Produced by KarenD and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from
images generously made available by The Internet
Archive/American Libraries.)






  THE
  TRUTH ABOUT AMERICA


  BY
  EDWARD MONEY

  "TEA--CULTIVATION AND MANUFACTURE IN INDIA," "TWELVE MONTHS
  WITH THE BASHI-BAZOUKS," "WOMAN'S FORTITUDE,"
  "WE'LL SEE ABOUT IT"


  LONDON

  SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, & RIVINGTON
  CROWN BUILDINGS, 188, FLEET STREET

  1886

  [_All rights reserved_]


  LONDON:
  PRINTED BY GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LIMITED,
  ST. JOHN'S SQUARE




CONTENTS.


                                                          PAGE

  CHAPTER I.

  More or less introductory--Americans and Yankees
  not synonymous--Want of courtesy in the
  States--The Press--Voyage out--New York
  climate                                                    1

  CHAPTER II.

  New York--National types--American currency--The
  States as a cheap domicile                                19

  CHAPTER III.

  Why I went to America--Agents in London and
  the Eden promised--New York to New
  Orleans--Railroads in the States--American
  scenery--Ranch life--Deserts in the States--Antelope
  Valley                                                    42

  CHAPTER IV.

  San Francisco--Army and Navy--International
  Court--Pacific coast--Californian ranch--Social
  customs--Good-bye, California!                            94

  CHAPTER V.

  Nevada--Utah--Wyoming--Denver--A restless
  night--Seeking for a ranch--Ranch work--Colorado
  Springs, the Sanitarium of Western
  America                                                  133

  CHAPTER VI.

  Ranch again--Tea--American press--Celebrities
  victimized--Last journey--Chicago--Beauty--Niagara
  missed--New York--Atlantic--Home                         195




THE TRUTH ABOUT AMERICA.




CHAPTER I.

     More or less introductory--Americans and Yankees
     not synonymous--Want of courtesy in the
     States--The Press--Voyage out--New York climate.


Apart from the object with which most authors write, viz. to make
money, I purpose this little book to serve three objects.

Firstly, to make the United States of America, and the Americans,
better known than they are at present to the mass of the English
public.

Secondly, to put a certain class of emigrants on their guard against
the machinations of a few agents in London, who victimize them not a
little.

Thirdly, to let the many who suffer from pulmonary diseases in
Europe know that across the Atlantic is a cure-place excelling, owing
to its peculiar climate, any in the Eastern hemisphere.

That my own knowledge of the United States is a superficial one, I
admit in stating I was there not quite five months. _If_ I have a
talent for anything, it is the power of absorbing facts and
describing them later. I kept no journal in America, but I made
copious notes of all I saw and heard while the impressions were
fresh. As I view all these in a bundle on the table before me, I feel
that I must describe succinctly, to bring all I have to say into a
"little book," and there are weighty reasons, with me at least, why
it should be no more.

As my book will be truthfully written, and my intentions are good,
success will not elevate me much, blame will not depress me. If the
book is a fair picture, as far as it goes, of a vast and wonderful
tract on the earth's surface, if it shows clearly the prevailing
characteristics of the Americans, what there is for us (the English)
to copy, what to avoid, if it prove of use to the ever-increasing
class of emigrants, and if it is readable and amusing withal, I shall
be more than satisfied.

I affirm that the United States and its denizens are _not_ more than
superficially known to English men and women. I beg the question. Why
is it? There are doubtless many books of American travel, politics,
descriptions, and what not. I had read many of these, but surprised
as I was on much I encountered after arrival, I was far more
surprised how little what I had read had prepared me to find. The
following may in some degree explain this. By far the larger number
who go to the States are of two classes. 1. The rich, who go for
travel, pleasure, and change. 2. The emigrant, who is poor, and who
stays there. The first, naturally, see the best side of everything,
and if they describe their experiences, the pictures drawn are
scarcely fair ones. The second class, as a rule, it goes without
saying, are not strong with their pens, and were it otherwise, having
to win the bread of life, they have no leisure. There are of course
exceptions. The political aspect of America has been well depicted,
the features of that huge continent aptly described in several books
by good authors, but of true social pictures there are few. Among
these there are no better than what Dickens wrote in "Martin
Chuzzlewit," for the types there discussed are truly painted with
great humour, the only fear is the reader thereof may conceive they
are national, instead of what they truly are, characteristic of a
large class.

The Americans know us far better than we know them. While, including
emigrants, more pass from Great Britain to the States than America
sends eastward, the proportion in _visitors_ is certainly American.
They come in shoals to England and Europe, returning generally the
same year. Not strange, therefore, that their knowledge of our habits
and customs exceeds ours of theirs. That the Americans know this is
so, is shown by the style of conversation held with a "Britisher,"
when by chance (if he does not show it otherwise) his nationality is
discovered. In England if A, an Englishman, meets B, an American, A
does not discuss England with B as if it was necessarily all new to
him. B is supposed to have probably been here before, possibly to
know England as well as A does, and often it is so. But on the other
side of the Atlantic A (and generally truly) is supposed to know
nothing of the country. This was one of the salient features that
first struck me. Quite true, in my case at least, I did know nothing!

When, in England, a conversation, say on a rail carriage, is held
between an Englishman and an American, the chances are against the
latter being asked how he likes England. The Englishman should feel,
if he does not, that it is begging a favourable answer, anyhow that
the reply, politeness considered, cannot be worth much. Under the
same circumstances, in the States (unless the American has visited
Europe), the chances are three to one the query will be put in the
first half-hour. The form varies. Sometimes it is put diffidently,
and in the nicest words. Sometimes just the other way. "Does not your
mind expand when you consider the institutions of this great country,
when you see how like a clock the machinery works, &c.?" Or, more
shortly, "And how do you like our glorious country?" This last is a
very favourite form. It was asked me many times in exactly the above
words. My general reply (a safe and true one) was, "Well, I don't
like it as well as England, though I see much we might copy with
advantage, &c." The American, perhaps, then adds, "Ah, that's
natural, but I'm glad you can discriminate, which few Britishers can,
for believe me" (here he gives you a painful dig in the side), "they
are prejudiced right away in favour of that little insignificant
island." I cannot say the words are exact, but their drift is. The
expression, "How do you like our glorious country?" I'll swear to.

Let it not be supposed that the above is characteristic of the
Americans. It is so of the Yankee class alone. It is a significant
word that "Yankee," I do not like it altogether, for it has more or
less of depreciation in it. Still no one writing of America can help
using it occasionally. What does it mean? In Latham's Dictionary it
is defined, "Term applied in England to the Americans of the United
States generally." This may have been so, it is certainly not the
case now. Why, I know not, but the term has acquired a low meaning.
In speaking to a subject of the United States, you might ask him,
"Are you an American?" You could certainly not, without transgressing
good taste and most certainly offending him, ask if he is a Yankee.
In what sense, then, may the word rightly be used? Sometimes it is
employed to designate the inhabitants of the Northern States, but
this again is wrong, simply, if for no other reason, that they do not
relish it. By "Yankee" _I_ understand, and shall use it to mean, a
denizen of the Northern States, but one of a low type. The North
American gentleman or lady can vie in that way with any nationality
(in intelligence they are perhaps ahead of their compeers), but the
Yankee, "the cute Yankee," is a very _prononcé_ type, peculiar to
America, and there are, alas, many of them. They hail principally
from the North, but I have seen some in the South, and when met with
there they grate against you more in proportion because civility and
courtesy are generally the rule in the latter States.

We have all heard that servants in America are named "helps." This
alone signifies a great deal. They object to serve you, they do not
mind, "if you make it worth their while," helping you. The same
feeling pervades all but the well-educated and intellectual classes
in the States. Even where, as in New York, contact with Europeans has
rubbed off some of this peculiarity, it exists. The shopman serving
you seems to do so under protest. The conductor on the rail treats
you as his equal. The hotel official picks his teeth, and
expectorates in dangerous proximity to your boots, while entering
your name. You need not, 'tis true, shake hands with the shopkeeper,
even if he recognizes you, simply because there is no time in New
York for such courtesies, but you have to do it out West.

The first thing that strikes you on landing in America is the want of
deference and courtesy among all classes. Not only from the inferior
to the superior, but _vice versa_ also. The maxim _noblesse oblige_
has no sway there. In England, speaking to an equal or a social
inferior, "Kindly do this," or "Please give me that," is general. In
America the "kindly" and "please" are carefully omitted, and the
servant or "help" retaliates by the substance and tone of the answer.
But I am wrong, perhaps, to use the word retaliates, for I never
found that civility in asking produced any other effect.

The maxim in America seems to be that every man is as good as his
neighbour, or better, at least every man seems to think so, and why,
thinking so, they should address anybody as "Sir," beats their
comprehension, and they simply don't do it.

It seemed to me, among the class I write of, that the feeling is
"Civility argues inferiority, _ergo_, the less given the better." It
can only be some feeling of the kind, deeply implanted, that accounts
for the fact that the Yankee (mind I use the word as I have defined
it above) is the most uncourteous being in creation.

The press in all countries reflects public opinion more than it leads
it. Suppose a paper--I say not in London, but in Manchester, then the
comparison is perfect--were to write of the Empress Eugenie as some
American papers write of our Royal Family. Were she spoken of as
simply "Eugenie," and even lauded as such, would not the paper so
speaking of her be certainly damned? But "Wales" I have seen in
several Northern States papers, do duty for our Queen's eldest son
and future king. Nay more, in such papers woman's sex is no defence.
Her Royal Highness, Princess Beatrice, is written of by her Christian
name only, and her husband is alluded to as "Battenberg." Even worse,
I have an article (I care not to sully this page with even an
extract) about him, which was headed "Beatrice's Mash," the last
being a slang word used in the States for lover!

There are, of course, papers and papers in America, and many would
not be guilty of the solecisms above alluded to; still, such are the
exceptions. I do not care to name the two in which the above
appeared, but as they were the leading journals in the capital of a
western state, it is evident that this kind of thing goes down, for
they, and many like them, flourish.

But to other subjects. I went out to New York in that magnificent
Anchor Line steamer, the _City of Rome_, which, after the _Great
Eastern_, is the largest vessel afloat. The Atlantic was
exceptionally kind, like a mill-pond, all the way between Liverpool
and Sandy Hook, and the passage was nice in every way. We crossed in
something less than eight days. The society on board was extensive
and good--Americans, French, Germans, English, and others, there was
no lack of choice. I studied the Americans most, for they were to me
a new study, and I was very much pleased with the result. When I left
the ship, I did so with the impression that, nation for nation, as
regards intelligence, wide views, and general knowledge, the women
certainly, if not the men, were ahead of us English. I had not many
opportunities in America of mixing with the upper classes, but my
limited experience there strengthened the above belief. Of course,
all I met on the _City of Rome_ were more or less travelled Americans
(in no country, perhaps, does travel make a greater change than among
our transatlantic cousins), but I was particularly struck by the
intelligence, and the broad and charitable views of the ladies.
Speaking generally of both nations, the English woman who holds
matured and decided opinions on politics, theology, or social
questions, hesitates to give them vent. Not so the American. And, as
regards the failings of her own sex, commend me to the ladies over
the water, who are far more Christian-minded than we are in that way.

It was also a real pleasure to converse with many of the American
gentlemen on board. As I have nothing to say, except in his favour,
one of them will perhaps forgive my naming him. Mr. D'Almar is a
well-known man in the States. He is a great writer on political
economy and currency, and I believe an authority in the States on
those and other heads. But I wish to speak of him here as a
companion. Highly gifted with thinking power, and possessing an
amount of knowledge which is extraordinary, so diversified are the
subjects, he literally bristled all over with information. The above,
joined to a modest demeanour and pleasant manner, made him one in
many. All on board liked him, and that alone speaks much in a man's
favour; for ten days on a vessel betrays more of character than
months elsewhere. If children like a man, I always think I shall do
the same. We had a large nursery on board; the little ones liked Mr
D'Almar, and so did I.

The _City of Rome_ is a luxurious boat, and, given calm water and a
set of passengers such as we had, what nicer than the Atlantic under
such conditions? I do not like the sea, and am often sea-sick. The
last thing I would do is to keep a yacht. So, enjoying the trip as I
did, speaks volumes for the comfort and pleasure which was
attainable. But then the _City of Rome_ is not an ordinary ship. The
sweep of deck for a walk, the superb saloon made gay with flowers,
the _cuisine_, which tempted you to eat more than is well on board,
the spacious smoking-room, the comfortable cabins, the absence of
vibration from the screw, all and everything about the ship was
simply perfect, and I felt almost sorry when we arrived, for though I
have travelled much I have never ploughed the deep in this wise.

New York--I am not going to add one more to the many descriptions
extant. As to the city, the many beautiful churches, the grand
museums, perfect picture-galleries, magnificent opera-house,
luxurious clubs, and numerous theatres, are they not all described,
and far better than I could do it, in Murray's hand-book and many
others. Still I will say a few words. First, as to climate. I was
there twice, once in the height of summer, once late in the autumn.
The temperature was as nice the last time as it was disagreeable the
first. I have spent years in the tropics, but I never suffered more
from heat than I did in New York last July. The nights were very
nearly as hot as they are in Calcutta the same month, and while in
the capital of Bengal to sleep except under a punkah is thought
impossible, in New York, punkahs or any cooling appliances being
unknown, you really suffer more. Still there is a difference. In
Calcutta, at that time of the year, you simply _cannot_ walk out in
the day time, the sun would knock you down. In New York you can, but
any time towards the middle of the day it is very disagreeable to do
so. Calcutta is in latitude 22°, New York 40°. This accounts for the
less powerful sun in the latter place; but why the nights there are
so cruelly hot, I know not. The sea, as is well known, lessens
extremes of temperature, but it does not seem to have that effect in
New York, though it is virtually on the sea, for the winters there
are as cold as the summers are hot. Twice in the year is the climate
exquisite, viz. spring and autumn, but both summer and winter are
intensely disagreeable. We have no idea here in England of extremes
of temperature, for we never experience them. Were we visited with
the heat and cold of New York, 100° Fahr. in summer, 20° to 25° below
zero in winter, as maximums and minimums, we should feel new
sensations, and be thankful for the temperate climate we have,
instead of abusing it as so many of us do.

I cannot, I doubt if many can, sympathize with the sailor who,
returning from a Pacific station, and entering the Channel one
typical English day, thick with fog and sleet, buttoned his overcoat
around him, and looking up aloft, exclaimed, "Ah! this is the sort of
thing. None of your d--d blue skies here." If the story is not true,
it is well invented. Poor Jack was sick of blue skies and hot suns,
but why he should have selected for commendation perhaps the main
point in which the English climate is deficient, makes it very
humorous. As I said, I cannot go as far as he did, and while I admit
the English climate is far from perfect, that it is a climate of
changes, the only rule being that no day shall be like its
predecessor or its successor, that the winter is dark and dismal,
that rain and slush, fog and mist, easterly winds and such like are
the rule, and bright, balmy days the exceptions, still, in the
immunity we possess from extremes of temperature, I think we have a
blessing that balances all these drawbacks. Who, except those who
have so suffered, can realize the lassitude, the intense discomfort
of great heat, the acute physical suffering produced by extreme cold.
I have been in many climes, but I know of one only I would, if I
could, substitute for the English climate. I found that one in
America, at San Francisco, on the Pacific coast, but of this farther
on.

The entrance to New York is very beautiful, and a great contrast to
the dingy approach to London by the Thames. On a bright day, and
bright days there are the rule, excepting perhaps the Bosphorus as
you near Constantinople, I have seen nothing to equal it. Shortly
before arrival the Brooklyn suspension bridge, the finest structure
of its kind on earth, comes in view. But of this wonderful bridge
presently. We left the good ship _City of Rome_ some three or four
miles down-stream, and after being transferred and closely packed in
an inland boat, we steamed up the Hudson river to New York.

It is only two and a half centuries (1609) since the first European
entered the New York Bay, and yet the _coup d'oeil_ from the water
of the vast city and its surroundings argues many centuries of
existence. America is wonderful in much, but in nothing more than its
growth. I felt this first then, and my after life daily increased my
wonder.

But here we are at the custom-house. My first experience of the
scarcity of labour in the States came that day. There were no porters
of any kind in the searching-room to move the luggage (it is
"baggage" in America), and I had to carry all mine myself. It was
brought in and thrown down anywhere. The examination took place at
the far end of the building, but each and every one had to carry his
own things there. With this exception it was plain sailing, for the
officers did the work quickly, and were not painfully suspicious.




CHAPTER II.

New York--National types--American currency--The States as a cheap
domicile.


As London is the capital of Great Britain, I suppose New York may be
called the first city in the United States, and yet I doubt its right
to be so named. Commercially and in size it may be so, but scarcely
in appearance. As regards buildings, cleanliness, commodious
high-ways, the _tout-ensemble_ which one looks for in a capital, San
Francisco, on the Pacific coast, takes by much the precedence, and I
am not sure that Chicago does not in a measure do the same, though
not in a like degree. As regards the climatic advantages of New York
and the capital of California, there cannot be two opinions. New York
is certainly not a nice climate, while I believe there is none on
this earth to equal in excellence that of San Francisco. Still, the
inhabitants of a city are not answerable for the climate!

There is not a decently paved street in New York. The asphalte and
wooden pavements of London and Paris are unknown there. I was told
both had been tried, but that the climate was against them. I could
understand this as regards the latter but not the former. Anyhow they
proved failures. Blocks of stone, when of one size and height, and
laid in the best way, make a jolting, noisy road, but it is not even
thus in New York. Take Broadway, the principal thoroughfare, the
stones are not the same size, and a large proportion of them are one
to two inches higher than their neighbours, while every here and
there are depressions. This being so, I imagine, accounts for the
scarcity of wheeled vehicles except tram-cars. These latter,
generally drawn by horses, seemed to me to run in every street and
road in the city. Of course on rails they travel smoothly, but they
and the rails greatly increase the difficulty for cabs and carriages.
The traffic in a New York street in no way resembles that in a
London one. Where there is one tram-car in London there are fifty in
New York, and fifty cabs here to one there. The same as to carriages.
Nearly the whole of the passenger traffic is done in the tram-cars
and elevated railroads, and no wonder it is so, for to traverse the
streets on wheels in any other way is very painful.

The foot-pavements are not much better than the roadways. The
paving-stones are not evenly laid, and every here and there a thin
iron ridge runs across an inch or so higher than the foot-way,
apparently ingeniously placed with a view to cause accidents.

In two words, I have never seen a city with such bad roads and
pavements as New York.

The tram-cars are much better than ours. They are better designed,
far more roomy, and commodious. The fares, too, are moderate,
generally five cents = 2½_d._ for any distance. Another advantage:
when you want to get out, you pull a rope, and the driver stops. How
much better this than poking the conductor with an umbrella, the
general plan in London!

The few cabs there are resemble ours, four-wheelers and Hansoms. But
woe to the visitor who hires one. I was told, and believe, there _is_
a tariff of fares, but in no way is it acted up to. For a short
distance, say one mile, the least demanded is one dollar = 4_s._
2_d._, and if you object there's a row. I asked several Americans why
the tariff is not enforced. "Few, only rich people, use cabs," they
replied, "and it's not worth their while." Anyhow the cabbies have it
their own way. I was warned on this head before I arrived, but I was
obliged once to take one. I paid about six times the London fare.
However, as you can go almost anywhere in a tram-car with comfort, it
does not much matter, especially as you escape the woful jolting a
cab entails.

The names of streets in America are not put up on the corners as with
us. They are painted on the nearest lamp-glass. This is well for the
night, but inconvenient for the day. The name is only on one lamp,
and so small you must go close to read it. You have thus generally to
cross the road, and where four streets meet it is not easily found. I
did not like the plan. But London is also far from perfect in this
way, and might take a lesson from Paris. There, as a rule, the name
of the street is at every corner.

The elevated railways are a feature in New York. Like our underground
lines they lessen much the street traffic. They run about the height
of the second floor windows, and must be an awful nuisance to the
inhabitants of those rooms. The rails are supported on a timber frame
which rests on stout wooden piles. These latter are possibly twenty
feet high, they are very rough, and greatly disfigure the
thoroughfare. Another disfigurement in the streets of New York are
the telegraph-poles. We run our wires over the house-tops or
underground. They do not. The wires are probably more numerous than
ours, but all are supported on poles.

I went one trip on the elevated railroad. As you cross the open
streets, you get good views of the city, but only then; at all other
times the houses on either side shut out every thing. I thought the
service, the punctuality, the carriages quite equal to, if not better
than, our underground lines.

Among other things I went to one of the principal Fire Brigade
Stations. We all know, or ought to know, the Americans are an
inventive race. Much I saw showed great ingenuity, and not only that
but high powers of organization. I may mention one instance. The
horses for service stand ready harnessed except their collars (the
harness is peculiarly simple). The said collars are suspended in
front of the fire-engine, as far from it as when on the horses. The
collars open at bottom, and hang thus something like the capital
letter V inverted. A telegraph-bell rings when a fire breaks out
anywhere. The horses are taught, when they hear this bell, to go at
once in front of the engine, and put their heads and necks through
the collars till they are in their places. The collars close with a
spring, and the engine is ready to start! If I remember right, two
minutes is the time allowed for the engine, with horses harnessed,
firemen on it, and everything complete, to leave the yard. The
firemen on duty are always ready dressed in the loft of the building
where the fire-engines and horses stand, and it is significant of
the value attached to time, that they do not come down stairs as this
would take too long. There is a square opening in the floor of their
room, and through this a polished, round iron pillar ascends. When
the bell rings, they slide down in quick succession.

The horses were noble beasts, and gentle as lambs. A lady and her
child were with me, and the fireman, a most obliging fellow, put the
child on the backs of the pair in succession. Upwards of sixteen
hands high, the girl, nine years old, looked a very mite when so
elevated. It may be that my lady friend petting the horses, won the
fireman's heart. Anyhow he offered to show us how quick all could be
got ready. He asked us to stand on one side, and giving notice above,
to prevent the men descending, he rang the bell. Both horses
immediately rushed forward and put their heads and necks through the
collars. He fastened the traces in a moment--some quick way, I forget
how--and all was ready. I timed the operation: all was done under the
minute!

The said fireman showed us many other things, and having found out we
were "Britishers," was much pleased at our encomiums. He said that
Captain Shaw, the head of the London Fire Brigade, visited New York
in 1884, and adopted much that was shown him. "In fact," he said,
"the London Brigade has to thank _us_ for much of its excellence." I
smiled when he so spoke, the remark was so American; but I doubt not
we have in this department, as in so many, profited by their
inventive faculty, though I ventured to suggest it was not likely the
obligation was _all_ on one side.

The Brooklyn Suspension Bridge is, I think, _the_ sight of New York.
It connects New York with Brooklyn. It is the longest suspension
bridge in the world, and I believe the best in every way. It took
eight years, I think, to build. It is one mile 720 feet long between
the entrances, and 85 feet wide. From either entrance to the large
supporting towers is 2200 feet, which leaves a clear length of 1600
feet for the main span. The said towers, constructed of huge blocks
of granite, are 268 feet high. The bridge is 135 feet above
high-water mark. It cost $17,000,000, i.e. about three and a half
million sterling. There are three roads, or ways, below and one
above. The centre lower way is for carriages, the other two for
single lines of rails, trains crossing both ways. The upper road or
way is for foot-passengers, and thus as you cross the bridge you see
the carriages and trains below. The peculiarity of this wonderful and
beautiful structure is the enormous span between the supporting
towers, and the apparent extreme lightness of the whole bridge. It
would take more engineering knowledge than I possess, and pages of
space, to describe the manner the roadways, i.e. the whole bridge, is
supported. But the idea conveyed is that the supporting-rods, and the
ties of every kind, are far more numerous and lighter than in other
suspension bridges. The mesh of a spider's web, but with threads
running in every direction, is the only thing I can compare it to. I
know not who the engineer was, but his name should go down to all
posterity. I have travelled in many lands, but I never saw any human
achievement that impressed me so much as this Brooklyn Bridge. In
vastness, in beauty, in ingenuity, there is no edifice, I believe,
reared by man to equal it.[1]

New York is divided into three parts. The larger is New York proper.
The other two are Jersey City and Brooklyn. The Hudson river runs
between New York proper and Jersey City. This is not bridged, being
about two miles wide, but I doubt not the go-ahead Americans will do
it some day. The East river divides Brooklyn from New York, and is
crossed by the bridge described above. The termini of the great rail
lines, running North, South, and West, are in Jersey City, so when
leaving New York you cross the Hudson river. There are six lines of
ferries across. The boats are of enormous size, with separate
compartments for wheeled vehicles and passengers. The horses pull the
vehicles on board, and off at the other side. The saloons for the
passengers are pictures of ornament, elegance, and comfort. In all
such things the Americans are far ahead of us. Look at the
steamboats running up and down the Thames, what miserable craft they
are. You could put six or eight of them on board one of the American
steam-ferries described, not to descant on the absence of all decent
accommodation. I like to be fair and give the Americans their due.
There is much I must decry. Will it make my praise appreciated on the
other side of the Atlantic? I doubt it; but it will, I feel sure,
make my English readers believe I write fairly, and do not hesitate
to point out the many things in which the Americans are ahead of the
"Britisher." Do you, if English, mind the word? I do not, but it is
very American.

It has always struck me that nationalities, judging of each other, do
not act fairly. Each individual, be he or she English, American or of
any Continental country, is apt to regard the question at issue
solely from the nationalistic point of view, and does not attempt to
place himself or herself on the other side, and try to realize how it
would look there. There are no people on earth more apt to do this
than the English, though the Americans do it likewise to quite as
great an extent. There is nothing, I think, to choose between them in
this respect, and for national egotism these two nations head the
list. There are not many more disagreeable beings than the
egotistical, untravelled young Englishman (age generally modifies his
views), who reviles everything foreign, and thinks nothing really
good is found out of Great Britain! The class are well known on the
Continent, and naturally avoided, for they exhibit little or no
delicacy in propounding their views. The young Englishman in
question, often of the upper classes, and also often rich, is
disagreeable in other ways also. He adores wealth and despises
poverty. He is a very slave to what is most foolish in our social
customs, ignoring entirely those that are commendable. He would not
carry a parcel through the street if any amount of money would induce
some one else to do it for him. He scoffs at religion of every kind.
He scarcely believes in the existence of right and wrong. He is
shallow to an extent, and fast it goes without saying. Yet is he not
all bad. He _has_ a code, loose as it is, and acts up to it. It is
real pain to him to be backward with a debt of honour (though I write
it, how foolish the expression: as if all debts were not equally
incumbent), but any tradesman may wait for years. He does not lie,
except to save a woman's reputation (query--Is it then justifiable? I
really don't know), but he exaggerates fearfully. Animal courage he
has, but nothing of the moral attribute. Except as regards his
egotism, personal and national, he is not offensive in manner or
language. To ladies he is courteous, but his opinion of woman is of
the lowest. I have said enough to show such a one does not commend
himself to foreigners.

