A TRAMP'S NOTE-BOOK

BY

MORLEY ROBERTS

AUTHOR OF

"RACHEL MARE, " "BIANCA'S CAPRICE, " "THE PROMOTION OF THE ADMIRAL. "

LONDON

F. V. WHITE & CO. LTD. 

14 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, W. C. 

1904

CONTENTS

 PAGE

A WATCH-NIGHT SERVICE IN SAN FRANCISCO 1

SOME PORTUGUESE SKETCHES 16

A PONDICHERRY BOY 40

A GRADUATE BEYOND SEAS 51

MY FRIEND EL TORO 61

BOOKS IN THE GREAT WEST 71

A VISIT TO R. L. STEVENSON 79

IN CAPETOWN 88

VELDT, PLAIN AND PRAIRIE 95

NEAR MAFEKING 101

BY THE FRASER RIVER 110

OLD AND NEW DAYS IN BRITISH COLUMBIA 118

A TALK WITH KRUGER 128

TROUT FISHING IN BRITISH COLUMBIA AND CALIFORNIA 136

ROUND THE WORLD IN HASTE 142

BLUE JAYS AND ALMONDS 162

IN CORSICA 167

ON THE MATTERHORN 176

AN INTERNATIONAL SOCIALIST CONGRESS 186

AT LAS PALMAS 194

THE TERRACINA ROAD 204

A SNOW-GRIND 216

ACROSS THE BIDASSOA 230

ON A VOLCANIC PEAK 238

SHEEP AND SHEEP HERDING 244

RAILROAD WARS 256

AMERICAN SHIPMASTERS 263

TRAMPS 267

TEXAS ANIMALS 275

IN A SAILORS' HOME 282

THE GLORY OF THE MORNING 293

A Tramp's Note-Book

A WATCH-NIGHT SERVICE IN SAN FRANCISCO

How much bitter experience a man keeps to himself, let the experiencedsay, for they only know. For my own part I am conscious that it rarelyoccurs to me to mention some things which happened either in England orout of it, and that if I do, it is only to pass them over casually asmere facts that had no profound effect upon me. But the importance ofany hardship cannot be estimated at once; it has either psychological orphysiological sequelæ, or both. The attack of malaria passes, but inlong years after it returns anew and devouring the red blood, it breaksdown a man's cheerfulness; a night in a miasmic forest may make him forever a slave in a dismal swamp of pessimism. It is so with starvation, and all things physical. It is so with things mental, withdegradations, with desolation; the scars and more than scars remain:there is outward healing, it may be, but we often flinch at mereremembrance. 

But time is the vehicle of philosophy; as the years pass we learn thatin all our misfortunes was something not without value. And what was ofworth grows more precious as our harsher memories fade. Then we may bearto speak of the days in which we were more than outcasts; when werecognised ourselves as such, and in strange calm and with a brokenspirit made no claim on Society. For this is to be an outcast indeed. 

I came to San Francisco in the winter of 1885 and remained in that cityfor some six months. What happened to me on broad lines I have writtenin the last chapter of _The Western Avernus_. But nowadays I know thatin that chapter I have told nothing. It is a bare recital of events withno more than indications of deeper miseries, and some day it may chanceto be rewritten in full. That I was of poor health was nothing, that Icould obtain no employment was little, that I came to depend on help wasmore. But the mental side underlying was the worst, for the ironentered into my soul. I lost energy. I went dreaming. I was divorcedfrom humanity. 

America is a hard place, for it has been made by hard men. People whowould not be crushed in the East have gone to the West. The Puritanelement has little softness in it, and in some places even now givesrise to phenomena of an excessive and religious brutality which tortureswithout pity, without sympathy. But not only is the Puritan hard; allother elements in America are hard too. The rougher emigrant, theunconquerable rebel, the natural adventurer, the desperado seeking alawless realm, men who were iron and men with the fierce courage whichcarries its vices with its virtues, have made the United States. Therude individualist of Europe who felt the slow pressure of social atomswhich precedes their welding, the beginning of socialism, is the fatherof America. He has little pity, little tolerance, little charity. Inwhat States in America is there any poor law? Only an emigration agent, hungry for steamship percentages, will declare there are no poor therenow. The survival of the fit is the survival of the strong; every manfor himself and the devil take the hindmost might replace the legend onthe silver dollar and the golden eagle, without any American denying itin his heart. 

But if America as a whole is the dumping ground and Eldorado combined ofthe harder extruded elements of Europe, the same law of selection holdsgood there as well. With every degree of West longitude the fibre of theAmerican grows harder. The Dustman Destiny sifting his cinders has hisbiggest mesh over the Pacific States. If charity and sympathy be to seekin the East, it is at a greater discount on the Slope. The onlypoor-house is the House of Correction. Perhaps San Francisco is one ofthe hardest, if not _the_ hardest city in the world. Speaking from myown experience, and out of the experience gathered from a thousandmiserable bedfellows in the streets, I can say I think it is, not evenexcepting Portland in Oregon. But let it be borne in mind that this isthe verdict of the unsuccessful. Had I been lucky it might have seemeddifferent. 

I came into the city with a quarter of a dollar, two bits, or oneshilling and a halfpenny in my possession. Starvation and sleeping onboards when I was by no means well broke me down and at the same timeembittered me. On the third day I saw some of my equal outcastsinspecting a bill on a telegraph pole in Kearny Street, and on readingit I found it a religious advertisement of some services to be held in astreet running out of Kearny, I believe in Upper California Street. Atthe bottom of the bill was a notice that men out of work and starvingwho attended the meeting would be given a meal. Having been starvingonly some twenty-four hours I sneered and walked on. My agnosticism wasbitter in those days, bitter and polemic. 

But I got no work. The streets were full of idle men. They stood inmelancholy groups at corners, sheltering from the rain. I knew no onebut a few of my equals. I could get no ship; the city was full ofsailors. I starved another twenty-four hours, and I went to the service. I said I went for the warmth of the room, for I was ill-clad and wet. Ifound the place half full of out-o'-works, and sat down by the door. Thepreacher was a man of a type especially disagreeable to me; he lookedlike a business man who had cultivated an aspect of goodness andbenevolence and piety on business principles. Without being able to sayhe was a hypocrite, he struck me as being one. He was not bad-looking, and about thirty-five; he had a band of adoring girls and women abouthim. I was desolate and disliked him and went away. 

But I returned. 

I went up to him and told him brutally that I disbelieved in him and ineverything he believed in, explaining that I wanted nothing on falsepretences. My attitude surprised him, but he was kind (still with thatinsufferable air of being a really first-class good man), and he bade mehave something to eat. I took it and went, feeling that I had no placeon the earth. 

But a little later I met an old friend from British Columbia. He was byway of being a religious man, and he had a hankering to convert me. Failing personally, he cast about for some other means, and selectedthis very preacher as his instrument. Having asked me to eat with him ata ten-cent hash house, he inveigled me to an evening service, and forthe warmth I went with him. I became curious about these religioustypes, and attended a series of services. I was interested half in amorbid way, half psychologically. Scott, my friend, found me hard, butmy interest made him hope. He took me, not at all unwilling, to hear awell-known revivalist who combined religion with anecdotes. He toldstories well, and filled a church every night for ten days. Duringthese days I heard him attentively, as I might have listened to anywell-told lecture on any pseudo-science. But my intellect wasunconvinced, my conscience untouched, and Scott gave me up. I attended anumber of services by myself; I was lonely, poor, hopeless, living aninward life. The subjective became real at times, the objective faded. Ihad a little occasional work, and expected some money to reach me earlyin the year. But I had no energy, I divided my time between the FreeLibrary and churches. And it drew on to Christmas. 

It was a miserable time of rain, and Christmas Day found me hopeless ofa meal. But by chance I came across a man whom I had fed, and hereturned my hospitality by dining me for fifteen cents at the "WhatCheer House, " a well-known poor restaurant in San Francisco. Thenfollowed some days of more than semi-starvation, and I grew ratherlight-headed. The last day of the year dawned and I spent it foodless, friendless, solitary. But after a long evening's aimless wandering aboutthe city I came back to California Street, and at ten o'clock went tothe Watch-Night Service in the room of the first preacher I had heard. 

The hall was a big square one, capable of seating some three hundredpeople. There was a raised platform at the end; a broad passage way allround the room had seats on both sides of it, and made a small square ofseats in the centre. I sat down in the middle of this middle square, andthe room was soon nearly full. The service began with a hymn. I neithersang nor rose, and I noticed numbers who did not. In peculiar isolationof mind my heart warmed to these, and I was conscious of risinghostility for the creatures of praise. There was one strong young fellowabout three places from me who remained seated. Glancing behind thebacks of those who were standing between us I caught his eye, which metmine casually and perhaps lightened a little. He had a rather fine face, intelligent, possibly at better times humorous. I was not so solitary. 

A man singing on my left offered me a share of his hymn-book. I declinedcourteously. The woman on my right asked me to share hers. That Ideclined too. Some asked the young fellow to rise, but he refusedquietly. Yet I noticed some of those who had remained seated gave in tosolicitations or to the sound or to some memory, and rose. Yet manystill remained. They were all men, and most of them young. 

After the hymn followed prayer by the minister, who was surrounded onthe daïs by some dozen girls. I noticed that few were very good-looking;but in their faces was religious fervour. Yet they kept their eyes onthe man. The prayer was long, intolerably and trickily eloquent andrhetorical, very self-conscious. The man posed before the throne. But Ilistened to every word, half absorbed though I was in myself. He wasfollowed in prayer by ambitious and emotional people in the seats. Onewoman prayed for those who would not bow the knee. Once more a hymnfollowed, "Bringing home the sheaves. "

The air is not without merit, and has a good lilt and swing. I noted ittempted me to sing it, for I knew the tune well, and in the volume ofvoices was an emotional attraction. I repressed the inclination even tomove my lips. But some others rose and joined in. My fellow on the leftdid not. The sermon followed, and I felt as if I had escaped ahumiliation. 

What the preacher said I cannot remember, nor is it of any importance. He was not an intellectual man, nor had he many gifts beyond his rathersleek manner and a soft manageable voice. He was obviously proud ofthat, and reckoned it an instrument of success. It became as monotonousto me as the slow oily swell of a tropic sea in calm. I would havepreferred a Boanerges, a bitter John Knox. The intent of his sermon wasthe usual one at such periods; this was the end of the year, thebeginning was at hand. Naturally he addressed himself to those who werenot of his flock; it seemed to me, as it doubtless seemed to others, that he spoke to me directly. 

The custom of mankind to divide time into years has had an effect on us, and we cannot help feeling it. Childhood does not understand howartificial the portioning of time is; the New Year affects us even whenwe recognise the fact. It required no florid eloquence of the preacherto convince me of past folly and weakness; but it was that weakness thatmade me weak now in my allowing his insistence on the New Year to affectme. I was weak, lonely, foolish. Oh, I acknowledged I wanted help! Butcould I get help here?

It was past eleven when they rose to sing another hymn. Many who had notsung before sang now. Some of the girls from the platform came down andoffered us hymn-books. A few took them half-shamefacedly; some declinedwith thanks; some ignored the extended book. And after two hymns weresung and some more prayers said, it was half-past eleven. They announcedfive minutes for silent meditation. Looking round, I saw my friend onthe left sitting with folded arms. He was obviously in no need of fiveminutes. 

In the Free Library I had renewed much of my ancient scientific reading, and I used it now to control some slight emotional weakness, and toexplain it to myself. Half-starved, nay more than half-starved, as Iwas, such weakness was likely; I was amenable to suggestion. I askedmyself a dozen crucial questions, and was bitterly amused to know howthe preacher would evade answering them if put to him. Such a creaturecould not succeed, as all great teachers have done, in subduing theintellect by the force of his own personality. But all the same thehour, the time, and the song followed by silence, and the silence bysong, affected me and affected many. What had I to look forward to whenI went out into the street? And if I yielded they might, nay would, helpme to work. I laughed a little at myself, and was scornful of mythoughts. They were singing again. 

This time the band of women left the daïs and in a body went slowlyround and round the aisle isolating the centre seats from the platformand the sides. From the platform the preacher called on the others torise and join them, for it was nearly twelve o'clock, the New Year wasat hand. Most of the congregation obeyed him, I counted but fifteen ortwenty who refused. 

The volume of the singing increased as the seats emptied, in it therewas religious fervour; it appealed strongly even to me. I saw some youngfellows rise and join the procession; perhaps three or four. There werenow less than twelve seated. The preacher spoke to us personally; heinsisted on the passing minutes of the dying year. And still the singerspassed us. Some leant over and called to us. Our bitter band lessenedone by one. 

Then from the procession came these girl acolytes, and, dividingthemselves, they appealed to us and prayed. They were not beautifulperhaps, but they were women. We outcasts of the prairie and the campfire and the streets had been greatly divorced from feminine sweetinfluences, and these succeeded where speech and prayer and song hadfailed. As one spoke to me I saw hard resolution wither in many. Whatwoman had spoken kindly to them in this hard land since they left theireastern homes? Why should they pain them? And as they joined the singingband of believers the girls came to those of us who still stayed, anddoubled and redoubled their entreaties. That it was not what they said, but those who said it, massing influences and suggestion, showed itselfwhen he who had been stubborn to one yielded with moist eyes to two. Andthree overcame him who had mutely resisted less. 

They knew their strength, and spoke softly with the voice of lovingwomen. And not a soul had spoken to me so in my far and weary songlesspassage from the Atlantic States to the Pacific Coast. Long-repressedemotions rose in me as the hair of one brushed my cheek, as the hand ofanother lay upon my shoulder and mutely bade me rise; as another calledme, as another beckoned. I looked round like a half-fascinated beast, and I caught the eye again of the man on my left. He and I were the onlyones left sitting there. All the rest had risen and were singing withthe singers. 

In his eye, I doubt not, I saw what he saw in mine. A look ofencouragement, a demand for it, doubt, an emotional struggle, anddeeper than all a queer bitter amusement, that said plainly, "If youfail me, I fall, but I would rather not play the hypocrite in these hardtimes. " We nodded rather mentally than actually, and were encouraged, Iknew if I yielded I was yielding to something founded essentially onsex, and for my honesty's sake I would not fail. 

"My child, it is no use, " I said to her who spoke to me, and, strugglingwith myself, I put her hand from me. But still they moved past and sang, and the girls would not leave me till the first stroke of midnightsounded from the clock upon the wall. They then went one by one andjoined the band. I turned again to my man, and conscious of my own hardfight, I knew what his had been. We looked at each other, and being men, were half ashamed that another should know we had acted rightlyaccording to our code, and had won a victory over ourselves. 

And now we were truly outcasts, for no one spoke to us again. Thepreacher prayed and we still sat there. But he cast us no word, and theurgent women were good only to their conquered. Perhaps in their soulswas some sense of personal defeat; they had been rejected as women andas angels of the Lord. We two at anyrate sat beyond the reach of theirgraciousness; their eyes were averted or lifted up; we lay in outerdarkness. 

As they began to sing once more we both rose and with a friendly look ateach other went out into the streets of the hostile city. It is easy tounderstand why we did not speak. 

I never saw him again. 

SOME PORTUGUESE SKETCHES

The Portuguese are wholly inoffensive, except when their pride istouched. In politics, or when they hunger after African territory wefancy needed for our own people, they may not seem so. When a rebuffexcites them against the English, Lisbon may not be pleasant forEnglishmen. But in such cases would London commend itself to atriumphant foreigner? For my own part, I found a kind of gentle, unobtrusive politeness even among those Portuguese who knew I wasEnglish when I went to Lisbon on the last occasion of the two nationsquarrelling about a mud flat on the Zambesi. Occasionally, on beingtaken for an American, I did not correct the mistake, for having noquarrel with Americans they sometimes confided to me the bitterness oftheir hearts against the English. I stayed in Lisbon at the HotelUniversal in the Rua Nova da Almeda, a purely Portuguese house whereonly stray Englishmen came. At the _table d'hôte_ one night I had aconversation with a mild-mannered Portuguese which showed the curiousignorance and almost childish vanity of the race. I asked him in Frenchif he spoke English. He did so badly and we mingled the two languagesand at last talked vivaciously. He was an ardent politician and hatedthe English virulently, telling me so with curious circumlocutions. Hewas of opinion, he said, that though the English were unfortunatelypowerful on the sea, on land his nation was a match for us. As for theEnglish in Africa, he declared the Portuguese able to sweep them intothe sea. But though he hated the English, his admiration for QueenVictoria was as unbounded as our own earth-hunger. She was, he told me, entirely on the side of the Portuguese in the sad troubles which Englishpoliticians were then causing. He detailed, as particularly as if he hadbeen present, a strange scene reported to have taken place betweenSoveral, their ambassador, and Lord Salisbury, in which discussion grewheated. It seemed as if they would part in anger. At last Soveral aroseand exclaimed with much dignity: "You must now excuse me, my LordSalisbury, I have to dine with the Queen to-night. " My Lord Salisburystarted, looked incredulous, and said coldly, "You are playing with me. This cannot be. " "Indeed, " said the ambassador, producing a telegramfrom Windsor, "it is as I say. " And then Salisbury turned pale, fellback in his chair, and gasped for breath. "And after that, " said myinformant, "things went well. " Several people at the table listened tothis story and seemed to believe it. With much difficulty I preserved agrave countenance, and congratulated him on the possession of anambassador who was more than a match for our Foreign Minister. Beforethe end of dinner he informed me that the English were as a general rulesavages, while the Portuguese were civilised. Having lived in London heknew this to be so. Finding that he knew the East End of our giganticcity, I found it difficult to contradict him. 

Certainly Lisbon, as far as visible poverty is concerned, is far betterthan London. I saw few very miserable people; beggars were not at allnumerous; in a week I was only asked twice for alms. One constantlyhears that Lisbon is dirty, and as full of foul odours as Coleridge'sCologne. I did not find it so, and the bright sunshine and the finecolour of the houses might well compensate for some draw-backs. Thehouses of this regular town are white, and pale yellow, and fineworn-out pink, with narrow green painted verandahs which soon losecrudeness in the intense light. The windows of the larger blocks arenumerous and set in long regular lines; the streets if narrow run intoopen squares blazing with white unsoiled monuments. All day long theways are full of people who are fairly but unostentatiously polite. Theydo not stare one out of countenance however one may be dressed. InAntwerp a man who objects to being wondered at may not wear a lightsuit. Lisbon is more cosmopolitan. But the beauty of the town of Lisbonis not added to by the beauty of its inhabitants. The women arecuriously the reverse of lovely. Only occasionally I saw a face whichwas attractive by the odd conjuncture of an olive skin and light greyeyes. They do not wear mantillas. The lower classes use a shawl. Thosewho are of the _bourgeois_ class or above it differ little fromLondoners. The working or loafing men, for they laugh and loaf, and workand chaff and chatter at every corner, are more distinct in costume, wearing the flat felt sombrero with turned-up edges that one knows frompictures, while the long coat which has displaced the cloak stillretains a smack of it in the way they disregard the sleeves and hang itfrom their shoulders. These men are decidedly not so ugly as the women, and vary wonderfully in size, colour and complexion, though a bigPortuguese is a rarity. The strong point in both sexes is their naturalgift for wearing colour, for choosing and blending or matching tints. 

These Portuguese men and women work hard when they do not loaf andchatter. The porters, who stand in knots with cords upon theirshoulders, bear huge loads; a characteristic of the place is thisload-bearing and the size of the burdens. Women carry mighty parcelsupon their heads; men great baskets. Fish is carried in spreading flatbaskets by girls. They look afar off like gigantic hats: further still, like quaint odd toadstools in motion. All household furniture removingamong the poor is done by hand. Two or four men load up a kind of flathand-barrow without wheels till it is pyramidal and colossal with piledgear. Then passing poles through the loop of ropes, with a slow effortthey raise it up and advance at a funereal and solemn pace. The slownesswith which they move is pathetic. It is suggestive of a dead burden orof some street accident. But of these latter there must be very few;there is not much vehicular traffic in Lisbon. It is comparatively rareto see anything like cruelty to horses. The mules which draw theprimitive ramshackle trams have the worst time of it, and are obliged topull their load every now and again off one line on to another, beingurged thereto with some brutality. But these trams do not run up thevery hilly parts of the city; the main lines run along the Tagus eastand west of the great Square of the Black Horse. And by the river thecity is flat. 

Only a little way up, in my street for instance, it rapidly becomeshilly. On entering the hotel, to my surprise I went downstairs to mybedroom. On looking out of the window a street was even then sixty feetbelow me. The floor underneath me did not make part of the hotel, butwas a portion of a great building occupied by the poorer people and letout in flats. During the day, as I sat by the window working, the noisewas not intolerable, but at night when the Lisbonensians took to amusingthemselves they roused me from a well-earned sleep. They shouted andsang and made mingled and indistinguishable uproars which rose wildlythrough the narrow deep space and burst into my open window. After longendurance I rose and shut it, preferring heat to insomnia. But in theday, after that discord, I always had the harmonious compensations oftrue colour. Even when the sun shone brilliantly I could not distinguishthe grey blue of the deep shadows, so much blue was in the painted ordistempered outer walls. It was in Lisbon that I first began to discernthe mental effect of colour, and to see that it comes truly and ofnecessity from a people's temperament. Can a busy race be truecolourists?

In some parts of the town--the eastern quarters--one cannot helpnoticing the still remaining influence of the Moors. There are even sometrue relics; but certainly the influence survives in flat-sided houseswith small windows and Moorish ornament high up just under the edge ofthe flat roof. One day, being tired of the more noisy western town, Iwent east and climbed up and up, being alternately in deep shadow andburning sunlight and turned round by a barrack, where some soldiers eyedme as a possible Englishman. I hoped to see the Tagus at last, for herethe houses are not so lofty, and presently, being on very high ground, Icaught a view of it, darkly dotted with steamers, over some flat roofs. Towards the sea it narrows, but above Lisbon it widens out like a lake. On the far side was a white town, beyond that again hills blue withlucid atmosphere. At my feet (I leant against a low wall) was a terracedgarden with a big vine spread on a trellis, making--or promising to makein the later spring--a long shady arbour, for as yet the leaves werescanty and freshly green. Every house was faint blue or varied pink, orworn-out, washed-out, sun-dried green. All the tones were beautiful andmodest, fitting the sun yet not competing with it. In London the colourwould break the level of dull tints and angrily protest, growing scarletand vivid and wrathful. And just as I looked away from the river and thevine-clad terrace there was a scurrying rush of little school-boys froma steep side-street. They ran down the slope, and passed me, goingquickly like black blots on the road, yet their laughter was sunlight onthe ripple of waters. The Portuguese are always children and are notsombre. Only in their graveyards stand solemn cypresses which risedarkly on the hillside where they bury their dead; but in life theylaugh and are merry even after they have children of their own. 

Though little apt to do what is supposed to be a traveller's duty invisiting certain obvious places of interest, I one day hunted for theEnglish cemetery in which Fielding lies buried, and found it at lastjust at the back of a little open park or garden where children wereplaying. On going in I found myself alone save for a gardener who wascutting down some rank grass with a scythe. This cemetery is thequietest and most beautiful I ever saw. One might imagine the dead wereall friends. They are at anyrate strangers in a far land, an Englishparty with one great man among them. I found his tomb easily, for it ismade of massive blocks of stone. Having brought from home his little_Voyage to Lisbon_, written just before he died, I took it out, sat downon the stone, and read a page or two. He says farewell at the very end. As I sat, the strange and melancholy suggestion of the dead man speakingout of that great kind heart of his, now dust, the strong contrastbetween the brilliant sunlight and the heavy sombreness of the cypressesof death, the song of spring birds and the sound of children's voices, were strangely pathetic. I rose up and paced that little deadman'sground which was still and quiet. And on another grave I read but aname, the name of some woman "Eleanor. " After life, and work, and love, this is the end. Yet we do remember Fielding. 

On the following day I went to Cintra out of sheer _ennui_, for myinability to talk Portuguese made me silent and solitary perforce. Andat Cintra I evaded my obvious duty, and only looked at the lofty rock onwhich the Moorish castle stands. For one thing the hill was swathed inmists, it rained at intervals, a kind of bitter _tramontana_ wasblowing. And after running the gauntlet of a crowd of vociferousdonkey-boys I was anxious to get out of the town. I made acquaintancewith a friendly Cintran dog and went for a walk. My companion did notobject to my nationality or my inability to express myself in fluentPortuguese, and amused himself by tearing the leaves of the Australiangum-trees, which flourish very well in Portugal. But at last, in colddisgust at the uncharitable puritanic weather which destroyed all beautyin the landscape, I returned to the town. Here I passed the prison. Onspying me the prisoners crowded to the barred windows; those on thelower floor protruded their hands, those on the upper storey sent down abasket by a long string; I emptied my pockets of their coppers. Itseemed not unlike giving nuts to our human cousins at the Zoo. SurelyDarwin is the prince of pedigree-makers. Before him the darings of thebravest herald never went beyond Adam. He has opened great possibilitiesto the College dealing with inherited dignity of ancient fame. 

This Cintra is a town on a hill and in a hole, a kind of half-funnelopening on a long plain which is dotted by small villages and farms. Ifthe donkey-boys were extirpated it might be fine on a fine day. 

Returning to the station, I ensconced myself in a carriage out of theway of the cutting wind, and talked fluent bad French with a kindly oldPortuguese who looked like a Quaker. Two others came in and entered intoa lively conversation in which Charing Cross and London Bridge occurredat intervals. It took an hour and a quarter to do the fifteen mitesbetween Cintra and Lisbon. I was told it was considered by no means avery slow train. Travelling in Portugal may do something to reconcileone to the trains in the south-east of England. 

The last place I visited in Lisbon was the market. Outside, the glare ofthe hot sun was nearly blinding. Just in that neighbourhood all the mainbuildings are purely white, even the shadows make one's eyes ache. Inthe open spaces of the squares even brilliantly-clad women seemed blackagainst white. Inside, in a half-shade under glass, a dense crowd movedand chattered and stirred to and fro. The women wore all the colours offlowers and fruit, but chiefly orange. And on the stone floor great flatbaskets of oranges, each with a leaf of green attached to it, shone likepure gold. Then there were red apples, and red handkerchiefs twistedover dark hair. Milder looking in tint was the pale Japanese apple withan artistic refinement of paler colour. The crowd, the good humour, thenoise, even the odour, which was not so offensive as in our EnglishCovent Garden, made a striking and brilliant impression. Returning tothe hotel, I was met by a scarlet procession of priests and acolytes whobore the Host. The passers-by mostly bared their heads. Perhaps but alittle while ago every one might have been worldly wise to follow theirexample, for the Inquisition lasted till 1808 in Spain. 

In the afternoon of that day I went on board the _Dunottar Castle_, andin the evening sailed for Madeira. 

A week's odd moments of study and enforced intercourse with waiters andmale chambermaids, whose French was even more primitive than my own, had taught me a little Portuguese, that curious, unbeautiful soundingtongue, and I found it useful even on board the steamer. At anyrate Iwas able to interpret for a Funchal lawyer who sat by me at table, andafterwards invited me to see him. This smattering of Portuguese I foundmore useful still in Madeira, or at Funchal--its capital--for I stayedin native hotels. It is the only possible way of learning anything aboutthe people in a short visit. Moreover, the English hotels are full ofinvalids. It is curious to note the present prevalence of consumptionamong the natives of Funchal. It is a good enough proof on the firstface of it that consumption is catching. There is a large hospital herefor Portuguese patients, though the disease was unknown before theEnglish made a health resort of it. 

Funchal has been a thousand times described, and is well worthy of it. Lying as it does in a long curve with the whole town visible from thesea, as the houses grow fewer and fewer upon the slopes of the loftymountain background, it is curiously theatrical and scenic in effect. Itis artistically arranged, well-placed; a brilliant jewel in a dark-greensetting, and the sea is amethyst and turquoise. 

I stayed in an hotel whose proprietor was an ardent Republican. Oneevening he mentioned the fact in broken English, and I told him that intheory I also was of that creed. He grew tremendously excited, opened abottle of Madeira, shared it with me and two Portuguese, and insisted onsinging the Marseillaise until a crowd collected in front of the house, whose open windows looked on an irregular square. Then he and hisfriends shouted "Viva la partida dos Republicanos!" The charges at thishotel were ridiculously small--only three and fourpence a day for boardand lodging. And it was by no means bad; at anyrate it was alwayspossible to get fruit, including loquats, strawberries, custard apples, bananas, oranges, and the passion-flower fruit, which is not enticing ona first acquaintance, and resembles an anæmic pomegranate. Eggs, too, were twenty-eight for tenpence; fish was at nominal prices. 

But there is nothing to do in Funchal save eat and swim or ride. Theclimate is enervating, and when the east wind blows from the Africancoast it is impossible to move save in the most spiritless and languidway. It may make an invalid comparatively strong, but I am sure it mightreduce a strong man to a state of confirmed laziness little removedfrom actual illness. I was glad one day to get horses, in company withan acquaintance, and ride over the mountains to Fayal, on the north sideof the island. And it was curious to see the obstinate incredulity ofthe natives when we declared we meant going there and back in one day. The double journey was only a little over twenty-six miles, yet it wasdeclared impossible. Our landlord drew ghastly pictures of the state weshould be in, declaring we did not know what we were doing; he called inhis wife, who lifted up her hands against our rashness and crossedherself piously when we were unmoved; he summoned the owner of thehorses, who said the thing could not be done. But my friend was not tobe persuaded, declaring that Englishmen could do anything, and that hewould show them. He explained that we were both very much more thanadmirable horsemen, and only minimised his own feats in the colonies bykindly exaggerating mine in America, and finally it was settled gravelythat we were to be at liberty to kill ourselves and ruin the horses fora lump sum of two pounds ten, provided we found food and wine for thetwo men who were to be our guides. In the morning, at six o'clock, weset out in a heavy shower of rain. Before we had gone up the hill athousand feet we were wet through, but a thousand more brought us intobright sunlight. Below lay Funchal, underneath a white sheet ofrain-cloud; the sea beyond it was darkened here and there; it was atfirst difficult to distinguish the outlying Deserta Islands from sombrefogbanks. But as we still went up and up the day brightened more andmore, and when Funchal was behind and under the first hills the seabegan to glow and glitter. Here and there it shone like watered silk. The Desertas showed plainly as rocky masses; a distant steamer trailed athin ribbon of smoke above the water. Close at hand a few sheep andgoats ran from us; now and again a horse or two stared solemnly at us;and we all grew cheerful and laughed. For the air was keen and bracing;we were on the plateau, nearly four thousand feet above the sea, and ina climate quite other than that which choked the distant low-lying town. Then we began to go down. 

All the main roads of the Ilha da Madeira are paved with close-setkidney pebbles, to save them from being washed out and destroyed by thesudden violent semi-tropical rains. Even on this mountain it was so, and our horses, with their rough-shod feet, rattled down the passwithout faltering. The road zigzagged after the manner of mountainroads. When we reached the bottom of a deep ravine it seemed impossiblethat we could have got there, and getting out seemed equally impossible. The slopes of the hills were often fifty degrees. Everywhere was a thickgrowth of brush and trees. At times the road ran almost dangerouslyclose to a precipice. But at last, about eleven o'clock, we began to getout of the thick entanglement of mountains and in the distance could seethe ocean on the north side of the island. "Fayal is there, " said ourguide, pointing, as it seemed, but a little way off. Yet it took twohours' hard riding to reach it. Our path lay at first along the back ofa great spur of the main mountain; it narrowed till there was aprecipice on either side--on the right hand some seven or eight hundredfeet, on the left more than a thousand. I had not looked down the likesince I crossed the Jackass Mountain on the Fraser River in BritishColumbia. Underneath us were villages--scattered huts, built likebee-hives. The piece of level ground beneath was dotted with them. Theplace looked like some gigantic apiary. The dots of people seemedlittle larger than bees. And soon we came to the same stack-like housesclose to our path. It was Sunday, and these village folks were dressedin their best clothes. They were curiously respectful, for were we not_gente de gravate_--people who wore cravats--gentlemen, in a word? Sothey rose up and uncovered. We saluted them in passing. It was aprimitive sight. As we came where the huts were thicker, small crowdscame to see us. Now on the right hand we saw a ridge with pines on it, suggesting, from the shape of the hill, a bristly boar's back; on theleft the valley widened; in front loomed up a gigantic mass of rock, "The Eagle's Cliff, " in shape like Gibraltar. It was 1900 feet high, andeven yet it was far below us. But now the path pitched suddenlydownwards; there were no paving-pebbles here, only the native hummocksof rock and the harder clay not yet washed away. The road was like atorrent-bed, for indeed it was a torrent when it rained; but still ourhorses were absolute in faith and stumbled not. And the Eagle's Cliffgrew bigger and bigger still as we plunged down the last of the spur toa river then scanty of stream, and we were on the flat again not farfrom the sea. But to reach Fayal it was necessary to climb again, turning to the left. 

Here we found a path which, with all my experience of Western Americamountain travel, seemed very hard to beat in point of rockiness andsteepness. We had to lead our horses and climb most carefully. But whena quarter of a mile had been done in this way it was possible to mountagain, and we were close to Fayal. I had thought all the time that itwas a small town, but it appeared to be no more than the scattered hutswe had passed, or those we had noted from the lofty spur. Our objectivewas a certain house belonging to a Portuguese landowner who occupied theposition of an English squire in the olden days. Both my friend and Ihad met him several times in Funchal, and, by the aid of an interpreter, had carried on a conversation. But my Portuguese was dinner-table talkof the purely necessary order, and my companion's was more exiguous thanmy own. So we decided to camp before reaching his house, and eat ourlunch undisturbed by the trouble of being polite without words. We toldour guide this, and as he was supposed to understand English we took itfor granted that he did so when we ordered him to pick some spot tocamp a good way from the landowner's house. But in spite of ourlaborious explanations he took us on to the very estate, and plumped usdown not fifty yards from the house. As we were ignorant of the factthat this was the house, we sent the boy there for hot water to makecoffee, and then to our horror we saw the very man whom we just thenwanted to avoid. We all talked together and gesticulated violently. Itried French vainly; my little Portuguese grew less and less, anddisappeared from my tongue; and then in despair we hailed the cause ofthe whole misfortune, and commanded him to explain. What he explained Iknow not, but finally our friend seemed less hurt than he had been, andhe returned to his house on our promising to go there as soon as ourlunch was finished. 

