the season would cost $1.65 per 
acre for the season, not including the labour of moving the 
pipes; or if the labour of moving the pipes is included, $1.75 
for the season. 

“ Aside from the advantages already noted, the superior 
efficiency of applying the water to the entire surface of the 
land and the control of the quantity of water placed upon the 
land, the interest on the original cost of the equipment is to be 
considered. It is doubtful if, by a canal system, lands any- 
where in the State can be laid subject to an irrigation system 
for less than an original cost of $10 per acre, and this original 
investment would be permanent and the interest element 
connected therewith would be a perpetual charge against the 
original equipment. $10 an acre for 1,200 acres of orchard 
would be $12,000, or for 500 acres of alfalfa $5,000, as against 
$1,500, the original cost of a coefficient pumping plant. 


Appendices 383 


“The application of electrical power would reduce the 
cost from the figures herein given. ‘To the estimates relating 
to the canal system must be added the cost of maintenance, 
the waste of water by absorption and evaporation, and the very 
unsatisfactory method of applying the water by gravity. 

“Tt is within reasonable probability that from sixty to 
seventy-five per cent of the orchards and vineyards of the 
State could be laid subject to irrigation by pumping at a cost 
not exceeding that given in this statement. 

‘““This by no means exhausts the subject. All over the 
State wells of sufficient capacity to supply a three-inch pump 
on small areas of ten or fifteen acres, using a five horse-power 
engine, are to be found. There is scarcely a land-holding 
where an equipment of this kind costing less than $1,000 
cannot be made available. The application of this cheaper 
and less ambitious equipment would greatly diversify the 
agricultural pursuits of the State ; would enable cultivators 
of the soil to beautify their holdings and furnish the full round 
of home necessities.” 


VI 
HINTS TO SPORTSMEN 


T is a hard saying, but the sportsman in search of 
game, big or small, must be prepared to encounter 
what is more grievous to bear than toil and fatigue — 
disappointment. It is almost impossible to get reliable 
information in regard to game and fish, and the stuff 
printed in railroad circulars, real estate pamphlets, and 
most of the magazines, is absolutely untrue. More, a man 
may be honestly willing and able to give information, 
and the person to whom it is given may find it worthless 
owing to some misapprehension on his (the sportsman’s) 
part. I could name half a dozen rivers and streams 
where the steel-head trout may be caught, and the angler 
might wet his line in vain on such rivers, because neither 
I nor any one else could predict exactly when these fish 
would be running. 

Good sea-fishing, however, particularly at Catalina 
Island, is a certainty. Between the first of May and 
the first of September the fisherman may confidently 
count on killing tuna, black-bass, yellowtail, sea-bass, 
albicore, and bonito, beside many others. This is the 
only place, indeed, where tuna can be caught. You travel 
direct to Los Angeles from New York, and Avalon (Cata- 
lina’s small town) is four hours distant. Here are several 
hotels, and within a stone’s throw of them the stands and 
boats of the boatmen. Tuna fishing costs from $5 to $7 
a day. For the other fish, a rowing boat (instead of a 


Appendices 385 


launch) is quite sufficient, and the hire of one with a man 
to row it is $3. Two men can fish comfortably from the 
sternsheets of these boats, and so divide the cost; or you 
can hire a boat by the week without a man for a small 
sum, and row yourself. The boatman supplies everything, 
including rods and reels; but I take for granted that the 
sportsman will bring his own tackle. You will need 
three kinds of rod: a tuna rod, a yellowtail rod, and 
a light rod for bonito. If economy must be practised, 
buy no tuna tackle (which is very expensive), for one 
boatman at least, James Gardner, has excellent rods and 
reels. I know of only one man who makes a reliable 
tuna reel, Edwin Vom Hofe, of New York, and his reel is 
not yet perfect. Upon this reel must be wound three 
hundred yards of cutty-hunk line, one hundred of twenty- 
four ply, and the back line of twenty-one. Unless the 
reel can hold this amount of wet line it is worthless for 
tuna fishing. The ordinary tarpon tackle will not prove 
satisfactory for tuna. Hooks can be bought on the island, 
and all the tuna boatmen have gaffs, although some of 
them (the gaffs) are not long or strong enough. You can 
also buy on the island piano wire, and make your own 
tuna and yellowtail spinning tackle at a price consider- 
ably less than half of what is paid for the ready-made 
article. Cutty-hunk lines are also for sale in Avalon. 
The rod should not be too stiff, but stiff enough to 
“pump” the fish when he sulks. 