There is an American of the same type, but he differs. Far more
intellectual than his English brother, he has much wider views. He is
equally puffed up with conceit as to his own "glorious country" (odd
how often you hear this expression in the States), but he recognizes
it is a new country, and _may_ thus have some shortcomings. Still,
that it is on the high road to eclipse all others is part of his
creed. He does not, like the other described, look up to a rich man
because he is rich, but because he must have been "cute" to attain
the position. Social customs of all kinds he ignores, and if with the
Englishman aforesaid would willingly carry his parcel for him! He too
is a free-thinker in theology, but he is more tolerant of creed and
dogma in others. I cannot call him "fast" as compared with other
Americans, for they are all fast in a sense. The word, as we
understand it, somehow does not apply to them. So much for his best
side. As regards any code of honour, or appreciation of the virtue of
truth, it is not in him. As regards physical courage I would back the
Englishman, moral courage the American. He (the latter) is often
offensive both in manner and language. Courtesy to any one he does
not practise, for he thinks it argues his own inferiority. I know not
what he thinks of women, for I never cared to discuss the subject
with him.

Such are, in my opinion, the general characteristics of two similar
types of young men in England and America. Both, after travel and as
they advance in years, improve. But, as painted, they are, of course,
neither of them desirable companions, and I do not think there is
much to choose between them.

I care not here to continue the subject, and try to depict the
opposing national characteristics of the Americans and English (of
course, what is written above applies to neither, only to the
particular type of each country as set forth). I have already done it
more or less in the foregoing pages, and would rather it peeped out
in the same way as my book proceeds.

But all this is not New York, which I am bound to finish in this
chapter. Before we go further I had better, for the benefit of those
who know it not, state the American currency and its equivalent value
in English money, for it will save repetition. The "almighty dollar"
is the unit of currency in the States. Why the coin is thus lauded in
American phraseology is a puzzle, for it certainly procures less as
regards its nominal value than any coin I know. The dollar is divided
into 100 cents, and is worth itself 4_s._ 2_d._ Thus each cent
represents one halfpenny; twenty-five cents, roughly one shilling;
and the English sovereign is generally worth $4.85, generally
written $4^85, and read four dollars eighty-five cents. This decimal
system is most convenient for all calculations. I may give one
example. Suppose the exchange to be as above, £1 = $4.85, and I want
to send the equivalent of £210 to America; I simply multiply 485 by
210 and divide the product by 100; practically cut off the two last
figures in the said product. Thus--

485 × 210=101850.

The two last figures, the five and the cypher, are cut off, and they
indicate the cents, the figures reading $1018^50, which is the true
amount I shall get at the above rate of exchange.

Again, in casting up columns of English money figures, we have to
divide the total of the pence by 12, the total of the shillings by
20, and only set down the remainder, carrying over the quotient. With
the American currency the dollars are set down in one column, the
cents in another, but the whole are added up together, then the two
right-hand figures of the product struck off. These are the cents,
all the rest are dollars. There are other ways in which this decimal
system is convenient, but I have exemplified it sufficiently. Shall
_we_ ever have as good a system?

The silver coins are ten cents, quarter, half, and whole dollars. The
gold, five, ten, and twenty dollars, which are roughly worth a little
over one, two, and four pounds sterling. The last is a very handsome
gold piece, a trifle smaller in diameter than an English crown, but,
I think, thicker. The bank-notes, called "Bills," begin at fifty
cents, and run up to one thousand dollars. There may be higher, but I
have not seen them. There is nothing to be said in their favour. They
are of many patterns and devices, and most of them dilapidated and
dreadfully dirty; so dirty that they stick to one another, and so
greasy and discoloured by usage that I always fancied they gave off
an unpleasant odour. They are not nice things to put in your pocket!
I speak of those of moderate value, say 100 dollars. I believe those
of higher denominations, not so much in use, are better. Accustomed
to our clean and crisp notes, I was surprised that the go-ahead
Americans had such paper money, for bad as it is in some parts of
the continent, I have never seen such offensive notes as the
American. I believe, here in England, all paper money paid into the
bank is destroyed, and new issued in its stead, and that this
accounts for our clean, crisp, and undilapidated notes. I wish the
same plan held over the water.

I had forgotten the copper coins. These are one cent, two cents, and
five cent pieces. The last is covered over with some nickel
composition, so that it looks like silver. Side by side with the ten
cent silver piece, the five cent nickel bit looks the more valuable,
and it takes time to realize it is only worth half the other. The
five cent piece is often called "a nickel," the ten cent piece "a
dime."

Out far west the copper coinage is not current under five cents. When
at "San Francisco," I found that nothing was sold under that amount,
which is, of course, 2½_d._ The poor there take two or three of
any cheap thing to make up the sum. Not only did the storekeepers
there _not_ think it inconvenient, they regretted the time in the
gold fever days when ten cents was the lowest tender, and if I
remember right, when that splendid city was in its first infancy
(i.e. gold in California was first discovered) nothing could be
bought under 25 cents, or one shilling!

It is a great mistake to suppose America is a cheap country. It may
be, nay often is, a good country to make money in for the very reason
that things are _not_ cheap, but it is, a very dear country to live
in, and, take it all in all, the dearest I have ever visited. It is
well that this all-important fact should be known, for numbers of
emigrants go out, deceived by agents in London, with quite a contrary
opinion. But still the broad fact requires qualification. Some few
things are cheaper than in England or the continent, but most are far
dearer. Food of some sorts is cheaper--notably meat--in many places
less than half the price it is here. Bread, beer, and liquors much
the same. Preserved provisions are a little dearer. Vegetables,
perhaps, are cheaper. But all other necessaries of life are two or
three times their cost here. Clothing is very dear. Furniture more
reasonable. Crockery, three times the home price, and everything else
that is wanted in a house exceeds by much what it would cost here.
Travelling is far more expensive, but more on this head farther on.
The truth is as follows:--If a man or family live in the States in an
out-of-the-way place, and are content so to live without the comforts
of life, nothing but the bare necessaries, they can then, _after once
setting themselves up_, live cheaper than in England. But only in
this case can it be done. To live otherwise, that is to allow
yourself and family things on the ordinary scale we have them in
England, costs far more.

The reason why things are dear in the States is simply because labour
is scarce and expensive. For an ordinary day's work, a man there gets
one to one and a half dollars besides his food. This is certainly
equal to three times the ordinary English wage. The consequence is,
that, in spite of the heavy import dues on foreign manufactured
goods, the Americans, in many cases, find it cheaper to import than
to manufacture them. Take crockery for instance. By far the greater
part in use comes from England. They have as good clay in the States
as there is here. I need not say that the Americans, ingenious and
_au fait_ at all machinery as they are, _could_ make it, still they
do not, to any extent, simply because, so made, it would be dearer
than what they import. English crockery will be found all over
America; it has borne sea freight, import dues, rail charges for
perhaps fifteen hundred miles, what wonder then that when you buy
such it costs three or four times what it does here?

It is the same with many other things. In fact, the purchasing power
of a dollar in inner America is not, for all such articles, much more
than one shilling in England! It goes without saying, that English
emigrants of the lower class, settling in America, can, by selling
their labour, as they do, at such a high price, and with the cheap
common food available, more than make up for the high cost of such
things as I have described. But people who have been accustomed to
comforts in England should avoid the States, unless they are prepared
to forego society, and live the sort of life one leads on a cattle
ranch, where nothing in the way of appearance is necessary.

One word more as to the poor emigrant class. It is not all _couleur
de rose_ for them. True, labour is in demand and its cost high, but
the man, or the family, have often a hard fight before they can take
advantage of these conditions, and during the interval they have
necessarily to spend far more than they would in England. I do not
say that the said poor class, who cannot find work here, should _not_
emigrate to America, but I do say they are unwise to do so, unless
some assured favourable locality, some kind of probable opening, is
assured to them. America needs population, but the need is America's,
and _she_ should give the inducements.

Back to New York. There are many very good hotels there; among them
may be named the Fifth Avenue Hotel, the Windsor, Brunswick, and
Astor House, but all these are expensive, five to six dollars per day
per head, which is a good deal more than the best hotels in London.
There are also many good hotels in which the charges are not more
than half the above, but in most of the latter breakfast only lasts
from 7 to 9, and dinner is at 1 o'clock--hours many will object to.
You _can_ have baths in all these houses, but the comfort of a sponge
bath in your bedroom is not usual, and if you insist on it, you pay
for your obstinacy. I went to Earl's Hotel: it is quite as good as
any of the second-class houses; the waiters there are all negroes,
they are attentive and serve well. It was the height of summer when I
landed, and the heat was awful. The nights were suffocating; I could
have fancied myself in the tropics, for the high temperature lasted
till early morning. Sleep and great heat, in my case at least, are
antagonistic, and, as I tossed on my bed, I longed for the waving
punkah we have under such circumstances in India.

I was not sorry to leave the place, and advise any one visiting it,
to do so either in the Spring or the Autumn, at those times the
climate is delightful, but avoid both Summer and Winter, the extremes
of temperature, heat and cold, at those seasons, are such as we in
England wot not of, for above 100° in summer and 20° to 25° below
zero (Fahr.) in winter _are_ extremes.


FOOTNOTE:

[1] In vastness and ingenuity it has certainly no rival on earth. In
beauty, the Palais de Justice at Brussels may be a rival.




CHAPTER III.

Why I went to America--Agents in London and the Eden promised--New
York to New Orleans--Railroads in the States--American scenery--Ranch
life--Deserts in the States--Antelope Valley.


I left New York for California, which is right on the other side of
the huge continent, but why I did so I must explain, for thereby
hangs an important tale.

My object in going to America was to buy an estate and settle on it
with my two sons, whom I had sent out there some eighteen months
before. They went to learn farm and cattle ranch work, and had been
so employed. Before leaving London I inquired much as to the best
part of America to go to, but, as is so often the case, I found that
nearly all the advice I received was prompted by self-interest, i.e.
that among the class I applied to, mostly agents connected in some
way or other with America, each vaunted the excellence of the State
and locality he worked for. In short, the result of all my inquiries
was that a great many different States were the best in the Union!

While in doubt what to do, and with the determination not to be
"done" by an agent, I read a very tempting advertisement, and
eventually, like many more, _was_ done very completely by the
advertiser and his representations! The said advertisement set out
that 160 acres in California would be granted free of cost by the
Government to any one, above twenty-one years of age, and that any
further area could be bought on very reasonable terms. The locality
was said to possess a charming climate and many advantages, all of
which would be detailed on application, &c., &c. I have not the
advertisement, unfortunately, or would set it out. This I thought
looked tempting. My two sons and I could take up 480 acres, and I
could buy any more I wanted. I went to the advertiser (I found out
later that he was an American, but he had been long in England and
did not betray it), and what I saw of him I liked. He said the
locality was in California, and that it was known as the "Antelope
Valley" (a taking name!), and possessed a very perfect climate. The
winters were very mild, the summers not hot, and bright sunny days
were the rule. That he was there in June, and wore with comfort the
same clothes he did in England. That the rainfall was scanty, but the
deficiency was supplied by artesian wells, which could be sunk at a
small cost anywhere in the valley, and with certain results. That
California was known to be a great fruit country, and that the valley
in question was pre-eminently fitted for all kinds of fruit. That
settlers had only begun to go there a few months before, and were
increasing in number at a great pace. That a railroad ran through the
valley, and that all the land in its vicinity was taken up, but that,
if I went out soon, I could probably get land two or three miles from
it. That crops of most kinds, besides fruit of all kinds, could be
grown there, and that the rail connecting at either end with San
Francisco and Los Angelos (the former the capital of California and
on the sea, the latter a large town and seaport), there was an
unlimited market for all produce. The scenery, too, he said, was
beautiful, the valley being surrounded by picturesque hills, &c.,
&c., &c. All these statements he supported by a map of the valley,
showing the lands taken up, by a pamphlet he had written, in which
the glories of this Eden were highly painted, and to which were added
letters from the settlers, thanking him for having brought such a
paradise to their notice.[2] But this was not all. Specimens of the
crops and fruits grown in the valley, some dried, some imitations in
wax, heavy bunches of grapes, peaches wonderful as to size,
Brobdingnag strawberries, and what not! The only wonder was _why_ so
desirable a tract had only lately become known, and I asked as much.
The answer was, "Want of population. California is roughly 800 miles
long, with perhaps an average width of 200 miles. In this large
tract, twice as big as England and Wales together, there are about a
million inhabitants."

And I, like a fool, was more or less satisfied, for I found the areas
and population mentioned were right.

Now in all the above, truth and fiction were so closely blended,
that, to discriminate which was which, I should have to travel over
the whole ground again, and this is not the place to do it. Wait till
we get there. But I would ask the reader to note this page, and
compare it later on with the facts.

Suffice it here to state that the said agent, who sent me and many
others there, knew that not one in twenty would remain, and that
numbers in fair positions here in England, who, influenced by him,
sold up all they had and went out, some with wives and families, to
this El Dorado, crossed the Atlantic on the high road to ruin!

But what was his object? Did he own lands there and want to sell
them? Not an acre, I believe! He got a commission on the passengers
he sent over a particular line of rail, and thus managed to send all
his victims the same way that I went.

Now the oddest part of the whole affair is that he _did_ manage to do
this. If any one looks at a map of the States, he will see that the
direct and consequently the shortest route from New York to
California is _viâ_ the Central Pacific Railway to San Francisco. The
distance thus is about 3000 miles. By the route he sent me, and all
the aspirants to become land-holders in the Antelope Valley, viz.
_viâ_ New Orleans and the Southern Pacific railroad, the distance is,
say, 4500 miles. Thus, 1500 miles out of the way! I did not realize
when he offered me tickets by that southern line how much longer it
was. Still a glance at the map showed me it was longer, and I
objected. "Yes, it _is_ longer," he replied, "but I can get you
tickets cheaper that way, and you will be far more comfortable." I
assented. But I am surprised he succeeded with the others, as I am
now that he did so with me--that none of the many, more suspicious
than I am, did not fathom his object. But so it was. All who went to
the happy valley travelled over that route, 1500 miles out of the
way!

Besides the extra distance, and consequent extra expense, there was
another very serious disadvantage in summer (the time I did the
journey) to the line he recommended. It is much farther south, and in
consequence a great deal hotter. I suffered not a little therefrom.
Others did the same, and as they dropped in by twos and threes,
exhausted by the heat, and joined the exasperated and despairing
prior arrivals in the valley, they cursed, in no measured terms, the
man who had so deceived them. In two words, the Antelope Valley is a
howling desert. Not a blade of grass, not a green tree, no trees at
all. In this it is a perfect contrast to the swampy "Eden," so well
described by Dickens in "Martin Chuzzlewit," but as regards the
impossibility of making it a home, the two are alike. More on this
head when we get there.

I am not one of those to whom "money is no object;" quite the
reverse, and more especially had I to study economy when I left for
America. I therefore took second-class tickets from the said agent
for the whole line from New York to San Francisco. The Antelope
Valley is, by the route I was to travel, some 300 miles nearer, but I
thought it better to go to the capital of California first, and get
what I might want. He assured me I should have every comfort in the
said second class, and the amount I paid him for the tickets,
considering the enormous distance (I forget the sum), was not great.
He told me I should not get a regular bed as in a Pullman car, but
that if I took a small mattress and blankets, I should find room to
lie down and sleep. The tickets he gave me were to be exchanged at
New York for a rail-book, with coupons in it to carry me over the
different lines.

When leaving New York I went to the office to have this done, but
only on the morning of the day I was to leave. I then found to my
astonishment there was no second class, only first and emigrant
class, and that my tickets were really only good for the latter. On
further inquiry, I ascertained that between New York and New Orleans
(the first part of the journey, taking about two days and nights), no
sleeping space whatever was provided in the emigrant cars, and
consequently that I should have to sit up on the seat the whole of
the forty-eight hours, but that from New Orleans to San Francisco,
the said emigrant cars were built on an improved plan, the seats
pulling out and forming bed-spaces, and that therefore the hardship
on that, by far the longer part of the journey, four days and five
nights, would not be so great. "But," I said, "I paid for
second-class tickets, and emigrant class is third." "Very sorry,"
replied the rail official, "but there _is_ no second, and you will
see that the sum paid and marked on your London paper indicates
emigrant rates." This was true, and I had no redress. I then
observed, which I had not before, that on the tickets I purchased in
London, "Second Class" was only written in ink on the side. I felt I
had been deceived, but that no other course now lay open except to
accept the said emigrant tickets, or pay the difference and go first.
I decided eventually to do the latter as far as New Orleans, and
after that, as there would then be sleeping space, to travel in the
emigrant cars. I therefore paid the difference (it was considerable),
and left the office with first-class tickets to New Orleans, and
emigrant class beyond.

Crossing the Hudson river to Jersey City in one of the magnificent
ferries described, we started from the terminal station there. By the
bye, the word station is not used in the States; dēpot, pronounced
as written, does duty for it. I was surprised how, in many ways, the
language used in America differs from our English. I will give a few
examples: A cock is a rooster--biscuits, crackers--deficiency,
shortage--put in prison, jailed--drapery, dry goods--cabman,
hackman--horses' reins, lines--sleepers under rails, tyes--guard,
conductor--cabin, state room--engine-driver, engineer--funnel,
smoke-stack--engine, locomotive--to post, to mail--sending by rail,
to ship--clergyman, minister--to harness, to hitch--to think, to
guess--to do, to fix--to carry on any business, to run--barmaid,
bar-tender--public house, saloon--many, quite a few--and pages might
be so filled. Doubtless the language, the idioms vary more and more
yearly, and probably the pronunciation also. You do meet Americans,
travelled ones, who have no nasal twang, but otherwise the
nationality, partly by that, partly by the way occasional words are
pronounced, is easily recognized. Some of the Americans seem to
forget that England was the birthplace of the English language. One
said to me, when pronunciation was one day the subject under
discussion between us, "Very true, we do pronounce many words
differently, and I can always recognize your countrymen by the
British accent they use when speaking our language." I laughed, and
remarked that unless I mistook, _we_ had spoken it before Americans
existed. He did not answer; it seemed to strike him as a new view of
the subject, and he ruminated!

Running south from New York, the country we passed through until
night fell was very beautiful. That, and some I saw near Lake Erie
months later, was the most charming pastoral country I beheld in the
States. It was quite equal to anything in England, which is so rich
in pastoral scenery. One charm in American travel is, that, in
traversing that mighty continent, you see scenery equal to, and
like, the best that any country on earth produces. While executing
the enormous distances on American rail lines, you lie down at night,
the last of the twilight having shown you rural scenes--peaceful
villages, ivy-clad churches, browsing cattle, waggon teams and green
fields. You awake in a desert--a real desert like the great African
ones. Far as the eye can reach, for hours and hours as the train
rolls on, sand and nothing else. Not a house, not an inhabitant, no
water anywhere. You close your eyes that night on the arid waste, and
lo! next morning you are in Swiss scenery. Great fir-clad mountains,
capped with snow, border the rail, a precipice is below, and you
shudder as you realize how near you are to the edge. A mountain
stream, with numerous cascades, accompanies you for miles. Domestic
animals are confined to a small breed of horses and goats, but if
lucky you may see a large stag, or a grizzly bear, and possibly have
a shot at the latter. Before evening all changes again. Vast and
interminable plains of grass, with an occasional sluggish stream.
Cattle by the thousand in great flocks, sometimes grazing peacefully,
sometimes driven by wild-looking cowboys on wiry horses with the
high-peaked Mexican saddles and long whips. Here again you may travel
for hours and see no habitation. Trees, too, there are none. It seems
to be a country designed by nature for cattle only, and such is
indeed the use it is put to.

The enormous cattle-ranches we read of exist here. The life of the
owners or managers is a very Robinson Crusoe kind of existence. Miles
probably from any rail, and miles also from their nearest neighbours,
the solitude is extreme. Women delight them not, for there are none.
An occasional newspaper finds its way there, but complete ignorance
of the affairs in the outer world is the rule. A ranch-man's library
is very limited, so not much can he do in the way of reading. He
lives in a log-hut he has probably built himself, and he or his
companion, if he has one, cook their simple fare. They have beef _ad
libitum_, milk by the pail, they can wallow in cream, and consume any
amount of butter. Tea and coffee too they have--sad the day they run
out--and possibly a bottle or two of spirits, but the last they are
very sparing of, for such is not easily obtained, and they are a
sober race. Two iron beds, which either of them gives up willingly to
a friend and makes his own on the floor (hospitality is a law with
them), a table or two, three or four chairs, shelves and pegs to put
and hang everything on, and this is all the furniture in the hut.
But, except at night, they are seldom indoors. Riding many miles
after stray cattle, milking, butter-making, rearing crops for cattle
food in the winter. There is plenty of occupation and they work well.

The cattle on such ranches stay out the year round. On the largest
the owner often knows not how many there are. Occasionally they are
driven into corrals (wooden enclosures), and counted, while the young
stock are then branded. The life is necessarily wild, rough, and
solitary. The ranch-owner, like Robinson Crusoe, is lord of all he
surveys for many miles round. His work is not hard, his gun, his rod,
his horses are his amusements, but domestic happiness, the charm of
"home" is not his. Think you he is to be envied or pitied?

All ranches in the States are not as above described. Where there is
more population the ranches are smaller and differ in other ways. I
shall have to describe one later which I bought, so will not do it
here.

I had with me a mattress and blankets for the emigrant car beyond New
Orleans, but having a first-class ticket I supposed this entitled me
to a regular made-up bed in the Pullman carriage which was next to
the first-class car. I found though it was not so, and that two
dollars a night had to be paid for the luxury. In the first-class
carriage, with small seats holding only two, it was impossible to lie
down at all, and so I paid it, but this was the first experience I
had of the way Europeans are deceived on the American railroads. When
I paid at New York the difference of third to first as far as New
Orleans, the official well knew, for I told him, I did it to secure
sleeping accommodation, but he took good care not to undeceive me. I
have known the same sort of thing occur again and again. The most
flagrant case I met with I will mention here. I was in Colorado at
the time, and about leaving for England. I wrote to a high official
of the Central Pacific Railway, at Denver, for the rates of through
tickets to New York. He replied that first-class was 48 dollars,
second, I think, 44, and added, the difference was small (which was
quite true), and that an additional advantage obtained by going
first-class was that "it entitled you to sleeping accommodation." (I
can swear to the six words quoted.) "Yankee cuteness" had made me
suspicious by this time, besides I had never known the Pullman beds
included in first-class fare, so I wrote again, and asked if he meant
what his letter said. Driven into a corner he explained what I had
previously known, viz. that only first-class passengers _could_ use
the Pullman, but had to pay extra for it. I wrote back indignantly
and said the statement in his first letter was analogous, and equally
truthful, to the following supposititious case. A meets his friend B
in a town. A points to a jeweller's shop, and tells B he is
"entitled" to anything in it. So he is if he pays for it, and it was
the same with the Pullman car!

We reached New Orleans in due course. It is in latitude 30° while New
York is 41°. It is thus much further south, about 1600 miles by rail.
It is not a healthy place, the yellow fever often makes great
ravages, but I heard nothing of it. I was only there one day, so can
say very little about the town. The sun was very powerful and I did
not care to roam. There are many French, and they had imported Cafés
on their national plan, with seats outside. Of course the coloured
race was numerous, and as a consequence the semi-coloured also. Many
ladies and women of this latter class are very handsome; I saw some
beautiful faces among them. The "Yankees" are not in the ascendant so
far south, and as a consequence the habits of the people are more
courteous. The large French element there also conduces thereto.
Another thing struck me, the inhabitants seem to take life easier,
there is not the rush and drive one meets with in New York. As
regards the people I should not object to live there, but the climate
is a sad drawback. The winters are much pleasanter than met with
north, but the summers must be far worse, and the yellow fever is a
sad ogre.

The principal street is a grand one, very wide, with trees on the
Boulevard plan. In this respect it far surpasses Broadway in New
York,[3] while in buildings it is equal to it. I also found New
Orleans much cheaper, the dollar commands more. I was only there
about sixteen hours, and then left by the Southern Pacific line _en
route_ for California.

As I said before, for this part of the journey I had only emigrant
class tickets. The distance is very great, right across the
continent, and to San Francisco, where I was bound, some 2900 miles.
It was with no little anxiety, therefore, I stepped into and
inspected the said emigrant class carriage, in which I was to spend
some five days and nights. The interior will be better understood
after I have described the general plan and principle of American
trains.

Here in England each carriage is divided into compartments, distinct
from each other, holding 6, 8, or 10 passengers. In America there are
no compartments whatever. Whether first, second, or emigrant class,
the carriage is open from end to end. In the middle, connecting the
doors at either extremity (there are no doors at the sides), runs an
open space, about three feet wide, and the seats are on either side
of this passage, and placed at right angles to it. Each seat holds
two people, the seats are placed in front of one another on both
sides the whole length of the carriage or car, except a certain space
at either end, of which presently. When the passengers are seated
they thus all face the engine, but the back of each seat works on a
pivot at its foot, so that the said back can be placed on either side
of the seat. In other words, you can thus sit either with your face
or back to the engine. This is a great convenience, for, if the
carriage is not crowded and two people can occupy two seats, by
placing the backs different ways, you can put your legs on the
opposite cushion. But it is a greater convenience still in the
emigrant cars, for in them a board can be drawn out to fill up the
vacancy between the seats, and you thus have space for a bed. In the
emigrant carriages each passenger is entitled to space for his bed at
night, and it is thus arranged. The two seats hold four in the day.
At night two of the said four vacate, and occupy a space above, made
large enough for two beds. This is the arrangement when the car is
full, which is not often the case, but otherwise one sleeps above and
one below. I was fortunate. Sometimes I occupied the upper, sometimes
the lower space, but I never had to share either with another. The
above arrangement, viz. spaces for beds, is only in the emigrant
cars. In the first class, and in the second if there is one (for a
second class carriage is the exception), there is no board to pull
out to fill up the vacancy between the seats, nor is there any space
for beds above, so that really, unless you go first and pay the
nightly charge for the made bed in the Pullman car, you are far
better off in the emigrant carriage than in either of the others.