The whole feeling of this scene--of this incident, of the place, themountains, the primitive people--was so curious that it was difficult tothink we were only four days from England. Though the people were gentleand kind and polite, they seemed no more civilised, from our point ofview, than many Indians I have seen. Indeed, there are Indiancommunities in America which are far ahead of them in culture. I seemedonce more in a wild country. But our host (for, being on his ground, wewere his guests) was most amiable and polite. It certainly was ratherirksome to sit solemnly in his best room and stare at each other withouta word. Below the open window stood our guide, so when it becameabsolutely necessary for me to make our friend understand, or for me todie of suppression of urgent speech, I called to João and bade himinterpret. We were silent again until wine was brought. Then hisdaughter, almost the only beautiful Portuguese or Madeiran girl I eversaw, came in. We were introduced, and, in default of the correct thingin her native language, I informed her, in a polite Spanish phrase Ihappened to recollect, that I was at her feet. Then, as I knew herbrother in Funchal, I called for the interpreter and told her so as aninteresting piece of information. She gave me a rose, and, looking outof the window, she taught me the correct Portuguese for Eagle'sCliff--"Penha d'aguila. " We were quite friends. 

It was then time for us to return if we meant to keep to our word and dothe double journey in one day. But a vociferous expostulation came fromour host. He talked fast, waved his hands, shook his head, and wasevidently bent on keeping us all night. We again called in theinterpreter, explaining that our reputation as Englishmen, as horsemen, as men, rested on our getting back to Funchal that night, and, seeingthe point as a man of honour, he most regretfully gave way, and, havinghis own horse saddled, accompanied us some miles on the road. We rode upanother spur, and came to a kind of wayside hut where three or fourpaths joined. Here was congregated a brightly-clad crowd of nearly ahundred men, women and children. They rose and saluted us; we turned andtook off our hats. I noticed particularly that this man who owned somuch land and was such a magnate there did the same. I fancied thatthese people had gathered there as much to see us pass as for Sundaychatter. For English travellers on the north side of the island are notvery common, and I daresay we were something in the nature of an event. Turning at this point to the left, we plunged sharply downwards towardsa bridge over a torrent, and here parted from our land-owning friend. Webegan to climb an impossible-looking hill, which my horse stronglyobjected to. On being urged he tried to back off the road, and I hadsome difficulty in persuading him that he could not kill me withoutkilling himself. But a slower pace reconciled him to the road, and as Iwas in no great hurry I allowed him to choose his own. Certainly theanimals had had a hard day of it even so far, and we had much to dobefore night. We were all of us glad to reach the Divide and stay for awhile at the Poizo, or Government rest-house, which was about half-way. One gets tolerable Madeira there. 

It was eight or half-past when we came down into Funchal under a moonwhich seemed to cast as strongly-marked shadows as the very sun itself. The rain of the morning had long ago passed away, and the air waswarm--indeed, almost close--after the last part of the ride on theplateau, which began at night-time to grow dim with ragged wreaths ofmist. Our horses were so glad to accomplish the journey that theytrotted down the steep stony streets, which rang loudly to their ironhoofs. When we stopped at the stable I think I was almost as glad asthey; for, after all, even to an Englishman with his country'sreputation to support, twelve or thirteen hours in the saddle aresomewhat tiring. And though I was much pleased to have seen more of theIlha da Madeira than most visitors, I remembered that I had not been onhorseback for nearly five years. 

A PONDICHERRY BOY

When I first went out to the Australian colonies in 1876 in the_Hydrabad_, a big sailing ship registered as belonging to Bombay, I hada very curious time of it, take it altogether. It was my first realexperience of the outside world, and the hundred and two days the_Hydrabad_ took from Liverpool to Melbourne made a very valuable pieceof schooling for a greenhorn. I was a steerage passenger, and thesteerage of a sailing vessel twenty-five years ago was something to seeand smell. Perhaps it is no better now, but then it was certainly verybad. The food was poor, the quarters dirty, the accommodation far toolimited to swing even the traditional cat in, and my companions were forthe most part Irishmen of the lowest and poorest peasant class. In thesedays I was quite fresh from home and was rather particular in my tastes. Some of that has been knocked out of me since. A great deal of it wasknocked out of me in that passage. 

Yet it was, take it altogether, an astonishingly fertile trip for ayoung and green lad who was not yet nineteen. The _Hydrabad_ usuallymade a kind of triangular voyage. She took emigrants and a general cargoto Melbourne, loaded horses there for Australia, and came back toEngland once more with anything going in the shape of cargo to be pickedup in the Hooghly. She carried a Calashee crew, that is, a crew of mixedOrientals, and among them were native Hindoos, Klings, Malays, Sidi-boys. In those days I had not been in the United States and had notyet imbibed any great contempt for coloured people. They were on thewhole infinitely more interesting than the Irish. I knew nothing of theworld, nothing of the Orient, and here was an Oriental microcosm. Theold serang, or bo'sun, was a gnarled and knotted and withered Malay, whotook rather a fancy to me. Sometimes I sat in his berth and smoked apipe with him. At other times I deciphered the wooden tallies for thesails in the sail-locker, for though he talked something which hebelieved to be English, he could not read a word, even in thePersi-Arabic character. The cooks, or _bandaddies_, were also friendsof mine, and more than once they supplemented the intolerably meagresteerage fare by giving me something good to eat. I soon knew every manin the crew, and could call each by his name. Sometimes I went on thelookout with one of them, and one particular Malay was very keen onteaching me his language. So far as I remember the languages talked bythe crew included Malay, Hindustani, Tamil and, oddly enough, French. That language was of course spoken by someone who came from Pondicherry, that small piece of country which, with Chandernagor, represents theFrench-Indian Empire of Du Plessis's time. I had learnt a littleHindustani and Malay, and could understand all the usual names of thesails and gear before I discovered that there was someone on board whosenative tongue was French, or who, at anyrate, could talk it fluentlyenough. We were far to the south of the Line before I found this out. For, of course, among his fellows the boy from Pondicherry spokeHindustani mixed with Malay and perhaps with Tamil. I well remember howI made the discovery. It was odd enough to me, but far stranger, farmore wonderful, far more full of mystery to my little, excitable andvery dark-skinned friend. I daresay, if he lives, that to this hour heremembers the English boy who so surprised him. 

The weather was intensely hot and I had climbed for a little air intoone of the boats lying in the skids. The shadow of the main-topsailscreened me from the sun; there was just enough wind to keep the canvasdoing its work in silence. It was Sunday and the whole ship wascuriously quiet. But as I lay in my little shelter I was presentlydisturbed by Pondicherry (that was what he was called by everyone), whocame where I was to fetch away a plate full of some occult mystery whichhe had secreted there. He nodded to me brightly, and then for the firsttime it occurred to me that if he came from his nameplace he might knowa little French. I knew remarkably little myself; I could read it withdifficulty. My colloquial French was then, as now, intensely andintolerably English. I said, "_Bon jour_, Pondicherry!"

The result was astounding. He turned to me with an awe-stricken look, ashe dropped his tin plate with its precious burden, and holding out bothhands as though to embrace a fellow countryman, he exclaimed inFrench, --

"What--what, do _you_ come from Pondicherry?"

For a moment or two I did not follow his meaning. I did not see whatFrench meant to him; I could not tell that it represented his littlefatherland. I had imagined he knew it was a foreign tongue. But it wasnot foreign to him. 

"No, " I said, "I am an Englishman. "

He sat down on a thwart and stared at me as if I was some strangemiracle. His next words let me into the heart of his mystery. 

"It is _not_ possible. You _speak_ Pondicherry!"

He did not even know that he was speaking French, the language of agreat Western nation. He could not know that I was doing my feeble bestto speak the language of a great literature; the language of Voltaire, of Victor Hugo, of diplomacy. No, he and I were speaking Pondicherry, the language of a derelict corner of mighty Hindustan. Now he eyed mewith suspicion. 

"When were you there?" he demanded in a whisper. 

If I was not Pondicherry born I must at least have lived there in orderto have learnt the language. 

"Pondy, I was never there, " I answered. 

He evidently did not believe me. I had some mysterious reason forconcealing that I was either Pondicherry born or that I had residedthere. 

"Then you didn't know it?"

"No. "

"And you have not been in Villianur?"

"No. "

"Or Bahur?"

I shook my head. He shook his and stared at me suspiciously. Perhaps Ihad committed some crime there. 

"Then how did you learn it?"

"I learnt it in England. "

That I was undoubtedly speaking the unhappy truth would have beenobvious to any Frenchman. But to Pondicherry what I said was soobviously a gross and almost foolish piece of fiction that he shook hishead disdainfully. And yet why should I lie? He spoke so rapidly that Icould not follow him. 

"If you speak so fast I cannot understand, " I said. 

"Ah, then, " he replied hopefully, "it is a long time since you werethere. Perhaps you were very young then?"

I once more insisted that I had never been at Pondicherry, or even inany part of India. All I said convinced him the more that I was notspeaking the truth. 

"You speak Hindustani with the _bandaddy_. "

It is true I had learnt a dozen phrases and had once or twice used them. To say I had learnt them in the ship was useless. 

"Oh, no, you have been in India. Why will you not tell me the truth, sahib? I am the only one from Pondicherry but you. "

He spoke mournfully. I was denying my own fatherland, denying help andcomradeship to my own countryman! It was, thought Pondicherry, cruel, unkind, unpatriotic. He gathered up the mess he had spilt and descendedsorrowfully to the main deck to discuss me with his friends among thecrew. As I heard afterwards from the wrinkled old serang, there weremany arguments started in the fo'castle as to my place of origin. It wassaid, by those who took sides against Pondicherry, that even if I knew"Pondicherry" (and for that they only had his word), I also undoubtedlyknew English. And when did any of the white rulers of Pondicherry knowthat tongue? Some of the Lascars who had been on the Madras coast incountry boats swore that no one spoke English there. On the whole, as Icame from England and knew English it was more likely that I was what Isaid than that I came from Pondicherry. But even so all agreed it was amystery that I could speak it. The serang came to me quietly. 

"Say, Robat, you tell me. You come Pondicherry?"

"No, serang, " said "Robat. "

"But you speak Pondicherry the boy say, Robat?"

"Yes, I speak it, serang. Many English people speak it a little. Veryeasy for English people learn a little, just the same as we learn _jeldyjow, toom sooar_. "

And as the serang was well acquainted with the capabilities of Englishofficers with regard to abusive language, he went away convinced that"Pondicherry" and "Hindustani" insults were perhaps taught in Englishschools after all. 

In spite of my refusing to take Pondicherry into my confidence heremained on friendly, if suspicious, terms with me. When I said a wordor two of French to him he beamed all over, and turned to the others asmuch as to say, "Didn't I tell you he came from my country?" Fornothing that I and the serang or his friends said convinced him, or evenshook his opinion. He used to sneak up to me occasionally as he workedabout the decks and spring a question on me about someone atPondicherry. Of course I had heard of no one there. But my ignorance waswholly put on; he was sure of that. Often and often I caught his eyes onme, and I knew his mind was pondering theories to account for myconduct. It was all very well for me or anyone else to say thatPondicherry was talked elsewhere than in his own home. He had travelled, he had been in Australia, in England, in many parts of the East, and hehad never, never met anyone but himself and myself who knew it! I thinkhe would have given me a month's pay if I would have only owned up tohaving been at Pondicherry. He certainly offered me an ample plateful ofcurried shark, a part of one we had caught days before, if I would befrank about the matter; but even my desire to obtain possession of thatsmell and drop it overboard did not tempt me to a white lie. I persistedin remaining an Englishman through the whole passage of one hundred andtwo days. And then at last, after good times and bad, after calms onthe Line and no small hurricane south of stormy Cape Leuuwin, we came upwith Cape Otway and entered the Heads. Pondicherry's time for solvingthe mystery grew short. In another few hours the passengers would goashore and be never seen again. For my own part, though the passage hadbeen one of pure discomfort, I was almost sorry to leave the old ship. Ihad to quit a number of friends, black and white, and had to face a newand perhaps unfriendly world. Though the _Hydrabad_ half-starved me Iwas at anyrate sure of water and biscuit. And many of the poor Lascarshad been chums to me. As I made preparations to leave the vessel andstood on deck waiting, I saw Pondicherry sneaking about in thebackground. I said farewell to his old serang, and the Malayquartermasters, who were all fine men, and to some of the meaner outcastKlings, and then Pondicherry darted up to me. I knew quite well what wasin his mind. It was in his very eyes. I was now going, and should beseen no more. Perhaps at the last I might be induced to speak the truth. And even if I did not own up bravely, it was at anyrate necessary to bidfarewell to a countryman, though he denied his own country. He cameclose to me in the crowd and touched my sleeve appealingly. 

"What is it, Pondy?"

"Oh, sahib, you tell me _now_ where you learn Pondicherry?"

"Pondy, I told you the truth long ago, " I answered. 

"Sahib, it is not possible. "

He turned away, and I went on board the tug which served us as a tender. Presently I saw him lean over the rail and wave his hand. When he sawthat I noticed him he called out in French once more, with angry, scornful reproach, --

"If you were not there, how, _how_ can you speak it?"

A GRADUATE BEYOND SEAS

The travel-micrococcus infected me early. Before I can remember Itravelled in England, and, when my memory begins, a stay of two years inany town made me weary. My brothers and sisters and I would then inquirewhat time the authorities meant to send my father elsewhere, and we wereaccustomed to denounce any delay on the part of a certain Governmentdepartment in giving us "the route. " Such a youth was gipsying, and ifany original fever of the blood led to wandering, such a trainingheightened the tendency. To this day even, after painful and laborioustravel, Fate cannot persuade me that my stakes should not be pulled upat intervals. I understand "trek fever, " which, after all, is onlyEldorado hunting. With the settler unsatisfied a belief in immortalitytakes its place. 

In the ferment of youth and childhood, which now threatens to quietdown, my feet stayed in many English towns and villages, fromBarnstaple to Carlisle, from Bedford to Manchester, and I hated them allwith fervour, only mitigating my wrath by great reading. I could onlyread at eight years of age, but from that time until eleven I read amingled and most preposterous mass of literature and illiterature. Itwas a substitute for travel, and, in my case, not a substitute only, buta provoker. Reading is mostly dram-drinking, mostly drugging; it throwsa veil over realities. With the child I knew best it urged him on andinfected me with world-hunger and roused activities. To be sure theElder Brethren, who are youth's first gaolers, nearly made me believe, by dint of repetition (they, themselves, probably believing it by now), that books and knowledge, which are acquired for, with, by and throughexaminations, were, of themselves, noble and admirable, and that anadequate acquaintance with them (provided such acquaintance could beproved adequate to Her Majesty's Commissioners of the Civil Service)would inevitably make a man of me. For the opinion is rooted deep inmany minds that to surrender one's wings, to clip one's claws, to put acork in one's raptorial beak, and masquerade in a commercial barnyard, is to be a very fine fowl indeed. 

Some spirit of revolt saved the child (now a boy, I guess) from being aCivil Cochin China, and sent him to Australia. The ship in which Isailed for Melbourne was my first introduction to outside realities, toworld realities as distinct from the preliminary brutalities of school, and it opened my eyes--indeed, gave me eyes instead of the substitutesfor vision favoured by the Elder Brethren, who may be taken to includeschoolmasters, professors, and good parents. How any child surviveswithout losing his eyesight altogether is now a marvel to me. Certainly, very few retain more than a dim vision, which permits them to wallowamongst imitations (such as a last year's Chippendale morality) andimagine themselves well furnished. My new university (after OwensCollege an admirable hot-bed for some products under glass) was the_Hydrabad_, 1600 tons burden, with a mixed mass of passengers, mostlyblackguards in the act of leaving England to allow things to blow over, and a Lascar crew, Hindoos, Seedee boys and Malays. The professors atthis notable college were many, and all were fit for their unendowedchairs. They taught mostly, and in varying ways, the art of seeingthings as they are, and if some saw things as they were not, that is, double, the object lesson was eminently useful to the amazed scholar. Some of them pronounced me green, and I was green. 

But a four months' session and procession through the latitudes andlongitudes brought me to Australia in a less obviously green condition. I had learnt the one big lesson that too few learn. I had to depend onmyself. And Australia said, "You know nothing and must work. " Had I notsat with Malays, and collogued with negroes, and eaten ancient sharkwith Hindoos? I was afraid of the big land where I could reckon on nobiscuit tub always at hand, but these were men who had faced othercontinents and other seas. I could face realities, too, or I could try. 

It is the unnecessary work that gets the glory mostly, especially in afat time of peace, but some day the scales will be held more level. Ashearer of sheep will be held more honourable than a shearer of men; andhe who shirks the world's right labour will rank with the unrankedlowest. The music-hall and theatre and unjustified fiction will have hadtheir day. The little man with a little gift, that should be no morethan an evening's joke or pleasure after real work, will exist no more. But we live under the rule of Rabesqurat, Queen of Illusion. 

The Australian bush university, with the sun, moon and stars in the highplaces, and labour, hunger and thirst holding prominent lecturerships, helped to educate me. The proof of that education was that I know nowthat a big bit of my true life's work was done there. The preparationturned out to be the work itself. One does necessary things there, andthey are done without glory and often without present satisfaction, except the satisfaction given to toil. What does the world want and musthave? If all the theatres were put down and all the actors sent touseful work, things would be better instead of worse. If all themusic-halls became drill-halls it would add to the world's health. Ifmost of the writers concluded justly that they were in no way necessaryor useful, some healthy man might be added to the list of workers andsome unhealthy ones would find themselves better or very justly dead. But the sheep and cattle have to be attended to, and ships must besailed, and bridges must be built. Hunger and thirst, and all theeducational unrighteousness of the elements must be met, fought, out-marched or out-manoeuvred. I went to school in the Murray Ranges, and carried salt to fluky sheep. Even if this present screed stirred medoubly to action, the salt-carrying was better. The sun and moon andstars overhead, and the big grey or brown plain beneath were for everinstilling knowledge that a city knows not. A city's soot kills elms, they say; only plane trees, self-scaling and self-cleaning, live andgrow and survive. I think man is more like the elm; he cannot cleanhimself in a city. 

It has often been a question for me to solve, now youth exists no more, except in memory, whether this present method of keeping even with one'sown needs and the world's has any justification. If it has, it lies inthe fact that my real work was mostly done before I knew it. When energyexists devoid of self-consciousness (for self-consciousness is thebeginning of death) the individual fulfils himself naturally, obeyingthe mandate within him. So in Australia, and at sea, or in America, lieswhat I sometimes call the justification of my writing to amuse myself ora few others. 

For America was my second great university, and though I lack anylearned degree earned by examinations, and may put no letters after myname, I maintain I passed creditably, if without honours, in the hardestschools of the world. About a young man's first freedom still hangs someillusion. With apparently impregnable health and unsubdued spirits, hehas the illusion of present immortality; life is a world without end. But when youth begins to sober and health shows cracks and gaps, andhard labour comes, then the realities, indeed, crawl out and showthemselves. My early work in New South Wales seemed to me then likesport. America was real life; it was for ever putting the stiffestquestions to me. I can imagine an examination paper which might appalmany fat graduates. 

1. Describe from experience the sensations of hunger when prolonged overthree days. 

2. Explain the differences in living in New York, Chicago and SanFrancisco on a dollar a week. In such cases, how would you spend tencents if you found it in the street at three o'clock in the morning?

3. How long would it be in your own case before want of food destroyedyour sense of private property? Give examples from your own experience. 

4. How far can you walk without food--(_a_) when you are trying toreach a definite point; (_b_) when you are walking with an insane viewof getting to some place unknown where a good job awaits you?

5. If, after a period (say three weeks) of moderate starvation, and twodays of absolute starvation, you are offered some work, which would beconsidered laborious by the most energetic coal-heaver, would you tackleit without food or risk the loss of the job by requesting your employerto advance you 15 cents for breakfast?

6. Can you admire mountain scenery--(_a_) when you are very hungry;(_b_) when you are very thirsty? If you have any knowledge of theascetic ecstasy, describe the symptoms. 

7. You are in South-west Texas without money and without friends. Howwould you get to Chicago in a fortnight? What is the usual procedurewhen a town objects to impecunious tramps staying around more thantwenty-four hours? Can you describe a "calaboose"?

8. Sketch an American policeman. Is he equally polite to a railroadmagnate and a tramp? What do you understand by "fanning with a club"?

9. Which are the best as a whole diet--apples or water-melons?

10. Define "tramp, " "bummer, " "heeler, " "hoodlum, " and "politician. "

This is a paper put together very casually, and just as the pen runs, but the man who can pass such an examination creditably must know manythings not revealed to the babes and sucklings of civilisation. From myown point of view I think the questions fairly easy, a merematriculation paper. 

When the Queen of Illusion illudes no more youth is over. I am ready toadmit Illusion still reigned when I took to writing for a living. Thefirst illusion was that I was not doing it for a living (it is true Idid not make one) but because the arts were rather noble than otherwiseand extremely needed. I admit now that they are necessary, in the senseof the necessarian, but I can see little use for them, unless theproduction of Illusion (with few or many gaps in it) is needed for theworld's progress. The laudation of the artist, the writer, and the actorreturns anew with the end of the world's great year. But if any goldenage comes back, the setting apart of the Amusement Monger will cease. Ifit does not cease, their antics will be the warnings of the intoxicatedHelot. 

Yet without illusion one cannot write. Or so it seems to me. Is thiswriting period only another university after all? Perhaps teaching neverends, though the art of learning what is taught seems very rare. Towrite and "get there" in the meanest sense, so far as money isconcerned, is the overcoming of innumerable obstacles. London taught mea great deal that I could not learn in Australia, or on the sea, or inany Texas, or British Columbia. But I came to London with scaled eyes, and tasted other poverty than that I knew. Illusion is mostlyforeshortening of time. One wants to prophesy and to see. The chieflesson here is that prophets must be blind. The end of the race is theracing thereof after all. To do a little useful work (even though theuseful may be a thousandth part of the useless) is the end of living. The only illusion worth keeping is that anything can be useful. So farmy youth is not ended. 

MY FRIEND EL TORO

It is not everyone who can make friends with a bull, and it is not everybull that one can make friends with. Yet next to one or two horses, about which I could spin long yarns, El Toro, the big brindled bull ofLos Guilucos Ranch, Sonoma County, California, is certainly nearest myheart. He was my friend, and sometimes my companion; he had a noblecharacter for fighting, and in spite of his pugnacity he was amiabilityitself to most human beings. His final end, too, fills me with a senseof pathos, and enrages me against those who owned him. They wereobviously incapable of understanding him as I did. 

When I went up to Los Guilucos from San Francisco to take up theposition of stableman on that ranche, I had little notion of the fullextent of my duties. What these were is perhaps irrelevant in thepresent connection. And yet it was because I had to work so incrediblyhard, being often at it from six in the morning to eight or nineo'clock at night, that I made particular friends with El Toro, to givehim his Spanish name. In all that western and south-western part of theUnited States there are remnants of Spanish or Mexican in the commontalk. For California was once part of Mexico. El Toro became my friendand my refuge: when I was driven half-desperate by having ten importantthings to do at once he often came in and helped me to preserve an equalmind. I have little doubt that I should have discovered how to work thisby myself, but as a matter of fact I was put up to some of his uses bythe man whose place I took. He showed me all I had to do, and lecturedme on the character of the hard-working lady who owned the place; andwhen I was dazed and stood wondering how one man could do all thestableman was supposed to accomplish between sunrise and sundown, Jacksaid, "And besides all this there is a bull!" He said it so oddly and sosignificantly that my heart sank. I imagined a very fierce and ferociousanimal fit for a Spanish bull-ring, a sharp-horned Murcian good enoughto try the nerve of the best matador who ever faced horns and a viciouscharge. Then he took me round the barn and opened a stable. In it ElToro was tied to a manger by a rope and ring through his nose: hegreeted us with a strangled whistle as he still lay down. "When you arehard driven good old El Toro will help you, " said Jack, as he sat downon the bull's big shoulders and started to scratch his curl with alittle piece of wood which had a blunt nail in it. As I stood El Torochewed the cud and was obviously delighted at having his curl combed. 

The departing Jack delivered me another lecture on the uses of a mildand amiable but fighting bull on a ranche where a man was likely to beworried to death by a lady who had no notion of how much a man ought todo in a day. When he had finished he invited me to make friends with ElToro by also sitting on his back and scratching him with the blunt nail. I did as I was told, and though El Toro twisted his huge head round toinspect me he lay otherwise perfectly calm while I went on with histoilet. He evidently felt that I was an amiable character, and one welladapted to act as his own man. His views of me were confirmed when Ibrought him half a bucket of pears from the big orchard. With a partingslap and a sigh of regret which spoke well both for him and the bull, Jack went away to "fix" himself for travel. I was left in charge. 

How hard I worked on that Sonoma County ranch I can hardly say. I hadhorses in the stable and horses outside. The cattle outside were mine. Three hundred sheep I was responsible for. Some young motherless foals Inursed. I milked six cows. I chopped wood. I cleaned buggies. I drovewagons and carriages and cleaned and greased them. Sometimes I stood inthe middle of the great barn-lot or barnyard and tore my hair indesperation. I had so much to attend to that only the strictest methodenabled me to get through it. And, as Jack had told me would happen, mymethod was knocked endways by the requirements of the lady who was my"boss. " What a woman wants done is always the most important thing onearth. She used to ask me to do up her acre of a garden in between timeswhen the sheep wanted water or twenty horses required hay. She wasamiable, kindly, but she never understood. At such times who could blameme if I went to the bull's stable when I saw her coming. Though the bullwas the sweetest character on the ranch, she went in mortal terror ofhim. She would try to find me in the horse stable, but she would notcome near El Toro for her very life. It was better to sit quietly withhim and recover my equanimity while she called. I knew her well enoughto know that in a quarter of an hour something else of the vastestimportance would engage her attention and I should be free to attendmore coolly to my own work. 

Yet sometimes she stuck to my track so closely that there was nothingfor me to do but to turn El Toro loose. Then I could say, "Very well, madam, but in the meantime I must go after the bull. " She knew what thebull being loose meant; he carried devastation wherever he went. He wasthe greatest fighter in the whole county. I had to get my whip and myfastest horse to try and catch him. I can hardly be blamed if I did notcatch him till the evening. For in that way I got a wild kind of holidayon horseback and was saved from insanity. Certainly, when El Toro gotaway on the loose and was looking for other bulls to have a row with Icould think of nothing else. Sometimes he got free by the rope rottingclose up to his ring. In that case he went headlong. If he took the ropewith him he sometimes trod on it and gave himself a nasty check. Usually, however, he got it across his big neck and kept it from fallingto the ground. He never stopped for any gate. When he saw one he gave abellow, charged it and went through the fragments with me after him. IfI was really anxious to get him back at once I usually caught him withina mile. When I wanted a rest I only succeeded in turning him five or sixmiles away, after he had thrashed a bull or two belonging to otherranchers. No fence was any use to keep him out or in. On one occasion hebroke into a barn in which a rash young bull was kept. When the row wasover that barn stood sadly in need of repair: and so did the youngpedigree bull. I may say that on this particular occasion El Toro gotaway entirely by himself, and I only knew he was free when I found thedoor of his stable in splinters. 

There was a magnificent difference between El Toro as I sat on him andscratched him with a nail and as he was when he turned himself loose fora happy day in the country. In the stable he was as mild as milk. Icould have almost imagined him purring like a cat. He chewed the cud andmade homely sloppy noises with his tongue, and regarded me with a calm, bovine gaze, which was as gentle as that of any pet cow's. I could havefallen asleep beside him. It is reported that my predecessor Jack, onone occasion, came home much the worse for liquor and was foundreclining on El Toro. There was not a soul on the ranch who dareddisturb the loving couple. But when the rope was parted and El Toroloped down the road to seek a row as keenly as any Irishman on a fairday, he was another guess sort of an animal. He carried his tail in theair and bellowed wildly to the hills. He threw out challenges to all andsundry. He gave it to be understood that the world and the fatnessthereof were his. This was no mere braggadocio; it was not the misplacedconfidence of a stall-fed bull in his mere weight; he really couldfight, and though he was only on the warpath about once a month, therewas not a bull in the valley which had not retained in his thick skulland muddy brains some recollection of El Toro's prowess. The onlytrouble about this, from my pet bull's point of view, was that he couldrarely get up a row. Most of his possible enemies fled when he tootedhis horn and waltzed into the arena through a smashed fence. He wasmagnificent and he was war incarnate. 

In that country, which is a hard-working country, there is really verylittle sport. Further south in California, the ease-loving Spanishpeople who remain among the Americans still love music and the dance. Weworked, and worked hard; only Sundays brought us a little surcease fromtoil. All our notions of sport centred on our bull. I had many Italianco-workers, some Swedes, and an odd citizen of the United States. Allalike agreed in being proud of El Toro. We yearned to match him againstany bull in the State. Sometimes of a Sunday morning, after he haddevastated the country and was back again, he held a kind of _levée_. The Italians brought him pears as I sat on him in triumph and combed himin places where he had not been wounded. He always forgot that I hadcome behind him and laced his tough hide with my stock-whip. He bore nomalice, but took his fruit like a good child. I think he was almost asproud of himself as we were. Certainly we were proud of him. As for me, had I not ridden desperate miles after him: had I not interviewedoutraged owners of other bulls and broken fences: had I not played thediplomat or the bully according to the treatment which seemed indicated?He was, properly speaking, my bull; I did not care if I had to spendthree days mending our home gates and other's alien fences. 

Yes, it was a fine thing to gallop through that warm, bright, Californian air after El Toro, with the brown hills on either side andits patches of green vineyard brightening daily. It was freedom afterthe toil of axle-greasing and the slow work with sheep. It was betterthan grinding axes and trying to cut the tough knobs of vine stumps:better than grooming horses and milking cows. It made me think even moreof the great Australian plains and of the Texas prairie and the roundup. _Ay de mi_, I remember it now, sometimes, and I wish I was onhorseback, swinging my whip and uttering diabolic yells, significant ofthe freedom of the spirit as I rush after the spirit of El Toro. For mypet, my brindled fighter, my own El Toro, whom I combed so delicatelywith a bent nail, for whom I gathered buckets of bruised but fatCalifornian pears, is now no more. They told me, when I visited LosGuilucos seven years ago, that he became difficult, morose, hard tohandle, and they sold him. They sold this joyous incarnation of thespirit of battle and the pure joy of life for a mean and miserablethirteen dollars! When I think of it I almost fall to tears. So mightsome coward son of the seas sell a battleship for ten pounds because itwas not suitable for a ferry-boat or a river yacht. I would rather athousand times have paid the thirteen dollars myself and have taken himout to fight his last Armageddon and then have shot him on the lonelyhills from which all other bulls had fled. These mean-souled, conscienceless moneymakers, who could not understand so brave, so fine aspirit, sold him to a Santa Rosa butcher! Shame on them, I say. I amsorry I ever revisited the Valley of the Seven Moons to hear suchlamentable news. It made me unhappy then, makes me unhappy now. My onlyconsolation is that once, and twice, and thrice, and yet again, I gaveEl Toro the chance of finding happiness in the conflict. And when I leftLos Guilucos, before I returned to England, I sat upon his hugeshoulders and scratched him most thoroughly, while ever and again Ioffered him a juicy and unbruised pear. On that occasion I pulled himthe best fruit, and left windfalls for the ranging, greedy hogs. And asI fed and scratched him he lay on his hunkers in great content, and madepleasant noises as he remembered the day before. On that day, owing tothe kindly feeling of me, his true and real friend, he had had a greattime three miles towards Glenallen, and had beaten a newly-imported bullout of all sense of self-importance. He was pleased with himself, pleased with me, pleased with the world. 

BOOKS IN THE GREAT WEST

Since taking to writing as a profession I have lost most of the interestI had in literature as literature pure and simple. That interestgradually faded and "Art for Art's sake, " in the sense the simple instudios are wont to dilate upon, touches me no more, or very, veryrarely. The books I love now are those which teach me something actualabout the living world; and it troubles me not at all if any of thembetray no sense of beauty and lack immortal words. Their artistry isnothing, what they say is everything. So on the shelf to which I mostlyresort is a book on the Himalayas; a Lloyd's Shipping Register; a littlework on seamanship that every would-be second mate knows; Brown'sNautical Almanacs; a Channel Pilot; a Continental Bradshaw; manyBaedekers; a Directory to the Indian Ocean and the China Seas; a bigfolding map of the United States; some books dealing with strategy, andsome touching on medical knowledge, but principally pathology, andespecially the pathology of the mind. 

Yet in spite of this utilitarian bent of my thoughts there are very manybooks I know and love and sometimes look into because of theirassociations. As I cannot understand (through some mental kink which myfriends are wont to jeer at) how anyone can return again and again to abook for its own sake, I do not read what I know. As soon would I goback when it is my purpose to go forward. A book should serve its turn, do its work, and become a memory. To love books for their own sake is tobe crystallised before old age comes on. Only the old are entitled tolove the past. The work of the young lies in the present and the future. 

But still, in spite of my theories, I like to handle, if not to read, certain books which were read by me under curious and perhaps abnormalcircumstances. If I do not open them it is due to a certain bashfulness, a subtle dislike of seeing myself as I was. Yet the books I read whiletramping in America, such as _Sartor Resartus_, have the same attractionfor me that a man may feel for a place. I carried the lucubrations ofTeufelsdrockh with me as I wandered; I read them as I camped in the openupon the prairie; I slipped them into my pocket when I went shepherdingin the Texan plateau south of the Panhandle. 

Another book which went with me on my tramps through Minnesota and Iowawas a tiny volume of Emerson's essays. This I loved less than I lovedCarlyle, and I gave it to a railroad "section boss" in the north-west ofIowa because he was kind to me. When _Sartor Resartus_ had travelledwith me through the Kicking Horse Pass and over the Selkirks intoBritish Columbia, and was sucked dry, I gave it at last to a farmingEnglishman who lived not far from Kamloops. I remember that in theflyleaf I kept a rough diary of the terrible week I spent in climbingthrough the Selkirk Range with sore and wounded feet. It is perhapslittle wonder that I associate Teufelsdrockh, the mind-wanderer, withthose days of my own life. And yet, unless I live to be old, I shallnever read the book again. 

The tramp, or traveller, or beach-comber, or general scallywag findslittle time and little chance to read. And for the most part we must ownhe cares little for literature in any form. But I was not alwayswandering. I varied wandering with work, and while working at a sawmillon the coast, or close to it, in the lower Fraser River in BritishColumbia, I read much. In the town of New Westminster was a littlepublic library, and I used to go thither after work if I was not tootired. But the work in a sawmill is very arduous to everyone in it, andwhile the winter kept away I had little energy to read. Presently, however, the season changed, and the bitter east winds came out of themountains and fixed the river in ice and froze up our logs in the"boom, " so that the saws were at last silent, and I was free to plungeamong the books and roll and soak among them day and night. 