For black-bass you use tuna tackle. For yellowtail, 
sea-bass, and salmon (not found at Catalina), I have 
found the ordinary yellowtail rods much too short and 
too stiff. I commend a lightish spinning rod of split 
bamboo, and the line (despite the protests of the boat- 
men) should be fifteen ply cutty-hunk. The reel should 
hold two hundred yards of this eastly. Beware the 
dealer who shows you a reel which he says will hold 

25 


386 Appendices 


so much line, and which on trial holds some fifty yards 
less than you expected. 

Take with you a stout box — wood or leather — hold- 
ing scissors, pincers, a knife, hooks of all sizes, wire, gimp, 
extra lines, vaseline, file, thread, and the other odds and 
ends, lack of which interferes so often with comfort and 
sport. And do not omit from these binding silk, wax, 
and varnish, for a split bamboo is not proof against salt 
water, and if injured must be mended at once. 

Your ticket to Catalina, allowing for a few days en 
route, and your expenses between London and Avalon, 
should not exceed fifty pounds. The rates at the Avalon 
hotels vary, according to accommodation, between $2 and 
$6 a day. 


Small-game shooting begins about the first of October, 
and continues till the end of February. I have already 
said that it is impossible to get really good duck or quail 
shooting unless you camp out. The best quail grounds 
are still to be found in Southern California, but only a 
market-hunter can take you to them. He will provide 
everything, but it will be well, in your own interest, to 
add a few luxuries. You will take a tent, but I advise 
you to sleep, if possible, in a waggon. My brothers and I 
always took a light waggon with two horses. The bed of 
the waggon was filled with hay for the horses, and on this 
hay we slept. As a general rule it is not necessary to 
carry much hay, as it can be bought at the ranches at a 
reasonable price; and farmers, we found, were generally 
willing to supply us with butter and milk and eggs. Do 
not sleep in their barns. You will be disturbed by the 
horses and by fleas, and there is always the danger of 
fire. 

Remember, too, that if the autumn rains have not 
fallen, the country over which you are shooting is covered 


Appendices 387 


with grass as inflammable as tinder. A spark burning in 
an empty cartridge may destroy thousands of acres of 
feed. You cannot be too careful. 

For quail shooting I prefer to use very small shot, 
No. 8, chilled ; and I seldom shoot at a bird that is more 
than forty yards away. A wounded quail is impossible 
to find without an excellent dog, and the best of dogs 
soon lose their powers of scent on a warm autumn day. 
After a little practice you will learn to retrieve your own 
birds. If they are getting up singly one after the other, 
which often happens, and you have several down in the 
low sage brush, it is wise to mark the places where you 
think they have fallen with a cap, a handkerchief, or a 
glove. Then you circle slowly round these objects, 
gradually enlarging your circle, overlooking no tuft of 
grass or bush, and by this method, slow, but sure, you 
will lose few quail. 

I have not given a list of stores, because your market- 
hunter must travel at least twice a week to some point on 
the railroad whence he can ship the dead birds, and on 
these occasions he can buy what is needed for the camp. 
None the less, good hams, bacon, canned jams and vege- 
tables should be purchased in a big town, as the village 
stores only keep third-rate articles. 

Duck shooting is fairly good in Southern California, but 
excellent in the marshes north and north-east of San 
Francisco. Here again you will be helpless without a 
professional hunter, for you must have decoys, dogs, 
boats, and also that special knowledge of the habits of 
the birds which only comes after long experience. As 
ft have pointed out, a commission merchant in either Los 
Angeles, San Francisco, or Portland, will gladly give you 
the names of half a dozen Nimrods, and he will also tell 
you who kills the most game—an important thing to 
know. 


388 Appendices 


For all these expeditions a waterproof hold-all should 
take your kit, not the common hold-all, but the large bag, 
into which, if necessary, you can crawl yourself on a 
damp night. This will contain two pairs of blankets, a 
small pillow, a change of clothes and underlinen, extra 
boots, towels, etc. A small bottle of Chamberlain’s Colic 
Cure (in case you drink unknowingly of alkali water), 
some quinine pills, and a mild aperient, should not be 
omitted. 