The spaces alluded to above at both ends of the carriages are
occupied in one case by a stove and reservoir for iced water, in the
other by a lavatory and retiring closet. The long journeys in America
_could_ not be undertaken without these conveniences.

In front of the door at each end of the carriage is a small platform,
which joins on to and very nearly touches the adjoining one of the
next car. The conductor or guard can thus at any time go from one end
of the train to the other. So in fact can anybody else, though not
permitted into a higher class than paid for. There is no difficulty
whatever in going from one carriage to another. I have often seen
children do it with the train running at full speed. The said
platforms, except the passing space, are railed in, and it is often
very pleasant to stand out there in the day time and see the scenery,
often at night too, when it is hot, for the draught then is very
welcome.

The seats in the emigrant cars have no cushions, they are plain wood.
The passengers sit on the pillows or mattresses brought with them,
and there is thus no hardship in it. The other carriages have all
cushioned seats. The Pullman cars are models of luxury. In some
trains there are two Pullmans; one used as a drawing-room in the day
and for beds at night, the other for meals. The lavatories in these
are most commodious, one for men and one for ladies, and in every
possible way the comfort of the passengers is studied. You have your
meals at any hour you like, the _cuisine_ is good, and all kinds of
wine are on the list. You pass the day reading or writing, though the
last is not easy, perfect as the springs are. You smoke, when you
will, in a luxurious smoking-room. You can wander from one end of the
train to the other, and at night you have a perfect bed. What more
can one desire? Under such circumstances, a week's journey is no
hardship; but, and it is an important "but" to many, to "do" America
in this way is very expensive. The fare is high, the meals dear;
thus, to cross the continent in this wise, costs perhaps 40_l._

I advise none but the rich to visit America with travel in view. But
those to whom "money is no object," as the saying goes, can wander in
the States with more comfort and luxury than anywhere in the world.

The American rail-cars, in their construction and arrangements, being
so different to ours, it is well worth while to consider which is the
better. I do not hesitate for a moment to award them the palm, in
their phraseology, "far and away." In the first place, in such
carriages the murders, thefts, and outrages, we occasionally hear of
in England, are simply impossible. I will not dwell on this point, it
must be so obvious. Secondly, you can quench your thirst, when you
will, in whatever class you are; here you cannot do it at all. More,
you can wash, you can retire for any purpose, while here, the
suffering both sexes often go through, for want of such conveniences,
is often very great, sometimes permanently injurious. Thirdly, you
are not boxed up in a confined space in their cars as you are in our
carriages. You can have change, choose your society, stretch your
legs, go outside, and all this necessarily makes the time pass
pleasantly. That all this is so, every one must allow. Should we not
then do well to copy their plan? The conservative feeling, prevalent
with some, that _because_ "our plan is ours it cannot be beaten, and
we'll stick to it," is so contemptible. Let each nation, I say, learn
from the other in every way. Perfection is not human, there is always
room for improvement, and narrow-minded is the individual who, puffed
up with conceit for his own or national attributes, fails to
recognize it outside. I know, of course, that to change our plan of
rail carriages must in any case take many years, but some might be
built on the new plan, and the change tried gradually. If any like
privacy, a carriage on the old build would meet the want.

But beyond the carriages there is nothing regarding American
railroads equal to, or as good, as our system. Here in England the
lowest tariff, the third class, is fixed by Act of Parliament. Every
line is compelled to provide traffic at a given rate, viz. one penny
per mile (parliamentary fares), and thus the poor can always travel
cheaply, or the rich either if they choose to go third class. In
America, as far as I could ascertain, there is no Government
interference at all in this respect, and each railroad company can
charge what fares it pleases. The consequence is that on some lines
the rates are simply prohibitory.

In England we have first, second, and third class, to suit the means
of passengers. In America some lines have first and second class,
some first and emigrant class, but some again only first! The second
class avails nothing for long distances, inasmuch as you have no room
to lie down, and if you go second, as I said above, you cannot, even
if ready to pay the charge, get a bed in the Pullman car. You are
therefore, unless prepared to go emigrant, practically driven into
the first class. On those lines where there is only first class, you
are, of course, still more helpless, and can simply elect between
rail and any other conveyance. I later bought a ranch in Colorado,
close to a railroad. On that line there was only first class. I there
wrote the following letter to a local newspaper, and I give it here,
as it elucidates much of what I have said.


A RANCHMAN'S PLAINT.

_To the Editor of the_ DAILY GAZETTE.

     Sir,--I am an Englishman. I have lately bought a
     ranch near a station on the Denver and Rio Grande
     Railway. I naturally thought when I did so, that
     being near one of the iron roads would be a great
     advantage in many ways, but experience has shown
     me I was mistaken, inasmuch as the rates for
     passengers, goods, and live stock are so high, no
     benefit whatever is conferred by the said
     railroad.

     First, as to the said rates. On all the railroads
     I have seen in all the many countries I have
     visited, and I have travelled much, there are
     different classes for passengers. Here, on this
     railroad, there is only one, and that first-class.
     Where the justice, nay the policy, of this, even
     in the interests of the railroad? Is it fair to
     make a poor man travel in a velvet bedecked and
     gilded carriage and pay for the same, when economy
     being the one important point to him, he would
     rather pay less for ruder accommodation? Of course
     the only object the railroad directors can have by
     this unique and singular arrangement is to
     increase the receipts. But does it do so? I say
     no; many times no. How empty the carriages are! In
     my own case, had there been a cheap class, I
     should, since I have been here, have once or twice
     a week visited Denver or the Springs. Instead of
     perhaps twenty trips, I have made three (my family
     none), and the last time there were only two other
     passengers with me in the carriage. None of the
     ranchmen around use the rail. If they have to go
     anywhere on the line they drive, and all say it is
     far cheaper to do so and pay livery for the team
     than incur such high rates. Is not this an
     absurdity? The rate is, I believe, six cents a
     mile, which is just about three times that for
     the third class in England. A railway should
     increase and foster travel. It always does so. No;
     one exception: the D. and R. G. Railway does not.
     In the same way as individuals use their legs,
     horses, anything in preference to the rail, so it
     is on this line found cheaper to cart crops to
     market, and it is so done. Another result: crops
     don't pay here because the cost of taking them to
     market is so high. So not only does the railroad
     not get the existing crops, it also forfeits all
     which would be grown were the rates reasonable.
     Truly the policy figured is a strange one and
     exemplifies exactly the best way "not to do it."

     But I dare not trespass more on your space, or I
     could enlarge greatly on other singular facts.
     How, because there is competition in one case and
     not in the other, short distances cost more for
     both passengers and goods than longer ones. How it
     was (I am not sure as to the present) cheaper to
     take a through ticket when the destination was an
     intermediate station and get out at that
     station--if you could! These and much more are not
     peculiar to the railroad under discussion, though
     peculiar to America. The whole system of railroads
     in America puzzles me. With much that other
     countries might with advantage copy, there are
     crying evils which, were public opinion more
     expressed, could never be tolerated. But enough
     for to-day. If you care to insert this I may write
     again. E. M.

The American carriages have not the class painted on them as ours.[4]
How you are supposed to know which is which, beats my comprehension.
Having settled yourself with all your small parcels, you suddenly
find you are not in your right class, and have all the trouble of
changing!

When the train stops, be it for meals or otherwise, you are not
warned beforehand, and no notice is given when about to start again.
Not even a whistle when it _does_ start! How different this from our
plan, or the one on the Continent. The object in the States would
seem to be to try and leave passengers behind. This uncertainty also
diminishes the advantage of stoppages, especially when meals are in
the case.

I omitted, when describing the carriages, to dilate on the advantages
of the stoves. These warm the cars most thoroughly. With the
thermometer outside 20° or 25° below zero, the interior will be, say,
60°! Here the most we get is a foot-warmer, and must needs shiver!
The Americans certainly score against us in all as regards the
carriages and their comforts.

In England there are porters at all stations. In the States there are
very few. Luggage once "checked," that is registered, you have no
further trouble with it, but you will find no one to help you with
what you keep by you. Changing trains with mattresses, bedding,
baskets with food, &c., &c., is often very difficult. You carry your
belongings, or rather as much as you can, to the new train, there is
nothing to indicate the class, so you place them in any carriage, and
rush back for the rest, doubtful how much may be stolen at either
end. Perhaps three trips are necessary, and you know not how long
before the new train starts. No one thinks of helping you. Darkness,
possibly, adds to your difficulties, for you can't find your last
carriage, or the train you came in has been shunted. You are lucky
if, after gymnastic performances with luggage which is a new
experience, and wishing, as no porters exist, barrows were supplied,
for then you could carry all in one trip, the new train has not
started, without you, but with a share of your belongings!

I have seen ladies with children, emigrant women with their little
all in peril, nearly insane in such cases. I have done their porter
work more than once myself, and broken my shins in doing it. It is
very shameful that it should be so; more shameful the fact that if
on railroads, in such cases, you ask for information or help, the
chances are you are answered _à la_ Yankee, i.e. rudely, and no
assistance or information given you. Oh, this beastly want of
courtesy in America, how I did loathe it!

The rail wars in the States are a grand feature--grand in the sense
that they produce great results, some of them very absurd. One line
tries to swamp the other by lowering its rates; the other retaliates,
and quotes still lower figures. The first comes down more still, and
the second follows suit. This goes on for months, to the advantage of
the public, to the ruin of the lines. At last the _reductio_ is truly
_ad absurdum._ 1500 miles for $5! Then the companies agree, and,
presto, the rate is $50!! On a line there may be competition at
either end, not in the middle, e.g. the Denver and Rio Grande Railway
above. Then is it cheaper to take a ticket right through than for
half the distance, and get out at your destination if you can, for
they often try to prevent your doing so! The Americans may be, nay,
they are, "cute," but common sense would be more to the purpose in
cases like the above.

Cut-rate-offices exist in all the large towns. The meaning of the
term is an office where rail tickets can be bought under the existing
rates. This is accomplished legitimately, and also by fraud; the
first, by the fact that the companies think it worth their while to
give such agents a commission on tickets sold, and they allow you a
portion of such commission; the second, by selling you, often at a
large reduction, the return ticket of another, who on arrival has
found it unnecessary, and sold it for what he could get. As such
tickets are not transferable, you have, after buying such, to
personate on the return journey the original possessor, and sign his
name. But the Yankees think nothing of this. Thank goodness, all
Americans are not Yankees!

The object "far west" being population, emigrant carriages are
supplied westward, in order that this said poor class shall go
cheaply; but having arrived, it is wiser to keep them there, and
_ergo_, if they return they must do so first, or at least
second-class, for there are no emigrant fares back, i.e. eastward. I
presume they are supposed to make so much money by even a short
sojourn in the west, that economy can be no object on their return!

In England luggage is not registered, why, I never understood, for
there is practically no safety in our plan. The boxes are labelled
for their destination, and are thus safe so far; but if from any
cause you are not then by to claim them, any one can walk off with
any portion, and consequently the smallest delay on arrival is
dangerous. Strange that losses are not more frequent. _For_, or _on_
the Continent, it _is_ registered through, and you get a receipt for
the number of packages. So far good, but if you are obliged to stop
_en route_, you cannot obtain the luggage or any part of it. Only at
its destination can it be claimed by the production of the receipt.
The Continental plan is better than ours, but inferior to the
American. They use brass labels with numbers; one is attached to the
package, one given to the owner. Presenting this label, he can claim
the baggage it represents at any time _en route_. The said labels
are convenient enough, thin brass plates about half an inch square,
and can easily be carried in a purse. The corresponding label is
attached to the package in an excellent way. It is fastened to a
leather strap, some six inches long, and in this, at the opposite
end, is a slit; the strap is passed through the handle of portmanteau
or carpet-bag, or under the cord of any box, the label passed through
the said slit, and the strap drawn tight. It cannot possibly come
off. On the label attached is the destination besides the number. On
arrival there it is kept until claimed by the production of the
corresponding ticket. It is by far the best arrangement for luggage I
have ever seen.

Before arriving at any large town the train is boarded by what are
called express-men. If you deliver to one of these your labels he
gives you a receipt for them, and telling him where your baggage is
to be sent, you will receive it there, without fail, in a couple of
hours. There is no risk whatever in doing so, and the plan is very
convenient; but as regards their charges the said express-men are
most extortionate. They think nothing of fifty cents for each
article, however short the distance may be, but half that amount if
the things are few and large, one quarter if many and small, is
enough, and when they find you won't give more, they agree.

Still you are then not quite safe. Having been "done" once or twice
by express-men to a considerable amount, I, on one occasion, when
leaving Denver, the capital of Colorado, made a bargain with an
express-man to take my baggage to the rail for a certain sum. He
brought it to the station, delivered to me what I supposed was all,
and I had it duly "checked," as described. I then tendered him his
payment; he asked half as much again, saying the amount agreed to was
not enough. I objected. He replied, "I kept back one thing till you
paid me; it is in the waggon outside, and I shall not give it up." I
appealed to the rail officials; they answered curtly that it was no
business of theirs, and that I had better go to the police. This was
impossible, for the train was just leaving. I had my son with me,
and I thought I could take it from his waggon by force, but there
were many of his class by, and I did not fancy a free fight. "Pay the
money," said some one, "take his number and report him to the
superintendent of police," and I thought this the better way and did
so. I did report the case fully, and offered to return to Denver to
prove it by my son's evidence, but the said superintendent was not
even courteous enough to reply. The express-men are licensed by the
police, and accountable to them, but many told me, e'er I wrote, I
should get no redress, for unless prepared to spend money in the case
I should not get a hearing. The law on every point is most lax in the
States, for bribery and corruption are acknowledged on every side to
be the rule, and cases promising no profit are passed over. Still I
must add the above was an exceptional case, I having always found the
express-men act up to their bargains. I think, therefore, a bargain
made with them will be completed.

But all this does not advance the journey from New Orleans to San
Francisco. If you look them up on the map you will see how far they
are apart--some 2500 miles as the crow flies, and by rail, say, 3000
miles. You traverse the states of Louisiana, Texas, a little of New
Mexico, Arizona, and California. A state in America is, speaking
generally and leaving out the smallest, as large as England, some
much larger, twice as big. Thus it was no small journey; it took me
five days' and nights' incessant travel by rail. But what must the
distances in America have been before the days of railroads. Here in
England, between the old waggon era and the rail time, we had an
interregnum of coaches, which for speed were the best in the world.
Thus from one end of the kingdom to the other was then only an affair
of three or four days. It was different in the United States. As far
as I could ascertain there never had been a coaching-time, except for
short distances. The long ones were done by waggons, at the rate of,
say, fifteen miles a day, the passengers sleeping in or under the
said vehicles at night. From New York to California at that time took
a good six months. It is now done by the direct route in something
less than that number of days.

Louisiana, the first state we traversed on leaving New Orleans, is an
uninteresting and swampy country, and must be very unhealthy. The
vegetation is luxurious and semi-tropical. Mosquitoes exist in
swarms. Some of the jungle we passed through (it has that character)
reminded me of the jungles in the south-east of Bengal. Louisiana
cannot be a good state for emigrants.

Texas, the next, is very different. No swamps, indeed not much water.
Vast and interminable plains of grass, very thinly inhabited, and
almost entirely destitute of trees. The soil in many parts seemed
good; the climate, though hot, is not bad, and millions of emigrants
might find homes here. This is the largest cattle-breeding state, and
the ranches there are of enormous size. I have said much on this head
previously, so we need not linger here.

New Mexico comes next. We only traversed a corner of this; it was all
desert, and from this point, all through Arizona and well into
California, there was nothing else as far as the eye could reach on
either side but sand, sand, desert sand, and not a drop of water. If
I remember right, we were nearly two days and nights traversing it. I
was astonished beyond measure; I had read much about the United
States, and I knew that there was a desert around Salt Lake, the
abode of the Mormons, but I had never heard of any other. When later,
both from what I saw and what was told me, I found that a very
considerable part of the States is desert, I wondered more that such
a great and important fact is not at all known in England, and that
none of the numerous writers on America have brought it forward.[5]
In the following, I may in one or two cases be open to correction,
but substantially I know I am right, for most cases are the result of
my own experience.

A great, if not the best part of Arizona, Nebraska, Nevada, and Utah
are mostly desert.

More or less of California and New Mexico are the same.

A small part of Daho and Texas may, I believe, be included, but my
information on these is from hearsay.

There may be much more than the above. I cannot doubt, from what I
have seen in the parts I traversed, that there is, but the above is
enough to justify my assertion that "a very considerable part of the
States is desert."

I would I could give a map here of the States with all the deserts
painted yellow. No map extant delineates these vast wastes. I am
afraid to hazard a guess what proportion the said painted parts would
bear to the whole, but enough, I am sure, to make the reader wonder
as I did.

How enormous these deserts are may be judged of by the fact that the
four first states in the list above are together roughly about one
third larger than France ... and that the far greater part of them,
to say the least, are howling wastes!

A great part of these vast tracts are as truly desert as those in
Africa. Sand and nothing but sand; water would have no effect as
regards fertilization, and, besides, there _is_ no water. But other
parts are different. Not more tempting to the eye, what looks like
sand has vitality in it. Water produces a wonderful transformation,
and crops, trees--everything will grow with its aid. Thus, in this
better class of desert and in the favoured spots where water is
procurable, the said blank waste becomes a smiling spot. Such is the
desert the Mormons have fertilized, such, as a rule, the deserts in
California. Much of the splendid fruit that state produces has its
birthplace in such localities.

Where the deserts of the last-mentioned kind are found, did anything
like a moderate rainfall happen yearly, they, of course, would not
exist. But rain in these localities is very rare, as indeed it is all
over the world in such spots. The want of rain, I conceive, _makes_
the desert, and the arid waste responds by keeping off the rain. It
is well known vegetation conduces to rainfall, and that a country
thickly wooded, when cleared, has less rain after. I have myself seen
striking instances of this. On the other hand, vegetation and rain
increase simultaneously. It _may_ be, therefore, that, in the course
of very many years, a portion of the American deserts will disappear,
for where the soil has any vitality in it, and water is procurable,
artificial means will bring vegetation, which again, little by
little, will increase the rainfall; until at last (it may take
centuries) the now said desert tracts will thrive with the rain from
heaven alone.

While on the subject of rain, I would mention some curious facts.
From what we know of the climate in different European localities (or
rather let us confine ourselves to Great Britain, where the western
parts, especially Ireland, near to and exposed to the effects of the
Atlantic, have an increased rainfall), we (by "we" I mean others,
like me, ignorant of meteorology) would think the western Pacific
coast of America, with that boundless ocean (far wider than the
Atlantic, and stretching across to Asia) in front would fare
likewise. But it is _not_ so. In fact quite the reverse. On the
greater part of that coast, up to about latitude 42° north, the
rainfall is exceedingly scanty, so much so that very little
vegetation will thrive without artificial watering, and though north
of 42° there is much more, it is still less than on our western
coasts. The deficiency cannot arise, except very partially, from lack
of vegetation, for though the said coast, south of 42°, is very bare,
not far back exists a high and well-clad mountain range.[6]

What is the cause I know not, perhaps meteorologists do, I only state
the fact. But more: though not to the same degree, all the large
tract west of the Rocky Mountains has a deficient rainfall, and
artificial irrigation is more or less resorted to everywhere. I
shall have more to say as to how it is done when, later, I describe
the Antelope Valley.

I left the description of the journey when in the desert, and now
return there. As the line enters the State of Arizona it begins to
descend. It had ascended previously, which had made the heat
bearable. But a few hours of descent made a woful change. Coats,
waistcoats were discarded by the men, while the female passengers
followed suit as far as they could. No use! we all gasped and panted
and used many pocket-handkerchiefs. The temperature rose higher and
higher, and the night was the worst, for we were then at the lowest
point. Between Tucson and Yuma the heat was simply infernal. I
believe this tract is the bed of what, ages ago, was an inland sea;
anyhow it had all the appearance of it, and I was later told
geologists thought so too. It is, to say the least, very likely, for
Yuma, I heard, is several hundred feet below sea-level. The latitude
is 32½° north, a warm latitude in any case, but with desert for
hundreds of miles all round, with perhaps as low an elevation as
exists on earth, shut in on all sides so that not a breath of air can
get at it, what wonder that Yuma and all about there is hot? I have
experienced great heat in many parts of the world, but Suez, the Red
Sea, the hottest parts of India, are a joke to what I felt there. I
have since heard it has the reputation of being the hottest place on
earth!

Between Yuma and the head of the Gulf of California is about eighty
miles. It would not therefore be difficult to let the water of the
ocean into this dry bed, and make a large sea there, the same as they
propose to do in Northern Africa.

Yuma is on the boundary-line between the States of Arizona and
California, but it is some six hours further west by rail ere you
leave this supposed dry sea bed and begin to ascend. California had
been painted to me in such bright colours, both in England and
America, I could not, when daylight came the following morning, and
there was still nothing but desert, believe we were really there. But
so it was. We ascended for some hours, and the climate bettered as
we did so, until at last we could breathe once more, but the desert
was still there, and it was not till we came near Los Angeles, which
is some 150 miles beyond Yuma, that we began to encounter vegetation.
Los Angeles (the Angels) was so named by the Spaniards who founded
it. It is on the barren Pacific coast alluded to, but the soil is of
desert kind number two, that is, it has vitality in it, and water
makes it fertile. Thus by artificial means (for of rain there is very
little) the environs of the town are highly cultivated. Fruit is the
main product. The grapes are magnificent, so are the peaches, in
appearance at least, but they lack flavour. This defect is common to
that fruit all over California; but I need not enumerate each kind of
fruit grown, all that thrives both in temperate and semi-tropical
regions is found there, and, the peaches excepted, all first rate of
their kinds.

It was here I first appreciated the cheapness of fruit in California.
A big basket of splendid black grapes, which at the cheapest time in
London would cost say eight shillings, I bought there for a few
cents, say sixpence, and all other fruit in proportion.

I did not stay at Los Angeles; I was anxious to see my sons in the
Antelope Valley, and we were now nearing it. I omitted to mention
that while I was at New York, I received a letter from them, in it
they told me that I had been grossly deceived, and that the said
valley was, to repeat their words, "an out-and-out do." That nothing
could be done there, that I should never stay, &c., &c. Of course I
was much disappointed, but as they were there, I must join them, and
I determined to see for myself. Thus, in spite of their warning, I
had come to California.

A few miles from Los Angeles the country became bare again. No trees,
no vegetation, sand everywhere, with low hills, but they were sand
too. "Is all California like this?" I asked in despair of an
intelligent American near me. "Yes," he answered, "pretty nearly so,
south of San Francisco. North of that city there is rain and any
amount of vegetation." My after experience showed me he was right,
but he qualified his statement. The mountain range, which runs down
the middle of this great country, is, he told me, richly clad, and
any amount of vegetation exists on either side some miles from its
base. This, he explained to me, is partly due to the greater rainfall
there (the hills and the vegetation on them being the cause), partly
to the rivers and streams issuing from this mountainous region, and
fed by the melting snows. Along their course for miles into the
plains, the country is thus watered, in a measure naturally, partly
by artificial means. He also told me that the waste and desolate
country we were then traversing only wanted water to make it fertile.

We were very near the Antelope Valley by this time, and I asked him
if he knew it. "Of course I do," he replied, "you are not going there
are you?" I told him all I have told the reader. "Well, it might be
worse," he added, "there are quite a few there now, sent out by the
same man (I know him well) from the mother country, who would go away
to-morrow if they could, but they have spent their all to come, and
are now in a tarnation fix. You take my advice, don't you stop there.
Take your sons with you, and be off while you can." I asked him if
doing anything there was hopeless? "Not at all," he replied "_if_
you've got lots of money, and can import labour, which does not exist
there, _if_ you sink a lot of artesian wells (they run expensive),
and _if_ when sunk they prove a success (the last two have been
failures), _if_ you care to live in such a barren spot, and like a
hot climate and the fiery glare from the sand. I might add a few more
'ifs,' but I've said enough. Given water (the rain I guess would not
wet your pocket-handkerchief through six times in a twelvemonth), the
soil will grow most things, but then you see there _is_ no water, and
as for the artesian wells, when successful, they can each only
irrigate a small area; but here we are in the valley."

We had been passing through some deep cuttings lately, and had now
entered a vast plain bounded by distant hills. No trees of any kind
were in sight, the soil sand, but browner than most I had seen. Every
few feet was a little shrub, some two feet high, what I know not,
but a miserable specimen of vegetation, and besides this not a stalk
or leaf anywhere. A more miserable site I have never set eyes on. We
passed miles and miles, all the same, till we came to where I had
been told to have my letters sent, "Lancaster City"! The last two
miles before arrival, an attempt had certainly been made at
cultivation. A few acres of alfalfa (a productive American grassy
crop), some rye, Indian corn, vegetables, and what not. But the whole
area was not fifty acres, the cultivators inhabiting plank huts
alongside. The train stopped at the station, and lo! Lancaster City
lay around. It consisted of one decent-sized, two-storied building,
viz. the hotel, two stores, a saloon, and half a dozen huts. Not
another edifice, and the dreary plain described for miles and miles
around. This was the haven, the Eden, I had come some six thousand
miles to attain!