The library was very much mixed. It was indeed created upon a pile ofmiscellaneous matter left by British troops when they were stationed onthe British Columbian mainland. There was much rubbish on the shelves, but among the rubbish I found many good books. For instance, that winterI read solidly through Gibbon's _Rome_, and refreshed my early memoriesof Mahomet, of Alaric, and of Attila. Those who imported fresh elementsinto the old were even then my greatest interest. I preferred thedestroyers to the destroyed, being rather on the side of the gods thanon the side of Cato. Lately, as I was returning from South Africa, Itried to read Gibbon once more, and I failed. He was too classic, toostately. I fell back on Froude, and was refreshed by the manner, if notalways delighted by the matter. 

After emerging from the Imperial flood at the last chapter, I fellheadlong into Vasari's _Lives of the Painters_, in nine volumes. Then Iread Motley's _Netherlands_ and the _Rise of the Dutch Republic_, alwaysterrible and picturesque since I had read it as a boy of eleven. 

At the sawmill there was but one man with whom I could talk on anymatters of intellectual interest. He was a big man from Michigan and ranthe shingle saw. We often discussed what I had lately read, and wentaway from discussion to argument concerning philosophy and theology. Hewas a most lovable person; as keen as a sharpened sawtooth, and apolemic but courteous atheist. His greatest sorrow in life was that hismother, a Middle State woman of ferocious religion, could not be kept inignorance of his principles. We argued ethics sophistically as towhether a convinced agnostic might on occasion hide what he believed. 

Sometimes this friend of mine went to the library with me. He had the_penchant_ for science so common among the finer rising types of thelower classes. So I read Darwin's _Origin of Species_, and talked of itwith my Michigan man. And then I took to Savage Landor and learnt someof his _Imaginary Conversations_ by heart. I could have repeated _Æsop_and _Rhodope_. 

But the one thing I for ever fell back upon was an old encyclopædia. Ishould be afraid to say how much I read, but to it I owe, doubtless, astock of extensive, if shallow, general knowledge. Certainly it appearsto have influenced me to this day; for given a similar one I can wanderfrom shipbuilding to St. Thomas Aquinas; from the Atomic Theory to theMarquis de Sade; from Kant to the building of dams; and never feel dull. 

Now when I come across any of these books I am filled with a curiousmelancholy. The _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_ means more to methan to some: I hear the whirr of the buzz-saw as I open it; even in itsdriest page I smell the resin of fir and spruce; Locke's _HumanUnderstanding_ recalls things no man can understand if he has notworked alongside Indians and next to Chinamen. As for Carlyle, I neverhear him mentioned without seeing the mountains and glaciers of theSelkirks; in his pages is the sound of the wind and rain. 

There are some novels, too, which have attractions not all their own. Iremember once walking into a store at Eagle Pass Landing on the ShushwapLake and asking for a book. I was referred to a counter covered withbearskins, and beneath the hides I unearthed a pile of novels. The one Itook was Thomas Hardy's _Far from the Madding Crowd_. And another time Irode into Santa Rosa, Sonoma County, California, and, while buyingstores, saw Gissing's _Demos_ open in front of me. It was anonymous, butI knew it for his, and I read it as I rode slowly homeward down theSonoma Valley, the Valley of the Seven Moons. 

These are but a few of the books that are burnt into one's memory as byfire. All I remember are not literature: perhaps I should reject manywith scorn at the present day; nevertheless, they have a value to megreater than the price set upon many precious folios. I propose one ofthese days to make a shelf among my shelves sacred to the books which Iread under curious circumstances. I cannot but regret that I often hadnothing to read at the most interesting times. So far as I canrecollect, I got through five days' starvation in Australia without asmuch as a newspaper. 

A VISIT TO R. L. STEVENSON

It was late in May or early in June, for I cannot now remember the exactdate, that I landed in Apia, in the island of Upolu. Naturally enoughthat island was not to me so much the centre of Anglo-American andGerman rivalries as the home of Robert Louis Stevenson, then become theliterary deity of the Pacific. In a dozen shops in Honolulu I had seenlittle plaster busts of him; here and there I came across hisphotograph. And I had a theory about him to put to the test. Though Iwas not, and am not, one of those who rage against over-great praise, when there is any true foundation for it, I had never been able tounderstand the laudation of which he was the subject. At that time, anduntil the fragment of _Weir of Hermiston_ was given to the world, nothing but his one short story about the thief and poet, Villon, hadseemed to me to be really great, really to command or even to be anexcuse for his being in the position in which his critics had placedhim. Yet I had read _The Wrecker_, _The Ebb Tide_, _The Beach ofFalesa_, _Kidnapped_, _Catriona_, _The Master of Ballantrae_, and the_New Arabian Nights_. I came to the conclusion that, as most of theorganic chorus of approval came from men who knew him, he must be (asall writers, I think, should be) immeasurably greater than his books. Iwas prepared then for a personality, and I found it. When his name ismentioned I no longer think of any of his works, but of a sweet-eyed, thin, brown ghost of a man whom I first saw upon horseback in a grove ofcocoanut palms by the sounding surges of a tropic sea. There arewriters, and not a few of them, whose work it is a pleasure to read, while it is a pain to know them, a disappointment, almost anunhappiness, to be in their disillusioning company. They have given thebest to the world. Robert Louis Stevenson never gave his best, for hisbest was himself. 

At any time of the year the Navigator Islands are truly tropical, andwhether the sun inclines towards Cancer or Capricorn, Apia is a bath ofwarm heat. As soon as the _Monowai_ dropped her anchor inside theopening of the reef that forms the only decent harbour in all the group, I went ashore in haste. Our time was short, but three or four hours, andI could afford neither the time nor the money to stay there till thenext steamer. I had much to do in Australia, and was not a littleexercised in mind as to how I should ever be able to get round the worldat all unless I once more shipped before the mast. I was, in fact, sohard put to it in the matter of cash, that when the hotel-keeper askedthree dollars for a pony on which to ride to Vailima, I refused to payit, and went away believing that after all I should not see him whom Imost desired to meet. Yet it was possible, if not likely, that he wouldcome down to visit the one fortnightly link with the great world fromwhich he was an exile. I had to trust to chance, and in the meantimewalked the long street of Apia and viewed the Samoans, whom he so loved, with vivid interest. These people, riven and torn by internaldissensions between Mataafa and Malietoa, and honeycombed byAnglo-American and German intrigue, were the most interesting and thenoblest that I had met since I foregathered for a time with a wanderingband of Blackfeet Indians close to Calgary beneath the shadows of theRocky Mountains. Their dress, their customs, and their free and noblecarriage, yet unspoiled by civilisation, appealed to me greatly. I couldunderstand as I saw them walk how Stevenson delighted in them. Man andwoman alike looked me and the whole world in the face, and went by, proud, yet modest, and with the smile of a happy, unconquered race. 

As I walked with half a dozen curious indifferents whom the hazards oftravel had made my companions, we turned from the main road into theseclusion of a shaded group of palms, and as I went I saw coming towardsme a mounted white man behind whom rode a native. As he came nearer Ilooked at him without curiosity, for, as the time passed, I was becomingreconciled by all there was to see to the fact that I might not meetthis exiled Scot. And yet, as he neared and passed me, I knew that Iknew him, that he was familiar; and very presently I was aware that thissense of familiarity was not, as so often happens to a traveller, theawakened memory of a type. This was an individual and a personality. Istopped and stared after him, and suddenly roused myself. Surely thiswas Robert Louis Stevenson, and this his man. So might the ghosts ofCrusoe and Friday pass one on the shore of Juan Fernandez. 

I called the "boy" and gave him my card, and asked him to overtake hismaster. In another moment my literary apparition, this chief among theSamoans, was shaking hands with me. He alighted from his horse, and wewalked together towards the town. I fell a victim to him, and forgotthat he wrote. His writings were what packed dates might be to one whosat for the first time under a palm in some far oasis; they were but icein a tumbler compared with séracs. He was first a man, and then awriter. The pitiful opposite is too common. 

I think, indeed I am sure, for I know he could not lie, that he waspleased to see me. What I represented to him then I hardly reckoned atthe time, but I was a messenger from the great world of men; I movedclose to the heart of things; I was fresh from San Francisco, from NewYork, from London. He spoke like an exile, but one not discouraged. Though his physique was of the frailest (I had noted with astonishmentthat his thigh as he sat on horseback was hardly thicker than myforearm), he was alert and gently eager. That soft, brown eye which heldme was full of humour, of pathos, of tenderness, yet I could imagine itcapable of indignation and of power. It might be that his body wasdying, but his mind was young, elastic, and unspoiled by selfishness oraffectation. He had his regrets; they concerned the Samoans greatly. 

"Had I come here fifteen years ago I might have ruled these islands. "

He imagined it possible that international intrigue might not haveflourished under him. Never had I seen so fragile a man who would beking. He owned, with a shyly comic glance, that he had leanings towardsbuccaneering. The man of action, were he but some shaggy-beardedshellback, appealed to him. His own physique was his apology for beingmerely a writer of novels. 

We went on board the steamer, and at his request I bade a steward showhis faithful henchman over her. In the meantime we sat in the saloon anddrank "soft" drinks. It pleased him to talk, and he spoke fluently in avoice that was musical. He touched a hundred subjects; he developed atheory of matriarchy. Men loved to steal; women were naturallyreceivers. They adored property; their minds ran on possession; theywere domestic materialists. We talked of socialism, of Bully Hayes, ofRoyat, of Rudyard Kipling. He regretted greatly not having seen theauthor of _Plain Tales from the Hills_. 

"He was once coming here. Even now I believe there is mail-matter of hisrotting at the post-office. "

I asked him to accept a book I had brought from England, hoping to beable to give it to him. It was the only book of mine that I thoughtworthy of his acceptance. That he knew it pleased me. But he alwaysdesired to please, and pleased without any effort. When the boy cameback from viewing the internal arrangements of the _Monowai_, he satdown with us as a free warrior. He was more a friend than a servant;Stevenson treated him as the head of a clan in his old home might treata worthy follower. As there was yet an hour before the vessel sailed Iwent on shore with him again. We were rowed there by a Samoan in awaistcloth. His head was whitened by the lime which many of the nativesuse to bleach their dark locks to a fashionable red. 

The air was hot and the sea glittered under an intense sun. The rollersfrom the roadstead broke upon the reef. The outer ocean was a verywonderful tropic blue; inside the reefs the water was calmer, greener, more unlike anything that can be seen in northern latitudes. A littleisland inside the lagoon glared with red rock in the sunlight; cocoanutpalms adorned it gracefully; beyond again was the deeper blue of ocean;the island itself, a mass of foliage, melted beautifully into the lucidatmosphere. Yonder, said Stevenson, lay Vailima that I was not to see. But I had seen the island and the man, and the natural colour and gloryof both. 

As we went ashore he handed the book which I had given him to hisfollower. He thought it necessary to explain to me that etiquettedemanded that no chief should carry anything. And etiquette was rigidthere. 

"Mrs Grundy, " he remarked, "is essentially a savage institution. "

We went together to the post-office. And in the street outside, whilemany passed and greeted "Tusitala" in the soft, native speech, weparted. I saw him ride away, and saw him wave his hand to me as heturned once more into the dark grove wherein I had met him in the yearof his death. 

A DAY IN CAPETOWN

I went across the Parade, which every morning is full of cheap-jackauctioneers selling all things under the sun to Kaffirs, Malays, coolies, towards Rondebosch and Wynberg. At the Castle the electric trampassed me, and I jumped on board and went, at the least, as fast as anEnglish slow train. The wind was blowing and the dust flew, but ahead ofus ran a huge electricity-driven water-cart, a very water tram, whichlaid the red clouds for us. Yet in London we travel painfully inomnibuses and horse-trams, and the rare water-cart is still drawn byhorses. 

The road towards Rondebosch, where Mr Rhodes lived, is full of interest. It reminded me dimly of a road in Ceylon: the colour of it was so red, and the reddish tree trunks and heavy foliage were almost tropical incharacter. Many of the houses are no more than one-storey bungalows;half the folks one saw were coloured; a rare Malay woman flauntedcolour like a tropic bird. Avenues of pines resembled huge scrub; theycast strong shadows even in the greyness of the day. Far above the hugeramparts of Table Mountain lay the clouds, and the wind whistledmournfully from the organ pipes of the Devil's Peak. In unoccupied landswere great patches of wild arum, and suddenly I saw the gaunt Australianblue gum, which flourishes here just as well as the English oak. Twowhite gums shone among sombrest pines. They took my mind suddenly backto the bush of the Murray Hills, for there they gleam like sunlitlighthouses among the darker and more melancholy timber of the heights. 

The houses grew fewer and fewer beyond Rondebosch, and at last we cameto Wynberg, a quiet little suburban town. The tram ran through andbeyond it, and I got off and walked for a while among the side roads. And the aspect of the country was so quiet, and yet so rich, that Iwondered how any could throw doubts upon the wonderful value of thecountry. Surely this was a spot worth fighting for, and, more certainlystill, it was a place for peace. A long contemplative walk brought meback to Rondebosch, and again I took the train-like tram and went backto busy Capetown. 

In any new town the heights about and above it appeal strongly to everywanderer. I had no time to spare for the ascent of Table Mountain, andthe tablecloth of clouds indeed forbade me to attempt it. But someonehad spoken to me of the Kloof road, which leads to the saddlebackbetween the Lion's Head and Table Mountain, so, taking the Kloof Streettram, I ran with it to its stopping-place and found the road. There thehouses are more scattered; the streets are thin. But about every houseis foliage; in every garden are flowers. As I mounted the steep, well-kept road I came upon pine woods. Across the valley, or the Kloof, I saw the lower grassy slopes of Table Mountain, where the treesdwindled till they dotted the hill-side like spare scrub. Above thetrees is a cut in the mountain, above that the bare grass, and then thefrowning weather-worn bastions of the mountain with its ancienthorizontal strata. It is cut and scarped into gullies and chimneys; forthe mountain climber it offers difficult and impossible climbs at everypoint. Down the upper gullies hung wisps of ragged cloud, pouring overfrom the plateau 4000 feet above the town. 

On the left of the true Table Mountain there is a rugged and raggeddip, and further still the rocks rise again in the sharper pinnacles ofthe Devil's Peak. That slopes away till it runs down into thehouse-dotted Cape flats, and beyond it lie Rondebosch, Wynberg andConstantia. Across the grey and misty flats other mountainsrise--mountains of a strange shape which suggests a peculiar and unusualgeological formation. 

Although the day was cool and the southerly wind had a biting qualityabout it, yet the whole aspect of the world about me was intenselysub-tropical. In heavy sunlight it would seem part of the countriesnorth of the Tropic of Capricorn. The close-set trees, seen from above, appear like scrub, like close-set ti-tree. They are massed at the top, and among them lie white houses. Beyond them the lower slopes of theDevil's Peak are yellow and red sand, but the grey-green waters of thebay, which is shaped like a great hyperbola, are edged with white sand. 

Among the pines the rhythmic wind rose and fell; it whistled and wailedand died away. Beneath me came the faint sound of men calling; there wasthe clink of hammers upon stone. 

But suddenly the town was lost among the trees, and when I sat down atlast upon a seat I might have been among the woods above the Castle ofChillon, and, seen dimly among the foliage, the heights yonder couldhave been taken for the slopes of Arvel or Sonchaud. A bird whistled ashort, repeated, melancholy song, and suddenly I remembered I had seenno sparrows here. A blackcap stared at me and fled; its triple note wasrepeated from bush to bush. 

The wind rose again as I sat, but did not chill me in my shelteredhollow. It rose and fell in wavelike rhythm like the far thunder ofwaves upon a rock-bound coast. Then came silence, and again the wind waslike the sound of a distant waterfall. There for one moment I caught theresinous smell of pine. It drew me back to the Rocky Mountains, and thento the woods above Zermatt, where I had last smelt that healthiest andmost pleasing of woodland odours. I rose again and walked on. 

Presently I gained a loftier height, and saw the Lion's Head above me, abold shield knob of rock rising out of silver trees, whose foliage is apale glaucous green, resembling that of young eucalypti. Then, turning, I saw Capetown spread out beneath me, almost as one sees greater Naplesfrom the Belvedere of the San Martino monastery. The whitish-grey townis furrowed into canyon-like streets. Beyond the town and over the flatswas a view like that from Camaldoli. The foreground was scrub and pineand deep red earth, whereon men were building a new house. May fate sendme here again when the sun is hot and the under world is all aglow!

I came at last to the little wind-swept divide between Table Mountainand the Lion's Head. Here Capetown was lost to me, and I stood amongsandy wastes where thin pines and whin-like bushes grow. And furtherstill was the cold grey sea with the waves breaking on a rocky point anda little island all awash with white water. 

Though beyond this divide the air was cold as death, the slopes of TableMountain sweeping to the sea were full of colour; deep, strong, sterncolour. When the sun shines and full summer rules upon the CapePeninsula the place must be glorious. Even when I saw it an artist wouldwonder how it was that with such a chill wind the colour remained. Andabove the coloured lower slopes this new view of Table Mountainsuggested a serried rank of sphinxes staring out across the desert sea. The nearest peak of the mountain is weathered, cracked and scarred, andit in are two chimneys that appear accessible only for the oreads whoblock the way with their smoky clouds. In the far north-eastern distancethe grey headlands melted into the grey ocean. But beneath me were thetender green of the birch-like silver tree and the rich young leaves ofthe transplanted English oak. 

VELDT, PLAIN AND PRAIRIE

Among the problems which remain perpetually interesting are those whichdeal with the influence of environment on races, and that of races onenvironment. What happens when the people are plastic and theircircumstances rigid? What when the people are rigid and unyielding, andtheir surroundings fluent and unabiding? And does character depend onwhat is outside, or does the dominant quality of a race remain, as somevainly think, for ever? These are puzzling questions, but not entirelybeyond conjecture for one who has heard the siren songs of the Africanveldt, the Australian plain, and the American prairie. 

He who consciously observes usually observes the obvious, and may rankas a discoverer only among the unobservant. Truth may be looked for, buthe who hunts her shall rarely find when the truth he seeks is somethingnot suited for scientific formulæ. The real observer is he who does notobserve, but is gradually aware that he knows. Sometimes he does notlearn that he is wise till long years have passed, and then perhaps themechanical maxim of a mechanical eye-server of Nature shall startle himinto a sense of deep abiding, but perhaps incommunicable, knowledge. Socomes the knowledge of mountain, moor and stream; so rises the Aphroditetruth of the sea, born from the foam that surges round the Horn, orfloats silently upon the beach of some lonely coral island; and so growsthe knowledge of vast stretches of dim inland continents. 

I spent my hours (let them be called months) in Africa seeking vainlyafter facts that after all were of no importance. Politics are ofto-day, but human nature is of eternity. And while I sought what I couldhardly find, in one cold clear dawn I stumbled upon the truth concerningthe white people of the veldt, whom we call Boers. And yet it was notstumbling; I had but rediscovered something that I had known of old inother lands, far east and far west of Africa. When first I entered onthe terraces of the Karroo I tried to build up for myself the characterof the lone horsemen who ride across these spaces, and though I wassolitary, and saw sunrises, the construction of the type eluded me. Isaw the big plain and the flat-topped banded hills that had sunk intotheir minds. I saw the ruddy dawn glow, and the ruddier glory of sundownas the sun bit into the edge of the horizon, and I knew that heresomewhere lay the secret of the race, even though I could not find it. And I knew too that I had discovered sister secrets in long past days;and I saw that, not in the intellect as one knows it, but in somerevived instinct, revived it might be by one of the senses, lay the clueto what I sought. What did these people think, or what lay beneaththought in them? It was something akin to what I had felt somewhere, that I knew. But the sun went down and left me in the dark; or it roseclear of the distant hills and drowned me in daylight, and still I didnot know. Then there was the babble of politics in my ears, and I spokeof Reform and such urgent matters in the dusty streets of windyJohannesburg. 

But one day, as it chanced, I came upon the secret; and then I found itwas incommunicable, as all real secrets are. For your true secret is aninforming sensation, and no sensation can resolve itself other than bynegatives. I had spent a weary, an unutterably weary, day in a coachupon the Transvaal uplands, and came in the dark to the house of a Boerwho served travellers with unspeakable food and gave them suchaccommodation as might be. It was midnight when I arrived, and all hisbeds were full of those who were journeying in the opposite direction. He made me a couch on the floor in a kind of lumber-room, and, softenedchild of civilisation that I had become, I growled by myself at what hegave, and wondered what, in the name of the devil who wanders over theearth, I was doing there. And how could he endure it? How, indeed. Ifell asleep, and the next minute, which was six hours later, I awoke, and stumbled with a dusty mouth into the remaining night, not yet becomedawn. Such an hour seemed unpropitious. My bones ached; I lamented myancient hardness in the time when a board or a sheet of stringy bark wassoft; I felt a touch of fever, my throat was dry, a hard hot day ofdiscomfort was before me. In the dim dusk I saw the mules gathered bythe coach, which had yet to do sixty miles. A bucket invited me; Iwashed my hot hands and face, and walked away from the buildings intothe open. Then very suddenly and without any warning I understood whythe Boer existed, and why, in his absurd perversity, he ratherpreferred existing as he was; and I saw that even I, like otherEnglishmen, could be subdued to the veldt. The air was crisp and chill;the dawn began to break in a pale olive band in the lower east; thestars were bright overhead; the morning star was even yet resplendent. But these things I had seen on the southern Karroo. It was not my eyesalone that told me the old secret, the same old secret that I had known. I knew then, and at once, as an infinite peace poured over me, that allmy senses were required to bring me back to nature, and that one alonewas helpless. Now with what I saw came what I heard. I heard the clatterof harness, the jingle of a bell, the low of a cow, the trampling of themules. And I smelt with rapture, with delight, the complex odours of thefarm that sat so solitary in the world; but above all the chill movingodour of the great plain itself. This, or these, made a strange, primitive pleasure that I had known in Australia, in Texas, even in afarm upon the edge of a wild Westmorland moor. My senses informed myintellect. I shook hands with the creatures of the veldt, for I was oftheir tribe. Even my feet trod the earth pounded by the mules, thehorses and the oxen, with a sensation that was new and old. Why did notspurs jingle on my heels? I felt strong and once more a man. So feelsthe Boer, and so does he love, but he cannot even try to communicate theincommunicable. For, after all, the secret is like the smell of a flowerthat few have seen. Its odour is not the odour of the rose, not that ofany lily, not that of any herb; it is its own odour only. 

What is the difference, then, in those who ride the high Texan plateauxor scour the sage-bush plains of Nevada, or follow sheep or cattle inthe salt bush country of the lingering Lachlan? There is muchdifference; there is little difference; there is no difference. Thegreat difference is racial, the small difference is human, the lack ofany difference is animal and primæval. In all alike, in any countrywhere spaces are wide, the child that was the ancestor of the man ariseswith its truthful unconscious curiosity and faith in Nature. Here it maybe that one gallops, here one trots, here again one walks. But all alikepull the bridle and snuff the air and find it good, and see the grassgrow or dwindle, and watch the stars and the passing seasons, and findthe world very fresh and very sweet and very simple. 

NEAR MAFEKING

To a man who has lived and travelled in the United States of America andthe not yet United States of Australia, there is one characteristic ofSouth Africa which is particularly noticeable. It is its oneness as acountry. And this oneness is all the more remarkable when we take intoconsideration its racial and political divisions. A bird's-eye view ofAmerica is beyond one; a similar glance at the seaboard of Australiafrom Rockhampton even round to Albany (which is then only round half itscircle) gives me a mental crick in the neck. But in thinking of Africa, south of the Zambesi, there is no such mental difficulty. Even theexistence of the Transvaal seemed to me an accident, and, if inevitable, one which Nature herself protests against. Some day South Africa must befederated, but if any politician asks me, "Under which king, Bezonian, speak or die, " I shall elect (in these pages at least) to die. 

But though this disunited unity seemed to me a salient feature incis-Zambesian Africa, it was the differences in that natural ring fencewhich attracted most of my attention as a story-writer even as astory-writer who so far has only written one tale about it. I began toask myself how it was that, with one eminent exception, our Africanfiction writers had confined themselves to the native races, and thefriction between these races and white men, Boer or English, when therewere infinitely more attractive themes at hand. Perhaps it may seem likebegging the question to call the political inter-play of the CapeColony, of the Transvaal, and the Free State more interesting than talesin which the highest "white" interest appears in a love story betwixtsome English wanderer and an impossible Boer maiden, or such as relatethe rise and fall of Chaka and Ketchwayo. And yet to me the mass ofintrigue, the political friction, the onward march of races, and theconflicts above and below board, called for greater attention than theZulu, even at his best. 

To a novelist (who sometimes pretends to think, however much such anunpopular tendency be hidden) environment and its necessary results areof infinite interest. Upon the Karroo, even when in the train, I triedto build up the aloof and lonely Boer, and, though I failed, there cameto me in whiffs (like far odours borne on a westerly wind) somesuggestions that I really understood deep in my mind how he came to be. The chill fresh air of the morning, before the sun was yet above thehorizon, recalled to me some ancient dawns in far Australia: and thenagain I thought of days upon the Texan plateaux. But still the secret ofthe lone-riding Boer, who loves a country of magnificent distances, escaped me. 

But one early dawn, when I was half-way between Krugersdorp andMafeking, I came out upon the veldt in darkness, which was a luciddarkness, and in the silent crisp air I stumbled upon the truth. Betwixtsleep and waking as I walked I felt infinite peace pour over me. So hadthe silent Campo Santo at Pisa affected me; so had I felt for a momentamong the ancient ruins of the abbey at Rivaulx. In this dawn hour camea time of reversion. I too was very solitary, and loved my solitude. Thenecessities of civilisation were necessities no more: I needed luxuryeven less than I needed news. I cared for nothing that the men of a cityask: there was space before me and room to ride. The lack of smallurgent stimuli, the barren growth of civilisation's weedy fields, leftme to the great and simple organic impulses of the outstretched world. And in that moment I perceived that this silence is the very life of thewandering Boer, even though he knows it not; for it has sunk so deepinto him that he is unaware of it. He belongs not to this age, nor toany age we know. 

For one long year, twenty years ago, I lived upon a great plain inAustralia, and now I remembered how slowly I had been able to divestmyself of my feeling of loneliness. But when I came at last to be athome upon that mighty stretch of earth, which seemed a summit, I grew tolove it and to see with opened eyes its infinite charm that could betold to none. I knew that the need of much talk was a false need: asfalse as the diseased craving for books. 

To feel this was true of the widespread wandering folks who once cameout of crowded Holland to resume a more ancient type, instructed me inwhat a false relation they stand to the rolling dun war-cloud of"Progress. " They called in the unreverted Hollander to stand betweenthem and the men of mines, and now they love the Hollander as a manloves a hated cousin, who is a man of his blood, but in nothing likehim. But anything was, and is, better than to stand face to face withbusy crowds. To have to talk, to argue, to explain to the unsympatheticwas overmuch. The veldt called to them: it is their passion. As onelabours in London and sinks into a dream, remembering the hills whereinhe spends a lonely summer, among Westmorland's fells and by the becks, so the Boer, called cityward, looks back upon the wide and lonely veldtwhich is never too wide and never lonelier to him than to any of thebeasts he loves to hunt. 

But the fauna disappear, and ancient civilisations crumble. And thosewho revert are once more overwhelmed by civilisation. It is a great andpathetic story, a story as old as the tales told in stone by thepreserved remnants of prehistoric monsters. 

Yet, speaking of monsters, what is a stranger monster (to an eye thathates it or merely wonders) than the many-jointed Rand demon crawlingalong the line of banked outcrop? I saw it first by day, when it seemedan elongated wire-drawn Manchester in a pure air, but I remember itbest as I saw it when returning from Pretoria. First I beheld the gleamof electric lights, and remembered the glow of Fargo in Eastern Dakotaas I saw it across the prairie. Then the mines were no longer separate:they joined together and became like a fiery reptile, a dragon in theoutcrop, clawing deep with every joint, wounding the earth with everyclaw, as a centipede wounds with every poisoned foot. The white residuesgleamed beneath the moon, from every smoke stack poured smoke: thedragon breathed. Then the great white cyanide tanks were like bosses onthe beast; the train stopped, and the battery roared. That night, for itwas a silent and windless night, I heard forty miles of batteriesbeating on the beach of my mind like a great sea. And men laboured inthe bowels of the earth for gold. But out upon the veldt it was veryquiet, "quietly shining to the quiet moon. " I understood then that itwas no wonder if the simple and stolid Dutchman had a peculiarabhorrence for a town, which, even at night, was never at rest. InJohannesburg is neither rest, nor peace, nor any school for nobility ofthought; it destroys the pleasures of the simple, and satisfies not thedesires of those whose simplicity is their least striking feature. 

Upon the veldt and the Karroo, and even through the Mapani scrub countrythat lies north of Lobatsi, simplicity is the chief characteristic ofthe scenery. As I went by Victoria West (I had spent the night talkingpolitics with the civillest Dutchmen) I came in early morning to thefirst Karroo I had seen. The air was tonic, like an exhilarating winewith some wonderful elixir in it other than alcohol, and though thecountry reminded me in places of vast plains in New South Wales, itlacked, or seemed to lack, the perpetual brooding melancholy thatinvests the great Austral island. As I stood on the platform of the car, the sun, not yet risen, gilded level clouds. The light reddened and thegold died: and the sudden sun sparkled like a big star, and heaved around shoulder up between two of Africa's flat-topped hills, which wereyet blue in the far distance. Then the level light of earliest daypoured across the plateau, yellow with thin grass, which began to askfor rain. The picture left upon my mind is without detail, and made upof broad masses. Even a railway station, with some few gum trees, andthe pinky cloud of peach blossom about the little house, wasexcellently simple and homely. A distant farm, with smoke rising beneaththe shadow of a little kopje, a band of emerald green, where irrigationsent its flow of water, a thousand sheep with a blanketed Kaffir mindingthem, filled the eye with satisfaction. 

Out of such a country should come simple lives. By the sport of fate thecruellest complexity of politics is to be found there. 

And yet who can declare that the environment shall not in time exert itsinevitable influence on the busy crowding English, and make them ortheir sons glad to sit upon their stoeps and smoke and look out upon theveldt with a quiet satisfaction which is unuttered and unutterable? TheKarroo and the veldt do not change except according to the seasons; theypour their influences for ever upon those who ride across them as theDrakensberg Mountains send their waters down upon Natal beneath theirmighty wall. And even now the busy Englishman complains that hisAfrican-born son is lazy and seems more content to live than to be forever working. Each country exacts a certain amount of energy from thosewho live there; as one judges from the Boer, the tax is not over heavy. 

And as in time to come the great centre of interest shifts north, asnow it seems to shift, one may prophesy with some hope, certainlywithout dread of such a result, that a more energetic Dutch race, and aless energetic English one, will fuse together, and look back upon theirchildish quarrels with mere historic interest. Perhaps the Dutch inthose times will become the aristocrats, as they have done in New York;they may even see their chance of going for ever out of politics. Forthey never yet sat down to the political gaming-table gladly. 

BY THE FRASER RIVER

The first experience I had in regard to gold mining was in Ballarat, when a well-known miner and business man in that pretty town took meround the old alluvial diggings and pointed out the most celebratedclaims. These (in 1879) were, of course, deserted or left to anoccasional Chinese "fossicker, " who rewashed the rejected pay dirt, which occasionally has enough gold in it to satisfy the easily-pleasedMongolian. I went with my friend that same day into the Black HorseMine, and saw quartz crushing for the first time; but, naturally enough, I took far more interest in the alluvial workings that can be managed byfew friends than in operations which required capital and theimportation of stamping machinery from England; and Ballarat, rich as itonce was for the single miner, is now left to corporations. 

One of the strangest features of an old gold-mining district is itswasted and upturned appearance. The whole of the surrounding country is, as it were, eviscerated. It is all hills and hollows, which shine andglare in the hot sun and look exceedingly desolate. When, in addition, the town itself fails and fades for want of other means of support, andthe houses fall into rack and ruin as I have seen in Oregon, the placeresembles a disordered room seen in the morning after a gamblingdebauch. The town is happy which is able to reform and live henceforthon agriculture, as is now the case to a great extent with Ballarat andwith Sandhurst, which has discarded its famous name of Bendigo. 

To a miner, or indeed to anyone in want of money, as I usually was whenknocking about in Australian or American mining districts, the onepainful thing is to know where untold quantities of gold lie withoutbeing able to get a single pennyweight of it. I remember on more thanone occasion sitting on the banks of the Fraser River in BritishColumbia, or of the Illinois River in Oregon, pondering on the absurdityof my needing a hundred dollars when millions were in front of me underthose fast-flowing streams. Those who know nothing about gold countriesmay ask how I knew there were millions there. The answer is simpleenough. First let me say a few words about one common process of mining. 

When it is discovered that there is a certain quantity of gold in thevast deposits of gravel which are found in many places along the Pacificslope, but especially in Oregon and California, water, brought in a"flume" or aqueduct from a higher level, is directed, by means of a pipeand nozzle fixed on a movable stand, against the crumbling bench, whichperhaps contains only two or three shillings-worth of gold to the ton. This is washed down into a sluice made of wooden boards, in which"riffles, " or pieces of wood, are placed to stop the metal as it flowsalong in the turbid rush of water. Some amalgamated copper plates areput in suitable places to catch the lighter gold, or else the waterwhich contains it is allowed to run into a more slowly-flowing aqueduct, which gives the finer scales time to settle. This, roughly put, is thehydraulic method of mining which causes so much trouble between theagricultural and mining interests in California; for the finer detritusof this washing, called technically "slickens, " fills up the rivers, causes them to overflow and deposit what is by no means a fertilisingmaterial on the pastures of the Golden State. 

Now, what man does here in a small way, and with infinite labour andpains, Nature has been doing on a grand scale for unnumbered centuries. Let us, for instance, take the Fraser River and its tributary theThompson, which is again made up of the North and South Forks, whichunite at Kamloops, as the main rivers do at Lytton. The whole of thevast extent of mountainous country drained by these streams is known tobe more or less auriferous. Many places, such as Cariboo, are, or were, richly so; and there are few spots in that part which will not yieldwhat miners know as a "colour" of gold--that is, gold just sufficient tosee, even if it is not enough to pay for working by our slight humanmethods. I have been in parts of Oregon where one might get "colour" bypulling up the bunches of grass that grew sparsely on a thin soil whichjust covered the rocks. But the united volumes of the Fraser and the twoThompsons and all their tributaries have been doing an enormousgold-washing business for a geological period; and all that portion ofBritish Columbia which lies in their basin may be looked upon as similarto the bench of gravel which is assaulted by the hydraulic miner. Andjust as the miner makes the broken-down gold-bearing stuff run throughhis constructed sluices, Nature sends all her gold in a torrent into thenatural sluice which is known as the Fraser Canyon. 