The cost of such expeditions will be trifling compared 
to the expense of buying or hiring a complete camp 
equipage, and paying the wages of a guide. Market- 
hunters work hard, and seldom make more than a bare 
living, so you will find them only too willing to accept 
a modest sum of money, better “grub,” and the birds 
you shoot, in exchange for their companionship and a 
share of their sport. I have often found it difficult to 
prevail upon such men to accept any money at all. 


Big-game expeditions are not lightly to be undertaken, 
and it is absurd to lay down the law in regard to them ; 
so much depends upon season, locality, and the men 
themselves. Under certain circumstances you look ask- 
ance at a tooth-brush, for every extra ounce must be paid 
for by the sweat of your brow. In the dense forests of 
the Pacific Slope each man packs on his back his own 
load, and the lighter the load the lighter the heart of 
him who carries it. Speaking from experience, I strongly 
advise the English sportsman to keep out of the woods 
of Washington, Oregon, and British Columbia, unless he 
can reach their solitudes by means of a canoe. The 
chance of shooting a wapiti in the forest is very slim, 
but the chance of returning from such expeditions abso- 
lutely worn out in body and soul is not so small. I shall 
speak, therefore, of those expeditions which can be made 


Appendices 389 


either with a waggon or pack animals through a country 
tolerably open. Such country may still be found in 
Wyoming, Idaho, Montana, Eastern Oregon, Eastern 
Washington, and in the uplands of British Columbia ; but 
I dare not undertake to recommend any particular spot. 

Roughly speaking, it is still possible to get wapiti, mule- 
deer, antelope, blacktail, and bears of sorts in the States 
I have mentioned ; but bighorn, wild goat; caribou, moose, 
and musk-ox must be sought for in British Columbia 
and Alaska. Mr. Baillie-Grohman suggests the Olympic 
Mountains of Washington as a likely place for the Pacific 
coast wapiti, which differs slightly from the “elk” of the 
Rockies ; and into these same mountains I hope to go 
within a few months, but I cannot as yet claim a per- 
sonal acquaintance with them. My brother and I were 
in the State of Washington, close to these mountains, 
some two years ago, but we were fishing. We learned 
that parts of the country were open, and that game was 
plentiful ; and we had the pleasure of seeing several fine 
trophies which had come the year before out of the 
Olympics. 

No matter where you go, however, it is all-important 
to find a good guide, and from choice —as well as for 
economical reasons— a trapper is your man; but be sure 
that he is a trapper and not an impostor, and make it 
clear to him what you want. In one of my expeditions 
the bag included bison, bear, bighorn, wapiti, mule-deer, 
and antelope; but that was seventeen years ago. When 
I was in Vancouver Island in ’97 I met a friend return- 
ing with an Indian from an expedition. He had shot 
nothing! But then he and his guide had plunged into 
the forest. The same man shooting the year before in 
the uplands of the Chilcotin district had enjoyed excel- 
lent sport with both bighorn and caribou. 

The less you take from England in the way of ¢mpedz- 


390 Appendices 


menta the better. We found a camp bucket (sold, I 
believe, by Silver) very useful, because it contains in a 
surprisingly small space nearly all you want in the hard- 
ware line; and I strongly recommend an air mattress and 
small indiarubber bath. I have used for many years 
two rifles, an English Express, 450 cal., and a Win- 
chester repeater. The Express cost fifty guineas, the 
Winchester a few dollars, and I prefer the latter. The 
795 pattern Winchester, 30 cal., shooting the U. S. 
service bullet, is a wonderful weapon for the price, and 
extraordinarily effective ; but I cannot testify to its effect 
on big bears, although I am told that the trappers pre- 
fer it to a larger bore. Winchester cartridges can be 
bought everywhere. 

Clothing and boots are better made and far cheaper in 
England ; but blankets, tents, cooking utensils, and so 
forth, can be bought as cheaply in any Western town, 
and will fetch second-hand a certain sum. It is most 
important to take the best field-glass that money can 
buy. 

Every sportsman has his own ideas about the com- 
missariat department. Personally, I contend that the 
more you can conveniently take in the canned goods 
line the better. Straight meat agrees with very few. 
Canned corn, canned tomatoes, canned beans and bacon, 
dried fruits and vegetables, and plenty of cheese, make 
camp life healthier and cheerier. At any rate, a few 
cases of these will soften the first rigours of the cam- 
paign ; and when they are gone, you will be hardened 
and able to forego such luxuries. In any case, don’t 
stint the sugar. Saccharine matter in some form would 
seem to be an imperious necessity to a man living the 
primal life. Chocolate, too, is a wonderful food, and one 
too often ignored by the sportsman. 