The hotel, quite close to the line, had an open verandah to the upper
story, and the rail in front had some thirty or more pairs of boots
and shoes apparently attached to the top bar. Still it could scarcely
be so, for only the soles were visible. Presently, as the train drew
up, some of the boots disappeared, and men took their place.
Gradually it became evident that each pair of soles represented an
individual, who lay luxuriously poised on the back legs of a chair,
with his feet up in the true American posture, which, however, mind
you, I in no way decry, being much given to it myself. I had
telegraphed to my sons to meet the train, and there they were as I
got out. But they were both so sunburnt I scarcely knew them. Luckily
the train stayed half-an-hour, so there was time to arrange matters.
I plied them with questions. The answers were all to the same effect,
viz. that the Antelope Valley (they had seen it from end to end) was
in every part as what lay before us. That there existed no hope of
doing anything in it, and that the only wise thing was to get away as
quick as possible. They told me that the same agent who had sent me
out, had also induced all the boot-owners in the verandah to come,
and that far the greater number would go away at once, had they the
means to do so. Also as to the last artesian wells being failures,
and this being so that all hope was gone. Every day or two a fresh
lot of victims arrived, and that none with means stayed above a few
hours. I mentioned the fruit specimens I had seen in London, they and
the bystanders laughed, and averred there was not any fruit in the
valley. They told me much more, which was all corroborated by several
who had come out of the hotel, and it was really only necessary to
look round to be convinced the Antelope Valley was in every sense a
miserable tract.

I determined to take my sons on with me by the train. They had
supposed I would do this, and were all ready. But there was a
difficulty. They had no money, and I had not enough, so I was obliged
to leave them there until I could send back funds from San Francisco.
I thus went on alone, bidding good-bye to the dreary Antelope Valley
for ever.

Night fell soon after, and next morning there was cultivation
around, together with enormous orchards of fruit. Soon we reached the
terminus on the splendid bay of San Francisco, and steamed across in
a ferry larger and even more luxurious than those at New York, which
I described.

So my journey was done, and I stood in the great western capital of
America, which so many have heard of, and so few, comparatively,
seen. "What have I come for?" I asked myself as I landed, and echo
answered "What?"

But San Francisco, if any city on earth does, deserves a chapter to
itself.


FOOTNOTES:

[2] These letters, I was told by my sons and others, were in no way
genuine.

[3] Broadway should be called Longway. It is very long; it is not at
all broad.

[4] In Belgium, not only are the classes distinguished by numbers,
but the carriages are painted different colours. This is the best
plan of all.

[5] This may be partly accounted for by the fact that the said
American deserts are all, or nearly all, on the west side of the
Rocky Mountains, and that this distant part of the States has not
hitherto been very much visited by Europeans.

[6] This is the great range of hills which runs, north and south,
pretty well through the whole 800 miles of latitude California
occupies. The vegetation on these mountains is luxurious, and some of
the forest-trees are of an incredible size. Much beautiful scenery
exists there.




CHAPTER IV.

San Francisco--Army and Navy--International Court--Pacific
coast--Californian ranch--Social customs--Good-bye, California!


No one, who has read so far, can think I am unduly prejudiced in
favour of America and the Americans. I have tried to write fairly,
and point out in what respects their institutions, habits, &c., excel
ours; but, on the other hand, I have criticized in no sparing
language what I consider are faults or peculiarities distasteful to
outsiders, and possibly there is more blame than praise in the
foregoing pages. If now, therefore, I write strongly in favour of the
great capital of Western America, it ought to be accepted as truth.

I have travelled much and seen many cities and towns in different
parts of the world, but I have seen nothing to equal San
Francisco--not in size of course, but in every respect which makes a
town a desirable residence.[7] Climate is the most important, so I
will dilate on that first. There is much about it that puzzles me,
and that I cannot explain. I leave the solution to others, and
confine myself to the facts. There are no extremes of temperature in
San Francisco, neither the days nor nights are ever either
uncomfortably hot or cold. In summer the usual temperature is warm
enough before noon to wear light clothing, but about one o'clock a
breeze sets in from the bay and the ocean which reduces the heat
considerably, and which sometimes blows stronger than is quite
pleasant. This is the only possible fault that any one can find in
the climate, and the said periodical wind only lasts for the three or
four midsummer months. Winter there differs but little from summer,
frost and snow are unknown, and inasmuch as in winter the said
periodical sea-wind is quite absent, I have heard many of the
inhabitants aver that winter is, in the daytime at least, warmer than
summer! Whether this be so or not, it is a fact the winter days are
very charming, for as a rule there is a total absence of clouds,
fogs, or mist, and the sun shines merrily in a bright blue sky from
sunrise to sunset. In that latitude (38°) the sun has considerable
power even in the winter. The want of rain on the Pacific coast,
south of latitude 42°, applies of course to San Francisco. I was
there about five weeks. It only rained twice, and not more than one
quarter of an hour each time. I stupidly forget what the yearly
rainfall is, but very small, I know. How odd, by the bye, are the
variations of rain in different parts of the world. Let us guess San
Francisco at ten inches, I doubt if it is so much. Here in England
put it down at thirty-two inches, though the west coast of Ireland
is, I expect, nearer fifty inches. In the tropics, say, 130 inches,
though I have been in one place where 300 fell. But there is a spot
in Bengal which has the largest rainfall in the world, viz. 600
inches. Fancy, fifty feet of rain! The place is a hill-station, by
name "Cherra Poonjee," and the country is so steep none of the rain
can lie on it.

With so little rain, fine weather at San Francisco is nearly
continual the year round. The air is very dry. It is seldom too hot,
never too cold; there are no dark, gloomy days. What more can any one
desire? Verily it is, without exception, by far the finest climate on
earth.

But there is an odd feature. The above is the climate of San
Francisco; it is _not_ the climate of a dozen miles off, either
north, south, or east (the west is of course the ocean). For
instance, Sacramento, a large town lying north-east about fifty
miles, is a very hot place, and abounds with mosquitoes, which are
unknown in the capital.

San Francisco resembles New York in the paucity of cabs. Here again
nearly every one travels in the street cars. Horses are used in a few
of them, but with most the motive power is steam at one end of the
route, which works an endless rope. This wire rope runs on rollers
under ground between the rails, and there is an orifice from end to
end in the roadway above the said rope. Through this said orifice or
narrow slit, a pair of pinchers, connected with the car, descends and
nips the rope, which runs continually. The said pinchers are made to
grip and loose the rope as required.

When you first see these monster cars, with no apparent motive power,
rushing about the roads and streets and climbing the steep hills of
the town, the effect is very strange. When I first did so I made sure
they were driven by electricity. The said cars are of great size, and
most luxuriously and conveniently fitted up; with excellent springs
and smooth rails, they glide over the ground at about eight miles an
hour, with no perceptible motion. A ride in them is most enjoyable.

Market Street is the principal one. It is a noble thoroughfare, at
least twice the width of Broadway in New York, with trees on either
side, and very wide pavements. The buildings, mostly stone, cast into
the shade anything we can show in London, and nowhere on the
Continent have I seen such a main artery to any town. The Palace
Hotel in it is by far the largest and finest in America, and even
those we have here in Northumberland Avenue are more or less small in
comparison. It is an enormous, very lofty quadrangle, with inner
verandahs on each story, built round a spacious court, which is
glazed in at top of the building. I forget how many hundred bed-rooms
it contains. The interior is also a model of luxury and comfort. In
every department money has been lavishly spent, and the result is
that the Palace Hotel is possibly the largest and best in the world.
The charges also, considering the comforts offered, are by no means
high. I believe it was built by one man out of the enormous fortune
he accumulated in the first gold days, but what is the result of the
speculation I could not ascertain.

There is a large and very beautiful park outside the town. Trees,
shrubs, and flowers from all parts of the world are collected
therein, while for those that require tropical temperature huge glass
buildings are provided. All testifies to a luxurious growth, and the
smooth, closely-shaven, mossy grass is of a picturesque bright
emerald green. It is all artificial! Neither grass, shrubs, flowers,
or trees would grow at all did they depend on rain alone. Everything
is irrigated. Below the surface a network of waterpipes runs in all
directions with taps available everywhere. I was much struck by the
way the turf is watered. The water is forced with great power through
minute orifices in the large splay metal end of a hose, ascends some
thirty or forty feet, and falls exactly in the form of very fine
rain; thus every blade of grass is moistened. Wonderful indeed is the
effect as you stand at the park entrance and compare the scene
outside and within. The dry, baked soil, innocent of vegetation on
the one hand, the luxurious growth of many lands combined on the
other, interspersed with a green sward you long to fling yourself
down and roll on!

The Bay of San Francisco is the finest harbour in the world. The
navies of all nations could congregate and manoeuvre in it. It is
simply a huge inland salt-water lake communicating with the ocean.
There is only one entrance, the Golden Gates, possibly one-third of a
mile wide. It is commanded by fortifications, built on the rocks on
either side, but these being stone appeared to me ill adapted to the
enormous forces gunnery can exert to-day. Just outside the Golden
Gates, lashed by the waters of the Pacific, is a large solitary rock,
called the Seal Rock. Hundreds of seals live on it, finding their
food in the ocean. No one is allowed to molest them, but the
fishermen on the coast cannot regard them with favour, for they must
devour tons of fish daily. The said rock, covered with seals, some
sleeping, some playing, rolling off into the water, and clambering
out of it, is a very curious and characteristic sight as you enter
the bay.

Living in San Francisco is very cheap as regards the cost for food.
Fruit, as I have said, is far cheaper there than anywhere in the
world. It is quite incredible what a few pence will procure in that
way. Enough of splendid grapes, apricots, greengages, currants,
strawberries, and what not to last three or four people several days.
The price of meat too is very low. Mutton or beef, which costs here
in England say 10_d._, per pound, can be had there for 3_d._ to 4_d._
Vegetables are the same. Bread is cheap too, say three-quarters the
price it commands here. Thus very little will keep body and soul
together in San Francisco, but outside bare necessaries in the way of
food, most things are dear. Groceries are about the same cost as in
England. Furniture, and the many things required in a house, are all
much dearer, but this of course only affects the poor in a measure.
There are no beggars, no very poor, in San Francisco, for labour is
in demand; the climate necessitates but a small outlay for fuel and
clothes; and as for food, what better meal than bread and grapes, the
latter to be had almost for the asking.

San Francisco is a very cosmopolitan town. All nationalities are to
be found there. In the first gold fever days crowds poured in from
all parts of the world, and they or their descendants are there
still. Perfect as San Francisco is as a city, it is not thirty years
since a small fishing village alone stood there. How such a perfect
town has been erected in the time is truly a wonder, more wonderful
still that in so many respects it should excel other capitals.

There are curious stories told of those gold-fever days. How law and
order there was none. A man there at that time held his life by a
frail tenure, viz. only as long as he could himself take care of it--

    "The good old rule, the simple plan,
  That they should take who have the power,
    And they should keep who can,"

held in California at that time. Later, as San Francisco enlarged, as
the first attempts to put down violence and bloodshed were made,
gambling in the gold stocks and mines assumed huge proportions. New
mines, or new water-courses rich in gold dust, came forward daily.
Shares often attained one hundred times their original value in a
week. Beggars became rich, the millionaire a pauper in the same time.
We shudder when we read of a suicide at "Monte Carlo" once or twice
in the season. At the time of which I write there were often two or
three at San Francisco in a day! That it should be so, was perhaps
natural, for never, I believe, in this world's history were there
such violent and sudden ups and downs as California then witnessed.

While I was at San Francisco an English man-of-war came into the bay.
She was an object of great interest, and crowds flocked on board to
see her--the result a wholesome appreciation of England's naval
power. The fighting power of the United States at sea is very
limited. She has really no navy to speak of. Odd that it should be
so, but it is no less a fact. Congress is well aware of this, and
admits it. But it will not be long thus, for the Americans realize
how truly helpless they are in this way, and have commenced to remedy
the defect as fast as they can. The United States, almost as much as
England, need fear no foes except from over the water, but her
position to-day in that respect is a sad one. Did war occur between
Great Britain and the States, there is not a town on her sea-board
which could not be annihilated by British men-of-war. America,
isolated as she is, need fear no European or Asiatic convulsions, and
the time is distant, if it ever come, that Canada, without England's
support, though her neighbour, will be able to cope with her in the
field. But to give her a voice among nations, a navy is a necessity,
and, as I have said, she has now fully realized that fact.

Of the United States' army I can say but little, for I saw but little
of it. That little I was not favourably impressed with. No one who
recalls the war between the North and South, can doubt the material
is at hand, the question is whether the best is made of it. The
physique of the American (national physique can only be spoken of
generally) is perhaps not equal to the physique of some European
nations, still the inferiority, if it exists, is slight, and physique
has not so much to say in battle now as in times gone by. A soldier
is more of a machine to-day than he was then. Courage given, it is
discipline, coolness under fire, self-reliance, all teachable
qualities, which makes the individual valuable. Has the American
soldier these qualities in perfection? I rather doubt it from the
little I saw. I have trained soldiers myself, and from rough
materials (I raised a cavalry regiment of Albanians during the
Crimean War, and previously served with the native army in India), so
I speak with experience.

While armies and navies of large dimensions are necessities for
nations to-day, is it always to be so? Because one nation, as
Germany, has bloated armaments, must others have the same? Is there
to be no limit to the fighting-power each nation must have on hand,
with the waste of labour, the misery, the poverty entailed on the
masses thereby? Cannot international arbitration supersede the roar
of the cannon, the brute force which now decides the differences of
nations? The Almighty has made man a reasoning animal, and yet in
spite thereof the ultimate resort is senseless slaughter. Shame to
the age that it should be so! Why cannot Cobden's great idea of an
international Court, to decide national disputes, be carried out? The
difficulties in its way are, I believe, more imaginary than real. I
have thought on this matter so long, and most willingly would I lay
down my life to-morrow to see the attempt made. Suppose two or three
powerful nations, say France, England, and one other, commenced it.
At the request of _either_ of two nations disputing, both
should be called on for the facts, and the judgment given. The
powers composing the Court should be bound by united action and
force of arms to compel obedience to their mandate. The Court once
formed would issue invitations to all other powers to join, that
is, to appoint members and delegate them to the said Council. Those
kingdoms that _did_ join would realize the advantage that their
representatives would form part of the deciding body in any case in
which they were directly or indirectly interested, while those that
held aloof would lack this benefit, and yet be amenable to the
decision, if the opponents in any quarrel asked for the judgment of
the said Court. What nation would eventually hold aloof? Verily none,
I believe, for though in any possible case it _might_ be that the
establishment of such a Court was not approved of, yet once
constituted, to keep out of it would necessarily be a losing game.
The only way that any power could keep clear, and still hope to hold
its own, would be by holding fighting forces in hand equal to, or
superior, to the combined power of all the nations forming the Court,
which would be simply impossible.

Such a Court once established would increase in numbers quickly,
until the whole civilized world had joined, and then war, among the
said civilized nations, would be at an end, or rather, if there was
war, it would be the many against the one, a justifiable, a quick,
decisive war, with only one possible ending. The first would probably
be the first and last!

Then would armies be reduced to the small dimensions necessary to
enforce order in each country. Then would the sufferings, the
dreadful horrors entailed by war, cease. Then would the millions
sterling of expenditure on bloated armaments, representing
incalculable labour wasted, come to an end, and thus allow of light
taxation. Then would there be food for all, and, as a consequence of
less want, less crime. Then could great works, benefiting all
mankind, be executed. Then would man progress as he has never done
yet. In a word, the millennium, at present a religious myth, would
then be realized!

Oh! that abler pens than mine, that some great statesman, would take
this subject in hand. That the press would agitate it, that nations
would _try_ and carry it out, not on the rude outlines I have given,
so faulty in all but intention, but on the collective wisdom of the
great and wise on earth. If it failed, what harm? If it succeeded,
what millions yet unborn would bless their efforts!

As I write I see that the great European Powers are about to deliver
an ultimatum to Greece, backed with force if disregarded, to stay her
warlike preparations against Turkey and disarm. Of the _wisdom_ of
the step, both in the interests of Greece and the said great Powers,
there can be but one opinion, viz. that it is well. But of the
_right_ so to act on the part of the Powers, of the justice thereof,
I do not think there can be the same unanimity in the affirmative. I
for one think the Powers are in no way justified. Were Greece a great
kingdom instead of a very little one, they would not do so. The fact
of her being weak can be no argument in favour of the course taken.
When France wantonly tried to invade Germany some years back, there
was quite as much, nay more, reason for united action to restrain
her. But such an idea was never mooted, simply because France is a
great Power. As things are, and always have been, any nation can, and
does, make war on the most frivolous pretexts, often wars of
aggression and conquest on no pretext at all. How often has England
done so! What right, except conquest, have we to the whole of
Hindustan which we hold to-day? How would England, or any great
Power, have brooked interference such as is exercised in the case of
Greece now? No. As things are among civilized nations to-day, I see
not how the action of the powers in this case can be defended, except
on the score of expediency, for, in truth, the interference is most
unjust and arbitrary.

But what is wrong now would have been right had an international
court been previously convened, and had Turkey asked for arbitration.
What is taking place to-day, and the result, if the Powers are firm,
viz. the avoidance of a bloody war, and the risk of other nations
being drawn into it, Europe possibly in a few months in a blaze--all
this evil set aside, by the action of the many against the one, is
surely an example in favour of an international Court to settle
national disputes.

Arbitration _has_ made progress in nationalistic public favour during
the last few decades. But, alas! it is only when both disputants sue
for it that it is exercised. As I have said, my idea is that the
proposed Court being formed at the request of one of the parties,
judgment should be given. If neither applied, then let them fight it
out. But this last, I think, would be rare, and more, I think many
will agree with me, that when in a few years the advantages of the
Court would be recognized by all nationalities, and its members were
consequently many, they would with general sanction enact that _all_
national disputes should be laid before them for decision.

Such are my crude ideas on this all momentous subject. There is none
on earth with a tithe of its importance. Will international
arbitration ever be an accomplished fact? I think yes for the
following reasons:--

Much as it argues degradation in man, or want of even common sense
if he allows the present state of things to continue, it _has_ lasted
for all time, and may well, therefore, march yet awhile. But there
are forces at work which will compel him, sooner or later, to ponder
the subject. I think possibly the progress of Socialism will one day
cause the masses to refuse to fight, and lay down their lives for the
ambition, the purposes, of the few. But if this fail, and it is, I
admit, only a possibility, there is still looming a more potent and
likely hindrance to war in the wonderful power of attack over the
power of defence. Already, by the use of torpedoes (still in their
infancy) the largest iron-clads can be destroyed by two or three men
in a small boat. Can we suppose that invention in this respect will
stay where it is? In a few years it may well be that either in this
direction or some other we wot not of, the whole of a national fleet
will be in the power of one man with destructive engines at command.
Will this not stop maritime warfare? Further, think you invention,
science, will be idle as regards the annihilation of armies? How many
new destructive agents, how many new modes of applying them, the
last few years have brought forth. Is there to be no more progress?
Is it not reasonable to suppose that, in time, even armies will be at
the disposal of a few? When that day comes, how can nations continue
their senseless wars? What then will remain but international
arbitration? This generation may not see all the above, but science
is no laggard in these days, and the next possibly will. Why wait for
it? Let us do now what they will be obliged to do then, and avoid all
the intervening misery.

But enough, for this book is supposed to be on America, and the above
is a sad digression.

I have not much more to say about San Francisco (its pet name is
Frisco), and this reminds me of the great affection some Americans
have for California, and especially its capital. On my way west I met
a man in the train who had lived a long time in California and knew
the capital well. In answer to my inquiries, he replied, "California
is God's country, I can't say more." He did, however, say a great
deal more, for he lauded it in every way, and as for "Frisco," he
only wondered how any one, who could live there, lived anywhere else.
Others also spoke to me in the same way. I need scarcely say my later
experience, while corroborating their opinions of the capital,
stopped short there. The real fact is that the State of California
has been very much overrated--"distance has lent enchantment to the
view,"--for while San Francisco is truly next door to a Paradise, the
said state cannot with truth be much eulogized. It is the first fruit
country in the world, and when irrigation is possible it is in many
parts wonderfully fertile; but, like all spots on earth where there
is a deficiency of rain, the general outlook is far from pleasant. Up
north of San Francisco it is, I believe, better, for there is much
more rain, but I did not go there.

One of my objects in going to America was to start my sons on land of
their own, and though much disappointed with what I had seen of
California, I inquired there about land. I found it could be had from
the Government on very easy terms, but that all worth anything had
been taken up long ago. There were enormous tracts, millions of
acres, free, but it was either forest, necessitating a large outlay
to clear it, or some equally valid reason why it had not been
hitherto appropriated. It was, of course, possible that, travelling
about and spending months in searching, some land well worth having
might be found, but after much inquiry I had come to the conclusion
that cattle-raising was the best thing to go in for, and I need
hardly say that California, with its small rainfall and consequent
want of grass is _not_ a good cattle-raising state. Still I continued
my inquiries. I found there was any amount of land held by private
owners for sale, but that very high prices in every case were asked.
The idea of all landowners there seemed to be that it was only a
question of time before numberless emigrants of all classes would
pour into California, and that when that day came even much higher
prices than now asked would be realized.

_I_ came to quite an opposite conclusion, and have not wavered from
it since. I do not think there will ever be a large tide of
immigration into California; and I think, moreover, that, ten years
hence, the present owners of land there will be glad to take far less
than they ask for it now. Great efforts are being made at San
Francisco, by a large and well-organized staff, and in a most
efficient way, sparing neither time, money, nor labour, to attract
immigrants into California from all parts of the world. Numberless
pamphlets and maps, describing the country, where and how land can be
had, what it will grow, the enormous crops produced, its wonders as a
fruit region, &c., &c., are being published, and sent to many
countries, as well as all over the States. In all these there is much
truth, and I need scarcely add, the source being American, much
exaggeration, and, worse still, important omissions. _The_ great
feature of the country, want of rain, though allowed in a passing
way, is made light of, and the facilities of irrigation dwelt on. I
doubt not the said publications have, and will, attract (I am one
instance), but as few will be satisfied after arrival, the real truth
will eventually be known, and therefore, I think, the great tide of
emigrants looked for will fail.

Though California, as I have said, is not well suited for raising
cattle, I was surprised to find at San Francisco that cattle ranches
existed, and several were advertised for sale. I determined to go and
see one. It was situated down south, possibly two hundred miles from
the capital, and not far from the Pacific coast. I took one of my
sons with me. We went down in a coasting-steamer, stopping at
different places _en route_. The coast was the same in character all
the way down, patches of cultivation here and there where irrigated,
but otherwise brown-baked earth, be it hill or plain, with nothing on
it. I have never seen a less inviting coast. We landed at some of the
places we called at, and inspected the country as far as we could in
the given short time. The towns were clean and nice, and some houses
had gardens attached, but outside the town limits always the same
dry-baked earth and no vegetation or trees. The heat, which more or
less prevails in inner California, is tempered by the Pacific on the
coast. "Charming climate, woful country," my son exclaimed, and I
quite agreed with him.

Some twenty hours on board brought us to our destination, the port of
San Obespo, and a short railway took us up to the town, where we
hired two saddle-horses on which to go out and see the ranch. English
saddles, the Americans call them pancake saddles, are quite the
exceptions in mid-America and out west. Nothing but Mexican saddles
are used. I have ridden on many kinds in different countries, but for
keen discomfort the Mexican, in my opinion, beats them all. There is
a peak in front, about a foot higher than the saddle-seat, which is
capped by a wooden pin with a large wooden button on the top. The
object of this is to twist the lasso round when, after a successful
hunt behind cattle, wild or tame, the struggling beast is at the
other end. But however useful it may be, it is not a pleasant
appendage to a saddle, and must give cruel wounds to the rider if he
is thrown forward. There is also a cantle behind, higher than any
saddle cantle I have seen, and between these two the seat of the
saddle slopes down before and behind, forming an obtuse angle
between the slopes, which obtuse angle you sit on! When in the saddle
you feel possibly like Mazeppa did on the wild horse, safe not to
fall off, but very uncomfortable and helpless. The stirrups--but no,
never mind them or any other part of the saddle, the whole affair
seemed to me ingeniously constructed for the purposes of torture, and
when I returned in the evening, I had not lost "leather," in the way
it is understood in England, I was simply raw, not only on the part
over the obtuse angle aforesaid, but for many inches higher, before
and behind, owing to the lasso pin and cantle described. It was some
weeks after ere I could sit down comfortably. My son was more or less
used to these ingenious Mexican torturing machines, and declared that
I too would by use arrive at the same state, but when I _did_ succeed
in dismounting that night (a difficult gymnastic feat at any time,
sore as I was, a very trying operation), I vowed never to trust
myself to a Mexican saddle again, and never did!

The ranch, as I expected, disappointed us. It was large, above 1000
acres, an undulating valley bordered by high mountains. But grass, as
we understand the word, there was none. Still the land was not bare.
There was a scanty vegetation on it, and here and there much wild
oats, which is, I believe, good food for cattle. I do not doubt
cattle could be raised there, and that they would thrive more or
less. It was well watered by two running streams. But, in both my
son's and my opinion, the vegetation was far too scanty, and the
price asked for it, above 2_l._ per acre, was, I thought, much above
its value, and I don't believe the owners will ever get anything like
that figure. I declined in any case to become the purchaser.

There was a very decent hotel at San Obespo, where we slept that
night. There is one thing common in rooms in America which it would
be well to introduce in England. Above all the doors are glass
window-frames, working on a centre pivot, so that they can be either
opened or shut. When open into the passage, staircase, or hall, you
thus obtain fresh air, and being high up near the ceiling, the
privacy of the room is not endangered thereby, while its altitude
prevents draught. Thus in a bedroom, when the weather is too cold to
sleep with the outer window open, this inner one supplies fresh air.
The ventilation thus secured is utterly wanting in English rooms. You
can't have a bedroom door open, and if the outer window is shut the
same air is breathed over and over again all night long, which is a
monstrous evil in a sanitary point of view.

Another matter, though a small one. At meals, in America, as pepper
is shaken out lightly from a perforated castor over food, so can you
do with the salt, which is in similar receptacles. This is a great
improvement over our English salt-cellars. We have the salt castors
in India too; we call them muffineers there. In India, as a rule,
each individual has both a salt and pepper muffineer before his
plate. If you doubt how far it is an improvement, just try it.