This canyon, which is cut through the range of mountains knownerroneously as the Cascades, is about forty miles long, if we count fromLytton and Yale. In its narrowest part, at Hell Gate, a child may throwa stone across; and its current is tremendous. So rapidly does it run, that no boat can venture upon it, and nothing but a salmon can stem itsstream. It is full, too, of whirlpools; and at times the under rush isso strong that the surface appears stationary. What its depth may be itis impossible to tell. But one thing is certain, and that is, that inthe cracks and crannies of its rocky bed must be gold in quantitiesbeyond the dreams of a diseased avarice. But is this not all theory? No, it is not. At one part of the river, in the upper canyon, there is aplace where the current stayed, and, with a long backward swirl, builtup a bar. If you ask an old British Columbian about Boston Bar, he will, perhaps, tell stories which may seem to put Sacramento in the shade. Yet there will be much truth in them, for there was much gold found onthat bar. Again, some years ago, at Black Canyon, on the South Fork ofthe Thompson, when that clear blue stream was at a low stage, there wasa great landslip, which for some eighty minutes dammed back the watersinto a lake. The whole country side gathered there with carts andbuckets, scraping up the mud and gold from the bottom. Many thousands ofdollars were taken out of the dry river bed before the dam gave way tothe rising waters. And, if there was gold there, what is there even nowin the great main sluice of the vastest natural gold mining concern everset going, which has never yet since it began indulged in a "cleanup?"

I have been asked sometimes, when speaking about the Fraser and otherrivers, which are undoubtedly gold traps, why it was that nobodyattempted to turn them. Of course, my questioners were neither engineersnor geographers. Certainly an inspection of the map of British Columbiawould show the utter impossibility of such a scheme. To dam the Fraserwould be like turning the Amazon. Yet once I do not doubt that it wasdammed, and that all the upper country was a vast lake, until thewaters found the way through the Cascades which it has now cut into acanyon. Otherwise I cannot account for the vast benches and terraceswhich rise along the Thompson. Indeed, the whole of the Dry Belt down toLytton has the appearance, to an eye only slightly cognisant ofgeological evidence, of an ancient lacustrine valley. 

Yet much work of a similar kind to damming this river has been done inCalifornia; and even now there is a company at the great task of turningthe Feather River (which is also undoubtedly gold bearing) through atunnel in order to work a large portion of its bed. Whether they willsucceed or not is perhaps doubtful; but if they do, the returns willprobably be large, as they would be if anyone were able to turn asidethe Illinois in Southern Oregon, or the Rogue River, which has beenmining in the Siskiyou Range for untold generations. 

I feel certain that all human gold discovering has been a mere nothing;that our methods are only faint and feeble imitations of Nature, andthat only by circumventing her shall we be able to reach the richerreward. But by the very vastness of her operations we are precludedfrom imitating the sluice robber, who does not work himself, but "cleansup" the rich boxes of some mining company which has undertaken a schemetoo large for any one man. 

OLD AND NEW DAYS IN BRITISH COLUMBIA

The whole of this vast country--this sea of mountains, as it has veryappropriately been called--used practically to belong to the Hudson'sBay Trading Company, and they made more than enough money out of it andits inhabitants. The Indians, though never quite to be trusted, were, and are, not so warlike as their neighbours far to the south of theforty-ninth parallel, such as the Sioux and Apaches, and naturally wereso innocent of the value of the furs and skins they brought into thetrading ports and forts as to be vilely cheated, in accordance with allthe best traditions of white men dealing with ignorant and commerciallyunsophisticated savages. Guns and rifles being the objects most desiredby the Indian, he was made to pay for them, and to pay an almostincredible price, as it seems to us now, for the company made sure ofthree or four hundred per cent, at the very least, and occasionallymore; so that a ten shilling Birmingham musket brought in several poundswhen the pelts for which it was exchanged were sold in the Londonmarket. 

Their dominion of exclusion passed away with the discovery of gold inCariboo, and the consequent assumption of direct rule by the Government. The palmy days of mining are looked back on with great regret by the oldminers, and many are the stories I have heard by the camp fire or thehotel bar, which explained how it was that the narrator was still poor, and how So-and-so became rich. There were few men who were successful inkeeping what they had made by luck or hard work, yet gold dust flewround freely, and provisions were at famine prices. I knew one man whosaid he had paid forty-two dollars (or nearly nine pounds) for sixpills. They were dear but necessary; and as the man who possessed themhad a corner in drugs, he was able to name his price. At that time, too, some men made large sums of money by mere physical labour, and forpacking food on their backs to the mines they received a dollar forevery pound weight they brought in. 

An acquaintance of mine, who is now an hotel-keeper at Kamloops, was aliving example of the strange freaks fortune played men in Cariboo. Hewas offered a share in a mine for nothing, but refused it, and boughtinto another. Gold was taken out of the first one to the tune of 50, 000dollars, and the other took all the money invested in it and neverreturned a cent. He was in despair about one mine, and tried to sell outin vain. He was thinking of giving up his share for nothing, when goldwas found in quantities. I think he makes more out of whisky, however, than he ever did at Cariboo, though he still hankers after the oldexciting times and the prospects of the gold-miner's toast, "Here's adollar to the pan, the bed-rock pitching, and the gravel turning blue. "

Nowadays there are still plenty of men who traverse the country in alldirections looking for new finds. They are called "prospectors, " and goabout with a pony packed with a pick, a shovel, and a few necessaries, hunting chiefly for quartz veins, and they talk of nothing but "quartz, ""bed-rock, " "leads, " gold and silver, and so many ounces to the ton. Itis now many years ago since I was working on a small cattle ranch in theKamloops district, when one of these men, a tall, grey-haired old fellownamed Patterson, came by. My employer knew him, and asked him to stay. He bored us to death the whole evening, and showed innumerablespecimens, which truly were not very promising, as it seemed to us. Hisgreat contempt for farming was very characteristic of the species. "What's a few head of rowdy steers?" asked Mr Patterson; "why, any day Imight strike ten thousand dollars. " "Yes, " I answered mischievously;"and any day you mightn't. " He turned and glared at me, demanding what Iknew about mining. "Not a great deal, " said I; "but I have seen mininghere and in Australia, and for one that makes anything a hundred diedead broke. " "Well, " he replied, scornfully "I'd rather die that waythan go ploughing, and I tell you I know where there is money to bemade. Just wait till I can get hold of a capitalist. "

That is another of the poor prospector's stock cries; but as a generalrule capitalists are wary, and don't invest in such "wild cat"speculations. 

Next morning Mr Patterson proposed that I should go along with him andhe would make my fortune. "What at?" said I. "Quartz mining?" "Not thistime, " was his answer; "it's placer" (alluvial). I was not in the leastparticular then what I did if I could only get good wages, so I wantedto know what he proposed giving me. "Bed-rock wages, " said he. Now thatmeans good money if a strike is made, and nothing if it is not. So Ishook my head, and he turned away, leaving me to wallow in the mire ofcontemptible security. I can hardly doubt that he will be one day founddead in the mountains, and that his Eldorado will be but oblivion. 

Just as I was about to leave British Columbia for Washington Territorythere were very good reports of the new Similkameen diggings, and forthe first and only time in my life I was very nearly taking the goldfever. But though I saw much of the gold that had been taken out of thecreek, I managed to restrain myself, and was glad of it afterwards, whenI learned from a friend of mine in town that very few had made anythingout of it, and that most had returned to New Westminster penniless andin rags. 

Railroads and modern progress are nowadays civilising the country to agreat extent, though I am by no means sure that civilisation is a goodthing in itself. However, manners are much better than they used to bein the old times, and it might be hard now to find an instance ofignorance parallel to one which my friend Mr H. Told me. It appears thata dinner was to be given in the earlier days to some great official fromEngland, and an English lady, who knew how such things should be done, was appointed manager. She determined that everything should be in goodstyle, and ordered even such extravagant and unknown luxuries as napkinsand finger-glasses. Among those who sat at the well-appointed table wereminers, cattle-men, and so on, and one of them on sitting down took uphis finger-bowl, and saying, "By golly, I'm thirsty, " emptied it at adraught. Then, to add horror on horror, he trumpeted loudly in hisnapkin and put it in his breast pocket. 

The progress of civilisation, however, destroys the Indians and theirvirtues. One Indian woman, who was married to a friend of mine--and aremarkably intelligent woman she was--one day remarked to me that beforewhite men came into the country the women of her tribe (she was aPtsean) were good and modest but that now that was all gone. It is trueenough. This same woman was remarkable among the general run of herclass, and spoke very good English, being capable of making a joke too. A half-bred Indian, working for her husband, one day spokecontemptuously of his mother's tribe, and Mrs ----, being a full-bloodedIndian, did not like it. She asked him if he was an American, and, afteroverwhelming him with sarcasm, turned him out of doors. 

As a matter of fact, most of the Indians are demoralised, especiallythose who live in or near the towns, and they live in a state ofdegradation and perpetual debauchery. Though it is a legal offence tosupply them with liquor, they nevertheless manage to get drunk at alltimes and seasons. When they work they are not to be relied on tocontinue at it steadily, and when drunk they are only too oftendangerous. Their type of face is often very low, and I never saw but onehandsome man among the half-breeds, though the women, especially theHydahs, are passable in looks. This man was a pilot, and a good one, onthe lakes; but he was perpetually being discharged for drunkenness. 

The lake and river steamboats are not always safe to be in, and some ofthe pilotage and engineering is reckless in the extreme. The captainsare too often given to drink overmuch, and when an intoxicated man is atthe wheel in a river full of the natural dangers of bars and snags, andthose incident on a tremendous current, the situation often becomesexciting. I was once on the Fraser River in a steamer whose boiler wascertified to bear 80 lb. Of steam and no more. We were coming to a"riffle, " or rapid, where the stream ran very fiercely, with greatswirls and waves in it, and the captain sang out to the engineer, "Howmuch steam have you, Jack?" "Eighty, " answered Jack. 

"Fire up, fire up!" said the captain, as he jammed the tiller over; "weshall never make the riffle on that. "

The firemen went to work, and threw in more wood, and presently weapproached the rapid. The captain leant out of the pilot house. 

"Give it her, Jack, " he yelled excitedly. 

The answer given by Jack scared me, for I knew quite well what she oughtto bear. 

"There's a hundred and twenty on her now!"

"Well, maybe it will do;" and the captain's head retreated. 

On we went, slowly crawling and fighting against the swift stream whichtore by us. We got about half-way up, and we gradually stayed in oneposition, and even went back a trifle. The captain yelled and shoutedfor more steam yet, and then I retreated as far as I could, and sat onthe taffrail, to be as far as possible from the boiler, which I believedwould explode every moment. But Jack obeyed orders, and rammed and rakedat the fires until the gauge showed 160 lb. , and we got over at last. But I confess I did feel nervous. 

This happened about ten miles below Yale, and at that very spot thetiller-ropes of the same boat once parted, and they had to let herdrift. Fortunately, she hung for a few moments in an eddy behind a bigrock until they spliced them again; but it was a close call witheveryone on board. A steamer once blew up there, and most of the crewand passengers were killed outright or drowned. 

Above Yale the river is not navigable until Savona's Ferry is reached. That is on the Kamloops Lake, and thence east up the Thompson and thelakes there is navigation to Spallamacheen. Once the owners of the_Peerless_ ran her from Savona down to Cook's Ferry, just in order tosee if it could be done. The down-stream trip was done in three hours, but it took three weeks to get her back again, and then her progress hadto be aided with ropes from the shore; so it was not deemed advisable tomake the trip regularly. 

As for the river in the main Fraser canyon, it is nothing more nor lessthan a perfect hell of waters; and though Mr Onderdonk, who had thelower British Columbia contract for the Canadian Pacific Railroad, builta boat to run on it, the first time the _Skuzzy_ let go of the bank sheran ashore. She was taken to pieces and rebuilt on the lakes. Therailroad people wanted her at first on the lower river, and asked a MrMoore, who is well known as a daring steamboatman, to take her down. Hesaid he would undertake it, but demanded so high a fee, including athousand dollars for his wife if he was drowned, that his offer wasrefused. Yet it was well worth almost any money, for it would have beena very hazardous undertaking--as bad as, or even worse than, the _Maidof the Mist_ going through the rapids below Niagara. 

A TALK WITH KRUGER

It was a warm day in the end of September 1898 when I put my foot inPretoria. There was an air of lassitude about the town. President Steyn, of the Orange Free State, had been and gone, and the triumphal archstill cried "Wilkom" across Church Square. The two Boer States hadratified their secret understanding, and many Boers looked on the archas a prophecy of victory. Perhaps by now those who were accustomed tomeet in the Raadsaal close by are not so sure that heaven-enlightenedwisdom brought about the compact. As for myself, I thought little enoughof the matter then, for Pretoria seemed curiously familiar to me, thoughI had never been there, and had never so much as seen a photograph of ituntil I saw one in Johannesburg. For some time I could not understandwhy it seemed familiar. It is true that it had some resemblance to atenth-rate American town in which the Australian gum-trees had beenacclimatised, as they have been in some malarious spots in California. And in places I seemed to recall Americanised Honolulu. Yet it was notthis which made me feel I knew Pretoria. It was something in the aspectof the people, something in the air of the men, combined doubtless withtopographical reminiscence. And when I came to my hotel and had settleddown, I began to see why I knew it. The whole atmosphere of the cityreeked of the very beginnings of finance. It was the haunt of theconcession-monger; of the lobbyist; of the men who wanted something. These I had seen before in some American State capitals; the anxiousface of the concession-hunter had a family likeness to the man ofLombard Street: the obsession of the gold-seeker was visible on everyother face I looked at. 

In the hotels they sat in rows: some were silent, some talked anxiously, some were in spirits and spoke with cheerfulness. It pleased my solitaryfancy to label them. These had got their concessions, they were goingaway; these still hoped strongly, and were going to-morrow andto-morrow; these still held on, and were going later; these again hadceased to hope, but still stayed as a sickened miner will hang round aplayed-out claim. They were all gamblers, and his Honour the Presidentwas the Professional Gambler who kept the House, who dealt the cards, and too often (as they thought) "raked in the pot, " or took his heavycommission. And I had nothing to ask for; all I wanted was to see thetables if I could, and have a talk with him who kept them. 

The President is an accessible man. He does not hide behind his dignity:he affects a patriarchal simplicity, and is ever ready to receive hisown people or the stranger within his gates. His unaffected affectationis to be a simpleton of character: he tells all alike that he is asimple old man, and expects everyone to chuckle at the transparentabsurdity of the notion. Was it possible, then, for me to see him andhave a talk with him? I was told to apply to a well-known Pretorianjournalist. As I was also a journalist of sorts, and not wholly unknown, it was highly probable he would assist me in my desire not to leavePretoria without seeing the Father of his people. But my informantadded: "The President will say nothing--he can say nothing in very fewwords. If you want him to talk, say 'Rhodes. '" I thanked my new hotelacquaintance and and said I would say "Rhodes" if it seemed necessary. And next afternoon I walked down Church Street with the journalist W----and came to the President's house. We had an appointment, and afterwaiting half-an-hour in the _stoep_ with four or five typical and silentBoers, Mr Kruger came out in company with a notorious Pretorianfinancier, for whom I suppose the poor President, who is hardly worthmore than a million or so, had taken one of his simple-hearted fancies. And then I was introduced to his Honour, and we sat down opposite toeach other. By the President's side, and on his right hand, sat W----, who was to interpret my barbarous English into the elegant _taal_. 

If few of our caricaturists have done Mr Kruger justice, they haveseldom been entirely unjust. He is heavy and ungainly, and though hisface is strong it is utterly uncultivated. He wears dark spectacles, andsmokes a long pipe, and uses a great spittoon, and in using it does notalways attain that accuracy of marksmanship supposed to becharacteristic of the Boer. His whiskers are untrimmed, his hands arenot quite clean; his clothes were probably never intended to fit him. And yet, in spite of everything, he has some of that dignity which comesfrom strength and a long habit of getting his own way. But the dignityis not the dignity of the statesman, it is that dignity which issometimes seen under the _blouse_ of an old French peasant who stillremains the head of the family though his hands are past work. I feltface to face with the past as I sat opposite him. So might I have felthad I sat in the kraal of Moshesh or Lobengula or the great Msiligazi. Though the city about me was a modern city, and though quick-firerscrowned its heights, here before me was something that was passing away. But I considered my audience, and told the President and his listeningBoers that I was glad to meet a man who had stood up against the BritishEmpire without fear. And he replied, as he puffed at his pipe, that hehad doubtless only done so because he was a simpleton. And the Boerschuckled at their President's favourite joke. He added that if he hadbeen a wise man of forethought he would probably have never done it. Andso far perhaps he was right. All rulers of any strength have to relyrather on instinct than on the wisdom of the intellect. 

Then we talked about Johannesburg, and the President puffed smokeagainst the capitalists, and led me to infer that he considered them avery scandalous lot, against whom he was struggling in the interests ofthe shareholders. I disclaimed any sympathy with capitalists, anddeclared that I was theoretically a Socialist. The President grunted, but when I added that he might, so far as I cared, act the Nero and cutoff all the financial heads at one blow, he and his countrymen laughedat a conceit which evidently appealed to them. But his Honour relapsedagain into a grunt when I inquired what he considered must be the upshotof the agitation. On pressing him, he replied that he was not a prophet. I tried to draw him on the loyalty of the Cape Dutch by saying that theyhad even more reason to be loyal than the English, seeing that ifEngland were ousted from the Continent the Germans would come in; but heevaded the question at issue by asserting that if the Cape Dutchintrigued against the Queen he would neither aid nor countenance them. Then, as the conversation seemed in danger of languishing, I did what Ihad been told to do and mentioned Rhodes. 

It was odd to observe the instant change in the President's demeanour. He lost his stolidity, and became voluble and emphatic. Rhodes wasevidently his sore point; and he abused him with fervour and withemphasis. All trouble in this wicked world was due to Rhodes; if Rhodeshad not been born, or had had the grace to die very early, South Africawould have been little less than a Paradise. Rhodes was a bad man, whosechief aim was to drag the English flag in the dirt. Rhodes was Apollyonand a financier, and the foul fiend himself. And as the old man workedhimself into a spluttering rage, he emphasised every point in hisdeclamation by a furious slap, not on his own knee, but on the knee ofthe journalist who was interpreting for me. Every time that heavy handcame down I saw poor W---- wince; he was shaken to his foundations. Buthe endured the punishment like a martyr, and said nothing. I dropped iceinto the President's boiling mind by asking him if he thought it wouldremove danger from the situation if Mr Rhodes and Mr Chamberlain wereeffectually muzzled by the Imperial Government. His peasant-like cautioninstantly returned; he smoked steadily for a minute, and then declaredhe would say nothing on that point. It was not necessary; he had showed, without the shadow of a doubt, that he was an old man who was, in asense, insane on one point. Rhodes was his fixed pathological idea. ThisTenterden steeple was the cause of the revolutionary Goodwin Sands. 

As a last question about the Cape Dutch, I asked if, when he declared hewould not aid them against the Queen, he would act against them; hereplied denying in general terms the right to revolt. I said, "But theright of revolution is the final safeguard of liberty"; and his Honourdid nothing but grunt. From his point of view he could neither deny noraffirm this safely, and so our interview came to an end. 

TROUT FISHING IN BRITISH COLUMBIA AND CALIFORNIA

At that time I acknowledge that trout-fishing as a real art I knewnothing of; whipping English waters had been almost entirely denied me, and with the exception of a week on a river near Oswestry, and a day inCornwall, I had never thrown a fly over a pool where a trout mightreasonably be supposed to exist. But in British Columbia I used to catchthem in quantities and with an ease unknown to Englishmen. I am told (byan expert) that using a grasshopper as a bait is no better thanpoaching, and that I might as well take to the nefarious "white line, "or _Cocculus indicus_. That may be so according to the deeper ethics ofthe sport, but I am inclined to think many men would have no desire tofish at all after going through the preliminary task of filling a smalltin can with those lively insects. 

Owing to the fact that I was working for my living on a ranch at CherryCreek, I had no chance of fishing on week-days, but on Sundays, afterbreakfast, I used to take my primitive willow rod from the roof, whereit had been for six days, see that the ten or twelve feet of string wasas sound at least as my frayed yard of gut, examine my hook, and thenstart hunting grasshoppers. That meant a deal of violent exercise, especially if the wind was blowing, for they fly down it or are drivendown it with sufficient velocity to make a man run. Moreover, near theranche they were mostly of a very surprising alertness, owing, doubtless, to the fact that the fowls, in their eagerness to supportDarwin's theory of natural selection, soon picked up the slow and lazyones. But after an hour's hard work I usually got some fifty or so, andthat would last for a whole day, or at anyrate for a whole afternoon. Then I went to the creek, fishing up it and down it with a democraticdisregard of authority. 

Cherry Creek was only a small stream; here and there it rattled overrocks, and stayed in a deep pool. Now and again it ran as fast as thewater in a narrow flume; and then the banks grew canyon-like for fiftyyards. But for almost the whole of its length it went through densebrush, so dense in parts that it defied anyone but a bear to get throughit. But when I did reach a secluded pool and manage to thrust my rod outover the water and slowly unwind my bait, I was almost always rewardedby a lively mountain trout as long as my hand, for they never ran oversix inches. The grasshopper was absolutely deadly; no fish seemed ableto resist it, and sometimes in ten minutes I took six, or even ten, outof a pool as big as an ordinary dining-room table. The fact of thematter is that the greatest difficulty lay in getting to the water. WhenI fished up stream into the narrow gorge through which the creek ran, Ioften walked four or five miles before I got the small tin bucket, whichwas my creel, half full; yet I knew that if I could have really fishedfive hundred yards of it I might have gone home with a full catch. 

But it was not so much the fishing as the strange solitude, the thick, lonely brush, that made such excursions pleasant. Every now and again Icame to a spur of the mountains, and climbed up into the open and layamong the red barked bull-pines. If I went a little higher I couldcatch sight of the dun-coloured hills which ran down, as I knew, to thewaters of Kamloops Lake, only five miles distant. If I felt hungry, Icould easily light a fire and broil the trout; with a bit of bread, carried in my pocket, and a draught from a spring or the creek itself, Imade a hearty meal. And all day long I saw no human being. Every now andagain I might come across a half-wild bullock or a wilder horse, or seethe track of a wolf, but that was all, save the song of the birds, thewind among the trees, and the ceaseless murmurs of the creek. In theevening I made my way back in time to give the cook what I had caught. 

In California I used to fish in the small creek running at the back ofLos Guilucos Ranch, Sonoma County, and, though the trout were by nomeans so plentiful there as in British Columbia, I often caught two orthree dozen in the afternoon. But there I had to use worms, and theyseemed far less attractive than the soft, sweet body of the grasshopper. Yet once I caught a very large fish for that part of the country. He wasevidently a fish with a history, as I caught him in a big tank sunk inthe earth, which supplied the ranch, and was itself supplied by a longflume. As I went home past this tank one day I carelessly dropped thebait in, and it was instantly seized by a trout I knew to be larger thanI had yet hooked. But, though he was big, he had very little chance. Thesmooth sides of the tank afforded him no hole to rush for, and, after ashort struggle, I hauled him out. My only fear was that my rotten linewould part, for he weighed almost a pound, and I was accustomed to fishof less than seven ounces. 

I often wondered in British Columbia why so few people fished. In someof the creeks running into the Fraser River, near Yale, I have seensplendid trout of two or three pounds; there would be a dozen in sightat once very often. They always seemed in good condition, too, which wasmore than could be said for the salmon, for those were half of them verywhite with the fungus, as one could easily see on the Kamloops orShushwap Lakes from the bows of the steamer if the water was smooth. 

Perhaps the reason there are no trout-fishers out there is that thosewho care sufficiently for any kind of sport find it more to their tasteto hunt deer, bear or cariboo. When these have disappeared, as theymust, seeing the ruthless manner in which they are slaughtered, many maybe glad to take to the milder and less ferocious trout. The countrycertainly affords very good fishing, and the spring and summer climateis perfect. If it were only a little nearer they might be properlyeducated, until they were far too wary to fall into the simple trapslaid for them by a man who fished with a piece of string and carried abucket for a creel. It may have been my brutal ignorance of tying flies, but when I tried them with what I could furbish up, they seemed toresent the thing as an insult. So there seems some hope of their beingcapable of instruction. 

ROUND THE WORLD IN HASTE

When I went to New York in the spring I meant going on farther whether Icould or not. Australia and home again was in my mind, and in New Yorkslang I swore there should be "blood on the face of the moon" if I didnot get through inside of four months. Now this is not record time byany means, and it is not difficult to do it in much less, provided onespends enough money; but I was at that time in no position to slingdollars about, and, besides, I wanted some of the English rust knockedoff me. Living in England ends in making a man poor of resource. Ihardly know an ordinary Londoner who would not shiver at the notion ofbeing "dead broke" in any foreign city, to say nothing of one on theother side of the world; and though it is not a pleasant experience ithas some charms and many uses. It wakes a man up, shows him the realworld again, and makes him know his own value once more. So I startedfor New York in rather a devil-may-care spirit, without the slightestchance of doing the business in comfort. And my misfortunes began atonce in that city. 

To save time and money I went in the first quick vessel thatcrossed--the _Lucania_; and I went second-class. It was an experience torun twenty-two knots an hour; but it has made me greedy since. I want todo any future journeys in a torpedo-boat. As to the second-class crowd, they were, as they always are on board Western ocean boats, a set ofhogs. The difference between first and second-class passengers is one ofknowing when and where to spit, to put no fine point on it. I was gladwhen we reached New York on that account. 

I meant to stay there three days, but my business took me a fortnight, and money flowed like water. It soaked up dollars like a new gold mine, and I saw what I meant for the Eastern journey sink like water in sand. But I had to get to San Francisco. I took that journey in sections. Allmy trouble in New York was to get across the continent. I let thePacific take care of itself, being sure I could conquer that difficultywhen the time came. I recommend this frame of mind to all travellers. Iacquired the habit myself in the United States when I jumped trainsinstead of paying my fare. It is most useful to think of no more thanthe matter in hand, for then we can use one's whole faculties at onetime. Too much forethought is fatal to progress, and if I had reallyconsidered difficulties I could have stayed in England and written astory instead, a most loathsome _pis aller_. 

I do not mean to say that I was without money. All I do mean is that Ihad less than half that I should have had, unless I meant to cross thecontinent as a tramp in a "side-door Pullman, " as the trampingfraternity call a box car, and the Pacific in the steerage. As a matterof fact, I proposed to do neither. I wanted a free pass over one of theAmerican railroads, and if there had been time I should have got it. Itackled the agents, and "struck" them for a pass. I assured them that Iwas a person of illimitable influence, and that if I rode over theirsystem, and simply mentioned the fact casually on my return, all Europewould follow me. I insinuated that their traffic returns would rise toheights unheard of: that their rivals would smash and go into the handsof receivers. It was indeed a beautiful, beautiful game, and remindedone of poker, but the railroad birds sat on the bough, and wouldn'tcome down. They are not so easy as they used to be, and I had so littletime to work it. Then the last of the cheap trains to the San FranciscoMidwater Fair were running, and if I played too long for a pass and goteuchred after all, I should have to pay ninety dollars instead offorty-five. Then I should be the very sickest sort of traveller thatever was. In the end I bought a cheap ticket on the very last cheaptrain. By the very next post I got a pass over one of the lines. It mademe very mad, and if I had been wise I should have sold it. I am veryglad to say I withstood the temptation, and kept the pass as a warningnot to hurry in future. I started out of New York with twenty-two poundsin my pocket. For I had found a beautiful, trustful New Yorker, whocashed me a cheque for fifteen pounds with a child-like and simple faithwhich was not unrewarded in the end. 

My affairs stood thus. I had to stay in San Francisco for a fortnighttill the next steamer, and as I have said even a steerage fare to Sydneywas twenty pounds. I had two pounds to see me through thetranscontinental journey of nearly five days and the time in the city ofthe Pacific slope. I looked for hard times and some rustling to getthrough it all. I had to rustle. 

As a beginning of hard times I could not afford to take a sleeper. I wason the fast West-bound express, and the emigrant sleepers are on theslow train, which takes nearly two days more. The high-toned Pullman wasquite beyond me, so I stuck to the ordinary cars and put in a mightyrough time. After twenty-four hours of the Lehigh Valley Road, whichruns into Canada, I came to Chicago. There I had to do a shift from onestation to another, and after half-an-hour's jolting I was landed at thedepôt of the Chicago and North-Western Railroad. I hated Chicago always;I had starved in it once, and slept in a box car in the old days. Andnow I didn't love it. I tried to get a wash at the station, for I waslike a buried city with dust and cinders. 

"There used to be a wash-place here a year or two back, " said a friendlyporter, "but it didn't pay and was abolished. "

Of course they only cared about the money. The comfort of passengersmattered little. This porter took me down into a rat-and-beetle-hauntedbasement, and gave me soap and a clean towel. I sluiced off the mud, anddiscovered somebody underneath that at anyrate reminded me of myself, and hunted for the porter to hand him twenty-five cents. But he hadgone, and the train was ready. I had to save the money and run. 

From thence on I had no good sleep. I huddled up in the narrow seatswith no room to stretch or lie down. Once I tried to take up thecushions and put them crossways, but I found them fixed, and theconductor grinned. 

"You can't do it now; they're fixed different, " he said. 

So I grunted, and was twisted and racked and contorted. In the morning Iknew well that I was no longer twenty-five. Twelve years ago it wouldn'thave mattered, I could have hung it out on a fence rail, but when onenears forty one tries a bit after ordinary comforts, and pays for such aracket in aches and pains, and a temper with a wire edge on it. But Ichummed in after Ogden with a young school ma'am from Wisconsin who wasgoing out to Los Angeles, and we had quite a good time. She assured me Imust be lying when I said I was an Englishman, because I did not drop myH's. All the Englishmen she ever met had apparently known as much aboutthe aspirate as the later Greeks did of the Digamma. This cheered me upgreatly, and we were firm friends. In fact, I woke up in the Sierrasand found her fast asleep with her head on my shoulder. It was an oddpicture that swaying car at midnight in the lofty hills. Most of thepassengers were sleeping uneasily in constrained attitudes, but some satat the open windows staring at the moon-lit mountains and forests. Thedull oil lights in the car were dim, so dim that I could see whitesleeping faces hanging over the seats disconnected from any discoverablebody. Some looked like death masks, and then next to them would be theelevated feet of some far-stretching person who had tried all ways forease. It was a blessing to come to the divide and run down into thedaylight and the plains. Yet even there, there was something ghastlywith us. At Reno a young fellow, trying to beat his way, had jumped forthe brake-beam under our car and been cut to pieces. He died silently, and few knew it. I was glad to get to San Francisco. I went to athird-class hotel on Ellis Street, and had a bath, which I most sorelyneeded. I went out to inspect the city. 

It looked the same as when I knew it, and yet it was altered. Thegigantic architectural horrors of New York and Chicago had leapt to thePacific, and here and there ten or twelve-storied buildings thrust theirmonotonous ugliness into the sky. 

In this city I had starved for three solid months, picking up a mealwhere I could find it. I had been without a bed for three weeks. I hadshared begged food with beggars. Now I came back to it under fardifferent circumstances. I walked in the afternoon to some of my oldhaunts, and, coming to the hideous den of a common lodging-house where Ihad once lived, my flesh crept. I remembered that once the agent for adirectory had put down "Charles Roberts, labourer, " as living there andI tried to get back into my old skin. For a while I succeeded, but theexperiment was horrible, and I was glad to drop the dead past and leavethe grimy water front where I had looked and looked in vain for work. 

For a week I stayed in San Francisco. Then I had an experience whichfalls to few men, for I went to stay as a visitor at Los Guilucos, whereI had once been a stableman. The situation was interesting, for therewere still many men in the ranch who had worked with me; even theChinese cook was there. In the old days he had often appealed to me formore wood to give his devouring dragon of a stove. But things werealtered now. On the first morning of my stay I saw the wood pile, andcould not help taking my coat off and lighting into it with the axe. TheChinaman came running out with uplifted hands. 

"Oh, Mr Loberts, Mr Loberts, you no splittee me wood, you too much wellykind gentleman, you no splittee me wood!"

So things change, but I split him a barrow load all the same. 

I was sorry to leave the ranch and go back to San Francisco, where ninemen out of ten in all degrees of society are much too disagreeable forwords. The only really decent fellows I met there were a Frenchman and ayoung mining engineer named Brandt, son of Dr Brandt, at Royat, who wasonce R. L. Stevenson's physician; and above all an Irish surveyor andarchitect, the most charming and genial of men. The Californiansthemselves are less worth knowing as they appear to have money; themoment they begin to fancy themselves a cut above the vulgar, theirvulgarity is their chief feature, stupendous as the Rocky Mountains, asobvious as the Grand Duke of Johannisberg's nose. But I had other thingsto think of than the social parodies of the Slope. 

I found at the Poste Restante a letter from my agent, which was a frankstatement of misfortune and ill-luck. There was not a red cent in it, and I had only a hundred dollars left. This was just enough to pay mysteerage fare to Sydney, but I had still some days to put in and therewas my hotel bill. I concluded I had to make money somehow. I tried oneof the papers, but though the editor willingly agreed to accept a longarticle from me, dealing with my old life in San Francisco from my newstandpoint, his best scale of pay was so poor that I frankly declined towet a pen for it. Journalistic rates in the East seem about three timesas high as in the West. 

I went to a man in the town who was under considerable obligations to mefor holding my tongue about a certain transaction, and asked him to casha cheque for a hundred dollars. He refused point-blank. I neverregretted so in my life that there are things one can't do and stillretain one's self-respect. I could, I know, have sold some informationto his greatest enemy for a very considerable sum. I was, indeed, approached on the point. However, I couldn't do it, worse luck, so Iwashed my hands of this gentleman, and went to a comparatively poor man, who helped me over the fence. Even if I had no luck I could still gosteerage. But I meant going first-class. And I did. If I had put up myante I meant staying with the game. 