I submit a list, beginning, as will be seen, with 


Appendices 391 


the necessities and ending with the luxuries. The quan- 
tity must be regulated by the number in the party and 
the time you propose to be absent. Your guide can 
adjust such matters. 


Matches. Lard. 

Flour. Dried fish (smoked salmon, etc.). 
Salt and pepper. Crackers. 

Baking powder. Raisins (cheap and good food). 
Sugar. Keg of Syrup. 

Chocolate (a large quantity). Oatmeal. 

Whisky. Canned vegetables. 

Coffee and tea. Canned fruits. 

Bacon. Jams and marmalades. 

Dried onions. Hams. 

Cheese. Tinned turkey, chicken, game, 
Beans. etc. 

Dried potatoes. Tinned milk and cream. 

Dried apples. Tinned soups. 

Dried apricots. Keg of butter. 

Dried prunes. Pickles. 


I omit tobacco, because those who smoke will never 
leave the blessed weed behind. Whisky must be kept 
under lock and key if Indians be of the party. To most 
trappers strong drink is irresistible, and on that account 
many sportsmen take only sufficient for medicinal pur- 
poses. If you camp out in the winter, bacon and lard 
are necessities, and much more warming than alcohol. 

I have spoken already of the sleeping bag, but I would 
urge the tyro once more to take plenty of warm bedding 
if he intends to brave the snows and frosts of the Far 
North. At a sharp pinch, you can sleep in gum boots 
and mackintosh. This, I need hardly say, is a last 
resource against the most piercing cold. 

You can buy at the Army and Navy Stores a small 
leather medicine case, which contains a few drugs in 
portable form. 

Englishmen are outrageously robbed when they begin 
to buy horses, mules, waggons, saddles, ete. Find out 
the market price of what you want: information cheer- 


ap? Appendices 


fully given by any respectable citizen not directly or 
indirectly concerned with the sale. At such times good 
letters of introduction are invaluable. The men at the 
head of big enterprises, the railroad people, the bankers, 
the contractors, will take particular pains to see that the 
stranger within their gates is not swindled, provided 
always that you appeal to their sense of hospitality. It 
is possible to buy an “ outfit,’ use it for six months, and 
sell it for nearly as much as you gave ; but such a piece of 
luck falls to few. 

In conclusion, I emphasise once more the expediency of 
borrowing experience. In Victoria, in Tacoma, in Seattle, 
in Portland, and in San Francisco, men may be found 
whose advice will save you not only money, but time and 
trouble. Most Englishmen are so desperately anxious to 
start into the wilderness that they grudge every minute 
spent in making inquiries. Such greenhorns nearly 
always return empty-handed, because they go empty- 
headed. Long before we start on even small expeditions, 
my brothers and I begin to make careful notes. For 
instance, it is folly to take horses into a country where 
the feed is short; it is absolutely necessary to know 
something of the topography of the district you wish to 
hunt in : its rivers and streams, its mountains, woods, and 
trails (if any). You are sure to pass through many big 
ranches, and a letter to the owners will insure you a 
welcome at least. If you can do no better, a card from 
one of the merchants may prove an open sesame to price- 
less stores of information. 

It is perhaps superfluous to remind the sportsman that 
around the camp-fire all men are equal. And remember 
that, be they many or few, your hired companions will 
take their tone from the “ boss.” If you whine, so will 
they ; if you curse, so will they ; if you loaf, so will they. 
Insist from the first upon order and cleanliness. Each 


Appendices 393 


man should have certain definite duties, duties never 
to be shirked; and it is amazing how quickly these 
duties are performed after a little practice. 

In regard to the preservation of your heads, a hint or 
two may not come amiss. In the dry uplands, scrape 
the skins free of flesh and fat, and dry them in the sun. 
The skulls can be sawn in two. See to it that the skin 
around the necks of the deer and wapiti is preserved ; and 
be sure that the slit is at the back of the neck, so that the 
trophies when mounted will show no ugly seam. The 
appearance of many a fine head has been spoiled, because 
it was cut off too near the skull, and the skin slit below 
the neck. In the lowlands, where it may be hot and 
damp, it is necessary to use either pepper and salt, or 
some preserving mixture. 


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