The steamer we came down in was a very fairly comfortable,
well-appointed, and quick boat, but as she went down much farther
south, she would not be due on her way back for some days, and I
cared not to wait. A small passenger-steamer, on the way to San
Francisco, was expected next day, and we returned in her. She was in
every way a most miserable craft. She called at all the coast
stations, and took forty-eight hours _en route_. There were many
Americans on board, but few of a good class. The saloon was as dirty
as any pig-sty, and the table-cloth must have been in use many days
to judge by its coloured appearance. It could not have been
designedly, but there was a capital gravy map of North America in the
centre. Knives were much in vogue, to the exclusion of forks and
spoons. It really was wonderful the practice some had attained with
the weapon. A combination of meat and vegetables was carefully, but
quickly, adjusted on the said knife, and then a slight turn of the
wrist, and _presto_--it disappeared. As the performer's mouth was
nowhere near, what had become of the greasy mass at first puzzled me,
but watching closely, for the sleight-of-hand was marvellous and the
passage between knife and mouth instantaneous, I realized it all!

"You can't say these people _eat_ with their knives," I said to a
nice and exceptional American by me.

"No," he replied, laughing, "you must go to Germany to see that. _My_
countrymen--I hope, however, we don't all do it--have left that
vulgar and dangerous practice far behind. The knife, you see, is used
only as a propeller, and very neatly they do it."

"It must take a lot of practice," I added.

"Doubtless, and so does a Yankee's power of spitting. Their aim in
that way far beats the knife exhibition," he replied with gusto. He
was a Southerner, and evidently no friend to Yankees. "Ah now," he
continued, "that's bad, and I object."

"Yes," I replied, "so do I," as a fat man opposite sucked his knife
first to clean it, and then helped himself to butter. "The liberty of
the subject entitles him to do as he will with his own food, but
scarcely with that of the masses," I added.

As other knives were shortly used in the same way, neither my
companion nor I cared to have butter, and contented ourselves with
cheese, which luckily was cut at a side-table, and presented to us in
large blocks, in the shape of dice, mathematically correct as to
planes and angles.

I shall never forget the berth I was given on board that steamer. It
was a lower one, and as to sheets and bedding clean enough, but the
cabin, a deck one, was very low, and thus the space for two berths,
one above the other, was confined. There was only about fifteen
inches' space between the two, entailing when lying down a painful
sensation of confinement. But to get in at all was the difficulty,
only exceeded by the difficulty of getting out. The only way of
getting in practicable was by lying quite flat on the projecting
board, considerately, I presume, placed there for the purpose, and
wriggling in like a worm; to get out much the same, except that the
upper sheet and blankets came out with you, and increased the
difficulty. They say one gets used to everything, but this I do deny;
I should never have got used to that berth, for entering or leaving
it was a gymnastic and painful puzzle.

There was an American stewardess on board, to whom I complained of
the berth in my cabin. She bristled up dreadfully as she replied,
"Cabin! I guess you're a Britisher. I presume you mean your
state-room. As for the berth, I guess again it whips what you're
accustomed to the other side of the water," and she sailed off with
great dignity.

I felt crushed, of course, but I called after her, "Well, it _is_ a
state-room in one sense, for the state I get into before I succeed in
crawling in quite--" But she had slammed the saloon door, and could
hear no more. True, I had the last word, still I did not feel I had
come off victorious.

The Americans know the value of time; anyhow the way they despatch
their meals argues it. When the bell rings for dinner on board ship
or at an hotel, there is a strange scene. As the time approaches, so
eager is the expectation, conversation lulls. Some, anxious to get a
good start, congregate near the companion ladder or the door. Tingle,
tingle, at last goes the bell; every one jumps up, and away they go
to the dining-room pell-mell, as men crush in for the best seats in
the pit of a theatre. Seated, they devour their food as if eating
against time, and the stranger who cares not to be left a course or
two behind, has to look sharp too. Dinner is naturally soon over, and
then they lounge out in striking contrast to their mode of entrance.
Half an hour at the outside, and the table is clear. I asked my
American friend, a travelled man, to account for it all, striking as
it is in its contrast to the European mode.

"I can't do so," he replied, "for of course here on board ship they
have nothing to do afterwards, and at hotels most of them lounge
about for an hour or two after dinner. It can only be habit; but it
does not hold in good society anywhere in the States, and down south,
whatever the society, meals are taken in a leisurely way."

It is a great mistake to suppose the antagonism between north and
south has died out. Of course I know not what it _was_, but it exists
very plainly now. They are really separate races in thoughts and
habits, and will not easily amalgamate. Courtesy is the rule in the
south, the exception in the north, and the southerners naturally
resent this, both for their own sakes and the national credit.

Will the United States continue for all time as one united republic?
I doubt it, if for no other reason, because of its size. Were all
Europe one united kingdom, should we expect it so to remain? And yet
the cases are nearly alike. Leave out one-third of Russia, and the
two areas are about the same. Nevertheless all works well now.

What to do after my return to San Francisco became a question. My
sons, from all they had seen in America, liked the idea of breeding
cattle best, and thought to possess a good ranche was the best way to
make money. I was inclined to the same opinion, and discussing the
matter after my return, we decided that a ranche should carry the
day. But California is not the country for ranches, and we determined
to go elsewhere. They had both been a long time in Colorado, and seen
many ranches in that state. There, they said, was any amount of
grass, making Colorado one of the best, if not _the_ best, ranch
country. I had heard much the same from others, and Colorado was
eventually decided on. Between decision and departure not many days
elapsed. Our stay at San Francisco had still further limited my
means, there was a ranche to buy and pay for, and thus economy was
more necessary than ever. We took third-class tickets to Denver, the
capital of Colorado, and for a part of the way, luckily, got an
emigrant car, in which we could find room for our mattresses, and so
managed to sleep at night. But, as I have said before, accommodation
for emigrants is given westward only, and I know not why this
exception was made over a part of the line; but this I do know, when,
during the last two nights and one day of the journey, we were put
into a second-class carriage because there was no third, and had to
sit up on seats all night, it was very trying.

Every one knows the Americans spit a good deal, but few know the
extent to which they carry the nasty habit. The second-class
carriage was far worse in this respect than the emigrant car. The
floor was literally covered with saliva, and sit where you would, for
it was crowded, you did not feel safe. True, they are good shots, and
can generally make sure to three square inches of the spot they aim
at; still, when you are surrounded with shooters, as we were in this
car, you feel nervous, especially at night when the dim light makes
it more than ever hazardous. In the Pullman car spitting on the floor
is not allowed; the class so travelling are naturally more
considerate in this way, nay, possibly, we will hope, steer clear of
the habit, but to some even there it is a necessity, and entails an
open window or frequent rushes to the spittoon, put considerately out
of the way, so that in the Pullman car you avoid the nuisance.

I may as well group nasty subjects together, then the fastidious
reader can skip them. The toothpick is more in vogue in America than
in any country I have seen. A prolonged use of it is made after each
meal, but some people are never without it. It is held in the hand
when an argument is enforced with manual action, and when the
speaker is satisfied he has proved his case, it is transferred to the
lips, as if that was its natural place, while the owner leans back
and surveys you blandly. If you are convinced, it probably remains
there; if you are not (though some have acquired the power of
speaking without removing it), the hand grasps it once more, and
brandishes it like a dagger. I must though, in justice to the
American, state that the most inveterate toothpick-man I ever met was
an Englishman who had been in America since boyhood, and crossed the
Atlantic with me on my return. He always, morning, noon, and night,
had one either in his hand or projecting out of his mouth. It
signified not what was his occupation, the little stiletto was always
to the fore. We used to speculate on board if he so slept, and the
ayes were in the majority.

California is about 800 miles from north to south, but across, from
west to east, the average width is only, perhaps, 200 miles. The rail
line, the direct one from San Francisco to New York, was the line I
ought to have taken when bound west, as I explained before. Owing to
the northerly course the rail takes after leaving San Francisco, some
300 miles in California, not 200, has to be traversed ere you reach
the next state, Nevada, and having left the western capital in the
afternoon we crossed the boundary next morning. I could not, of
course, see much of the Californian scenery at night, but the general
character of the country we passed through seemed to be much as I had
seen in other parts of that state, very fertile where water for
irrigation was at command, but barren otherwise.

Before finally leaving California I must add the last I heard of that
"almighty swindle" (so styled by an American I met, who was one of
the victims) the Antelope Valley. Every one who could leave it had
done so, but there were many who could not, who had spent their all
to get there. Some of these had wives and children, and their
condition was of course most pitiable. There was naturally no work to
be had there, and I heard that many of them were living on charity.
The hotel-keeper in the valley, a most charitable man, and his good
wife, did all in their power to mitigate the suffering, which was
excessive. What became of the colony after I left I know not. Some
who departed to return to England vowed they would be revenged on the
agent in London, and if there was no legal redress (which I imagine
is the case) thrash him well! I hope they did, but I have heard
nothing, except that I saw in the paper one of the victims appeared
before a London magistrate, and detailed the case. How he had sold up
everything in England to go there, induced to do so by the said
agent's representations, and on arrival found himself landed in a
vast desert. But it did not appear that the magistrate could help
him.

I can only hope the Antelope Valley episode will be a warning to
emigrants. The United States is too well known, the country too much
explored, to make it likely that any spot, or El Dorado, with the
advantages the Antelope Valley was said to possess _can_ exist
unutilized. The Americans are far "too cute," if they found such a
place, to tout for occupants from England.

As this is the last I have to say about California, I will close this
chapter.


FOOTNOTE:

[7] Always excepting the pavements. These are bad, but not as bad as
in New York.




CHAPTER V.

     Nevada--Utah--Wyoming--Denver--A restless
     night--Seeking for a ranch--Ranch work--Colorado
     Springs, the Sanitarium of Western America.


Nevada, east of California, is a wretched waste, and like Arizona,
described some pages back, mostly, if not all, desert. True, in both
cases, I only saw the parts traversed by the rail, but it is absurd
to suppose, were any part otherwise, it would not have been selected
for the line. The whole distance across the state is, say, by rail,
350 miles, and certainly 250 of that is a sandy waste. Then came the
state of "Utah," famous as the abode of the Mormons, and part of this
was also bare sand, but not like Nevada, for where irrigated, as
California, it seemed fertile.

This was the last I saw of the American Deserts, and recalling the
hundreds of miles of such I had traversed in my two journeys, I
wondered greatly at the ignorance of Western nations on this head. It
may be so, because, if you look at the map, you will see the parts
described by me as desert are far out west, and that few Europeans go
there. Of course Americans do, but even with them it is the
exception, and quite in keeping with national characteristics to keep
it quiet. The day will come that we shall know how many square miles
of desert there are in the States. When it does many, not I, will be
surprised.

In "Utah" we skirted the north side of the Great Salt Lake, but saw
nothing of the Mormons. Salt Lake City, their abode, is perhaps 100
miles south, at the southern end of the lake. The next state we
entered was "Wyoming," which differs much from either "Nevada" or
"Utah." Here are great rolling plains of grass, such as hold in
Texas, and cattle raising is carried on over the whole state, at
least so I was told. It is a large country, about 350 miles long east
and west, and 250 broad. The line of Rocky Mountains runs through
it, and some of the scenery is superb. As far as abundant food in the
shape of grass goes, Wyoming must be a good ranch locality. But the
winters are very severe, and the snow lies a long while on the
ground. At such times, of course, cattle have all to be more or less
sheltered and fed, which diminishes profits, and great losses are
experienced from the extreme cold, which kills many. Here in England
we think it very cold if the quicksilver shows 10° (Fahr.) below
freezing-point, that is 22°. Zero there is not thought cold, and the
thermometer varies between that and 35° below zero, for two or three
months. Fancy 35° below zero which is 67° below freezing-point! I
have experienced similar cold in Norway, and recall how acutely
painful it was. The English climate is far from perfect, but in our
immunity from extremes of temperature we are blessed.

Tempting, therefore, as the grassy plains of Wyoming looked in a
ranch view after the bare Californian ground, the long snow-sheds we
passed through told me much, which inquiry confirmed, as regards the
cold in winter, and neither my sons nor I cared to stop short there.

I had never seen snow-sheds over rails before. They are simply long
wooden tunnels, erected above ground over the line in spots where
snow is likely to drift and block it.

The next state we entered was that of our destination, viz. Colorado,
and what I saw of it, in the 120 miles we traversed before arriving
at the capital, "Denver," I liked well. Grass and to spare
everywhere, well-wooded in parts, some exquisite scenery, and so on.
"This is the country," I said to my sons; "glad you brought me here."

We reached "Denver" in due course, a good-looking town, and put up at
an hotel near the rail. After the journey accomplished, about 1700
miles, and sitting up two nights, we were pretty well knocked up, so
had a hurried dinner and went to bed. But alas! not to sleep. The
creatures that attacked us were _not_ fleas, something worse. I have
such a horror of the little black thing, we all have, I need not
define it. They were in swarms. We had turned in confidingly, we
jumped out of bed horrified and lit the candle. They were in dozens
on the whitewashed walls, and running all over the beds. To remain
was impossible, but it was too late to seek fresh quarters, and we
spent the night on tables and chairs below in the bar!

Next morning I complained to the landlord.

"Never heard of such a thing. You must have brought them with you, I
guess."

"What, hundreds of them? Come upstairs and look."

He did so, but he did not give in. "Well, it may be some of them
belong to the place, but I guess you brought most of 'em."

He was of the true Yankee type--the worst type on earth. So I cared
to say no more, but paid the bill and went elsewhere, finding
cleanliness, comfort, and as much courtesy as you look for in
America, in the next hotel.

"Denver" is a clean, commodious, and pleasant town enough. There are
many of the Yankee type there, but also some very nice people. We
spent some days inquiring about ranches, and then made trips out to
inspect them. I need not drag the reader with me on these little
journeys; we mostly travelled in a light one-horse van, taking our
food with us, and, as the weather was charming, camping out at night.
Except in the winter, when it is far too cold, at night in any case,
Colorado is just the country for this gipsy life. The atmosphere is
wonderfully dry, and there is no danger whatever in sleeping outside
without any shelter. This free kind of life has always had a great
charm for me, and, except in winter, Colorado is just the place for
it.

After some time I found a ranch to suit me. I bought it, the cattle,
and everything on it. The former owner and his family were not long
ere they left, and then my sons entered on their duties. They
understood the work, I did not, but I used to potter about and help
in any way I could.

The profits on a ranch are derived by breeding cattle and horses, and
selling the surplus stock, also from dairy work. Firstly, as to
breeding cattle. The procedure is different in different parts.
Climate principally regulates it. In Texas, a low latitude (33°), the
winters are very mild, and the cattle there are never housed, they
wander over the vast plains the year round. In Wyoming, and Montana
and Dakota which join it, the cold in winter is intense, and the snow
lies long. When the land is snow-bound, cattle, of course, can find
no food for themselves, and during such time they have to be
sheltered (scarcely housed) and fed. To do this costs money, and it
goes without saying that in this respect the warm sites are the
better. More, in the cold localities many cattle are lost in hard
winters, simply frozen to death. But there is compensation as in most
of the actions of nature. The cold localities have better grass in
the summer.

In latitudes like Texas there is no necessity to grow crops for
winter food. In the cold localities much has to be done in this way.
Colorado is between these two extremes, latitude about 38°, nearly
the same as San Francisco. But it is far warmer in summer, much
colder in winter, than that capital. This is in a great measure due
to its being so far inland, and also to the fact that most of the
state is high table-land. Thus in Colorado (the snow seldom lies
there more than three or four days at a time) the cattle are only
sheltered and fed for short periods.

As a rule they calve in the spring. If it is required to increase the
stock, only the male two and three years old and any worn out old
cows are sold yearly. There is always a market for them; in fact, in
spring and summer dealers travel round to the ranches and buy. If the
above plan of keeping all the young female stock is followed out, and
the mishaps are few, the cattle on a ranch double themselves in three
or four years. When the limit a run will carry is attained, all the
increase can yearly be sold.

Great numbers of horses are bred on ranches, and it is a question
whether these or cattle are the more profitable. Horses are hardier
than cattle, stand both heat and cold better. They consequently
require less shelter, and also less food in winter, for horses will
paw up the snow and find food when cattle cannot do so. They "rustle"
better for themselves, as the Americans forcibly express it.

There are no natural enclosures in ranch countries like hedges,
though I see not why, in time, there should not be such. In vast
plains, such as are found in Texas, I believe ranches are not fenced
in at all, and the cattle wander where they will. But in countries
like Colorado, where pretty well every acre has an owner, fences are
a necessity. The usual one is a barbed wire-fence. This is thus
constructed: at distances of 30 or 40 feet, sometimes more, strong
poles, 3 feet in the ground, and say 5 feet above it, are set up.
Three wires, the lowest say 18 inches from the ground, the second and
third, a like distance from the first and second, run from pole to
pole, and are attached thereto by iron cleets. This alone, however,
would not suffice to keep cattle in the enclosures, for they often
charge the fences in great numbers at a time, and would thus easily
break through. But the wires are studded at every 18 inches with
sharp spikes, which soon teach the cattle that they cannot run
against them with impunity. This is why it is called a "barbed
wire-fence," and it is a very efficacious one.

On the ranch I had purchased (I called it the Water Ranch as it was
exceptionally well watered with two streams running through it), the
snow never lies long, not usually more than two or three days after a
fall; thus it is only during these short intervals the cattle require
to be fed, and in a measure sheltered. But this occurs again and
again during the winter, and the food necessary has to be provided
and grown during the summer months in the shape of Alfalfa (a
peculiar and productive American grass), hay, turnips, and rye.
Besides, as all the food the ranch workers require has to be produced
at home, there is thus plenty to do in the kitchen-garden, in growing
potatoes and other things. Then there is the poultry-yard. Geese,
ducks, and fowls are bred in large numbers, and require much
attention. Ranch-men naturally live well, for, besides meat and
poultry, there is the produce of the dairy, which, in all its
shapes--milk by the bucket, cream _ad libitum_, and butter in
abundance--they can revel in. I never was better fed than on the
Water Ranch.

The dairy work is very profitable. Either the cream is sent away and
sold to butter and cheese factories established for that purpose in
ranch localities, or such are manufactured at home, and sent to the
market-town for sale. But it will readily be conceived that milking
thirty to forty cows, and the dairy-work in all its shapes, gives
plenty of work.

I was convinced, after a little experience, that my two sons, alone,
could not do all necessary, and as it does not pay to hire labour in
the States (wages are so high), and as the cost of the Water Ranch
was more than I could afford to give in its entirety to my sons,
after my return to England I sold to two young gentlemen the
half-interest on the condition that they should at once go out and
work there. This they did, and there are thus now four partners with
equal interests in the Water Ranch, and working there together.

I think the reader can now, in a measure, appreciate what sort of
existence ranch-life is. Early to bed and early to rise, the latter
four a.m. in the summer, breakfast at seven, dinner at one, tea at
six; work of some kind or the other all day, but not as a rule _hard_
manual work; many interests, absence of care, good food and sound
sleep. It is a placid, if not a very intellectual existence; the
charms of society, the ameliorating influence of woman, are wanting,
but on the principle some hold, though unjustly, that "she" is at the
bottom of all calamities, to such, at least, this latter want is not
much felt! Civilization, society, has many charms, but their absence
is not an unmixed evil. The freedom entailed thereby, the
non-existence of social restrictions, are at least advantages
ensured.

I _had_ intended to make my home with my sons on the ranch. The
roughness of the life in no way disgusted me, for I am accustomed to
such, having experienced it in many countries, and in various
occupations. But the want of intellectual pursuits, the absence of
society, the lack of woman's influence, and the many charms connected
therewith, wearied me sadly. In two words I found I was too old for
the life, and that I could not, at my age, adapt myself to such great
and violent changes. I was happy while there, but I felt it would not
do as a continuance, and thus determined, having started my sons and
provided for them, to return to Europe.

"Colorado Springs," the great health resort of Western America, is
some twenty-five miles only from the Water Ranch. It is, in many
respects, an unique Sanitarium, and should therefore be better known
than it is to Europeans. Its climatic and soil advantages (the latter
no mean factor), as a cure-place for consumption, asthma, bronchitis,
and all pulmonary diseases, are perhaps exceptional, for I doubt if
any spot on the earth's surface, owing to weather, temperature,
elevation, locality, and soil, possesses so dry an air.[8] When we
consider how many thousands of young lives, often the flowers of the
household flock, here in England alone, succumb to these maladies,
how neither age nor sex is spared, it is surely well that such an
exceptional cure-place as Colorado Springs existing should be made
known far and wide.

_I_ should be quite incompetent myself, from lack of medical
knowledge, to dilate on this point satisfactorily, were it not that
during a visit of a week to the place, I made the acquaintance of an
English physician there of high repute, Doctor S. Edwin Solly, who
went there years ago to seek relief himself from some pulmonary
complaint (I forget what), found it, and eventually settled there. He
gave me a book descriptive of Colorado Springs and Manitou (the
latter is the spot, five miles distant, where the medical springs
are), which is in two parts. The first is a prize essay by a Mrs.
Dunbar, a resident at Colorado Springs, and deals with the climatic,
social, and scenic conditions of the Sanitarium as set out in the
following notice to her work:--

"In the spring of 1883 a prize of one hundred dollars was offered by
a committee of the citizens of Colorado Springs and Manitou for the
best article upon these two towns as places of residence and health
resorts. Numerous articles were presented and several were of marked
merit. Rev. Willis Lord, D. D., and Rev. James B. Gregg, the
examining committee, adjudged the prize to Mrs. Simeon J. Dunbar, a
resident of Colorado Springs for the past two years, and a
correspondent of the Boston press. Mrs. Dunbar has sought to prepare
such a statement of facts as she would have welcomed (and believes
others desire) when she contemplated making a home in the New West;
in this endeavour she has been eminently successful. It is believed
that this is the most complete, compact and accurate body of
practical information in print concerning these two places, which are
becoming more popular every year; and that it will be of great and
permanent value to all persons seeking a change of climate or
proposing to visit or settle in Colorado."

The second part is written by my friend, Doctor Solly, and treats of
the place from a medical point of view. I can, therefore, by giving
extracts from the said book, state with very good authority all that
is necessary to tell, in the author's own words.

But before I do so, I would, in gratitude to the said Doctor Solly
and another, say a few words. My sons, previous to joining me in
California, had been several times at Colorado Springs, staying with
a Mrs. Garstin, an English lady I had known in London, who has now
finally taken up her abode there. Her kindness to my poor boys (who
were living a hard life, working as common labourers for ranch and
farm owners in the neighbourhood, and who, it goes without saying,
had no spare cash) was excessive. She was as a mother to them, and
being far from rich herself the doing so often entailed personal
privations. Both my sons, while with her, fell ill, and at her kind
instance Dr. Solly attended them gratis. This was no exceptional
case, he is one of those "who do good by stealth, and blush to find
it fame." When, therefore, I went from the Water Ranch to Colorado
Springs, partly to see the place, partly to get cured of a sprained
back which some farm work had entailed, I went straight to Doctor
Solly, both for medical aid, and to thank him for his kindness to my
boys. I was, indeed, pleased to make his and Mrs. Solly's
acquaintance, and they both, thinking I must be dull all alone at the
hotel, insisted on my dining with them daily during my stay. The
doctor soon put me all right, and I spent a happy week wandering in
the neighbourhood, climbing the Rocky Mountains, and enjoying society
at his house in the evening. Surely one may dilate, even in print, on
the qualities of individuals of the fair sex if it be all praise.
Mrs. Solly is an American lady, and her, among others, I had in my
mind when I dilated on the intellectual and broad views, with
charitable tendencies, of the best class of our transatlantic
sisters. With a high order of intellect, and a capacity for
appreciation such as is granted to few women, Mrs. Solly was, in two
words, one of the most charming companions I have ever met. _On dit_,
and the idea is a nice one, that in many married lives the wife
strives to, and often attains the husband's level. Sometimes, more
rarely, it is the other way, and the woman's intellect soars above
the man's, while he may, or may not, try and climb so high. In either
case, if even perfect success is not attained, the intercourse
between the two benefits the weaker vessel, be that male or female.
But the above theory did not, in either form, hold good in those I
wish to portray. Both were highly intellectual, yet were they quite
different. Their individuality had not been affected, as far as I
could judge, by marriage. Perhaps the companionship begotten thus is
the most charming of any in marital life, but it is rare.

Of the daughter I need only say that she was a fit daughter for such
parents, and seemed to me to partake of the individual excellences of
both, while the English ideas received from the father, the American
from the mother, made a very charming diversity in her individual
character.

Doctor Solly has an extensive practice in Colorado Springs and the
neighbourhood, and is reputed to be, I should think justly, the
first medical man there. What he says, therefore, on the advantages
of the Sanitarium deserves every attention, the more so that he
honestly points out, in more than one place, the individual
conditions which are more likely to receive harm than good from a
residence on such high, dry table-land.

I will now proceed to make extracts from the combined book of Mrs.
Dunbar and Doctor Solly, and as, in a medical point of view, it
explains much, I will first set out the preface to Doctor Solly's
work _in extenso_.

"A committee appointed by our citizens having requested the County
Medical Society to select one of their number to write an article,
for general publication, upon the qualities of this locality as a
health-resort, the choice fell upon me, and the following pages have
been written to comply with this request. The opinions therein
expressed are set forth upon my individual responsibility, and not as
being the combined outcome of the views of the County Society at
large. I am, however, indebted to my colleagues for several valuable
suggestions and points of experience, but with respect to a subject
so complicated as Climatic Influences the saw applies '_Tot homines,
tot sententiæ._' Nine years ago I resigned the practice of medicine
in England to try the influence of the Colorado climate upon my
health, with satisfactory results, and the opinions and statements
here advanced are founded upon my experience and observation as a
practitioner of medicine in this locality for the last nine years.
The article being limited did not permit the publication of clinical
records or extended discussion of the many interesting problems
referred to, but is put forward as an effort to assist physicians and
their patients in answering the often recurring question of the
wisdom of a change to Colorado, from some safe standpoint and not
merely from hearsay reports unsupported by evidence or reasonable
inference. Viewing this subject of Climate as resting upon a
scientific basis, and not alone upon empirical knowledge gained in
particular regions, I have followed the plan of first stating the
facts and opinions that are generally known or accepted concerning
the features and essentials of climates in general, and their
influence upon the healthy body; secondly, giving the general
features of elevated climates and their effects both in health and
disease, and finally, comparing these general effects with the
special effects observed in this particular locality. Thus I have
endeavoured to show good reason for the faith that is in me, by
connecting this fragmentary study of climate with the whole great
subject of climatology."

  "S. EDWIN SOLLY."
  "Colorado Springs, 1883."

Colorado Springs is thus described by Mrs. Dunbar.