For a day after my agent's letter came a letter from a shipping friendin Liverpool. I had been "previous" enough to write him from New Yorkfor a good introduction in San Francisco. He sent me a letter to an oldfriend of his who occupied a pretty important post in the city, one asimportant, let us say, as that of a Chief of Customs. I laughed when Isaw the letter, for I knew if I could make myself solid with thisgentleman I had the San Franciscan folks where their hair was short. It's a case of give or take there, sell or be sold, commercial honestyis good as long as it pays. I whistled and sang, and took a cocktail onthe strength of it. 

In these little commonplace adventures I had some luck. That I havewritten many articles on steamships has often helped me in travel, andit helped me now. It was an unexpected stroke of fortune that thegentleman to whom I took the letter was not only an extremely good sort, but when I learnt that he knew my name, and had seen some of my work, Ifound it was all right. I was not only all right, for inside of an hourI had a first-class ticket to Sydney, with a deck cabin thrown in, forthe very reasonable sum of one hundred dollars. I have a suspicion thatI might have got it for less, but I have found it a good business rulenever to lose a good thing by trying for a better. I had accommodationequal to two hundred and twenty-five dollars. Of course, I regretted Idare not ask them one hundred dollars for condescending to go in theirboat. If I had been full of money I might have tried it. However, I wasquite happy and satisfied. That I might land in Sydney with nothing didnot trouble me. Three days after I went on board the steamer, and wasseen off by my friend the Irishman and one other. 

I had never sailed on the Pacific, or at least that part of it, before, and its wonders were strange to me. I had not seen coral islands, norcocoanuts growing. It grieved me that I could not afford to stay inHonolulu and visit Kilauea. I only remained some hours, which I spent inprowling about the town, which is like a tenth-rate city in America. Andthe business American has his claw into it for good. The Hawaiians, intruth, seem to care little. They go blithely in the streets crowned andgarlanded with flowers, and even the leprosy that strikes one now andagain with worse than living death seems far away. 

On board the _Monowai_, most comfortable of ships, commanded by CaptainCarey, best of skippers, life was easy and delightful. Our one romancewas between San Francisco and the Islands, for an individual, with mostincredible cheek, managed to go first-class from California almost toHonolulu without a ticket. Two days from the Islands he was bowled out, and set to shovel coals. We left him in gaol at Honolulu, and steamedsouth of Samoa. 

It was good to be at last in the tropics, deep into them, and to wearwhite all day and feel the heat tempered by the Trades. We played gamesand sang and lazed and loafed, and life had no troubles. Why should Ithink of future difficulties when there were none at hand, and theweather was lovely? We ran at last into Apia, the harbour of Upolu, theisland where the late Robert Louis Stevenson lived. I rushed ashore, methim, spent three more than pleasant hours with him, and away again roundthe island reefs with our noses pointed for Auckland. 

Some of our passengers had left us at Honolulu, others dropped off atSamoa, but after Auckland, when the weather grew quite cold, we were athin little band, and our spirits oozed away. We could not keep thingslively, the decks seemed empty, I was glad to run into Sydney harbour. Ifound I had just enough money to get to Melbourne if I went at once, soI caught the mail train and soon smelt the Australian bush that I hadleft in 1878. On reaching Melbourne at mid-day I had fifteen shillingsleft. Dumping my baggage at the station, I hunted up my chief friend, ajournalist. The very first thing he handed me was a cablegram demandingmy instant return to England. My rage can be imagined; it would takestrong language to describe it, for I had meant to stay in Australia fora year, and write a book about it from another standpoint than _LandTravel and Seafaring_. 

I hadn't even enough money to live anywhere. I couldn't cable for any, for if my instructions had been obeyed, all available cash was now onits way to me, when I couldn't wait for it. I talked it over with myfriend. 

"Have you no money?" I asked, but then I knew he had none. 

"Nobody has any money in Australia, " he answered. "If it is known youhave a sovereign in cash you will be pestered in Collins Square bymillionaires, whose wealth is locked up in moribund banks, for merehalf-crowns as a temporary accommodation. "

I pondered a while. 

"I have a plan whereby we may get a trifle in the meantime. You canwrite a long interview with me and I will take the money. Sit down anddon't move. "

He remonstrated feebly. 

"My dear fellow, why not do it yourself?"

"It would be taking a mean advantage of other writers, " I said. "Besides, I'm in no mood to write. "

Overcome by my generosity, he at last wrote a column and a half. I shallalways treasure that interview, for when he tired I dictated some of itmyself. The only thing I really objected to was his determination not tolet me say what I meant to say about the Australian financial outlook. Under the circumstance of the failure of credit, the matter touched medeeply, and was a personal grievance. But he persisted that if I weretoo pessimistic the article would never see type, and I couldn't havethe money. I gave way, and condescended to have hopes about Australia. But even when I got his cheque I was not much further forward. 

I went to my banker's agents and asked them to cash a cheque. Would Ipay for a cable home and out? No I would not, because I didn't knowwhether my account was overdrawn or not. All I knew was that if theywould cash a cheque I would telegraph from Port Said or Naples and seeit was met. So that failed. I tried Cook's, who had cashed cheques forme on the Continent. They also spoke of cabling. I explained matters, but they had no faith. Nobody had. 

I began to think I would have to work my passage, for I was determinedto get away inside of two weeks or perish. I looked up the vessels inport in case I might know some of them. They were all strangers. In suchcases, unless one is in a hurry such as I was, for my return was urgent, it is best to tackle some cargo boat. It is often possible to get apassage for a quarter the mail-boat fare, for the tramp steamer'scaptain looks on the fare as his own and never mentions passengers tothe owner. But I couldn't wait for a good old tramp, and at last, indespair, my friend and a friend of his and I clubbed everything togetherthat was valuable and raised a fare to Naples on the proceeds. I leftMelbourne after ten days' stay there. We lay at Adelaide two days, andgot to Albany in a howling gale of wind. Leaving it we got a worsesnorter round Cape Leeuwin. But after that things improved till wecaught the south-west monsoon, which blew half a gale, and was like thebreath of a furnace. We reached Colombo, and I had no money to spend. Iraised five pounds on a cheque with the steward and spent the whole ofit in rickshaws and carriages. I saw what one could in the time, for Ibreakfasted at one place, lunched at another, dined at a third. I meanone of these days to spend a week or two at the Galle Face Hotel, Colombo. At Mount Lavinia I got the one dinner of my life. I cordiallyrecommend the cooking. 

We ran to Cape Guardafui in a gale, a sticky hot gale which made lifeunendurable. The Red Sea was a relief and not too hot, but how we pitiedthe poor devils quartered at Perim, and the lighthouses seen at the TwoBrothers. I would as soon camp for ever on the lee side of Tophet. Butmy first trip through the Canal was charming. At night, when thevessel's search-light threw its glare on the banks, the white sandlooked like snow-drifts. In the day the far-off deserts were a dream ofred sands, and red sand mingled with the horizon. At last we came to theMediterranean and I landed at Naples. The driver of my carrozzella tookmy last money, so I put up at a good hotel and wired to England at thehotel-keeper's expense. I went overland to London, and was back there infour days under four months from the time I started from New York. 

There are scores of people--I meet them every day--who are in a constantstate of yearn to do a bit of travelling. They say they envy me. But itis not money they want, it is courage. It will interest some of them toknow what it can be done for. I will put down what it usually costs. Afirst-class ticket from London _viâ_ New York, San Francisco, Sydney, Melbourne, Colombo, the Suez, Naples, Gibraltar and Plymouth will run to£125, without including the cost of sleeping-car accommodation and foodin the American trans-continental journey. If he stays anywhere it is amighty knowing and economical traveller who gets off under £200 or £250by the time he turns up in London. 

Now as to what it cost me when I meant doing it moderately. It cost £8to New York. Owing to business in New York I stayed there a fortnight, and it cost me $4 a day, say £11. The journey to San Francisco ran to£12 including provisions. The Pacific voyage was £22 in all. The farefrom Sydney to Melbourne for ocean passengers is £2. 1s. 6d. To Naples Ipaid £32. Another £12 brought me to London. This runs up to £99. 

If I had not been in a hurry I could have done the homeward part forless. If I had been twenty-five I would have gone steerage. But withtime to spare for looking up a tramp I might have easily got to Londonas the only passenger for £20. If I had not stayed in New York and hadhad the time I could have cut expenses to £70. 

But any young man, writer or not, who wants to see a bit of the world, can do it on that if he has the grit to rough it. He can cut theAtlantic journey to £3, and learn some things he never knew while doingit. I can put anyone up to crossing America for £15 at any time. But ifhe spends £20 he can see Niagara, the work of God, and Chicago, the_chef d'oeuvre_ of the Devil. The Pacific can be done for £20steerage; and he can stay in Australia a month for £10, and a year for£20 if he knows what I know. The steerage fare home is £16. I fancy itwould be the best investment that any young fellow could make. He wouldlearn more of what life is than the world of London would teach him inthe ordinary grooves in ten years. 

BLUE JAYS AND ALMONDS

On Los Guilucos Ranch, Sonoma County, California, where I worked for sixmonths in 1886, there was a very large orchard. I know how large it wason account of having to do much too much work with the apricots, plumsand cherries; and day by day, as one fruit or the other ripened, Icursed the capable climate of the Pacific slope, which produced solargely. Fortunately, however, the lady who owned the ranch did nottrouble her head greatly about the almonds, of which we had a very finedouble avenue. For one thing, the crop in 1886 was not very heavy, andthere was no great price to be got at any time. I and the Italianvine-dressers (there were some eight or nine of them) always hadsufficient to fill our pockets with, and that without the labour ofpicking them up. We reserved the avenues themselves for Sunday, andcracked the fallen fruit with two stones as we sat on the ground; butfor solid consumption, not mere dessert, we went elsewhere. I remembermy astonishment when I discovered in what manner my companions suppliedthemselves. One day, while standing by the gate which led from thestableyard, an Italian, with the romantic name of Luigi Zanoni, remarkedsuddenly that he would like some almonds. He looked up at the treeoverhead, which was an old oak with gnarled limbs, here and there brokenand rotting. "Not out of an oak tree, " I laughed; and then Luigi went tothe wood pile and brought my sharpest axe back with him. He jumped onthe fence, then into the tree, and in a moment was over my head on a biglimb. Seeing him there, two or three other Italians came up. Zanoniwalked about the level branches, tapping with the back of the axe. Presently he stopped, and began cutting into the tree vigorously. Justthere it was apparently hollow, for with five or six blows he struck outa big bit of shell-like bark and let fall a tremendous shower ofalmonds. Then he sat down, and, putting his hand into the hollow, rakedthem out wholesale. Probably he scattered two gallons on the ground, for while we scrambled for them they were falling in a shower. Henceforth I, too, could find almonds, and I prospected everylikely-looking oak or madrona within three hundred yards of theavenue--sometimes with great success, sometimes with none. It was quiteas fluky as gold mining or honey hunting. 

Of course birds had made these stores; probably the jays and magpies, who yet retained an instinct which had become useless. With the equableclimate and mild open winters of Central California, no bird need storeup food; and this was shown by the great accumulations which had neverbeen touched. Moreover, nuts were often put in holes that wereinaccessible to so large a bird as a jay. So necessity has nevercorrected the failings of instinct by making a jay wonder, in the depthsof winter, why he had been fool enough to drop his savings into a bankwith the conscience of an ill-regulated automatic machine, which takeseverything and gives nothing back. If he had really needed the almonds, they would have been put in an accessible spot. Though this perhaps is ascientific view, I must acknowledge that we were grateful to the birdswho stored them for us, and, by making fools of themselves, gave us theopportunity of gathering, if not grapes from thistles, at least almondsfrom oaks. 

Although I do not remember having seen any instances in California ofthe woodpecker which bores holes in trees and then neatly fits an acornin, I have serious doubts as to the likelihood of the explanationcommonly given. It is said the woodpeckers do it to encouragegrubs--that they thus make a kind of grub farm. If so, why do they leavethese acorns in? They do not perpetually renew them. Besides, there isno more need for them to trouble about the future than there is for thejays who made our almond stores. If I may venture to suggest anexplanation--to make a guess, perhaps a wild one, at this acornmystery--is it altogether impossible that the woodpeckers have imitatedthe jays? I have noticed that the jays get careless as to the size oraccessibility of the hole they drop provisions into--indeed they willplace them sometimes in little more than a rugosity or wrinkle of thebark. I have often found odd almonds on an oak tree which were only laidon the branch. The woodpeckers have probably mimicked the jays, and inso doing have naturally endeavoured to make the holes they hadthemselves drilled for other purposes serve them the same turn that thebigger holes did the jays. They have joined their work with play. Itmust be remembered that in a climate like California, where birds findit very easy to make a living all the year round, they are likely tohave much time at their disposal, which would be occupied in a colder, less fruitful district. I should not be surprised to learn that therewere many odd examples of useless instincts still surviving on thePacific slope; for doubtless many of its birds found their way therefrom the east over the Rockies and Sierra Nevada. 

IN CORSICA

Once, no doubt, Corsica was a savage, untamed, untrimmed kind ofcountry, and a man's life was little safer than it is to-day in theneighbouring island of Sardinia. There were brigands and bandits andfamilies engaged in the private warfare of the vendetta, so that thingswere as lively and exciting as they get in parts of Virginia at times. Killing was certainly no murder, and even yet the vendetta flourishes tosome extent. There is nothing harder than to get a high-spiritedsouthern population ready to acknowledge the majesty of the law. Theattitude of the inland Corsican, even to this day, is that of a youngEast-Ender whom I knew. When he was asked to give evidence against hisparticular enemy, he replied, "But if I do, they'll jug him, and I won'tbe able to get even with him. " He preferred handling the man himself. 

Yet nowadays Corsica has greatly changed from what it was in Paoli'stime. French justice is a fairly good brand of justice after all. Themagistrates administer the law, and the system of military roads allover the island makes it easy for the police to get about. When acriminal gets away from them he has to take to the hills and to keepthere. It is such solitary fugitives who still give the stranger anotion that the country is essentially criminal. But he is a bandit, nota brigand. He may rob, but he does not kidnap. His idea of ransom iswhat is in a man's pockets, not what his Government will pay to preventhaving his throat cut. After all, there is such a thing in England ashighway robbery, and in Corsica robbery is usually without violence. Ifa bandit is treated as a gentleman he will be polite, even though hepoints a gun at a visitor's stomach and requests him to hand over all hehappens to have about him. 

I went to Corsica from Leghorn with a friend of mine who knew no more ofthe island than I did. We landed at Bastia, where, by the way, Nelsonalso landed and was severely repulsed, and found the town one of themost barren and uninviting places in the world. It is hot, glaring, sandy, stony, sun-burnt, a most unpleasing introduction to one of themost beautiful and interesting islands in the Mediterranean, or, forthat matter, in the world. For the island is fertile and is yet barren;it is mountainous and has great stretches of plain in it along theeastern shore. Though it is but fifty miles across and little more thana hundred long, there is a real range of rugged high mountains in it, two of them, Monte Cinto and Monte Rotondo, being nearly 9000 feet high, while three others, Pagliorba, Padre and d'Oro are over 7000 feet. Therocks of these ranges are primary and metamorphic, and the scenery isbold. Yet it is kindly and gracious for the forests are thick. On thepeaks, and in the recesses of the loftier forests, a wild black sheep, the mufflon, can still be hunted. And the tumbling streams and riversare full of trout. There are few better trout streams in Europe than theGolo, which runs into the sea on the east coast through a big salt-waterlagoon called Biguglia. When I saw it the stream was in fine order, andI longed to get out of the train to throw a fly upon it. For the islandis now so civilised that a railway runs from Bastia across the summit ofthe island by the towns of Corte and Vivario down to Ajaccio. But when Iand my friend were there the train only ran to Corte. We had to drivefrom there across the summit to Vivario, whither the rail had reached, in the western slope of the hills. Corte sits queen-like on the summitof the island, and is quiet and ancient. Yet some day it will be, likeOrezza with its strong iron waters, a health resort. The French go moreand more to Corsica, and the intruding English have what is practicallyan English hotel at Ajaccio. There is another in the forests ofVizzavona. 

It is a quick descent from the summit to Ajaccio, which lies smiling inits gulf, that is somewhat like one of the deep indentations of PugetSound. We stayed there for a week and during that time took a_diligence_ and went up to Vico. It was on this little forty-milejourney among the hills that I saw most of Corsica's character. And atfirst it was curiously melancholy to me. As we drove inland we metnumbers of the peasants, men and women, and at first it seemed as if agreat epidemic must have devastated the country. Almost every woman wesaw was in black. But this comes from a habit that they have of wearingblack for three years after any of their relatives die. Even in ahealthy country (and the lowlands, or the _plage_ of Corsica, is nothealthy in summer) most families must lose a member in three years, andthus it happens that most of the women are in perpetual mourning. Thesolidarity of the family is great in Corsica. It must be or women wouldnot renounce their natural and beautiful dress to adorn themselves withcolours. It was curious to see at times some young girl not in mourning. I could not help thinking that she had an unfair advantage over herdarkly-dressed fellows. 

We came at last to Vico in the hills, and found it picturesque to thelast degree, and quite equally unsanitary. It was at once beautifullypicturesque and foully offensive. Nothing less than a tropicalthunderstorm could have cleansed it. But none of its inhabitants minded. They loafed about the deadly streams of filth and were quite unconsciousof anything disagreeable in the air. A Spanish village is purity itselfto such a place as Vico. But then the proud and haughty Corsicans objectto doing any work except upon their own fields. If an ordinance had beenpassed to cleanse Vico's streets and that dreadful main drain, itsstream from the hills, it would have been necessary to import Italiansto do it. For all hard labour outside mere tillage is done by them. Iwould willingly have employed a couple to clean up the little inn atwhich we stayed for the night. It would have been a public service. 

In the morning my friend and I started on a little walk to a villagehigher in the hills called Renno. We went up a good open road, cut hereand there through _le maquis_, the scrub or bush of Corsica. And as wewent we got a good view of many little mountain villages, which hang forthe most part on the slope of the hills, being neither in the valley noron the summit. We were high enough to be among the chestnuts; vineyardsthere were none. And at last we came to Renno, and found the villagerstaking a sad holiday. I spoke to them in bad Italian, and found that itseemed good Corsican to them, perhaps even classical Corsican, if therebe such a thing, and learnt that there had been a funeral of a littlechild that morning. They proposed to do no more work that day. Most ofthe men were loafing along a wall by their little inn, and they weresoon reinforced by many women. In a few minutes the village had almostforgotten the funeral in the excitement of seeing two strangers, foreigners, Englishmen. They told us that so far as they remember noforeigner, not even a Frenchman, had been there before. Their villagewas indeed lost to the world; they looked on Vico, evil-smelling Vico, as a great, fine town: Ajaccio was a distant and immense city. But noone from Renno had been there. It was indeed possible that most of theinhabitants had never seen the sea. There was something touching in thisquaint and simple isolation, and the men were simple too. I invited thewhole male population of the place to drink with me at the poor little_cabaret_. The drink they took (it was the only drink save some sourwine) was white brandy at ten centimes the glass. To make friends inthis time-honoured way with the whole village cost me less than twofrancs. And I had to use my "Corsican" freely to satisfy in some smallmeasure their curiosity about the world beyond _le maquis_, and beyondthe sea. They asked me how it was that I, a stranger and an Englishman, spoke Corsican. To this I replied that it was spoken, though doubtlessin a corrupt form, in the neighbouring mainland, Italy. And on hearingthis they chattered volubly, being greatly excited on the difficultpoint as to how Italians had learnt it. It is a small world, and most ofus are alike. Did not the lad from Pondicherry, the French settlement inHindustan, to whom I spoke in French, ask me how it was I spoke"Pondicherry?"

Corsica certainly has a character of its own; it resembles no otherisland that I know. It is fertile, and might be more fertile yet if itsnative inhabitants chose to work. But the Corsican is haughty andindolent, he does not care to work in his forests or to do a hand's turnoff his own family property. Even in that he grows no cereal crops tospeak of; it is easier to sit and watch the olive ripen and thevineyards colour their fruit. They rear horses and cattle, asses andmules, and sometimes hunt in the hills for pigs or goats, or the wildblack sheep. And even yet they hunt each other, for not even French lawand French police can eradicate revenge from the Corsican heart. Theyare a curious subtle people, not at all like the French or the Italians. And, to speak the truth, they have some more unamiable characteristicsthan these, which lead them to hereditary blood feuds. It is said, Iknow not with what accuracy, that most of the _mouchards_, or spies, andthe _agents provocateurs_ of the French police, are Corsican by birth. But certainly Corsica has produced more than these, since it was thebirthplace of Paoli and of Napoleon. 

ON THE MATTERHORN

Owing to my having read very little Alpine literature, I have seen butfew attempts to analyse the mental experiences of the novice who, forthe first time, ascends any of the higher peaks. And having read nothingupon the subject I was naturally curious, while I was at Zermatt thislast summer, as to what these experiences were. I may own frankly thatthe desire to find out had a great deal to do with my tryingmountaineering. A writer, and especially a writer of fiction, has, Ithink, one plain duty always before him. He ought to know, and cannotrefuse to learn, even at the cost of toil and trouble, all the ways ofthe human mind. And experience at second-hand can never be relied on. The average man is afraid of saying he was afraid. And the averageclimber is one who has long passed the interesting stage when he firstfaced the unknown. I was obviously a novice, and a green one, when Itried the Matterhorn. That I was such a novice is the only thing whichmakes me think my experience at all interesting from the psychologicalpoint of view. And to my mind that point of view is also the literaryone. 

On looking back I certainly believe I was very much afraid of themountains in general and of the Matterhorn in particular. It isdifficult, however, to say where fear begins and mere naturalnervousness leaves off. Fear, after all, is often the note of warningsounded by a man's organism in the face of the unknown. It is hardlystrange it should be felt upon the mountains. But if I was afraid of themountains (and I thought that I was) I was certainly curious. During myfirst week at Zermatt I had done a good second-class peak, but had beentold that the difference between the first and second class wasprodigious. This naturally excited curiosity. And I began to feel thatmy curiosity could only be satisfied by climbing the Matterhorn. For onething that mountain has a great name; for another it looks inaccessible. And it had only been done once that year. If I did it I should be thefirst Englishman on the summit for the season. And the guides weredoubtful whether it would "go. "

But, after all, was it not said by folks who climbed to the Schwartzseethat the mountain was really easy? Were not the slabs above the Shoulderroped? Did not processions go up it in the middle of the season? And yetit was now only the first of July and there was a good deal of new snowon the mountain. And why were the guides just a little doubtful? Perhapsthey were doubtful of me; and yet Joseph Pollinger had taken me up threesmaller peaks. I decided that I had hired him to do the thinking. But Icould not make him do it all. 

The day I had spent upon the Wellenkuppe had been a time of imagination, and I had seen the beauty of things. But from the Matterhorn I caneliminate the element of beauty. I saw very little beauty in it or fromit. I had other things to do than to think of the sublime. But I couldthink of the ridiculous, and at one o'clock in the morning, when westarted from the hut with a lantern, I said the whole proceeding wasfolly. I was a fool to be there. And down below me, far below me, glimmered the crevassed slopes of the Furgg Glacier. I grew callous andabsorbed, and I shrugged my shoulders as the dawn came up. I did notcare to turn my eyes to look upon the red rose glory of the lighted Domand Taschhorn. Let them glow!

At the upper ice-filled hut we rested. The vastness of the mountainbegan to affect me. I saw by now that the Wellenkuppe was a littlething. The three thousand extra feet made all the difference. This wasobviously beyond me, and I could never get to the summit. It wasridiculous of the Pollingers to think I could. I told them so quitecrossly as we went on. Probably they had made a mistake; they would, nodoubt, find it out on the Shoulder. It seemed rather hard that I shouldhave to get there when it was so easy to turn back at once. But I saidnothing more and climbed. My heart did its work well, and my head didnot ache. This was a surprise to me, as I had looked for some sort of_malaise_ above twelve thousand feet. As it did not come I stared at thebig world about me. I viewed it all with a kind of anger and alarmedsurprise. Where was I being taken to? I began to see they were taking meout of the realm of the usual. I was rapidly ascending into theunknown, and I did not like it in the least. If we fell from the_arête_ we might not stop going for four thousand feet. Down below, athin, blue line was a _bergschrund_ that was capable of swallowing anarmy corps. That patch of bluish patina was a tumbled mass of _séracs_. The sloping glacier looked flat. 

Then the guides said we were going slowly. I knew they meant that forme, of course, and I felt very angry with them. They consoled me bysaying that we should soon be at the Shoulder, and that it would nottake long to reach the summit. I did not believe them and I said Ishould never do it. But when we got to the Shoulder I was glad. I knewmany turned back at that point. We sat down to rest. The guides talkedtheir own German, not one word of which I could understand, so turnedfrom them and looked at the vast upper wedge of the Matterhorn. Itglowed red in the morning sun; it was red hot, vast, ponderous, and yetthe lower mountain held it up as lightly as an ashen shaft holds up abronze spear-head. It was so wonderfully shaped that it did not lookbig. But it did look diabolic. There was some infernal wizardry ofcloud-making going on about that spear-head. The wind blew to us acrossthe Zmutt Valley. Nevertheless, the wind above the Roof, as they callit, was blowing in every direction, and the live wisps of newborn cloudwent in and out like the shuttles of a loom. I came to the conclusionthat this was a particularly devilish, uncanny sort of show, and staredat it open-eyed. But I was comforted by the thought that the Pollingerswere rapidly coming to the belief that this was not the sort of day togo any higher. I was quite angry when they declared we could do iteasily. For I knew better, or my disturbed mind thought I did. This wasthe absolutely unknown to me, and their experience was nothing to myalarmed instincts. I was sure that my ancestors had lived on plains, andnow I was dragging them into dangers that they knew nothing of. Nevertheless, I told the guides to go on. I spoke with a kind of eagerinterest and desperation. For, indeed, it was most appallinglyinteresting. We came to the slabs where the ropes made the Matterhorn soeasy, as I had been told. I wished that some of those who believed thiswere with me. 

But with the fixed ropes to lay hold of I climbed fast. I relinquishedsuch holds upon solidity with reluctance. That yonder was the top, saidmy men, but for fully half a minute I declined to go any further. For itwas quite obvious to me that I should never get down again. But again Ishrugged my shoulders and went on. I might just as well do the wholething. And sensation followed sensation. My mind was like a slow platetaking one photograph on top of the other. It was like wax, somethingnew stamped out the last minute's impression. I heard my guides tellingme that we must get to the summit because the people in Zermatt would belooking through telescopes. I did not care how many people lookedthrough telescopes. So far as I was concerned the moon-men might bedoing the same. I was one of three balancing fools on a rope. 

And then we came to the heavy snow on the little five-fold curving_arête_ that is the summit. Within a stone's throw of the top I declaredagain that I was quite high enough to satisfy me, but with a little morepersuasion I went across the last three-foot ridge of snow, reached thetop and sat down. 

The folks at Zermatt were staring, no doubt, but I had nothing to dowith them. Let them look if they wished to. For it was impossible toget to the top, and I was there. It was far more impossible to get down, and we were going to try. That was interesting. I had never been sointerested before. For though I hoped we should succeed I did not thinkit likely. So I took in what I could, while I could, and stared at thevisible anatomy of the Mischabel and the patina-stained floor of thewhite world with intense, yet aloof, interest. After a mere fiveminutes' rest we started on our ridiculous errand. But though I was assure in my mind that we should not get down as I had been that we shouldnot get up, there was an instant reversal of feeling. My instincts hadbeen trying to prevent my ascending; they were eagerly bent ondescending. I did not mind going down each difficult place, for I wasgoing back into the known. Every step took me nearer the usual. I wasgoing home to humanity. These mountains were cold company; they wereindifferent. I was close up against cold original causes, which did notcome to me mitigated and warmed by human contact or the breath of acity. I had had enough of them. 

There are gaps in my memory; strange lacunæ. I remember the Roof, theslabs, the big snow patch above the Shoulder. Much that comes between Iknow nothing of. But the snow-patch is burnt into my mind, for though itwas but a hundred _mètres_ across it took us half-an-hour's slow care toget down it. Without the stakes set in it and the reserve rope it wouldhave been almost impossible. It only gradually dawned on me that thiscare was needed to prevent the whole snow-field from coming away withus. I breathed again on rock. But the little _couloirs_ that we hadcrossed coming up were now dangerous. I threw a handful of snow intoseveral, and the snow that lay there quietly whispered, moved, rustled, hissed like snakes, and went away. But I could hardly realise that therewas danger here or there. There was, of course, danger to come, yonder, round the corner of some rock. But the guides were very careful and alittle anxious. It dawned on me, as I watched them with a set mind, thatthis was rather a bad day for the Matterhorn. 

The distances now seemed appalling. After hours of work I looked roundand saw the wedge stand up just over me. It made me irritable. When, inthe name of Heaven, were we coming to the upper hut? When we did atlast get there I began to feel that by happy chance we might reallyreach Zermatt again after all. 

Once more I had vowed a thousand times that I would never climb again. But I know I shall, though I hardly know why. It is not that the fatigueis so good for the body that can endure it. Nor is it the mere sight ofthe wonders of Nature. The very thing that is terrifying is theattraction, for the unknown calls us always. 

But if there is a great pleasure, and a terrible pleasure, in cominginto (and out of) the unknown, it is intensified by the fact that one islearning what is in one's self. It is a curious fact that writers seemto have done a great deal of climbing. Many of the first explorers amongthe higher Alps may not unjustly be classed among men of letters, andsome of them, no doubt, went on a double errand. They learnt somethingof the unknown in two ways. 

AN INTERNATIONAL SOCIALIST CONGRESS

All Zurich turned out to see the procession that was a mile long andoverlapped, and went past double, going opposite ways, and the skieswere blue as amethyst, and the lake was like the heavens, whileunderfoot the white dust lay thick until the growing, hurrying crowdsent it flying. All trades, with banners and bands and emblems, wererepresented; there were iron workers, tin workers, gardeners, women andchildren. One beautiful young girl in a cap of liberty waved a redbanner to Freedom among the applause of thousands. For there were eightthousand in the procession, and the spectators were the half of thisbusy Canton making Sunday holiday. At the end of the procession werested in the Cantonal Schulplatz, and Grealig spoke, and then Volders, the violent, strong-voiced Belgian, who called for _la lutte_, andlooked most capable of fighting. He is now dead. 

And on the morrow, at the opening of the many-tongued Congress, thefighting and confusion began and lasted a long, long time. For aftersome usual business and congratulations the usual fight about theAnarchists commenced. It all turned on the invitation, which was wordedin a broad way, so broad as to catch the English Trades Unions, who fearSocialism as they do the devil, and thus let in Anarchists claiming torepresent trades become corporate by union. 

The long hall, decorated by Saint Marx and many flags, quickly filledwith an incongruous mass of four hundred delegates, and the gallery weresoon yelling. Bebel, who kept in the background and pulled the strings, proposed a limiting amendment about "political action" which theAnarchists maintained includes revolutionary force. This was the signalfor the fight. Landauer, a German, young, long, thin and enthusiastic, made a fine speech in defence of the Anarchists. Then Mowbray of theEnglish backed him up. I was then in the gallery and saw the mass surgehere and there. Adler of the Austrians strove for peace withoutstretched arms among the crowd, dividing angry and bitter men. Buthe was overborne and blows were struck. The Anarchists were expelled. Only one man was seriously hurt, but those thrown out were bitter attheir expulsion, and on the morrow the row began again. 

On the platform were the president and vice-president, and theinterpreters and others. These interpreters are mostly violent partisansand don't conceal it. A speech they like they deliver with real energy, rasping in the points. They are not above private interpretations; theywere as liberal as Sir Thomas Urquhart when he translated Rabelais notin the interests of decency. When they hated a speaker they mangled andcompressed him. There was a great uproar when Gillies, a German, but oneof the English deputation, insisted on translating his first speech intoGerman. The interpreters and others vowed he would make another anddifferent one, but he stuck to his point and raised the very devil amongthe Germans of the Parliamentary Socialist party who wanted to disputethe Anarchist delegates' credentials and have them definitely "chucked. "They howled and roared and shook their fists, and the French presidentshrieked for order. But at times his bell was a faint tinkle, like afar sheep-bell on distant hills. He shouted unheard and looked in vainfor a break. For the Germans were accused of meanness; it was simply adesire to keep out the younger, more open, most alive of the workers, those who admired not their methods and looked on them as they did onEugene Richter. 

Then at last the English delegation, who as a body were in favour ofturning the Anarchists out, rose and yelled for the closure, vowing theywould leave until real business was reached if some decision wasn't cometo; and that had some effect. The yells of "_Clôture, clôture!_"dominated all else, and it was finally voted among frantic disorder, theFrench and Dutch standing uproarious against eighteen nationalities. Foron important points they vote so. And in this there is great cunning, for the organisers hold pocket boroughs among the Swiss, and Bulgarians, and Servians and other European kidlings of the Balkans. So one delegatemay equal a hundred; Servia and Bulgaria may outvote France; a solitaryRussian hold ninety-two Germans in check. 

Before this they turned out a Polish girl with unsigned credentials. Shemade a good speech and was gallantly supported, but in the end failed. And when all the putting out was done there was an appeal forunanimity. No one laughed, however, and then Bebel came from behind witha proposal that seeing so much time had been wasted the articles of theagenda should be submitted to the various committees first. So thismorning is a morning off and there is peace at anyrate among the mass ofthe delegates. 

In all this it is excessively easy to be unjust, to misjudge and to gowrong. The man who is ready with _à priori_ opinions about all forms andmeans and ends of Socialism will smile if he be kindly and sneer if hebe not. But most of these people are in earnest. If they representnothing else, and however they disagree and quarrel, they do representan enormous amount of real discontent. "I protest" is often in theirmouths; as the president yells "Monsieur, vous n'avez pas la parole"they stand in the benches and protest again in acute screams. It isunder extraordinary difficulties that the movement is being carriedforward. Marx, when he started this internationalism, can hardly haverecognised the supreme difficulties that the differing tongues aloneoffer to united action. In many a large assembly there is frequentmisconception, but here are three main languages, and many of thedelegates understand neither English, German nor French. 

And under the broad top currents of jealousy are the secret unmeasuredtendencies of enmity or rivalry of ancient jealousy. To explain oneman's vote we must remember that So-and-so threw a glass of absinthe inhis face ten years ago in a Paris restaurant; that another was kicked inSoho; that another got work over the head of a friend. 

So the thing goes on, but whether their outlook be wide or narrow, personal or impersonal, they work in their way and something is reallydone. 