"Pike's Peak Range is the most eastern spur of the Rocky Mountains,
taking its name from the Peak itself, which rises high above the
rest, viz. 14,150 feet above sea level. This eastern sentinel of the
vast Rocky Mountain system has its advance-guard directly in front.
Cones, peaks, and great shapeless masses of rock, terminating to the
south in Cheyenne Mountain, and in the north in a long chain of
lower mountains. Twenty-five miles north from base of Pike's Peak, a
ridge of hills, 8000 feet high, called the Divide (the water-shed
between the Arkansas and Platte river), shoots out into the east for
seventy-five miles, its blue-black outline cut sharply on the
northern sky. Nearly 100 miles away the sharp eye will detect the
outline of the Spanish Peaks almost upon the New Mexico line.

"Out from this semi-circle of hills and mountains stretch the great
plains beyond the distant eastern horizon; not suddenly and in one
smooth slope, but foothills and small broken mesas end in scattered
and irregular bluffs, these gradually blending and losing themselves
in the billowy rolling country, which makes up the eastern plains of
Colorado.

"On one of these small mesas, close to the foothills and within the
first line of bluffs, is situated Colorado Springs, on a level with
the summit of Mt. Washington, in New Hampshire, 6000 feet above the
sea.

"Neither nature nor art could design and lay out a more finished and
beautiful spot for a town. Nature has made the grading perfect for
streets and sidewalks, for drainage and for irrigating ditches. The
whole town appears perfectly level, but the mesa has just enough
descent towards the south and east to take water from the main
irrigating ditch as it enters the town from the north-west, and carry
it freely throughout the whole city on each side of every street;
four of the main streets and avenues have twelve miles of open boxed
ditches about two feet wide running in absolutely straight lines. The
lawns and gardens are graded and laid out to correspond with the
grade of the ditches, from which they are flooded once a week by a
box ditch running under the sidewalk.

"The town was founded in 1871 by a colony composed mostly of
gentlemen from Philadelphia who were then projecting and building the
Denver and Rio Grande Railroad from Denver. The town plat is three
miles long and two wide, laid out in blocks four hundred feet square,
separated by streets one hundred feet wide, and every third street an
avenue one hundred and forty feet wide. These streets and avenues
are bordered by rows of flourishing cottonwoods, twenty-five feet
apart, that greedily drink the water running over their roots through
the spring and summer. The grass on the sides of these small
irrigating ditches is green all summer and sprinkled with bright
blossoms, and, with the grateful shade of the cottonwoods, makes
pleasant walks through the city, which is full of beautiful homes.

"The houses are built of wood, stone, and brick, put together in all
styles, varieties, and combinations of architecture, there are hardly
two houses alike in the city, and with combinations of colours as
various. Everywhere are well kept gardens and beautiful lawns, for
the people like pleasant and large yards as well as wide streets and
walks. Each householder takes pride in keeping up his place, even the
plainest, and it is a rare thing to find a shabby house and yard.
More than half of the dwellings are cottages, but there are many
large and handsome houses, notably in the north part of the city,
which has been built up rapidly within the last two years. There are
several elegant stone residences costing from twenty to forty
thousands dollars.

"The public buildings are remarkably fine for so young and small a
city. The new hotel, The Antlers, the El Paso Club building, the High
School building and Colorado College are built of a fine, beautifully
pink-tinted stone taken from the Manitou quarries. The City Hall and
business blocks are substantial structures, and the Opera House a
fine brick building, is a gem inside, perfect in its arrangements,
and fitted and furnished with exquisite taste."

The above description is accurate enough, but it is not right to our
ideas to speak of Colorado Springs as a "city." It is only a
decent-sized, picturesque town. But the Americans name even five or
six houses cities, e.g. the City of Lancaster, in the Antelope
Valley, which consisted of an hotel, a rail station, and two or three
shops! The Antlers Hotel, alluded to, seemed to me, while I was
there, to be a very perfect one.

Doctor Solly, on his part, thus describes this charming town and
health resort.

"Colorado Springs is situated upon a plateau 6023 feet above
sea-level, latitude 39°, longitude 105°. It is about five miles from
the foothills in which the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains
terminates and from which the great plains stretch 800 miles east to
the Missouri river, south to the Gulf of Mexico, and north to the
Black Hills.

"Colorado Springs cannot strictly be called a mountain health-resort,
for it is actually situated upon the first plateau of the great
plains, but is surrounded on three sides by a semi-circle of hills.
Immediately to the west is the great mountain of Pike's Peak, 8000
feet above it and to the summit on an air-line ten miles distant from
this the shoulders spread, to the south-west, terminating abruptly in
a much smaller but very picturesque mountain named Chiann, while to
the north they merge into a spur called the Divide, which melts away
eastward into the rolling prairie, first throwing off, some four
miles to the east, another spur, this breaking into the irregular
shapes of bluffs curves towards the south, extending the shelter
that the mountains on the west afford sufficiently to break the force
of wind from the north-east, and leaving the plateau open to the
plains in its southern and south-easterly aspects.

"The barriers from the wind and weather that this semi-circle just
described affords, being an average distance of four miles from the
edge of the plateau upon which the town is spread, do not detract
from its openness or free exposure to the sun. The Peak lying to the
west robs it of the direct effect of the last beams in setting but
gives a longer twilight than is usual on this continent. The value of
this semi-circle as a protection from storms is especially in the
attraction it affords to the clouds that form upon the Peak, drawing
the storms along its ridges to the north-east on one side or the
south-west on the other, and thus frequently leaving the plateau free
from the rain or snow that forms upon the mountains."

Again he thus remarks on the soil, the drainage, and the
water-supply, all of them so important in a sanitary point of view.

"There is a top soil of about two feet, below which sand and gravel
are found to an average depth of sixty feet, when a clay bed is
struck which follows the slope of the surface and the fall of the
water-shed to the south. The soil, therefore, is naturally absolutely
dry beyond what little moisture the top soil can hold to feed the
grass, and with as perfect drainage as could be devised.

"The drainage is into leaching pits which have ventilating pipes in
them and in the connecting soil pipes. As no water is taken from the
soil and the ground is extremely dry and porous, this system works
without danger. The smaller and older houses, however, mostly have
earth-closets.

"Irrigating ditches supply the lawns and trees with water, and are
further supplemented by that which is conveyed in iron pipes for
drinking and domestic purposes. This supply is brought a distance of
seven miles from a pure mountain stream, taken at a point among the
foothills, above all danger of contamination. The pressure is
sufficient to throw the water above the highest houses without the
need of fire-engines, and the amount of air bubbles confined in the
water gives it a most refreshing taste, but a milky appearance when
first drawn, which, as the air escapes, leaves it beautifully bright
and clear. The supply is ample, so that baths and water-closets can
be well flushed."

Mrs. Dunbar remarks as follows on the water supply, how the town is
lighted, and the scenery.

"A complete system of water-works supplies the city with the purest
water, brought seven miles in pipes from Ruxton's Creek, beyond
Manitou, a clear, pure stream, abundantly fed by the springs and
melting snows of Pike's Peak. The same pipes passing through Manitou
supply that town and its hotels with water.

"A distributing reservoir on a mesa, considerably higher than the
city mesa and two miles distant, receives the water. This gives a
fine head and good protection against fire. Hydrants are placed a few
hundred feet apart, and three efficient fire-companies have only to
attach the hose to throw water over any building.

"Besides the temperance provisions for the social benefit of the
town, the colony at the same time wisely provided for its permanent
improvement and beauty by setting apart the proceeds, above cost, of
a large portion of the lots first sold, for the construction of an
irrigating canal, and the planting of trees throughout the city; for
trees and vegetables do not grow on these mesas and plains without
irrigation. This ditch takes water from the Fountain a short distance
below Manitou, and, winding round the foothills and mesas to keep its
grade, extends for a distance of thirteen miles before it reaches
Colorado Springs. From this point, as already stated, branches extend
to all parts of the city, and to the vegetable-gardens on the
outskirts.

"The city is lighted by gas; the principal business street has a line
of herdics, and telephone wires connect all parts of the town.

"The scenery about Colorado Springs, embracing the mountains and the
plains, is grand and beautiful. On the western side the mesas skirt
the foothills, these swell to mountains which rise one above another
till the magnificent dome of Pike's Peak stands alone above them all,

  For ever to claim kindred with the firmament,
  And be companioned by the clouds of heaven.

The whole mountain is one barren mass of rock as we see it from the
town, for the eastern face is open to us almost down to the
foothills; deep perpendicular gorges and terrible ravines reveal
themselves by narrow white rifts, snow overlappings mark the cañons
and the course of streams. A dense black moss, as it appears to the
naked eye, covering some of the slopes and delicately fringing
summits and sharp ridges, is in reality a heavy growth of timber, the
sturdy pine, the tree beloved of Shakspeare. They cling mostly to the
southern slopes, leaping the northern ones to climb the south slope
of the next fold, sometimes leaving behind in their hurry a few
stragglers whose scrawny branches seem pitifully beckoning their
companions to wait."

Of the population and death-rate Dr. Solly writes:--

"The town extends over four square miles, upon which the houses of
the 6000 inhabitants are widely scattered. The residence lots are
mostly 50 × 190 feet; and the streets and avenues vary from 80 to 125
feet in width. There are therefore none of the objections of a city
in respect to overcrowding, and no manufactories or smelters to
pollute the air. The death-rate, exclusive of death from consumption,
is only 5·6 per 1000; from zymotic diseases, 1·6 per 1000."

There is a very extraordinary and I think an objectionable feature in
the town. No alcoholic liquors are allowed to be retailed. Thus if
you want even a glass of beer you can't get it. But you can have what
you will at home, or, if I remember right, in the principal hotels
_if_ you are living there. Temperance in _all_ indulgences is a grand
thing, and drunkenness is a beastly habit, but the parental
legislation described below by Mrs. Dunbar, scarcely recognizes the
liberty of the subject, and is a very strange fact in what is
supposed to be the freest country on earth.

"There are no saloons and bars in the city, for this is a temperance
town. The colony, after receiving the United States title to the
town plat, incorporated the following strong provision into the deed
of every lot and piece of ground thereafter sold:--

"'That intoxicating liquors shall never be manufactured, sold, or
otherwise disposed of, as a beverage, in any place of public resort,
in or upon the premises hereby granted.'

"Provision was also made in all deeds that if these conditions were
violated, the land and buildings thereon should revert to the
original owners. There have been violations of this clause, and the
courts of this state, and the Supreme Courts of the United States,
having decided in favour of the provision, valuable property has been
lost to the owner."

Colorado Springs is a misnomer, inasmuch as the medical springs are
not there but at Manitou, five miles off, in the heart of the
mountains, and in superb scenery. Mrs. Dunbar thus describes it:--

"Five miles west of Colorado Springs, in the midst of the hills, lies
Manitou, at the foot of Pike's Peak, in the beautiful valley of the
Fountain, out of whose banks bubble the mineral springs that have
made this place the most fashionable summer resort of the West. It is
a small and quiet town in itself, of about five hundred inhabitants,
with churches, and schools, and pleasant residences, and four large,
first-class hotels. During the summer months it swarms with life; its
hotels overflow, and private houses take in the strangers; summer
cottages and tents are perched like birds' nests on the hillsides,
among the rocks and in the cañons, and in every available place.


SODA AND IRON SPRINGS.

"The Fountain is a stream of clear, swift-running water that comes
from high up among the mountains, through Manitou Park and down
through the Ute Pass, forming there the beautiful Rainbow Falls.
Ruxton's Creek, flowing down Engleman's Cañon, joins the Fountain at
Manitou. In this cañon of remarkable beauty are several iron springs,
the best known and oftenest visited being the Iron Ute. On either
bank of the Fountain are scattered the other springs. Their abundant
waters overflowing into the Fountain have coloured the rocks and
earth with the mineral matter which they contain. Rocks near the Iron
Ute look like huge blocks of iron. About the Shoshone, rocks and
earth are clothed with a yellow, mosslike crust. Down the sides of
the Navajo and Manitou the water trickles over rocks that are white
with soda, and striped with green and peacock blue.

"There are six or seven springs in all. Their Indian names and
legends are all that remain to remind us of our red brothers, whose
offerings to the 'Manitou' of the 'medicine waters' filled the basins
of the springs and hung from the neighbouring trees and bushes when
the 'pale face' invaded this their favourite camping-ground. The
springs differ much in their properties of iron, sulphur, and soda.
Some of the waters are taken as a pleasant draught; others should be
used only as a medicine, taken when needed and then discontinued;
their temperature varies from 43° to 56° Fahr.


BATH HOUSE.

"Pipes convey the water from some of the springs to the bath-houses.
A large bath-house has just been completed, fitted with every modern
convenience and aid to health and comfort. It is two stories high,
with wide piazzas and balconies. On the first floor are the
bathing-rooms, parlours, and dressing-rooms; above are reading and
reception-rooms and the physician's office. No expense has been
spared in making it complete in every particular.

"The surroundings of Manitou are particularly charming, and even
without its mineral springs it would be a favourite resort. Mountains
high and low shut it closely in. Joined hand in hand like a company
of eager children, they press and crowd around the lovely spot, those
outside peering over the heads and shoulders of their companions.
Calmly the grand old peak looks over them all down into the loveliest
places."

Dr. Solly writes thus of Manitou and its springs:--

"The statements concerning the climate of Colorado Springs applies to
Manitou, with important modifications owing to its being in a valley
instead of on a plateau. The general modifying influences of valleys
are confirmed by our local experience. The summer is somewhat cooler
and damper, while the winter is slightly less dry and warmer, being
more sheltered, the only wind blowing with direct force being the
west, which though it comes from the mountains is usually warm. The
hours of daylight are shorter.

"_The Springs_ all contain a moderate quantity of carbonate of soda
and minor ingredients, and some also iron and Glauber's salts. They
are cold, and charged to saturation with carbonic acid, which
increases the activity of their properties and makes them extremely
palatable. They are peculiarly adapted for drinking and bathing in
cases of anæmia and in most chronic stomach, liver, and kidney
affections occurring in debilitated persons with whom the climate
agrees. A detailed account of these waters will be found in my
pamphlet on Manitou, published by the Gazette Publishing Company,
Colorado Springs."

Mrs. Dunbar thus describes one of the famous passes in the Rocky
Mountains near Manitou.

"The Ute Pass, following up the course of the Fountain, was an old
Indian trail into the parks and mountains higher up. Later on, in the
gold excitement of 1859, when the rush was made to Pike's Peak, and
later still, after the unprecedented excitement and the settlement of
Leadville, before the railroad was built, the Pass was thronged with
camp-trains pushing their way into the mountains. Now the tourist,
the pleasure-seeker and the invalid go leisurely over a good road to
pass a delightful summer among the beautiful parks through which it
leads. One of these is Manitou Park, which is a summer camping-ground
much frequented. The situation is very delightful and its summer
hotel is good."

And again the beautiful seven falls in Cheyenne Cañon, she thus
speaks of:--

"South Cheyenne is deep and narrow, and nearly a mile long, with
perpendicular walls of solid granite rising hundreds of feet and in
places over a thousand feet, naked and smooth, with only occasional
rifts. It is winding in its course, and narrows into gloomy
rock-bound cells or widens into pleasant amphitheatres. A small
stream runs quickly through the narrow rocky bed, pushing out around
great boulders and leaping over the small ones, forming innumerable
cascades that foam and gurgle and sing low quiet songs. At the head
of the cañon the water falls three hundred feet, vainly trying to
find a resting-place in its seven leaps to the bottom. Stairs have
been built to the top of these falls, where are grand views of the
cañon and the plains."

The society in Colorado Springs and Manitou is thus detailed by Mrs.
Dunbar:--

"The society is the very best; people of culture and refinement, and
many possessing much wealth, have been attracted here by the climate
and surroundings, and these have drawn others of like tastes and
habits, till on this little mesa where the mountains and the plains
meet, there has grown up in a few short years a city of nearly six
thousand people, 'the cream of eastern society.' Although Colorado
Springs is pre-eminently a health resort, and THE health resort of
the West, and although 'wealthy invalids from the East make up a good
part of the population of the city,' others besides invalids are
settled here. Men of means from the East owning large herds of cattle
and sheep that roam over the great western plains from Montana to
Mexico have found it best to make a home for themselves nearer their
business interests, and seeking the best place have come to Colorado
Springs. Others interested in the mineral wealth of the Rocky
Mountains, especially in Colorado, Utah, and Old and New Mexico, have
also settled here.

"Unlike many of the towns and cities of the West, Colorado Springs is
not cosmopolitan; it has scarcely any French, German, or Irish
element. The people are from the older states of the Union, and from
Canada, England, and Scotland; hence an entirely English-speaking
community. The people as a whole are probably better educated and
possess more wealth than those of an eastern town of the same size.
It is more New-England-like in the general make-up of its social,
religious, and educational characteristics than any town west of the
Mississippi. The poorer people are a respectable class who have
received some social and educational advantages; none but
enterprising or well-to-do people would ever cross the plains to
establish a new home in the West."

On the same point, education, and the accessibility of Colorado
Springs, Dr. Solly writes:--

"There is an excellent college, good schools, and private teachers
for those who have children to be educated, while for adults,
attendance on one or more of the courses of lectures at the College
offers the means of passing an hour or so a day in profitable and
interesting study. Churches of all denominations are well supported.
Two free reading-rooms and a library are open to visitors, and an
attractive club welcomes strangers with a good introduction at
moderate fees.

Colorado Springs is upon the main line of the Denver and Rio Grande
Railway, which follows the course of the eastern slope of the
Rocky Mountains, sending branches westward through the mountains
in all directions and eastward connecting with nearly all the
trans-continental routes, being seventy-five miles south of Denver,
where it joins the Union Pacific, and Chicago, Burlington and Quincy,
and forty miles north of Pueblo, where it connects with the Atchison,
Topeka and Santa Fe. It is less than four days' journey to either the
Atlantic or Pacific coasts, while Europe can be reached in fourteen
days. For invalids it is wiser, however, to prolong these periods by
frequent stoppages. Access is easy from this point to other desirable
places of about the same elevation, so that the invalid can keep up
the benefit that altitude affords and enjoy the pleasure and
advantage of a change."

Of the climate at Colorado Springs, Mrs. Dunbar writes:--

"It is not the purpose of this article to encroach upon the
subject-matter properly belonging to a physician, but a few general
remarks concerning the climate and its effects upon lung diseases
will not be out of place.

"The marked features of this climate are the dry atmosphere and
clear sunlight for more than 300 days in the year.

"This year, in February and March for seven successive weeks, there
were but five cloudy days, and during each of those five days the sun
shone at times.

"Most of our cloudy weather, with threatening snow or rain, is in
April and May; the most disagreeable element of the climate is the
wind-storms in spring and fall, mostly in April and November. These
dry storms of wind and dust, though unpleasant, are of short duration
and not injurious to health.

"Statistics might be given concerning the state of the weather from
day to day throughout the year, but it is unnecessary here, for they
will be found in the weather reports accompanying this article.

"Generally speaking there is no rain from the 1st of September till
the next May or June, and often not much till July. July and August
are the rainy months, and during this time rain is liable to fall
nearly every day. Very seldom is there a long rain-storm, but
tempests and heavy showers for an hour or two each day and usually
in the afternoon. In the mountains snows are frequent and heavy in
the winter, and the higher ranges have snow upon them nearly every
month in the year. But on the plains and in Colorado Springs and
Manitou there is very little.

"In the early part of the winter, and usually in March and April,
there are light snows which remain upon the ground only a short time,
not longer than a day or two, and sometimes only a few hours. There
is so little snow that cattle and sheep feed upon the plains through
the winter with perhaps a few days' exception, on the short buffalo
grass, which retains its nourishment in this dry climate like made
hay, which it really is.

"The surface soil of Colorado Springs is a coarse, sandy loam, into
which the moisture sinks rapidly. It is never muddy here for more
than a few hours, so that our streets and walks are practically hard
and dry.

"The temperature of this dry country is marked by sudden changes and
extremes in summer and in winter. A noticeable feature is the
decided difference between day and night, and sunlight and shade.
Most of the days in winter one can sit out of doors in the sun, but
even after our warmest days the nights are cold, especially towards
morning, when the mercury will frequently drop below zero. Owing to
the absence of moisture the cold is not more noticeable here with the
mercury at zero than when 15° or 20° above in damp localities farther
east.

"In summer when the sun shining through the clear, dry atmosphere is
so hot, the evenings and nights are always cool and comfortable; also
in mid-day it is cool and agreeable in the shade. On account of the
absence of moisture in the air we never have any sultry or foggy
days. Through the day the mercury seldom rises higher than 90° in the
shade. But the heat is not oppressive as it is at this temperature in
lower altitudes and damp climates. Such a climate cannot but be
favorable to throat and lung diseases."

On the same subject (climate), the following is by Dr. Solly, and
indeed so are all the following extracts (regarding Colorado Springs
from a medical point of view) from his pen.


"WEATHER.--WINTER.

"People (invalids) sit on porches without extra wraps; so powerful is
the sun's heat in winter that sunshades are grateful, and mid-day
picnics are taken with enjoyment and benefit. It is at this season
that the greatest improvement is noticed in the consumptives. On
turning to the tables at the end of this chapter it will be seen that
though the nights are often intensely cold, the days are seldom so.
However, until we take thermometric observations, both in the sun and
shade, and with continuous self-recording instruments, we cannot show
what is the real temperature of the hours that especially concern the
invalid. To a person unacquainted with physics or practically
unversed in climates, the cold of the winter nights may seem a
disadvantage; why this is but seldom the case is owing chiefly to the
dryness. The proportion of sunshiny days is more remarkable at this
resort throughout the year, and especially during the fall and
winter, than at any other from which reports could be obtained.

"Sleighing is seldom possible, and only for a few hours at a time in
occasional winters.

"Skating, however, is good on most days through the middle of every
winter. The frosts at night make the ice so thick and hard, that the
hours of sunlight are not long enough to melt it to any appreciable
extent, and the dry air absorbs the moisture from the melting ice so
rapidly that a smooth hard surface is usually presented for the
skaters' enjoyment.

"_Snowfall._--The total amount of snow that falls through the whole
winter is so slight that there are very few days upon which it is
seen at all. The snow when it falls rarely lies more than a day or
two, for the reasons that the dry air produces rapid evaporation and
the dry soil quick absorption, so that it disappears without evidence
of melting, and there is not the danger to the invalid of wet ground
with a bright sun overhead.


SPRING.

"The spring is undoubtedly here, as elsewhere, the least desirable
season of the year, but it compares favourably with other climates,
and there is no period of melting snow or special month to be
shunned, and an invalid can on occasion change with advantage his
location on the elevated ground of Colorado to New Mexico, for a few
weeks, guided by the weather reports.


SUMMER.

"_Temperature by Day._--In the shade the heat is seldom over 82°. The
air being dry, the heat is much less felt than a lower temperature in
damper climates. But there being no solar temperature observations,
the fact of the intense heat of the direct rays of the sun is not
apparent.

"_Evaporation._--This heat is, of course, to some delicate invalids,
very trying, but sun-stroke is almost unknown, and if the head is
protected harm is seldom done by exercising even during the hottest
portions of the day.

"_The temperature by night_ is almost invariably cool, as seen by the
temperature tables, and two blankets at least are grateful to sleep
under; while the mornings and evenings being cool, without dew or
dampness, give sufficient daylight hours for exercise for those who
shun the mid-day heat.

"_The rainfall_, which, with the melted snow, averages only fifteen
inches for the year, occurs almost entirely between the middle of
April and the middle of October, and falls chiefly in the three
summer months.

"_Thunderstorms_, or rather showers, occurring in the afternoons and
lasting about twenty minutes or half an hour, when much rain will
fall at that one time, are the usual form in which the bulk of the
precipitation occurs. These storms arise rapidly, are seldom preceded
by the warning sense of discomfort that is usually felt in lower
regions, and disappear as quickly, leaving a sense of refreshment
after the heat, with few and rapidly evaporating signs of moisture
upon the soil.


AUTUMN.

"The autumn is perhaps the most enjoyable season of the year, it is
very dry and warm without heat and with few storms. Although there is
no reason why patients suited to the climate should not begin their
sojourn in any season convenient to them, perhaps September or
October are on the whole best, because they then approach the cold
nights of winter gradually.


TABLE I.--MEAN TEMPERATURE.

  +-----------+------------+------------+-----------+-----------+---------+
  |           |  At 7 a.m. | At 10 a.m. | At 2 p.m. | At 9 p.m. | [A]Day. |
  +-----------+------------+------------+-----------+-----------+---------+
  | January   |     17.8   |    27.3    |   36.0    |    20.9   |  24.4   |
  | February  |     21.3   |    36.3    |   42.0    |    27.1   |  29.4   |
  | March     |     31.4   |    46.6    |   52.4    |    37.4   |  36.6   |
  | April     |     38.9   |    50.8    |   54.7    |    42.2   |  43.9   |
  | May       |     50.2   |    57.9    |   62.9    |    51.7   |  49.9   |
  | June      |     61.5   |    66.1    |   72.6    |    60.2   |  65.9   |
  | July      |     66.2   |    75.2    |   77.6    |    65.0   |  69.7   |
  | August    |     64.9   |    74.3    |   76.9    |    63.6   |  68.1   |
  | September |     50.1   |    60.4    |   68.8    |    54.2   |  57.2   |
  | October   |     37.9   |    52.0    |   60.6    |    42.7   |  47.8   |
  | November  |     27.9   |    43.9    |   48.2    |    31.3   |  35.5   |
  | December  |     20.2   |    22.8    |   38.2    |    23.2   |  27.6   |
  | Spring    |     40.2   |    51.8    |   56.7    |    43.8   |  42.8   |
  | Summer    |     64.2   |    71.9    |   75.7    |    62.9   |  67.9   |
  | Autumn    |     38.6   |    52.1    |   59.2    |    42.7   |  47.1   |
  | Winter    |     19.8   |    28.8    |   38.7    |    23.7   |  27.1   |
  | Year      |     40.7   |    51.1    |   57.6    |    43.3   |  46.4   |
  +-----------+------------+------------+-----------+-----------+---------+

  [A] The daily mean is one-fourth the sum of the readings at 7 a.m.,
  at 2 p.m., and double the reading at 9 p.m.



TABLE II.--MAXIMUM AND MINIMUM TEMPERATURES IN WINTER AND SPRING.

PART I.--MAXIMUM TEMPERATURES.

               1873-'74.   1874-'75.   1875-'76.   1877-'78.
                A    B      A    B      A    B      A    B
  December    65.0  44.1  59.0  41.7  67.0  51.6  69.0   --
  January     63.0  46.6  60.0  35.1  62.0  45.5  59.5   --
  February    59.0  40.2  58.0  40.8  64.0  51.6  61.5  47.1
  _Winter_    65.0  43.6  60.0  39.2  67.0  49.6  69.0   --
  March       61.0  48.2  67.0  42.0  65.5  49.1  70.5   --
  April       82.0  53.6  71.0   --   79.0  60.8  72.0  60.4
  May         92.0  74.7  84.0  70.3  84.0  67.6  80.0  65.1
  _Spring_     --   58.8   --    --    --   59.2   --    --
  June       101.0  85.6  91.0  82.2  93.0  77.2  84.0  71.5


               1878-'79.   1879-'80.   1880-'81.   1882-'83.
                A    B      A    B      A    B      A    B
  December    59.5  31.2   --    --    --    --    --    --
  January     68.0  37.6  62.5  46.4  63.0  40.5  55.5  36.8
  February    68.5  47.1  61.0  39.1  60.0  47.6  62.0   --
  _Winter_    68.5  38.6   --    --    --    --    --    --
  March       77.0  59.4   --    --   70.0  51.3  67.5  54.9
  April        --    --    --    --   73.5   --   70.5  56.6
  May          --    --    --    --    --    --   80.5  66.4
  _Spring_     --    --    --    --    --    --    --   59.3
  June         --    --    --    --    --    --   90.5  76.5


  NOTE.--Column A contains the highest temperature of the month or
  season; column B the mean of the highest temperatures of the several
  days.


TABLE III.--MAXIMUM AND MINIMUM TEMPERATURES IN SUMMER AND AUTUMN.

                        1874.                     1875.
                 A     B     C     D       A     B     C     D
  June         101.0  85.6  39.0  50.7    91.0  82.2  32.0  49.7
  July          98.0  89.5  48.0  55.5    90.0  76.4  47.0  53.1
  August        92.5  85.5  52.0  55.4    93.0  79.7  42.0  51.6
  _Summer_     101.0  86.9  39.0  53.9    93.0  79.4  32.0  51.5
  September     87.0  71.0  27.0  42.4    88.0  73.7  27.0  44.9
  October       76.0  63.1  20.0  38.6    82.0  68.7  18.0  35.9
  November      65.0  52.6   2.0  24.4    74.0  52.3   9.0  24.2
  _Autumn_       --   62.2   --   35.1     --   64.9   --   35.0

                        1878.
                 A     B     C     D
  June          84.0  71.5  42.0  49.0
  July          90.0  83.2  48.5  57.0
  August        92.0  81.5  50.0  58.3
  _Summer_      92.0  78.7  42.0  54.8
  September     82.0  69.9  33.5  43.0
  October       79.0  61.7  13.0  32.1
  November      66.0  51.5   5.5  25.7
  _Autumn_       --   61.0   --   33.6


  NOTE.--Column A contains the highest, and column C the lowest,
  temperature of the month or season; column B contains the mean of the
  highest, and column D the mean of the lowest, temperatures of the
  several days.


PHYSIOLOGICAL EFFECTS OBSERVED AT COLORADO SPRINGS.

"_Skin._--'Its activity is increased; it is also better nourished and
strengthened.' These effects are very markedly shown, the ruddy
appearance of residents indicates at once the activity of the
circulation, and the quickness with which the nerves of the skin
respond to the impression of cold and heat; whereby, as has been
shown, nature protects the body against cold-catching, and indicates
its increased activity. These physiological effects are best
demonstrated by a consideration of the influence of the climate upon
the skin where there is some disorder or disease of it, or of some
organ or function upon which it depends. As regards the skin itself,
it is a common saying that Colorado is bad for good complexions and
good for bad ones. This means that the beautiful pink and white
complexion, that is so much admired, is destroyed, the burning of the
sun and the vigour imparted to the circulation make fair maidens
'ruddier than the cherry and browner than the berry.' While the
complexions of those who are sallow and marked with acne, are
improved; the sluggishness and poverty of the skin is stimulated, the
colour gets brighter and the glands acting freely again the pores
cease to be clogged with the hardened secretion, and by these means
the acne is removed.

"_Circulation._--'Heart and blood-vessels are probably strengthened.'
The frequency of the pulse is certainly increased in individuals upon
first arriving in Colorado, being greatest in those most feeble. In
well persons and those who regain their health, it also soon returns
to its customary number of beats. That each separate beat is made
stronger is probable, but hard to demonstrate; however the fact will
be admitted by all physicians practising in Colorado, that hearts
which are muscularly weak, even when there are bruits, greatly
improve in tone, strength and steadiness; while those where from some
disease or obstruction the muscle is increased in size and strength,
the symptoms are almost always so alarmingly developed that they have
to be sent away before there is time to observe what the secondary
effects might be.

"_Lungs' Respiration._--'The number of respirations is increased at
the beginning of the stay, but returns to the normal number after a
longer time, and probably the depth of the inspiration is also
increased.' This is in accordance with our observations. The greater
expansion of the chest, and the frequency with which patients and
others volunteer the statement that they can breathe deeper, confirms
the opinion that the depth of respiration is increased; more bulk of
air being taken in to give to the lungs an equivalent amount of
oxygen, greater depth of breathing must needs follow. The increased
chest development and the necessarily greater use of the respiratory
muscles makes it tolerably certain that they are strengthened.

"_Appetite and Assimilation._--'In most cases there is a transient or
permanent increase of appetite and assimilation of nourishment.'

"There is certainly direct evidence of the former to be found in
Colorado, but as change of scene and air produce it almost
everywhere, where the general conditions are not unfavorable to
health, and notably so at the seashore, and also on shipboard when
the depressing effects of seasickness are absent or passed away, it
is doubtful how far this may be taken as a special effect of
altitude, except through the increased oxygenation produced by both
sea and mountain air. It would appear that in those with whom
Colorado agrees there is a greater consumption of meat, a good
appetite, and probably an increased one. That there is also an
increased assimilation of nourishment may be inferred from an
increased appetite without dyspepsia, in fact the improvement that
usually takes place in dyspeptic conditions, during residence in
Colorado, is a good evidence of increased or, at least, more perfect
assimilation.

"_Nourishment._--'From this follows an improved formation of blood
and nourishment of the organs.' The general vigour of the circulation
with the ruddier colour, which has been dwelt upon, would show that
the improved quality of the blood must be due not only to the causes
previously pointed out, more oxygen absorbed, etc., but also to the
more perfect conversion of food into blood; all this will likewise
apply to the better nourishment of the organs which can be inferred
from similar grounds.

"_Sleep_ 'is usually improved.' This appears to be the case in
Colorado in healthy persons, and in those invalids with whom the
climate agrees; during their first few weeks of residence there is
more or less tendency to nap, though between times they may be
particularly wide awake. Later it would seem that less sleep is
needed to sustain health, though it is especially profound. As
regards the individual, the temperament probably largely influences
this matter. The torpid generally are first made drowsy, and
afterwards sleep well, the erethic or irritable are specially wakeful
on arriving, and later their sleep is broken, exactly the reverse
occurring on the sea shore. With respect to meteorological
conditions, humidity undoubtedly is the first consideration, it being
commonly observed that some sleep better in dry and some in rainy
weather; though an increase of elevation without marked change in the
humidity will add to the tendency to sleep in the torpid, and the
contrary in the erethic, thus indicating that altitude, that is
lessened atmospheric pressure, has its own especial influence.

"_Asthma_, when purely nervous, is almost invariably relieved, and
sometimes cured permanently, though more often it reappears with a
return to the atmosphere in which it was generated, the rest from
attacks and improvement in the general health caused by the climate
will, however, even then often ward off a relapse for some time. The
elevation at which the greatest relief is afforded varies with the
case. When there is much bronchitis and emphysema, or heart trouble,
the asthma is often worse at first, though it may afterwards be
relieved; where these complications exist their extent and character
must be the guide about coming. When the affection of the heart is
not very great or long existing, a relief of the asthma generally
brings improvement in its tone. Where these complications exist, if a
trial of this climate is advised, it is best for the patient to halt
two or three times for a few days, at least while ascending the
slopes, and avoid all exertion for the first few weeks after
arrival, and be prepared to depart if improvement does not show
itself at the end of the first month.

"_The throat_ when affected with chronic catarrh is usually much
benefited, probably locally, as indicated by Dr. Weber, by the
readier separation of the mucus. I have also had cases of tuberculous
ulceration of the larynx, in which the ulcers have healed under
topical and general treatment, though Dr. Weber states such cases are
not suitable.

"_Chronic Bronchitis_ is also improved, though the cough at first is
frequently increased for a time. When, as a result or complication of
the bronchitis, there is much emphysema, considerable risk is run by
coming to this elevation. However, when the emphysema is moderate in
extent, and exertion is avoided for the first few weeks, the readier
clearing of the bronchial tubes allows the sound portions of the
lungs to be more perfectly used; the strain upon the emphysematous
parts being thereby relieved, the patient ultimately breathes with
greater comfort, and the bronchitis is in time removed. Where old,
chronic bronchitis with emphysema exists there is frequently marked
dilatation of the right side of the heart, in which case a patient
should by all means avoid Colorado.

"_Advanced Cases._--Where the disease is much advanced it goes
without saying that no honest physician would recommend a change of
climate, and especially so great a change as to an elevation of
several thousand feet; but cases do often come of their own will,
cheered by the delusive hope that is characteristic of the disease,
and though the result is usually a hastening of the end, yet death is
generally less tedious and harassing, the sick one frequently being
out enjoying the sunshine up to the last day, dying quietly and
quickly with a failing heart, instead of being confined to bed for
days or weeks in a close, heavy atmosphere, which impedes the last
struggling efforts at respiration.


TIME OF STAY.

"In cases of decided phthisical tendency, even in the first stage,
the treatment should extend over some years, though whether the
whole or a portion of each year should be spent on the mountains
depends much upon the character of the individual and the place.

"That those cured of phthisis upon the mountains can never live again
low down, is not the case; of course a cured consumptive will have to
take care of himself for some years, and a return to the social and
climatic conditions in which he got sick will always be dangerous,
but this difficulty is usually much greater for those who have been
cured in warm places than those who have been hardened by the
mountains."

I have given all the above copious extracts, because it appeared to
me while I was at Colorado Springs, that many people lived and
enjoyed good health there, who _could_ not live elsewhere. Some told
me so much, and declared the place was full of similar cases. A part
of these were English, of whom some had tried the Riviera, and they
averred that Colorado Springs was much better for all pulmonary
complaints than the northern shores of the Mediterranean. When we
consider how easy it is to get to Colorado, seven days to New York,
and three and a half days beyond by rail, with luxurious comforts,
and no fatigue for invalids, it is, I think, well that sufferers in
England, and on the Continent too, should know of the existence of
this charming spot and health-giving locality.

But any one interested and wishing to know more should get the book
alluded to. I could only in my extracts pick out what appeared to me
the most important parts, and I need not say the above gives no idea
of the excellence of the work both in a medical and social point of
view. I know not if it is procurable in London, but its title is
"Colorado Springs and Manitou," and it is for sale by P. Blakiston,
Son, and Co., 1012, Walnut Street, Philadelphia.


FOOTNOTE:

[8] Snow, when melted, leaves the ground dry. Garments, fresh from
the wash-tub, hung out in the shade, dry in half an hour!




CHAPTER VI.

     Ranch again--Tea--American press--Celebrities
     victimized--Last journey--Chicago--Beauty--Niagara
     missed--New York--Atlantic--Home.


After my holiday at Colorado Springs, I returned to the ranch, and
soon began my preparations for leaving. The climate is the same at
both places. It was then the end of September, and nothing could
exceed its perfection. Never a cloud in the sky, but bright sunshine
all day long, with a bracing atmosphere and a pleasant temperature
withal. Then came October, which was equally fine, but the nights
began to be very cold. However the house was fairly air-tight, we had
good stoves, and spent jolly evenings, to which a cask of excellent
beer I had got from Denver contributed not a little. There was much
to settle as to how my sons would act, as regards ranch work, after
my departure. They were greatly pleased at being landowners, had the
sanguine expectations of success so natural at their age, and I am
afraid to say how many pipes we got through discussing the bright
future they painted. Then came a "snow storm" for a day and a night
(it's always so named in America); for twenty-four hours the flakes
fell incessantly, and all was white around with nine inches of snow.
The following morning the sun rose in his usual cloudless splendour,
and shone brightly all day, leaving no snow except on the hills, when
darkness came, while owing to the dry atmosphere all moisture had
evaporated, and the ground was dry. But the night succeeding was
bitterly cold. The thermometer fell to Zero, or near it, and yet when
we had been up four hours, the temperature stood at 60° again! This
is the usual thing in the high lands of Colorado (and the Water Ranch
is near 6000 feet high), for warm days and cold nights are the rule
in winter, and hot days and cool nights in summer. Verily, it is a
superb climate.

As regards the want of courtesy in America, which I have more than
once dilated on, I was at this time much struck with the
following:--I saw a girl, some sixteen years old, at the railway
station, or rather "Dēpot," as it is named and pronounced there.
She was evidently waiting for a train, seated near her trunk. There
was no one close by, and she came up to me. She was a particularly
pretty-looking girl, nicely dressed, and seemed to be of a better
class than the usual inhabitants in that somewhat out-of-the-way part
of the country. I expected therefore, when she addressed me, she
would do it nicely. The following passed:--

_Girl._--"I can't fix my box--you do it."

The rope had come off.

_Myself._--"Yes, I'll help you. Are you waiting for the train?"

_Girl._--"Guess you are right. How stupid you are, don't fix it in
that way. Can't you see the rope is long enough to go twice round?"

_Myself._--"All right, I'll do it so."

Having completed the job, as the young lady was sitting on the one
chair available, I sat on her box, which was a large and strong one.

_Girl._--"You fixed it well, thank you, but don't sit on my box."

_Myself._--"Why not?"

_Girl._--"Because I don't like it. Can't you sit on the steps?"

_Myself._--"No, thank you, I'll stand."

_Girl._--"Tell me when is the train dōō."

_Myself._--"Immediately. There it is coming now."

_Girl._--"Guess the box is too heavy for one man. Will you help to
fix it upon the car?"

She did not wait for a reply, but ran and took her place. No more
thanks. I looked round for some one to help with her box, and as I
did so she put her head out of the window, and called to a man who
was sitting in a cart, and had probably brought her and the trunk.

"Jimmy, can't you see my box? Help that man standing by it to ship it
on the car."

Jimmy did kindly help me, and so the difficulty was got over, but I
saw or heard no more of the American lassie.

As I made notes of the above (I filled many pocket-books in that way
in America), I pondered and thought it over. I don't at all believe
the girl meant to be rude or unkind, it's quite likely she would
have done as much as she asked of me for some one else, but she had
not been brought up to consider courtesy a necessity, and most
certainly did not practise it.

The tea usually drunk in the States is dreadful stuff. As I am
interested in the growth of tea in India, I inquired much as to the
prospects of that tea if sent there, and on my return to England, I
wrote the following to one of the papers devoted to tea matters in
Calcutta. I give it here, as it exemplifies the difficulty of getting
good tea in America, which so many English appreciate, and because
large numbers here now are interested in the tea industry of
Hindustan.

     TEA IN AMERICA.

     Would you like to hear as to the prospects of
     Indian tea in America? Having been in the States
     some five months and looked into the matter, I can
     tell you.

     At present Indian tea is literally unknown on that
     side of the water. Not only is the tea unknown,
     but, with few exceptions, no one here is cognizant
     of the fact that any tea is produced in Hindustan.
     This, considering that a fair amount of Indian tea
     has been sent to America, may appear strange. But
     the explanation is not far to seek. When those who
     have not travelled in it speak of that country,
     they do not realize its vast size. How many dozen
     countries like England joined together would equal
     the area of the United States? Take away Scotland
     and Wales and all that remains, England proper,
     could be put into Lake Superior! Is it strange
     then that the comparatively little Indian tea sent
     has never penetrated into the interior? Again, the
     tea sent has been delivered in New York. There,
     and there alone, and in a very minor degree, has
     it begun to run the course it has pursued in
     England for years. Very nearly all received has
     been used to mix with other and weak teas, but the
     whole quantity has been hitherto far too small to
     visibly affect the strength even of the teas sold
     in New York.

     Speaking generally, two kinds of tea are used in
     the States--Java green tea, and what they name
     "English breakfast tea." The first is Java, and
     that only, and more woful stuff I have never
     tasted. It is far weaker than the Chinese mixtures
     which were used in England years ago, ere the
     Indian teas came into play. It is literally
     tasteless. It has no aroma, and very little
     colour. I never tasted so bodyless an infusion.
     Nine-tenths of the Americans drink the above.

     The other, styled "English breakfast tea," is a
     compound of Chinese black teas; and into this (the
     percentage very small, for all received will give
     no more) is sometimes put a little Indian. Bad as
     it is, 'tis better than the Java beverage, but, as
     compared with the general tea sold in England
     to-day, which is more than one-third Indian, it is
     a tasteless mixture.

     In two words, I conceive all, or nearly all, the
     Indian tea sent to the States has been used up in
     New York, and consequently it would be strange if
     it were known elsewhere.

     I travelled much in America, south to New Orleans,
     west to San Francisco. I asked as to Indian tea in
     many places. I found it in two only. At a
     tea-store in San Francisco (excuse the word
     "store," there are no shops in America) I found
     one kind, an inferior Souchong, with much red
     leaf. Still it was very drinkable, and I used no
     other while on the western coast. It had come, I
     was told, from Bengal, across the Pacific.
     Ordinary as the tea was, the store-keeper told me
     he sold much of it.

     The only other place I got Indian tea was at
     Denver, the capital of Colorado. But it was in a
     shop kept by an Englishman named Cornforth. He had
     a large and very successful grocery business and
     made tea a speciality. He knew all about Indian
     tea, and had some of the very best, a high-class
     Pekoe Souchong, said to be from Assam. I was some
     weeks in Colorado (I bought a ranch there for my
     sons) and drank Mr. Cornforth's tea all the time.
     I used to give it to the Americans who came to my
     house, and they invariably liked it. Mr. Cornforth
     sells much of it in Denver, and many, his manager
     told me, drink it pure. Shortly, my experience
     leads me to believe that Indian tea could be
     easily introduced into the States.

     Were it done, think of the result. The Americans
     drink individually far more tea than we do. As a
     rule, they are a sober race. When they drink
     alcohol, it is a big drink, lasting two or three
     days, and then for weeks nothing but tea and
     coffee, but far more of the former. I have not the
     statistics handy, but I doubt not for "tea per
     head" the denizens of the United States equal the
     New Zealanders, who I had previously thought the
     largest consumers on earth. Then, again, consider
     the area covered by those tea-drinkers. If Indian
     tea ever becomes popular with them, the Indian and
     Ceylon plantations will have to be increased
     threefold to satisfy the demand.

     Tea, I well know, is an aquired taste, and it is
     not easily, or quickly, that even a better produce
     will make its way, opposed as it is, to the
     flavour which has become familiar. But we had
     exactly the same difficulty in England, and have
     conquered. We _can_ do the same in America. We
     cannot expect them, they will not (they did not in
     England, even few do so here now) drink it pure.
     It will run in the States as it has here, and runs
     in a great measure still. Used to mix with and
     give body to weak teas, our trans-Atlantic cousins
     will be _taught_ to appreciate the improved
     flavour, ignorant as the many will still be of the
     cause. The taste will grow. More will yearly be
     demanded, and in time, a long time I admit, may
     happen what will now certainly occur in England in
     five years more, half the consumption will be
     Indian.

     But how is it to be so introduced? Certainly not
     by the very puny efforts made hitherto. The
     quantity sent should be multiplied many times, and
     arrangements made to forward it on arrival, to
     some, if not all, of the great cities in the
     interior. There it should be sold at auction to
     the highest bidders, as done here in the Lane.
     Were this done for two or three years, the
     introduction would be accomplished (it has not
     been begun yet) and the tea would then make its
     own way.

     But how as to the financial result? Losses at
     first there would be. Some sacrifice must always
     be made to carry out large enterprises, but they
     would not be heavy or of long duration, and every
     rupee embarked therein would eventually bring
     back a hundredfold to the tea industry.

     Only the Tea Associations of London and Calcutta
     can carry it out, and even they cannot do it if
     the garden owners in India and Ceylon do not help.
     You can assist likewise. Will you kindly do so?

     London, 22nd January, 1886. EDWARD MONEY.

I have spoken of the American Press before, but have more to add
here, as during my stay on the ranch I saw much of papers published
at Denver, the capital of Colorado. If a tradesman wants his goods
advertised successfully, it is merely a question of money to get the
Editor to allude to them in the body of the paper. Not as done at the
bottom of columns with the word "advt." joined on, as some papers
print such in England, but in the editorial articles, and as if the
notice was put in by the Editor himself, struck with the superiority
of what is recommended! Here are one or two examples. These were in
the body of the paper, among items of news, &c.

     REMOVED.--Gallup, the florist so long at 370
     Curtis street, can be found hereafter at 321
     Sixteenth street, still with Tunnel & Co. A
     competent lady floral worker has charge and all
     orders will receive prompt attention. An
     abundance of fine flowers always on hand.
     Telephone connections with greenhouse on Broadway.

     MADAME STOUFFS is in charge of Joslin's costume
     department, and is prepared to receive orders for
     all kinds of costumes, satisfaction guaranteed in
     every respect.

     HALFORD SAUCE, for uniform use.

     YOUMAN'S fall stiff hats are now on sale at J. A.
     McClurg & Co.'s.

     JOSLIN'S have the finest line of dry goods to be
     found in the West.

     COLD WEATHER is coming on, and the little ones
     must be shod accordingly. If you wish to save
     money, go to 232, Fifteenth street, just below
     Holladay. W. H. Moore.

     SEE the assortment of fancy plated jewelry at
     Joslin's.

Another feature is sensational headings. No matter what the subject,
the most sensational heading that can be devised appears in large
print above it. Political leaders, social news, financial articles
are all treated the same way. I had many but lost them. Here are two
examples however.

  ABDUCTION AND ATTEMPTED MURDER:
  THE PUEBLO SENSATION.

  SILVERTON TREATED TO SOME HARMLESS
  REVOLVER PRACTICE.

Here, in England, expressions are occasionally made use of in the
House which would be better omitted, but the perpetrating delinquent
is quickly called to order. Not so in the States. It is difficult to
say from the following political leader, if, at the scene described,
the combatants came to blows or not, but as it is stated the
Sergeant-at-arms failed to keep the peace, and the heading says they
"had it out on the floor," I incline to the belief that Messrs.
McGilvray and Montgomery _did_ indulge in a sparring-match, doubtless
to the delight and edification of their brother statesmen.

The first heading would be unintelligible did I not state that
"dukes" mean fists. Sensational enough in all conscience!

     "NOW, PUT UP YOUR DUKES."

     STORMY AND DISGRACEFUL SCENES IN THE DEMOCRATIC
     STATE CONVENTION.

     BOSS MCGILVRAY AND B. F. MONTGOMERY HAVE IT OUT ON
     THE FLOOR--JUDGE W. F. STONE NOMINATED.

     The proceedings of the State Democratic
     Convention, held at Turner Hall, yesterday, were
     disgraceful enough to bring a blush even to the
     cheek of a Democrat. "Liar," "snide," "put up
     your dukes, if you want to fight," cat-calls,
     hooting, and yelling filled up a greater part of
     the deliberations of the august body. Boss
     McGilvray, of the Seventh Ward, and B. F.
     Montgomery, statesman-at-large, vented their
     personal animosities towards each other. McGilvray
     said that Montgomery had prostituted every trust,
     both public and private, ever given into his
     hands, and Montgomery retaliated by saying that it
     could not be charged against him, that he was an
     apostate in the ranks of the party, a Republican
     who had been brought up in the slums of Chicago.
     This was a dig at McGilvray, and he responded by
     calling Montgomery a liar, and offering to fight
     him on the floor of the Convention.

     The breeze grew out of McGilvray's opposition to
     Montgomery for Chairman of the Convention. The
     Committee on Permanent Organization reported in
     favor of Montgomery for Chairman, and McGilvray
     moved to strike out his name, and substitute that
     of G. Q. Richmond, of Pueblo. It was a bitter
     fight, and the result was a McGilvray victory.
     Montgomery was thrown overboard by an overwhelming
     majority.

     Martin Currigan, the irrepressible, was on hand,
     and was made Sergeant-at-Arms; but he failed to be
     of any avail in keeping the peace.

     Judge Wilbur F. Stone was nominated for the
     Supreme Bench without opposition.

     The resolutions endorse the administration of
     President Cleveland, favor the free and unlimited
     coinage of silver on the present basis, denounce
     the fencing of large bodies of public land, and
     insist upon the strict enforcement of the Chinese
     restriction act.