But for deadly earnestness commend me to the party with the unfortunatename of Anarchists. The party headed by Landauer and Werner issuedinvitations in the Tonhallé to the delegates and others, to come to theKasino Aussersehl, where they would protest against the non-reception oftheir mandates. I went there with an English delegate. We entered a longhall with a stage and scenery at the end. All the tables were full of avery quiet crowd drinking most harmless red wine. I sat near Landauer. He is a very nervous, keen, eager young fellow, with the thin, well-marked eyebrows in a curve which perhaps show the revolutionary orat the least the man in revolt. But his general aspect and that of hisimmediate friends and colleagues is extremely gentle and mild; this noone can help marking. 

The proceedings began with a long speech by Werner and were continued bya Dutch journalist, who took the contrary side but was listened to withexemplary patience. He was controverted by Domela Niewenhuis, the leaderof the Dutch, who looks a mediæval saint but speaks with great vigourand some humour. 

The most noticeable feature of this revolutionary meeting was itsextreme peace and the great firmness with which every attempt at noiseor interruption was put down. The only really violent speech made duringthe evening was by a fair Italian, who called the German ParliamentarySocialist "Borghesi" and recommended their immediate extinction by allmeans within the power of those who objected to their methods. Landauer, their revolutionary leader, spoke after him, and though greatly excitedwas not particularly violent. I talked with him the morning after andendeavoured to explain to him why the English workers were moreconservative and more ready to trust to constitutional methods ofenforcing their views. For it is the triple combination of long hours, low wages and militarism that makes the German violent and impatient ofthe slow order of change recommended by the Parliamentarians, who, sofar, have done nothing. 

AT LAS PALMAS

On a map the Canary Islands look like seven irregular fish scales, andof these Grand Canary is a cycloid scale. For it is round and has deepfolds or barrancas in it, running from its highest point in the middle. Like all the other islands it is a volcanic ash pile, or fire and cinderheap, cut and scarped by its rain storms of winter till all valleys seemto run to the centre. With a shovel of ashes and a watering-pot onecould easily make a copy in miniature of the island, and at the firstblush it seems when one lands at Las Palmas that one has come to thecinder and sand dumping ground of all the world, an enlarged edition ofMr Boffin's dust heaps, a kind of gigantic and glorified Harmony Jail. There is no more disillusioning place in the world to land in bydaytime. The port is under the shelter of the Isleta, a barren cinderysatellite of Grand Canary joined to the main island by an isthmus ofyellow sand-dunes. The roads are dust; dust flies in a ceaseless wind;unhappy palms by the roads are grey with dust; it would at first seemimpossible to eat anything but an egg without getting one's teeth fullof grit. And yet after all one sees that there are compensations in thesun. I said to a man who managed a big hotel, "This is a hideous place;"and he answered cheerfully, "Yes, isn't it?" And he added, "We have onlygot the climate. " So might a man say, "I've not much ready money, butI've a million or two in Consols. " I understood it by-and-by. And afterall Las Palmas is not all the island, nor is its evil-mannered port. Thecountry is a country of vines behind the sand and cinder ramparts of thecity, and if one sees no running water, or sees it rarely, thehard-working Canarienses have built tanks to save the rain, and theybring streams in flumes from the inner hills that rise six thousand feetabove the sea. They grow vines and sugar and cultivate the cochinealinsect, which looks like a loathsome disease (as indeed it is) upon theswarth cactus or tunera which it feeds on. And the islands grow tobacco. Las Palmas is after all only the emporium of Grand Canary and a coalingstation for steamers to South Africa and the West Coast and SouthAmerica. It also takes invalids and turns out good work even amongconsumptives, for there is power in its sun and dry air. 

Its people are Spanish, but Spanish with a difference. The ancientGuanches, now utterly extinct as a people, have left traces of theirblood and influence and character. Even now the poor Canary folknaturally live in caves. They dig a hole in a rock, or enlarge a hollow, and hang a sack before the hole, and, behold, they possess a house. Notfifty yards from the big old fort at the back of the town the cliffs areall full of people as a sandstone quarry is sometimes full of sandmartins. The caves with doors pay taxes, it is said, but those with nomore than a sack escape anything in the shape of a direct tax. To escapetaxes altogether in any country under Spain is impossible. The _octroi_or _fielato_ sees to that. 

For the most part Las Palmas to English people is no more than asanatorium. They come to the Islands to get well and go away knowing asmuch of the people as they knew before. And indeed the climate is onethat makes sitting in a big cane chair much easier than walking even ahundred yards. But the English for that matter do not trouble greatlyabout the customs or conditions of any foreigners. They _are_foreigners, Spaniards, strangers. It is easy to sit in the garden of abig hotel surrounded by one's own compatriots and ignore the fact thatthe Canary Islands do not belong to us. That they do not is perhaps agrievance of a sort. One is pleased to remember that Nelson made a boldattempt to take the city of Santa Cruz in Teneriffe, even though he waswounded and failed. For no more surprising piece of audacity everentered an English head. There was no more disgrace in his failing thanthere would be in failing to take the moon. And after all, some day, nodoubt, the English will buy or steal a Canary Island. There is alingering suspicion among us all that no island ought to belong to anyother nation, unless indeed it is the United States. With anenterprising people these cinder heaps would be less heavily taxed andmore prosperous. For the prosperity of Las Palmas itself is much amatter of coaling. And the islands have had commercial crisis aftercommercial crisis as wine rose in price and fell, as cochineal had itsvain struggle with chemical dyes. Now its chief hold is the banana. 

My first walk at Las Palmas was through the port to the Isleta. I wentwith a Scotchman who talked Spanish like a native and astounded twosmall boys who volunteered to guide us where no guide was needed. Thebegging, as in all Spanish places, is a pest, a nuisance, a verydesolation. "Give a penny, give a penny, " varied by a tremendous rise to"Give a shilling, " is the cry of all the children. Among Spaniards it isno disgrace to beg. While in the cathedral one day two of us weresurrounded by a gang of acolytes in their church dress who beggedceaselessly, unreproved by any priest. These two boys on the Isletahaving met someone who spoke Spanish left us to our own devices afterhaving received a penny. And we went on until we were stayed bysentries. For the Isleta is now a powerful fort. It was made so at thetime of the Spanish-American War, and no strangers are allowed to seeit. So we turned aside and walked miles by a barbed wire fence, amongfired rocks and cinders, where never a blade of grass grew. The Isletais the latest volcano in Grand Canary, and except in certain states ofthe atmosphere it is utterly and barrenly hideous. Only when one sees itfrom afar, when the sun is setting and the white sea is aflame, does itbecome beautiful. Certainly Las Palmas is not lovely. 

And yet there is one beauty at Las Palmas, a beauty that none of thenatives can appreciate and few of the visitors ever see. It is a kind ofbeauty which demands a certain training in perceiving the beautiful. There are some folks in this world who cannot perceive the beauty of asunset reflected in the mud of a tidal river at the ebb. They have sokeen a sense of the ugliness of mud that they fail to see thereflections of gold and pink shining on the wet surface. It is so withsand, and Las Palmas has some of the greatest and most living sand-dunesin the world. And not only does it owe its one great beauty to the sand, it owes its prosperity to it as well. Yet folks curse its great foldeddunes, which by blocking the channel between the main island and theIsleta have created the sheltered Puerto de la Luz, where all itsshipping lies in security from the great seas breaking in Confital Bay. These dunes rise two hundred feet at least, and for ever creep and shiftand move in the draught of keen air blowing north and north-west. In thesunlight (and it is on them the sunlight seems most to fall) they shinesleekly and appear to have a certain pleasant and silky texture fromafar. But as we walk towards them the light gets stronger, almostintolerably strong, and when one is among them they deceive the eye sothat distances seem doubled. And they lie and move in the wind. Dayafter day I watched them, and walked upon them, and on no two days werethey alike; their contours changed perpetually, changed beneath one'seyes like yellow drifting snow. They advanced in walls, and the leewardscarp of these walls was of mathematical exactness. As the wind blew thesands moved, a million grains were set in motion, so that at times thesurface was like a low cloud of sand driving south-east. In the lee ofthe greater dunes were carven hollows, and here the sand-clouds moved infaint shadows. A gust of wind made one look up into the clear sky forclouds where there were none. The motion of the sand was like shot silk. Now and again we came to a vast hollow, a smooth crater, a cup, and fromits bottom nothing was visible but the skyline and the sky. Again we sawover the blazing yellow ridge sudden white roofs of the Puerto and themasts of ships, and then a streak of blue more intense than ever becauseof the red yellow of the sand. And all the time the dunes moved, livedand marched south-east, while the sands rose up out of the sea of thewindy bay and marched overland. The sand itself was very dry, very fine, so fine indeed that when it trickled through the fingers it felt likefine warm silk. No particle adhered to another. As I raked it through myfingers the sand ran in strange, enticing curves, each pouring streamfinely lined, as if it was woven of curious fibres, making a wonderfuldesign of interlacing columns. And deep beneath the surface it held theheat of yesterday. 

To sit upon, within, these dunes and see the wind dance and the sandpour had a strange fascination for me. I lost the sense of time and yethad it impressed upon me. The march of the sand was slow and yet fast;there was a strange sense of inevitability about it; each grain wasalive, moving, bent on going south-east. There was silence and yet aninfinite sense of motion; no life and yet a sense of living. The sandcame up from the sea, marched solemnly and descended into the sea again. The two seas were two eternities; that narrow neck of sand was life. Distances grew great in the sun and the glare; it was a desert and asolitude, and yet close at hand were all the works of man. I often satin the folds of the dunes and soaked in the sunshine as I was lost tothe world. 

And beyond it all was Confital Bay; there I forgot that Las Palmas wasugly, a bastard child of Spanish mis-rule and modern commerce, for thecurve of the bay and its sands and boulder beach to the eastward werewonderful. For though Confital is but a few steps across the long sandspit to leeward of which the commercial port lies, it might be athousand miles away as it faces the wind and has its own quiet and itsown glory of colour. The sea tumbles in upon a beach of shingle and sandand is for ever in foam, and the colour of it is tropical. Away to theleft the hills above Banyodero and Guia are for the most part shadowywith clouds. Often they are hidden, swathed in mist to the breakers attheir feet. And yet the sun shines on Confital and both bays, and on theIsleta, which is red and yellow and a fine atmospheric blue away towardsPoint Confital, where the sea thunders for ever and breaks in high foamlike a breaking geyser. On the beach at one's feet often lie Portuguesemen-of-war, thrown up by the sea. They are wonderful purple and blue, and very poisonous to touch, as so many beautiful things of the sea are. One whole day was greatly spoiled to me by handling one of themcarelessly. My hands smarted furiously, and when I sucked an achingfinger, after washing it in the sea, the poison transferred itself to mytongue and I had hardly voice left to swear with at a wandering band ofyoung beggars from the Puerto. But then neither swearing, nor entreaty, nor indifference will send Spanish beggars away. They are to be bornewith like flies, or mosquitoes, or bad weather, and only patience maysurvive them. But for them and for cruelty to animals Spain and Spain'sdependencies might make a better harvest out of travellers. One mayindeed imagine after all that nothing but accident or a sense ofdesperation might land and keep one at Las Palmas. I would as soon staythere for a long time as I would deliberately get out of a Union Pacificoverland train at Laramie Junction and put down my stakes in that dustyand bedevilled sand and alkali hell. And yet there is the climate at LasPalmas. And out of it are the sand-dunes and Confital Bay. 

THE TERRACINA ROAD

Nowadays the traveller gets into the train at Rome and goes south byexpress. He sees a little of the wide and waste Campagna, sees a few ofthe broken arches of the mighty aqueducts which brought water to theImperial city so long ago, but he is not steeped in the soil; he missesthe best, because he is living wholly in the present. The beauty ofItaly, its mere outward beauty, is one thing; the ancient spirit of thepast brooding in desolate places is another. And the road which runsfrom Terracina south by sullen Fondi, by broken and romantic Itri andFormia of the Gaetan Gulf, is full at once of natural beauty and thestrange influences of the past. It is To-day and Yester-day and LongAgo; the age of the ancient Romans and the Samnites with whom theywarred is mingled with stories of Fra Diavolo and piratical Saracens. And To-day marches two and two in the stalwart figures of twin_carabinieri_ upon dangerous roads, even yet not wholly without somedanger from brigands. These _carabinieri_ (there are never less than twotogether) represent law and order and authority in parts where the lawis hated, where order is unsettled, where authority means those who taxsalt and everything that the rich or poor consume. And down that ancientAppian Way, made by Appius Claudius three centuries before the Christianera, there are many poor, and poor of a sullen mind, differing much fromthe laughter-loving _lazzaroni_ of Naples. I saw many of them: theybelonged still to a conquered Samnium. Or so it seemed to me. 

The train now runs from Rome to Velletri, and on to Terracina. TheSabine and Alban Mountains are upon the left soon after leaving thecity. Further south are the Volscian Hills. Velletri is an old city ofthe Volscians subdued by Rome even before Samnium. The Appian Way andthe rail soon run across the Pontine marshes, scourged by malaria at allseasons of the year but winter. Down past Piperno the Monte Circello isvisible. This was the fabled seat and grove and palace of Circe theenchantress. One might imagine that her influence has not departed withher ruined shrine. Fear and desolation and degradation exist in scenesof exquisite and silent beauty. From Circello's height one sees MountVesuvius, the dome of St Peter's, the islands in the bay of Naples. Below, to the south-east, lies Terracina; on its high rock the archedruins of the palace of Theodoric, King of the Ostrogoths, who conqueredOdoacer and won Italy, ruling it with justice after he had slain Odoacerat Ravenna with his own hand. 

I got to Terracina late at night one January, and though I own thatthings past touch me with no such sense of sympathy as things yet to be, my heart beat a little faster as I drove in the darkness through thisancient Anxur, once a stronghold of the Volscians. Here too I left therailway and the southern road was before me. Terracina was touched withliterary memories; Washington Irving had written about that very sameold inn at Terracina to which I was going, that inn which poor deceivedBaedeker called Grand Hotel Royal in small capitals. I was among theVolscians, in the Appian Way, in the country of brigands, with thespirit of Irving. And suddenly I drove across rough paving stones in theheavy shadows of vast corridors, and was greeted by a feeble andbroken-down old landlord, who wished the noblest signor of them all, myundistinguished self, all good things. Poor Francia was the very spiritof a deserted landlord. I imagined that he might have rememberedprosperous days before the railway through Monte Cassino and Sparaniserobbed Terracina of her robber's dues from south-bound travellers. Hisvast hotel, entered meanly by a little hall, was dimly lighted bycandles. With another feeble creature, once a man, he preceded me, andspeaking poor French said he had had my letter and had prepared me thebest apartment in his house. We climbed stone staircases as one mightclimb the Pyramids, wandered on through resounding and ghostlycorridors, and finally came to a room as vast as a quarry and almost aschilly as a catacomb. When he placed the candle on a cold slab of atable and withdrew with many bows I could have imagined myself a lostspirit. There was just sufficient light to see the darkness. The roomwas a kind of tragedy in itself; the floor was stone; a little bed inone far distant corner was only to be discovered by travel. It was along walk to the window. Outside I saw white foam breaking in theharbour now silted up and wholly useless. 

I dined that night in another hall which could have accommodated ahundred. I was lost in shadows. But then I was a shadow among shades. This was the past indeed, an ancient world. And after dinner, at last, Igot a bath. It took me two hours to get it, and when it came it wasnothing more than a great kettle for boiling fish in. I knew it was thatby the smell. I rejected it for a basin which was almost as large as anEnglish saucer for a breakfast cup. And then I slept. I felt that I wasin a tomb, sleeping with my fathers. It was a kind of unexpectedresurrection to wake and find daylight about me. 

I had meant to stay for a little while at Terracina, but somehow I tooka kind of "scunner" at this poor old hotel of magnificent distances andthe lingering, doddering, unwashed old men who acted as chambermaids. Perhaps, too, the fish kettle as a bath was a discouragement. No bath atall can be put up with in course of time, but a fish kettle invited meto be clean and yet did not allow me to smell so. I went down to myprehistoric landlord and requested him to get me a carriage to go in toFormia, where I should be once more in touch with the rail. Iinstructed him to get it for me at a reasonable price, and that price Iknew to be about twenty lire or francs. For the first time in my Italianexperiences I had come across a hotel-keeper who was not in league withthe owners of carriages. I was soon made aware of this by overhearing anawful uproar in the big outside corridor. I lighted a cigarette and wentout to find the landlord and the man of carriages, a very black andhairy brigand, enjoying themselves as only southerners can when they aremaking a bargain or _combinazione_. The old landlord brisked upwonderfully at the prospect of such a struggle. It doubtless remindedhim of days long past. It made his sluggish blood flow. I believe thathe would not have missed the excitement even to pocket a largecommission from his opponent. I was so rare a bird and he had not seen atraveller since heaven knows when. My Italian is poor but I understoodsome of the uproar. The man of carriages presumed that I was a noblegentleman who desired the best and would be ready to pay for it. Thelandlord retorted that even if I was a prince and a millionaire, both ofwhich seemed likely, it was no reason I should be robbed. He suggestedfifteen lire, and the outraged brigand shrieked and demanded forty. Foran hour they wrangled and haggled and swore. First one made believe togo, and then the other. They came up and came down franc by franc. Morethan once any northerner would have anticipated bloodshed. Theystruggled and beat the palms of their hands with outstretched fingers. It took them half an hour to quarrel over the last two francs. Andfinally it was settled that the noble prince and millionaire, thenleaning against the wall smoking cigarettes, was to pay twenty-two lireand to give a _pourboire_. They shook hands over it and beamed. My oldlandlord wiped his brow and communicated the result to me with tears ofpride. I thanked him for his care of my interests and paid him hismodest bill at once. He entreated me to speak well of his hotel, theAlbergo Reale, and really I have done my best. 

The brigand furnished me with a decent pair of horses--decent at anyratefor Italy--and I left for Formia before noon. Now I was no longer on therailway, but on the real road, the Appian Way, and I felt in a strangedream, such as might well come to one on a spot where ancient Rome, theage of the Goth, and mediæval Italy and modern times mingled. By theroad were fragments of Roman tombs; at Torre dell' Epitafia was theancient southern boundary of the Papal States; in reedy marshes by theroad, and near the sea, were herds of huge black buffalo. And the sunshone very brightly for all that it was winter; the distances were fineblue; the sea sparkled, and the earth even then showed its fertility. 

Eleven miles from Terracina we drove into Fondi, and the sky cloudedover, as indeed it should have done, for Fondi is a gloomy and unhappy, a sullen and unfortunate-looking town. Once it was a noted haunt ofbrigands, and even yet, as the sullen peasants stand about its one greatstreet, which is still the Appian Way, they look as if they regrettednot to be able to seize me and take me to the hills to hold me toransom. But Fondi, gloomiest of towns, has other stories than those ofthe brethren of Fra Diavolo. There is a castle in the town, once theproperty of the Colonnas, and in the sixteenth century this palace wasattacked by a pirate, Barbarossa, a Turk and a daring one. His objectwas to capture Countess Giulia Gonzaga for the hareem of the Sultan. Hefailed but played havoc among its inhabitants and burnt part of thetown. It was rebuilt and burnt again by the Turks in 1594. 

We rushed through the latter part of the gloomy town at a gallop. I wasglad to see the last of it and get into the clear air. Then my horsesclimbed the long slope of the Monte St Andrea, where the steep road iscut through hills, while I walked. And then as evening came on we sweptdown into Itri. This too was gloomy, but not, like Fondi, built upon aflat. This shadowy wreck of ancient times lies on hills and among them. It has an air of mountain savagery. It looks like a ruined mediævalfortress. Broken archways, once part of the Appian Way, are made intosubstructures for ragged, ruinous modern houses. The place is peaked andpined, desolate, hungry and savage. In it was born Fra Diavolo, who wasbrigand, soldier and political servant to Cardinal Ruffo when the FrenchRepublic, in the beginning of the nineteenth century, invaded theKingdom of Naples. Once he was lord of the country from the Gariglianoto Postella; he even interrupted all communications between Naples andRome. He was sentenced to death and a price set on his head. Finally hewas shot at Baronissi. In such a country one might well believe in thewildest legends of his career. 

And now the night fell and my driver drove fast. He even engaged in awild race with another vehicle, entirely careless of my safety or hisown. The pace we drove at put my Italian out of my head, for foreignlanguages require a certain calmness of spirit in me. I could remembernothing but fine Italian oaths, and these he doubtless took to mean thatI wished him to win. And win we did by a neck as we came to the _dazioconsume_, the _octroi_ post outside Formia. And below me I saw Formia'slights, at the foot of the hill, and the Bay of Gaeta stretched outbefore me. 

That night I slept in a little Italian inn by the verge of the quietsea. There also, as at Terracina, ancient and doddering men acted aschambermaids. They wandered in with mattresses and sheets, until Iwondered where the women were and what they did. And outside was afountain where Formia drew water, as it seemed, all the night, chattering of heaven knows what. For Formia is a busy and beautifullittle town. On the north side it is sheltered by a high range of hills;on the lower slopes are grown oranges and lemons and pomegranates;there also are olive-groves and vineyards. I stayed a day among theFormian folk, and then Naples, which one can almost see from theterraces above the town, drew me south. At the Villa Caposele one cansee Gaeta itself to the south and Ischia in the blue sea, Casamicciolafacing one. I remember how the Italian nature came out when I arrangedto go to the station to take the train for Sparanise. I had but littlebaggage and it was put in a truck for me by the landlord of the Hoteldei Fiori. I walked into the station and the boy who pulled the truckfollowed. As he came up the little slope to the station I saw that eightor ten others were pretending to help him, and I knew that they wouldinevitably want some pence for assisting. In a few moments I wassurrounded by the eager crowd. "Signor, I pushed behind!" "And, signor, so did I!" "And oh, but it was hard work, signor!" And everyone whocould have had a finger on the little truck wanted his finger paid. Theywere insistent, clamorous, and at the same time curious to see how thestray foreigner would take it. I perceived gleams of humour in them, andto their disappointment, yet to their immense delight, for the Italianadmires a degree of shrewdness, I stared them all over and burst intolaughter. They saw at once that the game was up, and they shrieked withlaughter at their own discomfiture. I gave the boy with the truck hislira, dropped an extra ten centesimi into his palm, and said suddenly, "Scappate via!" They gave one shout more of laughter and ran down thehill. And as for me, I got into the train and went to old quarters ofmine in Naples. But I was glad to have been off the beaten track foronce. 

A SNOW-GRIND

Perhaps it is not wholly an advantage that most Alpine literature hasbeen done by experts in climbing, by men who have climbed till climbingis second nature and they see Nature through their snow-goggles assomething to be circumvented. That this is the attitude of mostmountaineers is tolerably obvious. And though much that is good has beenwritten about the Alps, and some that is, from some points of view, evensurpassingly so, most of it is a proof that climbing is a deal easierthan writing. Who in reading books of mountain adventure and explorationhas not come across machine-made bits of description which are asinspiring as any lumber yard? For my own part, I seldom read my Alpineauthor when he goes out of his gymnastic way to express admiration forthe scenery. It is usually a pumped-up admiration. I am inclined to saythat it is unnatural. I am almost ready to go so far as to say that itis wholly out of place. In my own humble opinion, very little above thesnow-line is truly beautiful. It is often desolate, sometimesintolerably grand and savage, but lovely it is very rarely. It isperhaps against human nature to be there at all. There is nothing to begot there but health, which flies from us in the city. If life werewholly natural, and men lived in the open air, I think that few wouldtake to climbing. And yet now it has become a passion with many. Thereare few who will not tell you they do it on account of the beauty of theupper world. Frankly, I do not believe them, and think they aredeceived. I would as willingly credit a fox-hunter if he told me hehunted on account of the beauty of midland landscapes in thaw-time. 

And yet one climbs. I do it myself whenever I can afford it. I believe Ido it because Nature says "You sha'n't. " She puts up obstacles. It isnot in man to endure such. He _will_ do everything that can be done byendurance. For out of endurance comes a massive sense of satisfactionthat nothing can equal. If any healthy man who cannot afford to climband knows not Switzerland wishes to experience something of the feelingthat comes to a climber at the end of his day, let him reckon up howfar he can walk and then do twice as much. Upon the Alps man is alwaysdoing twice as much as he appears able to do. He not only scoutsNature's obstacles, but discovers that the obstacles of habit in himselfare as nothing. For man is the most enduring animal on the earth. Heonly begins to draw upon his reserves when a thing becomes what he mightcall impossible. 

But this is but talk, a kind of preliminary, equivalent in its way topreparing for an Alpine walk. As for myself, I profess to be little morethan a greenhorn above the snow-line. I have done but little and may dobut little more. Yet there are so many that have done nothing that theplain account of a plain and long Alpine pass may interest them. I willtake one of the easiest, the Schwartzberg-Weissthor, and walk it withthem and with a friend of mine and two well-known guides. 

The Schwartzberg-Weissthor, a pass from Zermatt to Mattmark in the SaasValley, is indeed easy. It is nothing more than a long "snow-grind, " asmountaineers say. It is supposed to take ten hours, and it can certainlybe done in the time by guides. But then guides can always go twice asfast as any but the first flight of amateurs. My companion, though anexcellent and well-known mountaineer, took cognisance of the fact that Iwas not in first-class training. And I must say for him that he is notone of those who think of the Alps as no more than a cinder track to tryone's endurance. He was never in a hurry, and was always willing to stayand instruct me in what I ought to admire. It is perhaps not strangethat a long walk in high altitudes does not always leave one in acondition to know that without a finger-post. Sometimes he and I sat andwrangled on the edge of a crevasse while I denied that there wasanything to admire at all. Indeed, he and I have often quarrelled on theedge of a precipice about matters of mountain æsthetics. 

We left Zermatt in the afternoon and walked up to the Riffelhaus, whichis usually the starting-point for any of the passes to Macugnaga, or forMonte Rosa or the Lyskamm. It was warm work walking through the closepine woods. In Switzerland, where all is climbing, one does what wouldbe considered a great climb in England in the most casual way. For afterall the Riffelhaus is more than 3000 feet above Zermatt, as high, let ussay, as Helvellyn above Ullswater. But then 3000 feet in the Alps is amere preface. We dined at the little hotel, and I went to bed early. Forearly rising is the one necessary thing when going upon snow. It is themost disagreeable part about climbing, and perhaps the one thing whichdoes most good. In England, in London and in towns, men get into deadlygrooves of habit. To break these habits and shake one's self clear ofthem is the great thing for health. The disagreeables of climbing aremany, but the reward afterwards is great. To lie in bed the next morningafter having walked for twenty hours is a real luxury. But, nevertheless, to rise at half-past one and wash in cold water before onestumbles downstairs into a black dining-room, lighted by a singlecandle, is not all that it might be at the moment. Every time I do it Iswear sulkily that I will never, never do it again. It is obvious to methat no one but an utter fool would ever climb anything higher thanPrimrose Hill, and only a sullen determination not to be bested by myown self makes me get out of bed and downstairs at all. I am only ahuman being by the time the sleepy waiter has given me my coffee. Afterdrinking it and taking a roll and some butter I went into the passageand found O---- sitting on the stairs putting his boots on. He too wassilent save for a little muttered swearing. It is always hard to get offcamp before dawn. When O---- had finished his breakfast we found theguides waiting for us with a lantern, and we started on our walk by twoo'clock or a little later. The guides at anyrate were cheerful enoughbut quiet. I myself became more and more like a human being, and when wegot to the Rothe Boden, from which in daylight there is a wonderful viewof the Alps from the Lyskamm to the Weisshorn, I was quite alive andequal to most things, even to cutting a joke without bitterness. For themost part in these early hours I spend the time considering my ownfolly. It is perhaps a good mental exercise. 

It was even now utterly dark. The huge bulwark of the Breithorn roseopposite to us like a great shadow. Monte Rosa was very faintly lightedby the approach of dawn. The mighty pyramid of the solitary Matterhornhad yet no touch of red fire upon it. And presently one of the guidessaid "Look!" and looking at the Matterhorn we presently perceived thattwo parties were climbing it from the Zermatt side; we saw theirlanterns moving with almost intolerable slowness. And far across thegreat ice river of the Gorner Glacier we saw other and nearer andbrighter lanterns going from the Bétemps Hut on the Untere Plattje. Oneparty was going for Monte Rosa, another for the Lyskamm Joch. We knewthat they could see us too. But these little lantern lights upon thevast expanse of snow looked very strange and lonely and very human. Weseemed small ourselves, we were like glow-worms, like wounded fire-fliescrawling on a plain. And still we saw these little climbing lights uponthe Matterhorn. One party was close to the lower hut, another wasbeginning to near the old hut, twelve thousand feet high. Then and allof a sudden the lights went out. There was a strange red glow upon theMatterhorn, a glow which most people, as victims of tradition, callbeautiful. As a matter of fact the colour of dawn upon the rock of theCervin is not truly a beautiful colour. It is a hard and brick-dustyred, very different from the snow fire seen on true snow peaks. Yet thescene was fine and majestic, and cold and dreadful, solitary andnon-human. This fine inhumanity of the mountains is their chief qualityto me. The sea is always more human; it moves, it breathes, it seemsalive. I have been alone at sea in the Channel and yet never felt quitealone. The human water lapped at the planks of my boat. I knew the seawas the pathway of the world. But on the mountains nothing moves atnight. There even stones do not fall; there are no thunders ofavalanches; no sudden and awful crash of an ice-fall. Even when the sunis hot and the mountains waken a little these motions seem accidents. And the perpetual motion of a glacier has something about it which iscruelly inevitable, bestial, diabolic. No, upon the mountains one isswung clear of one's fellow-creatures; one is adrift; it is anotherworld; it gives fresh views of the warm world of man. 

Now we plunged downwards towards the Gadmen, whence the Monte Rosa trackbranches off. We went along rock, now in daylight, till we came on ice, and went forward to the Stocknubel, a little resting-place at the baseof the Stockhorn. Here the guides made us rest and eat. Swiss guidesare, when they are good, the best of men, and ours were of the best. Thetwo young Pollingers of St Niklaus, Joseph and Alois, are known now byall climbers. I am pleased to think they are my friends. I wish I was asstrong as either and had as healthy an appetite. As we sat on rock andate cold meats and other horrible and indigestible matters, washed downby wine and water, we saw another party come after us, an old and raggedguide with two strange little figures of adventurous Frenchmen, clad inknickerbockers and carrying tourist's alpenstocks, bound for the Cima diJazzi. It must be confessed that our own party looked more workman-like. For we had our faithful ice-axes, and our lower limbs were swathed withputties, now almost universally worn by guides and climbers alike. Ifancied our guides looked on the other guide with some contempt He wasnot one of those who do big ascents. And though we were on an easy task, the Cima di Jazzi is very easy indeed, so easy that most real climbershave never climbed its simple mound of easily rising snow. 

Then we went on and soon after roped, as there might be some crevassesnot well bridged, and presently I perceived that we had indeed a longsnow-grind before us, and I got very gloomy at the prospect and sworeand grumbled to myself. For there is no pleasure to me in being on themountains unless there is some element of risk, apparent or real mattersnot. For, after all, with good guides and good weather there is littlereal danger. The main thing is to get a sensation out of it; thefeeling of absorption in the moment which prevents one thinking ofanything but the next step. A snow-grind is like a book which has to beread and which has no interest. I can imagine many reviewers must havetheir literary snow-grinds. And so we crawled along the surface of thesnow with never a big crevasse to enliven one, and the sun rose up andpeered across the vast curves of white and almost blinded us. On ourleft was the great chain of the Mischabel, of which I had once seen thereal bones and anatomy from the Matterhorn, and then came theRimpfischorn and Strahlhorn. I once asked a guide what had given itsname to the Rimpfischorn, and he answered that it was supposed to belike a "rimf. " When I asked what that was he said it was something whichwas like the Rimpfischorn. And to our right were the peaks of MonteRosa, Nordend and Dufourspitze, black rock out of white snow, and theridge of the Lyskamm, and the twin white snow peaks, Castor and Pollux. And some might say the view was very beautiful, and no doubt it wasbeautiful, though not so to me. For I hate the long snow-fields, thevast plains of _névé_ with their glare and their infinite infernalmonotony. Sometimes when I took off my snow-goggles the shining whiteworld seemed a glaring and bleached moon-land, a land wholly unfit forhuman beings, as indeed it is. And though things seem near they are veryfar off. An hour's walk hardly moves one in the landscape. A man islittle more than a lost moth; such a moth as we found dead and frozen aswe crawled over the great snow towards the Strahlhorn. We sat down torest, and I fought with my friend O---- about the beauty of themountains, and horrified him by denying that there is any realloveliness above the snow-line. He took it quite seriously, forgettingthat I was rebelling against so many miles of dead snow with never athing to do but plod and plod, and plod again. 

And then we came to the top of the pass where rocks jutted out of thesnow, and a few minutes' climb let us look over into Italy, and down thesteep south side of Monte Rosa, under whose white clouds lay Macugnaga. We sat upon the summit for an hour and ate once more, and argued as tothe beauty of things, and the wonder and foolishness of climbing, and Iown that I was very hard to satisfy. The snow-grind had entered into mysoul as it always does. It is duller than a walk through any flatagricultural country before the corn begins to grow. 

And yet below us was the other side of our pass, which certainly lookedmore interesting. Right under our feet was a little snow _arête_ withslopes like a high pitched roof. It was quite possible to be killedthere if one was foolish or reckless, and the prospect cheered me up. Itis at anyrate not dull to be on an _arête_ with a snow slope leading tonothing beneath me. And I cannot help insisting on the fact that muchmountaineering is essentially dull. Often enough a long day may bewithout more than one dramatic moment. There is really only five minutesof interest on the Schwartzberg-Weissthor. We came to that in the_arête_, for after following it for a few minutes we turned off it tothe left and came to the _bergschrund_, the big crevasse which separatesthe highest snows or ice from the glacier. By now I was quite anxiousthat the guides should find the _schrund_ difficult. I had been bored todeath and yearned for some little excitement. I even declared sulkily(it is odd, but true, that one does often become reckless and sulkyunder such circumstances) that I was ready to jump "any beastly_bergschrund_. " My offer was no doubt made with the comfortableconsciousness that the guides were not likely to let me do anythingquite idiotic. But there was no necessity for any such gymnastics. The_schrund's_ lower lip was only six feet lower than the upper lip, andthe whole crevasse was barely three feet across, though doubtless deepenough to swallow a thousand parties like ours. Somewhat to mydisappointment we got over quite easily, and struck down across theglacier, passing one or two rather dangerous crevasses by crawling onour stomachs. The only satisfaction I had was that both the guides andO---- declared that the way I wished to descend was impossible, whereasit finally turned out to have been easy and direct. I said I had toldthem so, of course, and then we got on the lower glacier and on anaccursed moraine. It was now about noon. We had been going since two inthe morning. We came at last into a grassy valley, and presently stoodon the steep _débris_ slope above Mattmark. It was a steep run down thezigzag path to the flat, which is partly occupied by the Mattmark Lake, and at last we got to the inn. There we changed our things and hadlunch, and I and O---- once more fought over the glacier of the uppersnows, and the question as to whether we should climb on æsthetic orgymnastic grounds. And though we did not reach the hotel at Saas-Féetill the evening, that argument lasted all the way. But when he and Iget together, as we usually do when climbing comes on, we always quarrelin the most friendly way upon that subject. But for my own part Ideclare that I will never again do another pure snow-grind such as theSchwartzberg-Weissthor for any other purpose than to fetch a doctor, orto do something equally useful in a case of emergency. If climbing doesnot try one's faculties as well as one's physique it is a waste oflabour. 