Interviewing is a science in America. Who has read "Martin
Chuzzlewit" and not laughed over Dickens' description of it? Woe to
the man or woman who goes to the States with anything in the way of a
reputation. He or she will have no more peace than a titled
individual has, for remember a lord with no reputation, or a bad one
(the latter for choice), is as much an object of curiosity and
adulation as the most renowned intellectual genius. It is amusing
when any woman, famous for beauty, wealth, intellect, or anything
else, visits the States. No sooner does she land than everybody would
do anything for her. "She must at once be interviewed" is the dictum
at each and every newspaper office, and interviewed she is, by one or
more of that artist class, on some pretence or other, whether she
likes it or not. I say "artist class" for, considering their
wonderful ingenuity in pursuit of their object, they richly deserve
the name. If the lady, and thank God many are, is modest and
retiring, and cares not to see her name and antecedents blazoned
forth in the public prints, and resolutely refuses to see _any_
strangers on _any_ plea,--what happens? Do they desist and leave her
alone? Not a bit of it. They _will_ see her, _coûte que coûte_, and
what's more they do! Cases are recorded, when in the guise of a
waiter the opportunity by interviewers to see her at least has been
found. Or, should she send out for any article, the individual
bringing it is an interviewer, and in this capacity, in some
ingenious way, the pretended tradesman is sure to get hold of
something. If all other means fail, the chambermaid of her room is
pressed into the service, and as regards the poor lady's clothing, if
not more, she can and does tell much. _Anyhow_ the victim does not
escape. Information is highly paid for and obtained somehow. If she
be a celebrity, something has appeared in the English or Continental
press about her long ago, and with due foresight has been cut out,
and labelled with her name, on the chance of her visiting America
later. There it is ready in the office, and is duly made use of. But,
if the information get-at-able is in any way insufficient and scanty,
the editor or manager of the paper quietly remarks that "_Some_
antecedents there must necessarily have been, that it's a tarnation
shame of the said lioness not to assist them to do her honour, but
that as she is so blind to her own advantage, and it's a positive
necessity that an article about her should appear next morning, the
deficiency must be made up." Well he, or some one he deputes, sits
down at the last moment (for there are many on watch, and information
may drop in during the night) to write the article, which in any case
is highly coloured, and as antecedents are scanty and the public
_must_ not be disappointed, plausible ones are invented.

Anyhow, next morning articles appear, possibly to the effect that the
lovely and talented Mrs., or Miss, A. B. landed yesterday from the
Cunard steamer, and took up her abode at the Fifth Avenue Hotel,
where spacious rooms had been previously secured. That the editor,
from exceptional sources of information, is able to lay before his
readers the following short sketch of the talented artiste's previous
life, and that it will be his endeavour to supplement this by more
facts on the morrow. Then follows a biographical history from the
cradle upwards, closing with the _menu_ of yesterday's dinner. Too
much is not said in this first notice, the subject must not be
exhausted, and materials for further articles are reserved. Poor
Mrs., or Miss, A. B., at breakfast that morning, reads much about
herself of which she had been previously ignorant!

But this is only the beginning of the campaign. The next day, thanks
to the chambermaid, the waiter and others, a more or less accurate
list of the wardrobe appears, the jewels she wore the previous day,
and those still in the jewel-case, what time she got up, what she ate
at breakfast, where she went in the day, how well the hat she wore
suited the dress, what a lovely colour her hair is, how her fringe
(if she had one) gave her a childish grace, how (if she had none)
wisely she acted in discarding that woful fashion, and what a
patrician look the absence of it gave to her lovely face, &c., &c.
From early morn till she goes to bed (the description kindly halts
there) her movements are recorded, and on morning No. 3 the public
are informed that Mrs., or Miss, A. B. slept well, and awoke with a
fresh colour to add to her other charms!

I need not dilate more. The excitement is kept alive by daily
notices. Paper vies against paper in describing and commenting on her
European antecedents and her life since she landed, until some new
star appears, or until, often the case, the poor lady, in spite of
the press assertions that all this homage delights her, is fairly
driven out of New York. Some, alas! cannot seek safety in flight,
their avocations oblige them to remain; such, it can only be hoped,
grow callous, until, the subject being well threshed out and grown
threadbare, they are left at peace.

I give here, complete, an article on one of such poor victims, cut
out of a Denver paper, which, in its callous indifference to the pain
it must have caused the lady under discussion, is a good example.
But, as I would not drag this lady into further publicity, I have
substituted an initial for her name, which was plainly given in the
newspaper. "Madeline's Mash" does duty for Madeline's Lover. The
sensational headings, and interpositions in large type, are worthy of
notice.

     MADELINE'S MASH.

     THE APPEARANCE IN DENVER OF A DISTINGUISHED
     SOCIETY LADY.

     RECALLING A TRAGEDY WHEREIN AN ENGLISH ACTOR WAS
     THE LEADING ARTIST.

     The train hence to Kansas City via the Burlington
     road on yesterday afternoon departed, as usual, on
     time and, as usual, heavily laden. There was
     indeed more than the ordinary complement of
     pilgrims, remarked the Depot Superintendent, and
     made up of the class who travel luxuriously--of
     the class to whom luxuries are every-day
     experiences and whose journeyings, whether from
     lands of snow to lands of sun or to lands of snow
     from lands of sun, are accompanied by holiday
     pleasures. Among those whom the train bore
     Eastwardly was a fair daughter of Eve, about whose
     life has been woven a romance, a tragedy as dire
     in its effects upon two families, at least, as was
     the tragedy woven out of the warp and woof of the
     romance born of Paris and Helen. She is related to
     one of the wealthiest and most prominent families
     of the country, both socially and financially, and
     though upwards of forty years of age is yet
     youthful in appearance and hoydenish as a Vassar
     miss proud in the possession of her first beau.
     Twenty years ago she was a Gotham belle, and
     related to the L.'s, occupied a position of social
     distinction, which wealth, beauty and graces of
     character perfectly combined inevitably procure.
     In the heydey of her youth and beauty she was
     married, but scarcely mated, to a representative
     of the Knickerbocker regime and, as is
     represented, barely consented

     TO ENDURE THE BURDEN

     officiously ambitious relatives had buckled on her
     back. It ended as all other matches wherein
     affection is made to pay tribute to other
     considerations end, in separation, infatuation
     with another, death, disgrace, exile. Her home is
     said to have been unhappy, a cheerless place,
     unwarmed by an atmosphere of love, whence an
     impulsive woman unconsciously went out to one who
     appreciated and was a friend to her. Of course she
     was obliged to encounter opposition, ostracism,
     social annihilation with the classes whereof she
     was at once the peer and superior. But little she
     cared, and in the _salons_ of Paris, Berlin,
     Vienna, and St. Petersburgh, she found the salad
     of variety that was denied her at home up to 1867.
     She was a regnant queen at Washington, Cape May,
     Saratoga--in short, at every point she honored
     with her presence. She was the objective point of
     attraction to the grave and gay, to the solemn and
     severe. But while she outwardly accepted, and with
     pleasure, the homage men deemed themselves
     privileged to bestow, those familiar with the
     skeleton in the closet of Madeline R.'s heart,
     speak of her as one who suffered in silence, until
     it was a change or a mad-house, and she sought the
     change.

     Those who were visitors to, or residents of New
     York city during 1867 will remember the advent of
     Walter Montgomery, the English actor. He came
     almost unheralded, but in the brief period of his
     sojourn

     ACHIEVED A DRAMATIC TRIUMPH

     unparalleled in the history of the American stage.
     In form and appearance he was a magnificent
     creation. A trifle larger than Edwin Booth, with
     a physique modelled by the master-hand of nature,
     a physiognomy of classic outlines, and a genius
     for his art, that is said to have rivalled that
     displayed by the most noted histrions of the
     English stage. In all respects he is said to have
     been as ravishingly perfect as the forms Angelo
     hewed from blocks of marble, or Guido traced on
     canvas, which to-day haunt the memory as a
     vanished gleam of sunlight, that kissed life's
     rippling river--and then was gone. In addition to
     the qualities mentioned there was entire absence
     of the shilly-shallying practices many actors
     delight to indulge, in their efforts to secure
     applause or attract the admiration of susceptible
     females. He was esteemed, an accomplished artist
     and true man. He opened at Niblo's in "Ruy Blas,"
     making his headquarters at the Metropolitan, and
     frequenting a theatrical club-house on Houston
     street, known as the "House of Lords." Socially,
     he was never received by the Knickerbockers of the
     Empire city, his relations with men of letters and
     the professions were extremely cordial. How Mrs.
     R. and himself became acquainted is not clearly
     defined. But that acquaintance on her part was
     resolved into an infatuation irresistible and
     indescribable, and she succeeded in inspiring him
     with

     A RECIPROCITY OF FEELING

     that was not to be misunderstood. Wherever he went
     professionally, she was constantly included in the
     list of his admirers. Upon the Eastern circuit,
     throughout the West, from Pittsburg to the Pacific
     slope, the susceptible Madeline was first and
     foremost among those who worshipped at the shrine
     of this gifted exponent of Melpomene.

     Upon his return to New York from San Francisco, he
     concluded his engagements and sailed for Liverpool
     by the Cunard steamship Scotia. By this time the
     attentions bestowed upon Montgomery by Mrs. R. had
     become more than a topic of comment with observers
     beyond the pale of the social set of which she had
     been a prime factor. It was reported that they
     were engaged to be married, and that his return to
     England was for the purpose of completing
     arrangements in that behalf. At all events she
     accompanied him as a fellow-passenger on the
     Scotia but reached England alone, for during the
     voyage Montgomery suicided by cutting his throat.
     No cause was ever assigned for the deed, but the
     fact that he had a wife, living in London
     impressed his friends with the belief that remorse
     at the lengths to which he had permitted his

     FLIRTATION WITH MRS. R.

     to proceed, prompted the deed. He was buried in
     Kensal Green, within sight of St. Paul's, and
     after the completion of the ceremonies at the
     grave his whilom admirer disappeared, to come to
     the surface at Paris as the promised wife of Sir
     St. George Gore, a landed proprietor of Tasmania,
     off the coast of Australia, and a man of wealth
     and prominence in the British possessions of the
     South Pacific. But it is not believed this
     alliance was perfected by a priestly benediction.
     Since then she has been a wanderer. Possessed of
     wealth, beauty, accomplishments, and much that
     would command esteem, she seeks to find in the
     excitement of travel a solace for her wasted life,
     and in intercourse with strangers forgetfulness of
     her woes. She is said to have come hither from San
     Francisco via Cheyenne, and that during her stay
     here she was known as Mrs. F.

One more example of the same kind. The President is about to be
married. The following is from a London paper, and though not so
stated, it is, I trust, only inserted as a picture of the American
system of lionizing any celebrity. The name of the bride that is to
be is given in full. I substitute an initial. I conceive the article
is taken from a New York paper, but this is not clearly stated, only
that the source is American.

     President Cleveland's approaching marriage is now
     regarded as a certainty. It is understood that the
     engagement took place during Miss F.'s last visit
     to Washington. If Mr. Cleveland is married at the
     White House, in June, it will be the second
     marriage of a President during his term of office.
     Mr. Tyler was married while he was President, but
     his marriage took place in New York. The best
     portrait of Miss F. now in Washington is a large
     one, which hangs in the President's bedroom. Miss
     F. was very averse to giving a sitting to the
     photographers when she was here, and has a great
     horror of publicity. When she was in Washington
     last, a number of paragraphs were printed about
     her school life, which she traced to one or two of
     her school friends. She quarrelled with them for
     it. It is said that she went away to Europe so as
     to be out of the range of possible gossip and
     criticism during the engagement period. Miss F.'s
     hair (says a correspondent) is soft and brown, of
     a shade between light and dark. It is combed well
     back from her full forehead and loose wave
     tendrils fall away from their confinement against
     the ivory whiteness of her face. She has violet
     blue eyes, a well-shaped nose and mouth, and a
     full, round chin. The warm pallor of her
     complexion contrasts with the deep red of her full
     lips, in which all her colour concentrates itself.
     Her shoulders are broad, and her bust and waist of
     classic proportions. She has finely moulded hands
     and feet; not small, but well suited to her
     height. With one other pupil at Aurora she shared
     the palm of being "the beauty of the school," the
     other being Miss Katherine Willard, of Illinois,
     who was her intimate friend, though not a
     fellow-senior, and she is now in Germany
     cultivating her voice. Miss F. has been with her
     there during much of the past winter. Many of the
     young ladies have flowers pressed in their albums,
     labelled "From the White House," these being
     mementoes given by her from the boxes of flowers
     weekly sent her by the President from his
     conservatories here. For her graduation, last
     June, he forwarded a particularly lavish supply.
     On that occasion she wore white satin, and, as one
     of her schoolmates describes her, "looked more
     like a goddess than a woman." Her student life has
     been marked by seriousness and deep religious
     feeling. She is a member of the First Presbyterian
     Church of Buffalo. She was deeply loved by her
     teachers, more for her solidity of character and
     amiability of disposition than for exceptionally
     brilliant intellectual traits, though her average
     of scholarship was good.

The postal arrangements are good in the States. Postage is cheap, and
letters are carried and delivered as safely there as in England. The
street post-boxes though are not equal to English ones--they are
small in size and fastened against the walls, instead of being
prominent objects like ours. In some few towns, owing to the scarcity
of labour, letters are not delivered at all. Each resident has a
number assigned, and a corresponding pigeon-hole at the post-office,
where his or her letters are placed. The letters have to be called or
sent for. This was the case at Colorado Springs.

Why I know not, but the rule of the road is different in the States
to ours. On meeting we take the left side, on passing the right;
there they do just the opposite, as in France.

As a rule the Americans are not good drivers. A very common, not
universal, habit is to hold a rein in each hand, and it goes without
saying that a person doing so cannot drive well.

Their trotting-horses in the trotting-carriages (very light,
four-wheeled vehicles, models of good workmanship, with fore and hind
wheels of the same size) perform wonders. I speak under correction,
but believe fifteen or sixteen miles in the hour is not an unusual
feat. Anyhow, I am sure they can trot much faster than any horses we
have.

As foolish as we are in that way, the bearing-rein is used in the
States. But it is taken over the top of the head between the ears. I
know not if this is better or worse than our plan, but this I do
know, bearing-reins, like blinkers, are hurtful, cruel appendages to
harness, and in India, where I owned horses, I used neither. Had I
horses in England I would do the same.

The roads in the States are far behind ours. Perhaps to this is due
the fact that there are not many bicycles and tricycles to be seen.

In the first days of November, 1885, I left the ranch on my way home.
It was a trial parting with my sons. Let them even do well, it is
pretty certain they will not return to England under fifteen years. I
am not young, and I could not help feeling, as I said good-bye, that
it was very doubtful if I should ever see them again. Still we parted
cheerfully, for they were happy with their possessions and the
sanguine hope that they were on the high road to fortune.

I had taken my passage home across the Atlantic in one of the Monarch
line of steamers, and not caring to halt _en route_, or linger in New
York, I timed my departure from Colorado with no day to spare. At
Denver I took a rail-ticket through to New York, and did the
distance, about 1700 miles, in eighty-four hours, halting nowhere
except the necessary time to make connection at the principal
stations between the incoming and outgoing trains. I have not much to
say as to this my last journey in the States, still I will briefly
describe the country passed through. Nebraska was the first state
after leaving Colorado. This, again, like Texas and Wyoming, is a
vast country of grassy plains, on which many thousands of cattle are
reared. The endless plains, though rich in grass, look desolate,
owing to the total absence of trees, except in the vicinity of towns,
where some attempt has been made to remedy the want. It is a very
thinly inhabited state; for miles and miles, as we swiftly passed on,
not a soul could be seen. The rail line through it, from west to
east, is about 480 miles long.

Iowa was the next, and beyond that Illinois. They are much alike, so
I will describe them together. They are very rich pastoral countries,
with large towns, and abound in farms. The scenery in many parts is
beautiful, and the general outlook very English. Iowa, by the rail,
is about 320 miles across, Illinois about 180 miles.

On the western boundary of Illinois, joining Indiana, and on the
southern shore of Lake Michigan, stands the wonderful city of
Chicago: wonderful in its quick growth, and wonderful in the way the
ravages of the great fire there have been replaced. I was
necessarily, by the time-table of the trains, delayed there some six
hours, so I walked through the town. It is a beautiful one, not equal
in that respect to San Francisco, but still far ahead of New York.
Like both the said cities, Chicago is overrun with tram-cars, and
like them also other wheel-vehicles are in the minority. Its position
on the shore of that vast lake, and on the direct line of rail, is a
commanding one for all purposes of trade and commerce, and doubtless
to this, in a great measure, may its quick growth be attributed.
Formerly, before the fire, it was, I believe, nearly all wood, now
the greater part is brick and stone. It is built on the plan of all
American towns, in square blocks, so that the streets, which are
wide, all run at right angles to each other. It boasts many very
handsome buildings, and the display in the shop windows of huge plate
glass quite equals London, or Paris either. I was very glad of the
six hours' delay, which enabled me to see this magnificent city. Lake
Michigan was the first sight I had of those five vast sheets of fresh
water, all joining together, which is such a unique feature in North
America. As I stood on the shore and saw the boundless waters before
me, it was difficult to realize that I gazed on a lake and not on the
ocean.

I saw a number of pretty faces at Chicago, and I then first began to
think what I should say in this book about the beauty of women in the
States. In no country on earth, my experience teaches me, is beauty
as common as in Great Britain. Every fourth young girl you meet
here, be it in Ireland, England, Scotland, or Wales, has some
pretensions to good looks. Perhaps, anyway in my opinion, the claim
for beauty as regards the four countries follows in the order in
which I have named them. In America, on the contrary, beauty is not
sown broadcast through the land, but then to make up for this, when
it is found it is very perfect. Some American girls and women are
extremely handsome, but in America, far more than in Europe, beauty
clings to the upper classes. One point further; I doubt if beauty is
as _lasting_ on the other side of the Atlantic as it is here. I
believe the high temperature the rooms are kept at with stoves during
the severe cold of winter is, to some extent, answerable for this,
and the extremes of temperature in summer and winter are doubtless
another cause.

While perambulating Chicago, being a stranger, I had to ask my way,
and I was then struck, as I had been both in New York and San
Francisco, how much better the place desired is pointed out in
London. Say you want to find Bond Street and ask the way. If anywhere
in the vicinity, the answer is, "Second to the right, first to the
left, and first again to the left," or as it may be, and following
such a direction is not difficult. Having found Bond Street, the
houses are all numbered, and so you easily get to the one you want.

Say in any American city there is a street called Montgomery Street
and you ask your way there. The answer is, "On Tenth, between Market
and Cheese," and the interrogated passes on. You think the man is
laughing at you, are angry, and ask again. A woman this time, the men
all seem in such a woful hurry. Again the same answer, "On Tenth,
between Market and Cheese." You are bewildered. Can this be a
stereotyped joke? You essay a third time, result the same. But the
third person you ask is perhaps more considerate, and, seeing your
look of astonishment, and divining you are a Britisher, he deigns to
explain. After listening a few minutes, you find that the said answer
should read, "Out of Tenth Street, between Market Street and Cheese
Street;" and adds the interrogated, "But, you see, we've no time to
spare in this city, and so answer as short as we can; besides every
one knows 'Cheese' means Cheese Street."

Well, anyhow, you now know that Montgomery Street, which you seek,
leads out of Tenth Street, and is between Market Street and Cheese
Street. The first thing, of course, is to find Tenth Street. You ask
your way there. The same answer in kind, though not in words, "On
Lawrence, between Nine and Eleven." You do not now think it is a
joke, and though confused, determined to see where it will end, you
ask again for Lawrence Street. This time you are lucky, Lawrence
Street abuts on the street you are in, which is Eighth Street, and
the answer is, "Three blocks on." You have learnt before this that
all American towns are built in blocks, the streets running between.
So "three blocks on" is tantamout to "four turnings on," and thus you
easily find Lawrence Street. If you have not forgotten, which you
likely enough have, the previous directions, you have now to seek
Tenth, which leads out of Lawrence Street. Walking down Lawrence
Street, you come to Ninth Street, running off at right angles, so
Tenth Street is the next turning, and down that, between Market
Street and Cheese Street, as told, you find the street you want, viz.
Montgomery Street.

The above, to read, sounds puzzling, but, believe me, it is no
exaggeration. You soon get accustomed to the word "street" being
omitted, but as you don't know the town at all, to be told the street
you ask for leads out of another, with the names of the streets on
either side, does not help you much. Why such a roundabout mode of
direction is adopted, and it holds all over the States, I never could
understand. It may answer for those who know the town more or less,
but an outsider it helps but little.

Having attained the street you seek, your troubles are not at an end.
Houses are supposed to be numbered; but, unfortunately, only in some
instances are the numbers marked on them, and if you ask for a
number, no one knows it. You have to explain to any one you inquire
of what kind of shop it is, and the name of the shopkeeper; or, if a
private house, the name of the dweller. If he knows it, you are then
told, either, "Six blocks down," or "Between Eleven and Twelve"
which, of course, you now understand; and after some trouble you find
it in the block between Eleventh Street and Twelfth Street.

Enough on this. Now as to a point in which the Americans excel us. As
I have said, all their cities and towns are laid out in square
blocks, the streets running between, and thus always at right angles
to one another. The streets running, say from north to south (I'm not
sure if I am right as to the points of the compass), are all
_numbered_ in succession, thus, first, second, third, and so on for
the whole number. The streets running the other way (say from east to
west) are all _named_. Numbering the first is convenient, for if it
is one of the numbered streets you seek there is no more difficulty
in finding it than a house where all are numbered. But strange that,
perceiving the advantage of this, as they of course do, the Americans
have not gone a step further, which, if done, would have enabled a
stranger to find _any_ street he sought without inquiry. If the
_named_ streets were given names, with the first letter of each in
alphabetical succession, as Alpha Street, Bishop Street, Canary
Street, right through, beginning from one end, the great desideratum
detailed above would be accomplished. In other words, whereas now you
can find any one of the numbered streets without inquiry, you could
then do just the same with the streets which are named.

Another peculiarity in American towns are strong wire ropes, running
high up across the street, from which, in the centre, depends,
generally in ornamental wire-scroll letters, the name of the
shopkeeper on one side and a _résumé_ of the articles he sells. In
some cases these are illuminated at night, and then have a pleasing
effect, besides helping to light the street. I could see no possible
objection to the plan, and if allowed in London, on the condition
that the owners illuminated them properly at their own cost, the sad
darkness our capital lies in, as compared with most others, would, in
a great measure, be done away with. Are we never going to light up
London with electricity? The Americans, on this point, are far ahead
of us. In every large town there the electric light is nearly
universal; and on the Continent, too, much more has been achieved in
that way than in England.

While on American peculiarities I must mention another, though it is
a little thing, and is only universal far out west. The cups have no
handles. This is certainly not an advantage when you are drinking hot
tea or coffee, for you simply can't lift the cup! I have mentioned
before that most of the crockery used in the States comes from
England, and in the case of cups for despatch long distances by rail,
I presume the handles are omitted to enable them to pack better, one
in the other, which of course they do.

I left Chicago when the six hours were up. It was then dark, and as I
slept through the state of Indiana I can say nothing about it. Next
morning we were in Ohio, and skirting the southern shore of Lake Erie
for some hours. I have nowhere seen more beautiful pastoral scenery
than I saw there, or a richer country. There were many perfect
country seats on the borders of that vast and superb lake, and
clean-looking pretty towns and villages. There is no want of rain in
this part of America, and the pasture-fields vied in their bright
green with those in Ireland, which so richly deserves the name of the
Emerald Isle.

In the evening we reached Buffalo, at the eastern extremity of Lake
Erie, and had an hour's halt there. That second wonderful sight in
the world (I hold the Himalayan snowy range to be the first), the
Niagara Falls, lay only twenty miles off, and I could not go and see
it! I had only just allowed myself time to catch the steamer from New
York, in which I had taken and paid for my passage, and I could not
afford to lose the money. I almost cried with vexation at my
stupidity, but the fact was I had not realized the line ran so near
the Falls. "Don't you tell any one," said an American to me in the
train, when we started again, "that you were so near, and yet missed
seeing _the_ great sight of our glorious country, because, you see,
it's neither creditable or credible, though to miss your passage to
Europe, I allow, would be a serious loss. Why didn't you fix it
otherwise?" I told him. "Well, keep it quiet," he added, "for your
own sake, as it's not a thing to boast of." I have not followed his
advice. Would you have done so, reader?

We were close to New York, or rather Jersey City, when I awoke next
morning. The terminus of the rail is in the latter. I steamed across
the Hudson river in one of the grand ferries, and at ten o'clock
breakfasted once more in the American capital.

The _cuisine_ is different in the States to ours. Many small dishes
are served in succession, something on the French plan, but the order
of succession is not so good, nor are the edibles themselves.

In all but the first and expensive hotels, bathing-towels there are
none, and those they give are wofully small and thin. They look and
feel more like pocket-handkerchiefs.

The blinds to the windows go up with a spring, but the said spring,
owing to the stuff of which the blinds are made being thick, harsh,
and stiff, seldom seems able to do more than pull the blind up
three-quarters of the way.

There is one great advantage in American hotels. The daily charge is
strictly an inclusive one, comprising meals, attendance, and
everything but alcoholic drinks. There are positively no extras, and
you depart in peace, not having to "remember" waiter, chambermaid, or
others.

Turning over my memoranda, I find one very peculiar habit which I
ought to have mentioned when out west, for I have not seen it
elsewhere. Suppose a man has a box of matches in his hand, and you
ask him for a light for your pipe. He takes out a match, lifts up the
right leg, bent at the knee to draw the trousers tight, and ignites
it on the lower part of the thigh. The effect is peculiar; he seems
to be drawing fire from that part of his body! No one there ever
lights matches any other way, and doubtless it is easier done so than
on any other object, as I learnt by experience. But the posture is
most inelegant and grotesque, and had any one prophesied, when I
first saw the feat, that I should ever do it, I should have laughed
scornfully. But habits, you see continually, take a strange hold of
you; my sons never lighted matches any other way, and I, trying it
once or twice, found it so convenient, I am almost ashamed to say I
was fast acquiring the practice when I left the ranch. Of course,
since my return to civilization, I have not been so naughty! I once,
in Colorado, saw a girl, and a very nice one, a lady's daughter of
ten years old, essay the feat, quite unconscious of doing anything
strange. Odd to relate, she succeeded, for petticoats are naturally
inferior to trousers as match illuminating surfaces. But the
performance convulsed me with laughter, while I pointed out to her
mother and her that in her case it was highly dangerous withal.

The _Monarch_ steamer left next morning early, so I slept on board.
She was a tiny boat as compared with the _City of Rome_, in which I
had come out, but a good one all the same. Except a twenty-four
hours' gale of wind, during which she behaved well, we had a smooth
passage. The passengers were not many. We were bound to London, so
came up the Channel and river, arriving in thirteen days. After the
bright skies I had revelled in, the foggy November weather we
encountered, after passing the Scilly Islands, was very gloomy in
comparison, and the dingy old Thames, when I recalled the Hudson
river, showed out painfully. Still England is _dear_ England to the
"Britisher," and as I landed at Blackwall I felt that, with all her
faults, I loved her still.


FINIS.


LONDON:

PRINTED BY GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LIMITED,

ST. JOHN'S SQUARE.