ACROSS THE BIDASSOA

I came out of London's mirk and mist and the clouds of the Channel andthe rollers of the Bay to find sunshine in the Gironde, though the eastwind was cool in Bordeaux's big river. And then even in Bordeaux Idiscovered that fog was over-common; brief sunshine yielded to thickmist, and the city of wine was little less depressing than EnglishManchester. But though I spent a night there I was bound south and hopedfor better things close by the border of Spain. And truly I found them, though the way there through the Landes is as melancholy as any greatcity of sad inhabitants. 

The desolation of the Landes is an ordered, a commercial desolation. Once the whole surface of the district bore nothing but a scantyherbage. The soil is sand and an iron cement, or "hard-pan, " below thesand. Here uncounted millions of slender sea-pines cover the plain; theystand in serried rows, as regular as a hop-garden, gloomy and withoutthe sweet wildness of nature. And every pine is bitterly scarred, sothat it may bleed its gum for traders. When the plantations are neartheir full growth they are cut down, stacked to season slowly, and thetrees finish their existence as mine timbers deep under the earth. 

After seventy miles of a southward run there are signs that the Landesare not so everlasting and spacious as they seem. To the south-east, atBuglose, where St Vincent de Paul was born, the Pyrenees show far andfaint and blue on the horizon. And then suddenly the River Adourappears, and a country which was English. Dax was ours for centuries, and so was Bayonne, whose modern citadel has had a rare fate for anyplace of strength. It has never been taken; not even Wellington and hisPeninsular veterans set foot within its bastions. 

This is the country of the Basques, that strange, persistent race ofwhich nothing is known. Their history is more covered by ancient cloudsthan that of the Celts; their tongue has no cousin in the world, thoughin structure it is like that of the North-American Indians. I met someof them later, but so far know no more than two words of theirlanguage. 

The wind was cool at St Jean de Luz, but the sun was bright and the seathundered on the beach and the battered breakwaters. To the east andsouth are the Pyrenees--lower summits, it is true, but bold and fine inoutline. The dominant peak, being the first of the chain, is Larhune (aBasque word, not French), where English blood was spilt when Clauzelheld it for Napoleon against the English. Further to the south, andacross the Bidassoa, in Spain, rises the sharp ridge of the Jaisquivel, beneath which lies Fuentarabia. Yonder by Irun is the abrupt cliff ofLas Tres Coronas, three crowns of rock. Here one is in the south-east ofthe Bay, where France and Spain run together, and the sea, under thedominion of the prevailing south-westers, is rarely at peace with theland. To the northward, but out of sight, lies windy Biarritz; to thesouth is blood-stained, battered and renewed San Sebastian, a name thatrecalls many deeds of heroism and many of shame. The horrors of itssiege and taking might make one cold even in sunlight. But between usand its new city lies the Bidassoa. Here, at St Jean de Luz, is theNivelle flowing past Ciboure. The river was once familiar to us indespatches. The whole country even yet smells of ancient war. For herelies the great western road to Spain. And more than once it has been theroad to Paris. It is a path of rising and falling empire. 

During my few days at St Jean de Luz I had foregathered with some exiledfriends, walked to quiet Ascain, and regretted I lacked the time even toattain the summit of so small a mountain as Larhune, and then, desiringfor once to set foot in Spain, took train to Hendaye. This is the lasttown in France. Across the Bidassoa rose the quaint roofs and towers ofold Fuentarabia, the Fontarabie of the French. I hired an eager Basqueto row me across the river, then running seaward at the last of the ebb. 

The day was splendid and mild. There was no cloud in the sky, not awreath of mist upon the mountains. The river was a blue that verged ongreen; its broad sand glowed golden in the sun; to seaward theamethystine waters of the Atlantic heaved and glittered. On the farcliffs they burst in lifting spray. The hills wore the fine faint blueof atmosphere; the wind was very quiet. This seemed at last like peace. I let my hands feel the cool waters of the river and soaked my soul inthe waters of peace. 

And yet my bold Basque chattered as he stood at the bows and poled mewith a blunted oar across the river shallows. He told me proudly that hehad the three languages, that he was all at home with French and Spanishand Basque. He was intelligent within due limits; he at anyrate knew howto extract francs from an Englishman. That generosity which consists inbuying interested civility as well as help or transport with an extrafifty centimes is indeed but a wise and calculated waste. It occurred tome that he might solve a question that puzzled me. Were the Basquesunited as a race, or were their sympathies French or Spanish? Afterconsidering how I should put it, I said, --

"Mon ami, est-ce que vous êtes plus Basque que Français, ou plusFrançais que Basque?"

He taught me a lesson in simple psychology, for he stopped poling andstared at me for a long minute. Then he scratched his head and a lightcame into his eyes. 

"Mais, monsieur, je suis un Basque Français!"

My fine distinction was beyond him, and it took me not a littleindirect questioning to discover that he was certainly more French thanBasque. He presently denounced the Spanish Basques in good round terms, and incidentally showed me that there must be a very considerabledifference in their respective dialects. For he complained that theSpanish Basques spoke so fast that it was hard to understand them. 

He put me ashore at last on a mud flat and accompanied me to the FondaMiramar, where a bright and pretty waitress hurried, after the fashionof Spaniards, to such an extent that she got me a simple lunch in nomore than half an hour. My Spanish is far worse even than my French, butin spite of that we carried on an animated conversation in French andEnglish, Basque and Spanish. At lunch my talk grew more fluent andMariquita went more deeply into matters. She desired to know what Ithought of the Basques, of whom she was one, and a sudden flicker of thedeceitful imagination set me inventing. I told her that I was a Basquemyself, though I was also an Englishman. She exclaimed at this. She hadnever heard of English Basques. How was it I did not speak it? This wasa sore point with me. I assured her of the shameful fact that theEnglish Basques had lost their own tongue; they were degenerate. I hadsome thoughts of learning it in order to re-introduce it into England. As soon as Mariquita had mastered this astounding story she hurried tothe kitchen, and as I heard her relating something with greatexcitement, I have little doubt that a legend of English Basques is nowwell on its way past historic doubt. Leaving her to consider the news Ihad brought, I went out with my boatman to view the old town. I found itquaint and individual and lovely. 

A man who has seen much of the world must hold some places strangely andessentially beautiful. My own favourite spots are Auckland, N. Z. ; theupper end of the Lake of Geneva; Funchal in Madeira; the valley of theColumbia at Golden City and the valley of the Eden seen from Barras inEngland. To these I can now add Fuentarabia, the Pyrenees and theBidassoa. I stood upon the roof of the old ruined palace of Charles LeQuint, and on every point of the compass the view had most peculiar andwonderful qualities. Beneath me was the increasing flood of the frontierriver: at my very feet lay the narrow and picturesque street canyons ofthe ancient town; to the south was Irun in the shelter and shadow of themountains; east-south-east rose the pyramidal summit of Larhune; thewest was the sharp ridge of the brown Jaisquivel which hid SanSebastian; to the north was the rolling Bay; and right to the south thetriple crown of Las Tres Coronas cut the sky sharply. Right opposite meHendaye burnt redly in the glow of the southern sun. In no place that Ican remember have I seen two countries, three towns, a range ofmountains, a big river and the sea at one time. And there was not a spotin view that had not been stained with the blood of Englishmen. 

But now there were no echoes of war in Fuentarabia. Peace lay over itsdark homes and within its ancient walls. 

ON A VOLCANIC PEAK

I had seen Etna, Vesuvius and Stromboli, but had never yet climbed anyvolcano until I stood upon the summit of the Peak of Teneriffe, Pico deTeyde, home of the gods and devils as well as of the aboriginal Guanchesof the Canary Islands. 

The wind was bitterly cold, more bitter, indeed, than I have ever felt, and yet, as I stood and shivered upon the little crater's brink, fumesof sulphurous acid and smoke swept round me and made me choke. The edgeof the crater was of white fired rock; inside the cup the hollow wassulphur yellow. Puffs of smoke came from cracks. I dropped out of thewind and warmed myself at the fire. I picked up warm stones and dancedthem from one hand to another. And overhead a wind of ice howled. Forthe Peak is twelve thousand feet and more above the sea. An hour beforeI had been cutting steps in the last slopes of the last ash cone of thevolcano which still lives and may burst into activity at any fatalmoment. 

To stand upon the Peak and look down upon the world and the sea givesone a great notion of the making of things. Once the world was acrucible. The islands are all volcanic, all ash and cinders, lava andpumice. But I perceived that the Peak itself, the final peak, the lastfive thousand feet of it, was but the last result of a dying fire--amere gas spurt to what had been. The whole anatomy of the island is laidbare; the history and the growth of the peak are written in letters oflava, in wastes of pumice and fire-scarred walls. The plain of theCanyadas lies beneath me, and is ten miles across. This was the ancientcrater; it is as big as the crater of Kilauea, in the Hawaiian Islands. But Kilauea is yet truly alive, a sea of lava with many cones spoutinglava. Such was the crater of Teneriffe before the last peak rose withinits basin. Now retama, a hardy bitter shrub, grows in these plains ofpumice; the flats of it are pumice and rapilli, white and brown. But theancient crater walls stand unbroken for miles, though here and therethey have been swept away, some say by floods of water belched from thepit. 

From the last ash-peak of fire, as I stood on the crater walls in smokeand a cold wind, I saw no sign of Teneriffe's fertility. The works ofman upon the lower slopes below the pinyon forests were invisible. Theslopes by Orotava lay under cloud, the sea was hidden almost to itshorizon by a vast plain of heaving mist. All I could see plainly was theold crater itself, barren, vast, tremendous, with its fire-scarred wallsand its fumaroles. To the west some smoked still, smoked furiously. Butthough I stood upon the highest peak, another one almost as high laybehind me. Chahorra gaped and gasped, as it seemed, like a leaping, suffocating fish in drying mud. Its crater opened like a mouth andaround it lesser holes gaped. On the plain of the old crater there risetwo separate volcanoes--one, the true peak, rising 5000 feet from theCanyada floor (itself 7000 feet above the sea), and Chahorra, nearly4000. But so vast is the ancient crater that these two peaks, one yetalive and the other dead, seem but blisters or boils upon its barrenplain. To the north, miles from the edge of my peak, I could see thecrater cliff rise red. To the west and east the wall has broken down, but the Fortaleza, as the Canary men call it, stands yet, scarred intochimneys, shining, half glassy, half like fired clay. And further to theeast, beyond the gap called the Portillo, the cliffs rise again as onefollows the trail over that high desert to Vilaflor. White pumice liesunder these cliffs, looking like a beach. Once perhaps the crater waslevel with the sea. It may even be that the crater walls were brokendown by outer waters, not by any volcanic flood. 

None knows at what time the peak of Chahorra and the great peak weretruly active. But obviously the final peak itself was the result of alast great eruption. Perhaps the old crater had been quiescent forthousands of years, and then it worked a little and threw up El Teyde. At some other time Chahorra rose. At another period, in historic times, the volcano above Garachico, even now smoking bravely, sent its lavainto Garachico's harbour and destroyed it. But the last peak as itstands is the work of two periods of activity at least. The first greatslope ends at another flat called the Rambleta. Here was once an ancientcrater. Then the fires quietened, and there was a time of lesseractivity. It woke again, and threw up the last weary ash-cone of athousand feet or near it. 

All things die, but who shall say when a volcano has done its worst? Aquiet Vesuvius slew its thousands: Etna its tens of thousands. Some dayperhaps Teneriffe will wake again, either in earthquakes or lava-flow, and cause a Casamicciola or a Catania. The cones over against Garachicoseemed much alive to me, and had I not warmed frozen hands at the veryearth fires themselves? I broke out hot sulphur with the pick of myice-axe. Icod of the Vines, or Orotava itself, port and villa, mightsome day wake to such a day as that which has smitten St Pierre in fieryMartinique. 

Once all the quiet seas were unbroken by their seven islands--Hierro, Palma, Gomera, Teneriffe, Grand Canary, Fuerteventura, and Lanzarote laybeneath the waters of the smiling ocean. Even now they smell of fire andthe furnace; in the most fruitful vineyards of Grand Canary the soil ishalf cinders. In all the islands vast cinder heaps rise black andforbidding. Lava streams, in which the poisonous euphorbia alone cangrow, thrust themselves like great dykes among fertile lands. The verysands of the sea are powdered pumice and black volcanic dust. One of thegreatest craters of the world holds within itself great parts of woodedPalma. On dead volcanoes are the petty batteries of Spain over againstLas Palmas. There is something strange and almost pathetic in thethought of guns raised where Nature once thundered dreadfully in thebarren sunlit Isleta. 

But of all the islands and of all parts of them, the Peak, shining overclouds and visible from far seas, is the king and chief. I left itsfiery summit with a certain reluctance. It attracted me strangely. Itrepresented, feebly enough, I daresay, the greatest of all elementalforces. Yet its faint fires and its smoke and sulphur fumes had all thepower of a mighty symbol. By such means, by such a formula, had the veryworld itself been made. Though snow lay upon its slopes and ice boundancient blocks of lava together, it might at any hour awake again andrenew the terrors which once must have floated over the seas in a gustof flame. 

SHEEP AND SHEEP-HERDING

With the introduction of fences, which are now coming in with tremendousrapidity, sheep-herding as an art is inevitably doomed. When I knewnorth-west Texas a few years ago there was not a fence between the RioGrande and the north of the Panhandle, but now barbed or plain wire isthe rule, and in the pastures it is, of course, not so necessary to lookafter the sheep by day and night. In Australia I have not seen thoseunder my charge for a week or more at a time. While there was water inthe paddock I never even troubled to hunt them up in the hundred squaremiles of grey-green plain with its rare clumps of dwarf box. If dingoeswere reported to be about I kept my eyes open, of course, but they werevery rare in the Lachlan back blocks, and I was never able to earn thefive shillings reward for the tail of this yellow marauder. But in Texasthere are more wild animals--the coyote, the bear, the "panther" orpuma--and it is impossible to leave the sheep entirely to their owndevices, even in pastures which prevent them wandering. Nevertheless, looking after them on fenced land is very different from being with themdaily and hourly, sleeping with them at night, following and directingthem by day, being all the time wary lest some should be divided fromthe main flock by accident, or lest the whole body should spy anothersheep-owner's band and rush tumultuously into it. 

But the new and unaccustomed shepherd on the prairie is apt to givehimself much unnecessary trouble. It takes some time to learn that aflock of sheep is like a loosely-knit organism which will not separateor divide if it can help it. It might be compared with a low kind ofjelly-fish, or even to a sea-anemone, for under favourable conditions ofsun and sky it spreads out to feed, leaving between each of its memberswhat is practically a constant distance. For when the weather changesthey come closer together, and any alarm puts them into a compact mass. I have heard a gun fired unexpectedly, and then seen some 2000 sheep, spreading loosely over an irregular circle, about half a mile indiameter, rush for a common centre with an infallible instinct. Andthen they gradually spread out again like that same sea-anemone puttingforth its filaments after being touched. 

The new shepherd, however, is in constant dread lest they shouldseparate and divide so greatly that he will lose control of them. I havewalked many useless miles endeavouring to keep a flock within unnaturallimits before I discovered that they never went more than a certaindistance from the centre. And this distance varied strictly with thenumbers. At night time they begin to draw together, and if they are notput in a corral or fold will at last lie down in a fairly compact mass, remaining quiet, if undisturbed, until the approach of dawn. But if theyhave had a bad day for feeding they sometimes get up when the moon risesand begin to graze. Then the shepherd may wake up, and, finding he isalone, have to hunt for them. As they usually feed with their heads upwind it is not as a rule hard to discover them. If the moon is coveredby a cloudy sky they will often camp down again. 

The hardest days for the shepherd are cold ones, when it blows strongly. For then the sheep travel at a great pace, and will not go quietlyuntil the sun comes out of the grey sky of the chilly norther, whichperhaps moderates towards noon. But in such weather they do not care tocamp at noonday, and instead of spreading they will travel onward andonward. They doubtless feel uncomfortable and restless. After such a daythey are uneasy at night, especially when there is a moon. 

It is my opinion, after experience of both conditions, that unherdedsheep do much better than those which are closely looked after. InAustralia our percentage of lambs was sometimes 104, and any squatterwould think something wrong if his sheep on the plain yielded less than90 per cent. Increase. But in Texas, where the mothers are watched andhelped, the increase is seldom indeed 75 in the 100, much oftener it is60. I used to wonder whether the losses by wild animals would haveequalled the loss of 25 per cent. Increase which is, I believe, entirelydue to the care taken of them. For herding is essentially a worryingprocess, even when practised by a man who understands sheep well. Themothers are never left alone, and must be driven to a corral at night. Consequently they often get separated from their lambs before they cometo know them, and one of the most pitiful things seen by a shepherd isthe poor distracted ewe refusing to recognise her own offspring evenwhen it is shown to her. We used in such cases to put them together in alittle pen during the night, hoping that she would "own" it by themorning. But very often she would not, and then the lamb usually died. If, indeed, it was one of a more sturdy constitution than most, it wouldrefuse to die and became a kind of Ishmael in the flock. The milk whichwas necessary it took, or tried to take, from the ewe, who, for just amoment, might not know a stranger was trying to share the right of herown lamb. Such an orphan rarely grows up, and most of them die quickly, as they are knocked about and cruelly used by those who take no interestin the disinherited outcast of that selfish ovine society. And yet itsreal mother is in the flock, reconciled to her loss after a few days ofsuffering. 

In spite of my present very decided disinclination to have anything todo with sheep, they are, like every other animal, very interesting whenclosely studied. I spent some years in their society in New South Walesand know a little about them. Shortly before I left Ennis Creek ranch inNorth-west Texas a very curious incident occurred, which I could neverquite satisfactorily explain, for I believe the most serious fright Ihave ever had in all my life was caused by these same inoffensive, innocent quadrupeds. It was not inflicted on me by a ram, which isoccasionally bellicose, but by ewes with their lambs, and I distinctlyremember being as surprised as if the sky had fallen or somethingutterly opposed to all causation had confronted me. I want to meet aman, even of approved courage, who would not be shocked into fair frightby having half-a-dozen ewes suddenly turn and charge him with the furyof a bullock's mad onset. Would he not gasp, be stricken dumb, and lookwide-eyed at the customary nature about him, just as if they had brokeninto awful speech? I imagine he would, for I know that it shook mynerves for an hour afterwards, even though I had by that time recoveredsufficient courage to experiment on them in order to see if the sameresult would again follow. I had about 500 ewes and lambs under my care. The day was warm, though the wind was blowing strongly, and when noonapproached the flock travelled but slowly towards the place where Iwished them to make their mid-day camp. To urge them on I took a largebandana handkerchief and flicked the nearest to me with it as I walkedbehind. As I did so the wind blew it strongly, and it suddenly occurredto me to make a sort of a flag of it in order to see if it wouldfrighten them. I took hold of two corners and held it over my head, sothat it might blow out to its full extent. Now, whether it was due tothe glaring colour, or the strange attitude, or to the snapping of theouter edge of the handkerchief in the wind--and I think it was thelast--I cannot say, but the hindmost ewes suddenly stopped, turnedround, eyed me wildly, and then half-a-dozen made a desperate charge, struck me on the legs, threw me over, and fled precipitately as I fell. It was a reversal of experience too unexpected! I lay awhile and lookedat things, expecting to see the sun blue at the least, and then Igathered myself together slowly. In all seriousness I was never so takenaback in all my life, and I was almost prepared for a ewe's biting me. Iremembered the Australian story of the rich squatter catching a mankilling one of his sheep. "What are you doing that for?" he inquired asa preliminary to requesting his company home until the police could besent for. The questioned one looked up and answered coolly, though not, I imagine, without a twinkle in his eye, "Kill it! Why am I killing it?Look here, my friend, I'll kill any man's sheep as bites _me_. " For mypart, I don't think biting would have alarmed me more. After that I madeexperiments on the ewes, and always found that the flying bandana simplyfrightened them into utter desperation when nothing else would. It was along time before they got used to it. I should like to know if any othersheep-herders ever had the same experience at home or abroad. 

In another book I spoke of lambs when they were very young taking myhorse for their mother. This was in California; but in Texas I haveoften seen them run after a bullock or steer. One day on the prairie alamb had been born during camping-time, and when it was about two hoursold a small band of cattle came down to drink at the spring. Among thesewas a very big steer, with horns nearly a yard long, who came close tothe mother, just then engaged in cleaning her offspring. She ran off, bleating for her lamb to follow. The little chap, however, came to theconclusion that the steer was calling it, and went tottering up to thehuge animal, that towered above him like the side of a canyon, apparentlymuch to the latter's embarrassment. The steer eyed it carefully, andlifted his legs out of the way as the lamb ran against them, evenbacking a little, as if as surprised as I had been when the ewesassaulted me. Then all of a sudden he shook his head as if laughing, putone horn under the lamb, threw it about six feet over his back, andcalmly walked on. I took it for granted that the unwary lamb was dead, but on going up I found it only stunned, and, being as yet all gristle, it soon recovered sufficiently to acknowledge its real mother, who hadwitnessed its sudden elevation, stamping with fear and anxiety. 

Sheep-herding is supposed, by those who have never followed it, to be aneasy, idle, lazy way of procuring a livelihood; but no man who knows asmuch of their ways as I do will think that. It is true that there aretimes when there is little or nothing to be done--when a man can situnder a tree quietly and think of all the world save his own particularcharge; but for the most part, if he have a conscience, he will feel aburden of responsibility upon him which of itself, independently of thework he may have to do, will earn him his little monthly wage of twentydollars and the rough ranch food of "hog and hominy. " For there is noceasing of labour for the Texas herder of the plains; Sunday andweek-day alike the dawning sun should see him with his flock, and evenat night he is still with them as they are "bedded out" in the open. Even if he can "corral" them in a rough sort of yard, some slinkingcoyote may come by and scare them into breaking bounds; and when theyare not corralled the bright moon may entice them to feed quietlyagainst the wind, until at last the herder wakes to find his charge hasvanished and must be anxiously sought for. In Australia, as I have said, the sheep are left to their own devices for the greater part of theyear, unless there should be unusual scarcity of water; but even there, to have charge of so many thousand animals, and so many miles offencing, makes it no enviable task, while the labour, when it does come, is hard and unremitting. In New South Wales I have often been eighteenand twenty hours in the saddle, and have reached home at last so weariedout that I could scarcely dismount. One day I used up three horses andcovered over ninety miles, more than fifty of it at a hard canter orgallop--and if that be not work I should like to know what is. This, too, goes on day after day during shearing, just when the days aregrowing hot and hotter still, the spare herbage browning, and the waterbecoming scanty and scantier. And for a recompense? There is none inworking with sheep. They are quiet, peaceable, stupid, illogical, incapable of exciting affection, very capable of rousing wrath; fardifferent from the terrible excitement of a bellowing herd oflong-horned cattle as they break away in a stampede, among whom isdanger and sudden death and the glory of motion and conquest; or withhorses thundering over the plain in hundreds, like a riderless squadronshaking the ground with waving manes, long flowing tails, and flashingeyeballs, whom one can love and delight in, and shout to with a strange, vivid joy that sends the blood tingling to the heart and brain. Were Ito go back to such a life I would choose the danger, and be discontentedto maunder on behind the slow and harmless wool-bearers, cursing alittle every now and again at their foolishness, and then plodding ononce more, bunched up in an inert mass on a slow-going horse, whowearily stretches his neck almost to the ground as he dreams, perhaps, of the long, exhilarating gallops after his own kind that we once hadtogether, being conscious, I daresay, of the contemptuous pity I feelfor the slow foredoomed muttons that crawl before us on the long andweary plain. 

It is highly probable that the introduction of fences will have itseffect in other ways than in increasing the number of lambs born andreared. Sheep-herding will almost disappear when the wild beasts ofTexas are extinct, as they soon will be, for a fenced country is veryunfit for such animals. But then the natural glory of the wide openprairie will be gone, and civilisation will gradually destroy all thatwas so delightful, even when my sheep, by worrying me, taught me what Ihave here set down. 

RAILROAD WARS

Everybody nowadays has some notion of the way the railroad business ofAmerica is carried on. They know that there are too many roads for thetraffic, and that, to prevent a general ruin, the managers combine, paythe profits into the hands of a receiver, and receive again from him acertain agreed proportion of the whole sum. But this method of "pooling"the profits is sometimes unsatisfactory. One line will think it gets toolittle if the fluctuations of trade send more freight over its railsthan it formerly had, and will demand a greater proportion of the grossprofits. This demand may be granted, but if not, the agreement may breakdown, and the discontented railroad go to work on the old principle ofevery man for himself. This very likely inaugurates a war of tariffs;fares and freights go down slowly or quickly according as the quarrelis open or secret, until one or other of the parties gives in to avoidcomplete ruin. 

While I was living in San Francisco, early in 1886, there was an openwar between all the lines west of Chicago and Kansas City, including theUnion Pacific, the Northern Pacific, the Denver and Rio Grande, theSouthern Pacific, and the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fé. Fares to NewYork and the Atlantic seaboard came tumbling down by $10 at a fall. Theusual rate from New York to San Francisco is $72. It fell to 60, to 50, 40, 30, to 25, to 22. All the railroad offices had great placardsoutside inviting everyone to go East at once, for they would never getsuch a chance again. Some of the notices were very odd. One began with"Blood, blood, blood!" and another had a hand holding a bowie knife, with the legend "Here we cut deep!" And, as I have said, they did cutdeep, for at the end one might go to New York for about $18. Now this$18 went in a lump to the railroad east of Chicago. Consequently thepassengers were carried over 2000 miles for nothing. Frequently duringtwo days men were booked to Chicago or Kansas City from San Franciscoor Los Angeles for $1. Two thousand miles for 4s. 2d!

Such a state of things could not last, but while it did it gave rise tomuch speculation. Many men bought up tickets, good for some time, believing the bottom prices had been reached when the fall had by nomeans ended. It was odd to stand outside an office and listen to thecrowd. Some would hold on and say, "I'll chance it till to-morrow. " ThenI have seen an agent come outside and say, "Gentlemen, now's your timeto go east and visit your families. Don't delay. Of course fares mayfall further, but I think not. Don't be too greedy. You are not likelyto get the chance again of going home for twenty-five dollars. " They didfall further, but recovered again on the rumour of negotiationsbeginning between the competing lines. When that was contradicted theyfell again. Suddenly, without any warning, they jumped up to normalrates, and left many of the outside public--the bears, so tospeak--lamenting that they had not taken the opportunity so eloquentlypointed out by the oratorical agents on the sidewalk by the offices. Forthe placards and pictures came down at once, and to an inquirer whoasked, "What can you do New York at?" the answer was, "Why, sir, theusual rate--$72. "

To an Englishman who has not travelled in the States and become familiarwith the methods employed there by business men, it seems odd thatanyone should chaffer with the clerk at a ticket-office. What would anEnglish booking-clerk say if he were asked about the fare to some place, and, on replying £1, received the rejoinder, "I'll give you 15s?" Hewould think the man a joker of a very feeble description. Yet this mayoften be done in Western America. Even when there is no "war" the agentshave a certain margin to veer and haul on in their commission, and willoften knock off a little sooner than allow a rival line to get thepassenger. Besides, it frequently happens that there may be a secretcutting of rates without an open war. My own experience, when I camedown from Sonoma County in the autumn of 1886, meaning to return toEngland, will give a very good notion of this, and of the way to get acheap ticket when there is the trouble among the companies which may endin a war, or be patched up by arbitration. 

It had been said in the papers for some time that rate-cutting wasgoing on in San Francisco, and this made me hurry down not to lose theopportunity. The morning after my arrival I walked into an office inKearney Street and said briefly, "What are you doing to New York?" Theclerk said in a business way, "Seventy-two dollars. " I laughed a littleand looked at him straight without speaking. "Hum, " said he; "well, youcan go for sixty-five. " "Thanks, " I said, "it isn't enough. " I walkedout, and though he called me back I would not return. Then I went to MrP. , a well-known agent for railroads and steamships. To use a vulgarism, he did not open his mouth so wide as the other, but at once offered me athrough ticket to Liverpool for $72. I thanked him and said I would callagain. Deducting the $12 for a steerage passage, his railroad fare was$60. So far I had knocked off 12. And now it began to rain very hard. Itdid not cease all day. And my day's work was only begun, for it was onlyten o'clock then. I went from one office to another, quoting one's rateshere and another's there, and slowly I dropped the fare to fifty. I hadto explain to some of these men that I was not a fool, and that I knewwhat I was doing; that if they took me for a "tenderfoot, " or a"sucker, " they were mistaken. My explanations always had an effect, anddown the fare tumbled. At last, about three o'clock, I had got things toa very fine point, and was working two rival offices which stood side byside near the Palace Hotel. One man--Mr A. , whom I knew by name, whoindeed knew a friend of mine--offered me $45. I shook my head, and goingnext door, Mr V. Made it a dollar less. It took me half-an-hour toreduce that again to forty-three; but at last Mr A. , who was as muchinterested in this little game as if I were a big stake at poker, wentsuddenly down to $41. I offered to toss him whether it should be $40 or$42. He accepted, and I won the toss. As he made out the ticket, heremarked, almost sadly, "We don't make anything out of this. " But hecheered up, and added, "Well, the others don't either. " So I got myticket; and it was over one of the best lines. By that day's work, though I got wet through, covered with mud, and very tired, I saved $32. 

When on board the east-bound train next day I got talking with somedozen men who were going east with me, and, naturally enough, we askedeach other what fares we had paid, I found they varied greatly, but theaverage was about $60. One little Jew, a tobacconist, was very proudthat his only cost $48. He almost wept when I told him that I beat himby eight whole dollars. Moreover, I reached New York twenty hours beforehim, for when we parted at Chicago we made arrangements to meet in NewYork, and then I found that he had been obliged to round into Canada, and lie over all one night, while I had come direct on the Chicago andAlton with only two hours' wait at Lima; so on the whole I did not thinkI did very badly. 

AMERICAN SHIPMASTERS

It may seem strange to people who are entirely unacquainted with themethods of shipmasters and officers generally in the American mercantilemarine that a sailor should have such a deadly objection to sail in oneof their vessels; but those who know the hideous brutalities whichcontinually occur on such ships will quite understand the feelings of aman who finds himself on a vessel which would probably have been mannedwillingly if it had not a bad character among seamen. I have known anAmerican vessel lie six weeks and more off Sandridge, Melbourne, waitingfor a crew, which she could not get, although men were very plentifuland the boarding-houses full. There are some vessels running from NewYork, etc. , round the Horn to San Francisco, which have a villainousreputation. The captain of one of these was sentenced to eighteenmonths in the Penitentiary when I was in the great Pacific Port forincredible atrocities practised on his crew. For one thing, he shotrepeatedly at men who were up aloft, and hit one of them who was on themain-yard, though not so seriously as to make him quit his hold of thejack-stay. One of the ship's boys was treated with barbarity during thewhole passage; thrashed, beaten, starved, and ill-used in the vilestmanner; and at last the captain knocked him down and jumped on his faceso as to blind him for life. This man went a little too far, and thecourts, which are always biassed, and very much biassed consideringtheir origin, on the side of rich authority, were compelled to do theirduty by the uproar that this last incident caused. Yet even after thatthe people connected with the shipping interests got up petitions, andintrigued and wire-pulled for months to get the Governor of Californiato pardon him. Failing in this, they approached the President; but I amheartily glad their efforts were vain. 

One of my own shipmates in the _Coloma_, of Portland, Oregon, was oncewith a commander of this class, and so bad was his reputation that noone among the crew knew until they were under way who the captain was. My mate said, "I was at the wheel when I saw him come up the companion, and, as I had sailed with him before, my blood ran cold when Irecognised him. He came straight up to the wheel, stared at me, andasked me, 'Haven't you sailed with me before?' 'Yes, sir, ' I answered. Then he grinned, 'Ha, then you know me. When you go forward you tell thecrowd what kind of a man I am, and tell them that if they behavethemselves I'll be a father to 'em. ' I knew what his being a father tous meant. However, I didn't see any good in scaring the fellows, so whenmy trick was over I told them the skipper was a real beauty. Just thenthere was a roar from the poop, 'Relieve the wheel'; and the man who hadrelieved me came staggering forrard with his face smothered in blood. Hehad let her run off a quarter of a point or so, and the skipper, withoutsaying a word, struck him right between the eyes with the end of hisbrass telescope, cutting his nose and forehead in great gashes. That washis way of being a father to us, and he kept it up all the passage. Thefirst chance I got I skinned out!"

It is true that the American mercantile marine is not so bad as it was. These things do not occur in all vessels, but even yet they occur sofrequently that an English sailor would, as a general rule, rather sailwith the devil himself than an American skipper. What the state ofaffairs was some twenty or thirty years ago one can hardly imagine, butit certainly was much worse then. Shanghai-ing is not so much practised. There is a story current among seamen, though I know not how true it is, that it was checked owing to the lieutenant of an English man-of-warbeing drugged and carried on board an American merchant-man. However, there is now, or was but lately, a boarding-house keeper in SanFrancisco whose Christian or first name had been abolished in favour of"Shanghai. " I had the very doubtful honour of knowing him, and couldeasily believe any stories told of his chicanery and treachery tosailormen. 

TRAMPS

The poor tramp is a much-abused person, and I have no doubt that heoften deserves what is said of him, but, in spite of that, his life isoften so hard that he might extort at the least a little sympathy--andsomething to eat. All Americans are too ready to confound two distinctclasses of tramps--those who take the road to look for work, and those(the larger number, I confess) who look for work and pray to heaven thatthey may never find it. In this preponderance of the lazy traveller overthe industrious lies the distinction between the state of affairs inAmerica and Australia, for in the latter country the "sundowner, " or"murrumbidgee whaler, " or "hobo" proper, is in the minority. 

When I was on the tramp myself in Oregon I was much annoyed by beingtaken for one of the truly idle kind. I remember at Roseberg, or alittle to the north of it, I once stopped and had a talk with a farmerwhom I had asked for work. Although he had none to give me he was verycivil, and we talked of tramps and tramping. He looked at me keenly. "Ican see you are not of the regular professionals, " said he. "Thank youfor your perspicacity, " I answered, and though perspicacity fairlyfloored him, he saw it was not an insult, and went on talking. "Now lookhere, my boy, they say we're hard on tramps, and perhaps some of us are, but I reckon we sometimes get enough to make us rough. Last summer I wasin my orchard, picking cherries, I think, and a likely-looking, strongyoung fellow comes along the road. Seeing me, he climbs the fence, andsays to me, 'Say, boss, could you give me something to eat? I haven'thad anything to-day. ' I looked at him. 'Why, yes, ' said I. 'If you'll goup to the house I'll be up there in a few minutes when I've filled thispail; and while you're waiting just split a little wood. The axe is onthe wood pile. ' Now, look you, what d'ye think he said. 'I don't splitwood. I ain't going to do any work till I get to Washington Territory. ''Oh!' said I, 'that's it, is it? Then look here, young fellow, don't youeat anything till you get there either; for I won't give you anything, and just let me see you climb that fence in a hurry. ' So he went offcursing. Ain't that kind of thing enough to make us rough ontramps?--let alone that they steal the chickens; and if you look as yougo down the road you'll see feathers by every place they camp. " That wastrue enough, and south of the Umpqua I used to find goose feathers everyfew hundred yards. On that same tramp down through Oregon I once metfour men travelling north. There had been a murder committed by a trampin the south of Roseberg, and we stopped under an old scrubby oak totalk it over. Three of them were working men, but the fourth was a trueprofessional, about fifty years of age, whose clothes were ragged to thelast extremity of tatters. His hands were brown at the backs, but Inoticed, when I gave him some tobacco, which he very promptly asked for, that the palms were perfectly soft. He told us how long he hadtravelled, and how many years it was since he had done any work; and, finally rising, he picked up a wretched-looking blanket, and said, "Well, good-day, gentlemen. I'm off to call on the Mayor of Portland anda few rich friends of mine up there. " He winked good-humouredly andshambled off. 

I met a lame young fellow near Jacksonville, who told me he had come allthe way from New York State, and was thinking of going back. He was invery good spirits, and did not appear in the least dismayed at theprospect of tramping 2000 miles, for he was one of those who do not usethe railroad and "beat their way. " When I was at work in Sonoma County, California, a little fellow came and worked for ten days, who oncetravelled 200 miles inside the cowcatcher of an engine. Most Englishpeople know the wedge-shaped pilot in front of the American engine wellenough by repute to recognise it. When the engine was in the yard overthe hollow track he crawled in, taking a board to sit on inside. Whenthe locomotive once ran out on the ordinary track it was impossible toremove him, although the fireman soon discovered his presence there, andpoured some warm water over him. On coming to a little town about fiftymiles from his destination the constable came down to the train. "Hecame, " said Hub (that was our tramp's name) "to see that no tramps getoff there, or, if they did, to advise them to clear out. He walked tothe engine and said 'Good day' to the driver. 'Got any tramps on boardto-day, Jack?' he said. 'We've got one, ' he answered; 'but we can't gethim off. ' 'Why? how's that?' said the constable. 'Go and look at thepilot. ' So he came round and looked at me, and he burst into a laugh. 'All right, Jack, ' says he, 'you can keep him. He won't trouble us, Ican see. ' And with that he poked me with his stick, and called everyoneto take a look. I said nothing, but you bet I felt mean to be cooped upthere, not able to move, with all the folks laughing at me. "

But, in spite of Hub's sad experience, he went off on the tramp again assoon as he had enough to buy a pair of new boots with. 

Tramps--that is, the bad ones among them--are very often insolent whenthey find no one but women in the house. Once a man I knew was workingin Indiana, but having a bad headache he remained in one morning. By-and-by a truculent-looking tramp came along. "Kin you give us suthin'to eat, ma'am?" he growled. "Certainly, " said the woman, who was alwayskind to travellers. She set about making him a meal and put out somebread and meat. The tramp, who certainly did not look hungry, eyed itwith disfavour. "Bah!" said he at last, with intense contempt; "I don'twant that stuff. D'ye think I'm starving? A'nt you got suthingnice--say, some strawberry shortcake and cream?" The woman stared withastonishment, as well she might. But the man with the headache heard MrTramp's remarks. There was a shot-gun hanging in the room where he was;so, slipping off the bed, he reached for the weapon, walked out quietly, and, thrusting the muzzle of the gun under the tramp's ear, he roared ina fierce voice "Get!" And, to use the vernacular, the tramp "got"instantly. 

The last story I will tell of tramps is perhaps the most audacious ofall. I met the chief actor in British Columbia. It appears that he andanother man went one Sunday to a very respectable farmhouse in Illinoisto beg for food. They knocked and there was no answer. They knockedagain, and still without avail. Then they opened the unlocked door andwent in. The dining-table was laid ready for a feast, as it seemed, forit was adorned with an admirable cold collation, including a turkey, several fowls, and a number of pies. The eyes of my acquaintance andhis partner sparkled. Here was a chance, for the family was at church. They went out, got a sack, and hastily tumbled into it the turkey, thefowls, some bread, and the most substantial pies. Just as it was gettingfull one looked out of the window and saw a man coming up the path. Theywere struck with terror of discovery, but on watching they soon saw thatthis was a tramp like themselves. He came up and knocked at the door. "Can you give me something to eat, sir?" he asked humbly. "I guess so, "said my acquaintance, coolly; "that is, if you ain't one of the trampsthat won't work. Will you cut some wood for your dinner?" "Of course Iwill, " said the tramp, gladly, and he went to the wood pile. While hewas at work the two spoilers of the Egyptians departed through the backdoor, and went about a hundred yards to the corner of a wood, where theylaughed till they cried. The result of their manoeuvre was sure to betoo good to be lost, so one of them climbed up a tree and watched. Inabout a quarter of an hour he saw a string of men and women comingtowards the house, and still the working tramp made the chips fly. Onentering the yard one of the men went up to interview him, and by thetramp's gestures it was evident that he was explaining that he had beenset to work. Meanwhile, the women went in, but came out again in amoment, shrieking with indignation. The next sight was the farmer armedwith a stick belabouring the astonished worker, who fled across thefence incontinently. He was followed to the very verge of the wood, andthen the exhausted "mossback" left him to return to the house. "It wasjust the funniest thing I ever saw, " declared my unabashed friend; "andto see that poor fellow get whipped for our sins nearly killed me. But Itell you we rewarded him for his labour after all. We found him sittingon a stump rubbing himself all over, and invited him to dinner with us. So, you see, he got the grub we promised him, and he didn't work fornothing, for that would just kill a tramp. "

TEXAS ANIMALS

The fauna of Texas is very varied, and a naturalist may find plentythere for his note-book, and much to reflect on, if he be acontemplative man. A hunter may satisfy himself, too, if he goes intothe extreme west and north-west, but he must be quick about it, for Ireceived a letter years ago from a friend of mine in the south part ofthe Panhandle of Texas, in which he told me that all the land wasgetting fenced in, even in those parts that I knew in 1884 as wide andopen prairie, and when fences come the beasts go, deer and anteloperetreat, and "panther" or cougar are hunted and shot by those who ownsheep, cattle and horses. I am no naturalist, and no great hunter. Atthe risk of causing a smile of contempt I must confess that I can hold ashot-gun, a "double-pronged scatter-gun, " or a rifle in my hands withoutshooting at anything I see. I have let antelope and deer pass me withouteven letting the gun off, and have spared squirrels and birdsinnumerable that most of my friends would have promptly slain; but Itake great interest in animal life, and am fond of watching the denizensof prairie or forest. 

When on my friend Jones's ranche in 1884 I sometimes went wild turkeyhunting or potting; we used to choose a moonlight night and lie underthe trees, where they roosted, and shoot them on the branches. It wasmere butchery, and the sole excitement consisted in the doubt as towhether any of the big birds would come or not, and the chief interestto me was the conversation of my wild Texan friends, who were strangerthan turkeys to me. 

There were not many birds of prey around us, except the big slow-sailingturkey-buzzards, which are protected by law as useful scavengers. Nevertheless, I shot at one once, and having missed it I never triedagain. 

My great friends were the hares or jackrabbits, which are fast, but veryeasy to shoot, for if I saw one coming my way, loping or canteringalong, I stood stock-still, and he would come past me without taking theleast notice of my presence, probably imagining I was only acurious-shaped stump. Sometimes I found them in the dry arroyos orwater-courses, and threw stones at them. They rarely ran away at onceat full speed, but for the most part went a little distance and sat upto look at me, waiting for two or three stones, until they made up theirminds that I was decidedly dangerous. 

Another little animal was the cotton-tail rabbit, so called from thewhite patch of fur under the tail, which is as bright as cotton burstingfrom the pod, I killed one once more by impulse than anything else. Itran from under my feet when I had a knife in my hand. I threw it at therabbit, and to my surprise knocked it over, for I am a very bad shotwith that sort of missile. 

The prairie dogs or marmots were in tens of thousands round us, and Iused to amuse myself by shooting at one in particular with the rifle. His hole was a hundred yards from our camp, and he would come out andsit on his hill every now and again, and then go nibbling round at thegrass. I shot at him a dozen times, and once cut the ground under hisbelly, but never killed him. They are extremely hard to get even ifshot, for they manage to run into their burrows somehow, even ifmortally wounded. The Texans believe they go back even when quite dead;but then they are rather credulous, for some of them believe that therattlesnake lives on friendly terms with the inmates of the burrows. Therattlesnakes were very numerous, for one day I killed seven. The firstone I saw threw me into a curious instinctive state of fury, and Ismashed it into pieces, while I trembled like a horse who has nearlystepped on a venomous snake. Those Texans who do not believe in thefriendship of snake and prairie dog say that it is possible to make therattler come out of a hole he has taken refuge in by rolling smallpieces of dirt and earth down it. For they assert that the prairie dogsearth up the mouth of the burrow when they know a snake is in it, andthe reptile knows what is about to happen. 

Of other snakes there were the moccasins, water snakes, and esteemedvery deadly. It is said that when an Indian is bitten by one of these helies down to die without making any effort to save his life, whereas ifa rattlesnake has harmed him he usually cures himself. Besides thesethere were the omnipresent garter snakes, and the grey or silvercoach-whip, both harmless. The bull snake is said to grow to an enormoussize, and is a kind of North American python or boa. About five milesfrom our camp was an old hut, which was occupied by a sheep-herder whomI knew. One night he heard a noise, and looking out of his bunk saw bythe dim light of the fire an enormous snake crawling out of a hole inthe corner of the room. He jumped out of bed and ran outside, and founda stick. He killed it, and it measured nearly eleven feet. It is calledbull snake because it is popularly supposed to bellow, but I never heardit make any noise of such description. 

On these prairies there are occasionally to be found cougars, commonlycalled panthers or "painters, " although erroneously. In British Columbiathey are called mountain lions, and the same name is applied to them inCalifornia, unless they are called California lions. I am informed by anaturalist friend that they are the same species as the South Americanpuma. I knew a man in Colorado City who was a great hunter of theseanimals, and he had half a dozen hunting dogs torn and scratched allover their bodies, with ears missing, and one with half a tongue, whohad suffered from the teeth and claws of these cougars. He kept one in acage which was much too small for it, and I was often tempted to poisonit to put an end to its misery. This man had a regular menagerie at theback of his house, consisting of various birds, this cougar, and twobears. 

These bears are not infrequently to be met with on the prairies, andwhile I was staying in a town one was brought in in a wagon. Bruin hadbeen captured by four cowboys, who had lassoed and tied it. He weighedabout 600 lbs. , and was a black bear, for the cinnamon and grizzly donot, I believe, range in open level country. 

Besides these harmful animals there were plenty of antelopes to befound, if one went to look for them, and the cowardly slinking coyotewas often to be seen as one rode across the prairie; and often inwalking I found tortoises with bright red eyes. These were small, aboutsix inches long. In the creeks were plenty of mud turtles, which arefond of scrambling on to logs to sun themselves. If disturbed they dropinto the water instantly, giving rise to a saying to express quickness, "like a mud turtle off a log. "

I have said nothing of bison. Perhaps there are none now, but in 1884there were supposed to be still a few on the Llano Estacado or StakesPlain. I knew one man who used to go hunting them every year and usuallykilled a few. But the last time I saw him he was on a "jamboree, " orspree, and killed his unfortunate horse by tying it up without feedingit or giving it water while he was drinking or drunk, and so he did notmake his usual trip. But I imagine there can be few or none left now, and probably the only representatives of the race are in the NationalPark. 

IN A SAILORS' HOME

After coming back to England from Australia in the barque _Essex_ Ifound "home" a curious place, which afforded very few prospects of asatisfactory job. For if there is one thing more than another borne inupon anyone who returns from the Colonies it is the apparentimpossibility of earning one's living in London. Every avenue is as muchchoked as the entrance to the pit at a popular theatre on a first night. And though it is said that we may always get a tooth-brush into aportmanteau however full it is, there comes a time when not even atooth-brush bristle can be put there. I looked at London, wandered roundit, spent all my money, and determined to go to sea again, this time ina steamer rather than in a "wind-jammer. " With this notion in my mind Iwent down to Hull, whither a shipmate of mine had preceded me. He hadbeen a quarter-master in the _Essex_ and was the melancholy possessorof a cancelled master's certificate. He owed this to drink, of course, as most men do who pile their ships up on the first reef that comeshandy. But when he was sober he was a good old fellow. He took me roundto the Sailors' Home in Salthouse Lane, and introduced me to the man whoran it. I stayed there six weeks. 

The Sailors' Home as an institution is not over-popular with seamen, especially with the more improvident of them. And the improvident arecertainly ninety per cent. Of the total sea-going race of man. As a ruleHomes cease to be such when a man's money is done. He is thrown out intothe street or into some equivalent of the notorious Straw House. Thereis always much talk at sea about the relative advantages ofBoarding-Houses and Homes, and half the arguments about the subject endin more or less of a "rough house" and a few odd black eyes. Howeverrude and brutal the boarding-house master may be, however much of adaylight robber he is (and they mostly are "daylight robbers") it is tohis advantage to make his house popular. There is no surer way of doingthis than ensuring his boarder a ship at the end of his short spree onshore. In many Homes the men look after this themselves. Jack is achild and wants to be looked after. As far as the Home in Salthouse Lanewent, I think it combined some of the better qualities of both thecommon resorts of men ashore. The boss of it knew something aboutseamen; he was certainly not a robber, and he kept me and several otherswhen we did not possess a red cent among us to jingle on a tombstone. Healso kept order, for he had had some experience as a prize-fighter, andcould put the best of us on the floor at a moment's notice. Once ortwice he did so, and peace reigned in Warsaw. 

There were certainly very few of us in the Home. Hull was not quite asfull of sailors as hell is of devils, as a boarding-house master onceassured me that San Francisco was when I tried to get taken into hishouse after being rejected even less politely by that eminent scoundrelShanghai Brown. Besides myself there were a sturdy blue-nose orNova-Scotian; a long-limbed, slab-sided herring-back or native of NewBrunswick, a big thick-headed ass of an Englishman and a smart thief ofa Cockney, known to us all as Ginger. We lived together withoutquarrelling more than three times a day. This we thought was peace. Itwas certainly more peaceful than my last boarding-house atWilliamstown, where we had a little bloodshed every night. But there thevery tables and benches were clamped to the floor; the windows were toohigh above us for anyone to be thrown out, and on a board nailed beyondour reach was the legend, "Order must and _will_ be preserved. " But thatboarding-house was very exciting; my last excitement In it was trippingup a man, treading on his wrist and taking away a razor with which hemeant to cut throats. In Hull we never went further than a good common"scrap, " though they happened fairly often. 

Times were not very brisk in Hull just then. At anyrate, we did not findthem so. We had a "runner" at the Home, who was supposed to help us finda ship, but certainly did not. He was a very curious person to look at. He weighed eighteen stone and was a perfect giant of strength, with legslike columns and a neck about twenty inches round. I never found outwhat his nationality was. He looked like a Russian, but denied that hewas one. It was said that he once fought six men in the lane and downedthem all in sheer desperation. As a matter of fact, he was rathercowardly, I think, and easily put on, though if he had really got madsomething would have had to give. We did not rely on him but looked forships ourselves in a very casual way. Most of us pretended to look forthem and loafed about the neighbouring slums. When sailormen are thrownon their own resources they are pretty helpless creatures. The man whois a lion on a topsail yard in a gale is too often like a wet cat in abackyard when he is ashore. I was lazy enough myself, but as it happenedit was I who got something to do for Ginger, for the New Brunswicker andmyself. 

I had not been living in the highly-desirable neighbourhood of SalthouseLane for a week before I found myself without a stiver. The rest were inthe same condition. Every three days or so I borrowed a penny from theboss and got a shave in order to keep up my spirits. Three days' beardis almost as depressing as three days' starvation, and the little shopat the corner, which renewed my self-respect for a penny, seemed to me amost admirable institution. As for drinks, we had none--we were sobersailors indeed. The sun might get over the fore-yard and go down overthe cro'-jack but we never touched liquor. Nevertheless we had fights torelieve the monotony of the situation. The Nova Scotian and I took tobeing hostile. We disbelieved each other's lies. So one day while wewere in the smoking-room he said something which was not at all polite. I could not knock him down with a chair because the careful andprovident boss had had them chained to the floor. So I hit him, and hithim rather hard, for what he had said out of pure devilry. He wassitting on the table and I knocked him off. His particular mate was thevery thick-headed Englishman. He did his best for the Nova Scotian byholding me very tight while the blue-nose hammered me. This was awkward, to say nothing about the unfairness of it. I got away but presentlyfound myself across a bench with my back in danger of being broken. Moreby good luck than management I broke loose and got the blue-nose acrossthe bench, I am thankful to say I nearly broke his back. Then we waltzedround the room in the wildest way, till the wife of the boss and theservant girl flew in and broke up the party with the most amazingenergy. I was the youngest and the most civilised, and the womennaturally said it was the Nova Scotian's fault. They said so in the mostvoluble manner, and the Nova Scotian did not like it. He said they tookmy part because I was not so ugly as he was, and said it wasn't fair, especially as I had spoilt what little beauty he had. He furtherasserted that he would knock the stuffing out of me, and we were onhostile terms for twenty-four hours. Two days later he got a job asbo'sun in a barque and his mate shipped with him, and peace was assuredfor a time. 

The food they gave us was rough but fairly good and plentiful. Whereverthe meat came from it could be masticated with some effort. In Barclay'sboarding-house, in Williamstown, we had to take a spell in the middle ofa mouthful. I have seen steak there that would have pauled achaff-cutter. In the dining-room at Salthouse Lane there lived thewildest, most eccentric clock I ever saw in all my travels. It had amost remarkable way of striking quite peculiar to itself. We used todine at one o'clock. At noon the clock usually struck one. In veryextravagant days it struck two. But no one could guess what it wouldstrike when it was really one o'clock. I once counted seventy-twostrokes, and on a public holiday it went up to a hundred and twenty. Itwas our only amusement. 

We were allowed to come in at almost any time. When the Nova Scotian andhis mate had departed the Cockney and the herring-back and I used torun together and go waltzing round the back part of Hull pretty well allnight. Once we sat on the steps of a bank for nearly four hours, betweentwelve and four. With us were two young ladies, who were possibly notvery respectable but about whom I knew nothing as I had never seen thembefore and never saw them again, and another young sailor who was goodat yarns. I didn't know his name. Absurd as it may seem we were allquite happy. The policeman on the beat saw that we were, and evidentlyhated to disturb us. He came past us three times, and each time asked usvery nicely to go home. Next time he repeated his request, and as hesaid he would look on our doing so in the light of a personal favour tohimself, we agreed to evacuate the bank at last. 

Our greatest privation at the Salthouse Lane establishment was want oftobacco. We rarely had any of it. I remember one day, when want ofnicotine made me very sad, we went, on my suggestion, into the bag-roomand pulled out our bags and chests. My chest was what seamen call around-bottomed chest, _i. E. _, a sailor's canvas bag. The beauty of it isthat anything wanted is always at the bottom. In turning the bag out Ifound half a plug of tobacco. If we had been gold-mining and I hadstruck a "pocket, " or come across big nuggets we could not have beenhappier. We sat in the smoking-room, and having divided the plug we hada grand debauch. Of course we sometimes begged a pipe or two fromluckier men about the docks, but to find a real half plug was somethingto gloat over. 

When I had been in the Home nearly two months, and owed what seemed anamazing amount of money, I really began to think that if I could notship in a steamer I must go in a wind-jammer again after all. So Ireally began to hunt round in earnest, and after trying all sorts andconditions of craft I landed on a job in the _Corona_ of Dundee. She wasa biggish composite vessel of about seventeen hundred tons register, with that horrible thing, wire running rigging. In her I made theacquaintance of one of her old crew, who had stayed by her in Hullriver, who told me various yarns of her behaviour at sea, and how oneman had been killed in her on her homeward passage from San Francisco. As we got to be pals he suggested I should bring some more men if I knewof any in want of a job. I brought along Ginger and the herring-back, and we went to work cleaning out the limbers. It was not a nice job, forthe limbers of a ship which has been carrying wheat are, to say theleast of it, rather malodorous. We scraped the rotting black muck outwith boards and scrapers, and sent it up on deck. It was a two and ahalf days' job. Then the mate set me over my two friends to "break out"casks of beef and pork from the fore-peak. As I hadn't been much to seait rather amused me to find myself bossing two men who had been at itall their lives. But I have to own that they were two of the stupidestmen I ever met, though they were not bad fellows. Then the time came forus to go to London by the "run. " They offered us 30s. For the run toLondon river. This, with the five shillings a day I had earned by sixdays' work on board, made £3. I had practically spent nothing while Iwas working in her, although we left the Home too early in the morningto have breakfast there. We used to go to a coffee-stall near the dockentrance and get what is described by Cockneys as "two doorsteps and acup of thick" for about 2d. We went home for dinner and supper. Thus Ihad nearly all my £3 for the boss of the Home. He got the money when wewere out in the "stream" with the tug ahead of us. 

We were only one night at sea. We washed her down and cleaned her a bitgenerally and made her look a little decent, and I had the look-out thatnight. As we towed the whole distance we came up London river nextafternoon. It was a gloomy and miserable day, which made London horribleto behold. It was like entering hell itself to come up into the partswhere the big warehouses stand and where the docks are. We came at lastto Limehouse, where she was to be dry-docked. I was at the wheel then, and it took us two hours before we got her in and had her settled downupon the blocks with the shores to hold her. Then I took myround-bottomed chest and left her. The mate, who had taken a fancy tome, asked me to ship in her for her next voyage, but I said I meant to"swallow the anchor" and have no more of that kind of work. Myexperience in Hull--the semi-starvation, the fighting, the lonelinessand general blackguardism of the whole show--had somewhat sickened me ofthe life. And yet seamen are good fellows, and might be much better ifit were not for the greed of owners, who feed them badly, house themvilely, and think of nothing in the world but dividends. Seamen knowwhat they know, and they resent with bitterness the way they aretreated. They have a bitter saying, "That's good enough for hogs, dogsand sailors. " The day must come when England will cry to her children ofthe sea, and weep because they are not. 

THE GLORY OF THE MORNING

According to his temperament a man's memory of travel and the strangewild places of the earth deals chiefly with one set of reminiscences orwith another. For me the remembered mornings of the wide and lonelyworld, whether in the bush, or on the prairie, or the veldt, or at sea, are my chiefest delight. For in them, as in the morning even now, issomething especial and peculiar which recalls and recreates youth: whichbreaks up the dead customs of to-day, and sends one back again to theswift, sweet hours of experiment and change. Assuredly the nights hadtheir charm, whether they were spent by some great camp-fire on thewinding Lachlan, in the darkness of a pine forest in British Columbia, or on the fo'c'sle-head of a ship upon the sea; and yet the night wasthe night, the prelude to sleep, and not to activity, the chief joy ofman. 

I can recall how a morning broke for me once which was the morning of akind of freedom almost appalling to the child of cities. This was themorning of youth, or rather of earliest manhood, when I was timid andyet unafraid, curious, and, after a manner, innocent, when I had sleptby my first camp-fire, on the Bull Plains of Australia's Riverina. Andyet I can remember nothing of those hours clearly. Rather is there in mymind as typical of the Australian dawn such hours as those I spent awaybeyond the Murray, the Murrumbidgee and the Lachlan, on a station on thebanks of the Willandra Billabong. It was early summer and shearing timefor a hundred thousand sheep, whose fleeces were destined for Lyons andthe North of England. I had dropped off a wearied horse close uponmidnight, and yet by half-past three I was up once more. I stumbledsleepily in the starry darkness to the mare that was kept up, oneBeeswing by name, a mare so swift and keen for a little while that toride her was a delight. She whinnied and muzzled me all over as I putthe saddle on her and drew the girths tight. Then I swung across her, and for some minutes she went gingerly, for she was unsound and wantedwarming for the hot task before her. Yet it was her only work in thelong day and she delighted in it even as I did. We picked our way acrossthe shadows of big salt-bush and the rounded humps of cotton-bush, thenbrown and leafless, to the paddock, a mile square, where the otherhorses were at pasture, and as I rode sleep dropped away from me and myeyes opened and my lips grew moist as I sucked in the air of dawn. Inthe east the pale ghost of the day's forerunner stood waiting. The windin that hot season came from the north; it had no intoxicating qualitysave that of comparative coolness after the furnace of yesterday. Yethow sweet it was, when I remembered the burning noon, the hot labours ofthe stock-yard and its dust as the ten thousand of that day's drivingentered reluctantly. And in the darkness the plain stretched before mewithout a break for a thousand miles save for the Barrier Ranges. Withno map on the whole station I knew not even of them, and as far as eyecould reach not a rolling sand-dune marred the calm oceanic level ofthat brown sea of land. 

And now upon this morning, that yet was night, I was adrift upon a horsewith a definite task in the great circle of immensity. The rest of theworld was nothing, and I rode delicately over the rotten grey groundtill the starshine dwindled and the day came up like a slow diverthrough dark waters. The pallid air was odorous as I rode with rolled-upsleeves and open breast, and I sang a little, for the night was out ofme and my throat was sweet. And Beeswing warmed, and under me grewnimble, with the swing and easy spring of the dancer, and she reachedout to feel the bit lightly with an unspoiled mouth and to feel myhands, and she raised her lean head and sniffed the air for her own kindthat we were after. Were we not horse-hunting? She bent her neck andwent as delicately as ever Agag went, and then bounded lightly over ahole in the rotten ground of the great horse-paddock. She and I werepartners in the morning as the dawn came up. And now, indeed, themorning tide broke over the eastern bar, and was like a pale grey floodmoving over level earth. Then she whinnied low as though she spoke to mein a whisper, and I saw one dark, moving shadow, and another, as shebroke into a gallop. Oh, but out of seven alarmed shadows, fearful ofwork, I needed three, and neither Beeswing nor her rider could endure intheir pride to drive in seven when a special chosen three were enough. The dawn's game began, and though it was yet dawn's dusk we went at agallop. For Beeswing and I together were the swiftest two, or theswiftest one, on that great station by the Willandra. But though thenight was not gone there was enough light to see which horses I neededand which horses I had to discard, and to note how they broke apartcunningly. For two went this way, and one that; and four split intounits as I swung round the outside edge of them in a wide circle. Therottenness of the ground gave chances, and made it hazardous. ButBeeswing knew her work and the paddock, and now she was warm and as keenas fire, and any touch of lameness went away from her. She stretched outher fine lean head, and her eyes were quick; her open nostrils almostsmelt and swept the ground as her head swung to and fro. Beneath me shewas live steel, tense and wonderful as she sprang to this side and thatof danger, and yet galloped. Again and again she swerved, and then, as aten-foot hole showed before her, she leapt it in her stride. And again, another and another, for here the ground was crumbling, patchy, sunken, with little rims of hard earth in between cup-like openings. And as wewent, and the day came, I swung my long stock-whip and shouted when itcracked. I was on them, into them, and they broke back, beingover-pressed. But Beeswing was a bred stock-horse, she knew the game andloved it. Back she swung right upon her haunches, and was away upon thehunt after a great raking mare called Mischief. We galloped almost sideby side, and then Mischief quailed and turned coward. As Beeswing swungagain I brought the whip down on my quarry's quarters. 

And now the joy of the game of dawn was great, for selection came in andthe skill of the game. To-day I wanted Mischief and Black Jack and thegrey mare. So as I galloped, still with swinging and reverberating whip, I edged up and put my knees into Beeswing. As she answered and sprangforward, with a rush I was within whip length of Mischief and Tom, withMischief on the outside. One flick of the lash and the mare outpacedTom, leaving him last of the seven. Had I edged up outside of himBeeswing might have doubted whether I wanted him or not, but I sent herup on his near side, and when I flicked him he plunged back and out andshe let him go. There were six to deal with, though he came after uswhinnying; yet not being urged he presently stayed, and then I shotforward again and cut off two that I did not want, and now among thefour there was but one I wished to leave behind. They were well awarethat one or more of them was not to work to-day, for I still hung uponthem with some eager discrimination. They knew the final shout ofvictory as well as I who sent it up. But Lachlan, the horse I wished toleave, was the fastest of the four and kept ahead. So I ran them hardfor a quarter of a mile and then edged out a little, and slowed downtill they slowed and left a space betwixt the three and Lachlan. Isuddenly spoke to Beeswing and shook her up till she came swiftlyabreast of my three galloping like horses in a Roman chariot. Thenleft-handed I cut Lachlan in the flank, and with a swift turn Beeswingswept between him and the others. They stayed and turned while dispartedLachlan ran wildly. And now my three, being turned, ran back for theothers; and Beeswing followed them like fire and came up with them, andonce more turned them and sent them for home. To keep them going whilethe others whinnied meant urging; it meant filling their minds, occupying their attention. So once more, with a great shout, I was uponthem and swung the whip, letting it fall with a crack first on this sideand then on that, and now in the growing daylight the dust rose up as wegalloped. And presently I saw the little "tin" house where theout-station boss lived, and the tent I shared with my chum the"rouseabout. " And as we went fast and faster (for it was morning and Iwas young) the sun thrust up a shoulder behind me and it was day inAustralia, day in the Lachlan back-blocks. And I could see Long Clump, apatch of dwarf-box, over my shoulder as I turned loosely in the saddleto note whether the other horses still followed. I laughed at the day(for it was dawn), and yet I knew as I ran my three into the yard thatere the day was done I should have ridden sixty miles, and have mustered20, 000 sheep in Long Clump Paddock. And when I stayed outside thestock-yard and put up the slip panels and patted Beeswing on the neckthe one great pleasure of the day was over. The rest was not to beaccomplished in the dusk of dawn and under the morning star, but had tobe wrought out in flying dust, amid the plague of flies and the fierceheat of an Austral noon, whose heat increased with the slow sun'sdecline. But that swift sweet hour of the morning had been my very own. The remainder of the day belonged to the world, to duty, to the man whopaid me a pound a week and "tucker" for my hands and arms and as muchbrains as work with sheep demanded. Yet through these hours sometimesthe glory of the morning remained. 

 * * * * *

There are mornings on land and mornings on the sea, and when the worldis a grey wash and a mask of spindrift it is good to be alive upon thesea, high on a topsail-yard, to see the grey return of the glory of theday. The work is often sheer murder, but it is the work of men, andthough the skin cracks and the nails bleed, as the bulging, slatting, frantic canvas surges like a cast-iron wave, the thin red-shirted linealong the jack-stay does heroic work without meaning it, without onetouch of consciousness, without praise, and mostly without even thatreward of a "tot" of grog so sweet to the simple-minded sailorman. Ah, yes, to be sure we were heroes, and I too (though now soft andself-conscious) played an Homeric part upon the yard, was bold, andafraid, and "funked" it with any god-smitten, panic-driven half-god byScamander's banks, or the windy walls of Troy. Now I know what it was, and can see the grey wash of ocean, and the grey wash of white-facedmorning with the great seas driving against the rising day, even as therollers of the Atlantic surge against the base of a high berg. Littlegood men at home, fat men, rotund, easy souls, or those who are neithergood, nor fat, nor easy, may stare and imagine yet not come near thereality when the wind booms and the sea rises, and the great concave ofnight sky flattens and presses down upon the driven ship, and menstrive to escape doom and yet care not, and work till they are blind, and then drop down into the scant shelter of the deck, where the icywind seems warm after the strife and bellowing up aloft. Heroes? To besure we were heroes. What is being shot at a mile off, or a hundredyards off, to being shot at by the very heavens while one hangs over thegaping trenches of the sea? There is not an old shellback alive who hasclung between angry heaven and the grey-green pastures of the deep butdeserves a Victoria Cross for unconscious, dutiful, grumbling, growlingvalour. He might justly call every scanty dollar he earns a medal. Forhe has often fought in the Pacific, or by the Horn, or off the windyCape. To recall the thick tempest at midnight, when the wind harpsthunder on the stretched rigging, is to be a man again. If I blow theirtrumpet, the trumpet of the old sea-dogs, these scallawags, theseVikings, what matter if I seem to blow my own, having been theircompanion one campaign or two upon the deep? That "Me" is dead, I know, and can only be resurgent in memory, and will never laugh or feel afraidagain when the slatting canvas jars one's very teeth. Yet to remember(as I can remember) how one wild night on the Southern Pacific grew intomorning gives me back youth and morning again when I cared nothing fordeath, since death was as far off, as impossible, ay, as absurd, as Fameitself. 

It had blown hard all day, and an hour after midnight our scanty band, some ten of us (mostly Cockneys like myself), stood upon the foot-ropesof the lower fore-topsail. There should have been twenty, but to beundermanned has been English fashion since Agincourt. Growl we ever soloudly where could more be found? The work was to be done by ten, onemore even was not to be asked for. If the task seemed possible, why, itwas possible, and when we scrambled to that narrow line of battle in thedark it seemed as easy as most things at sea, where the difficult isdone hourly. Risks are nothing there; to risk nothing would be to riskdestruction and to incur the bitter reproach of having shipped "not togo aloft. " Each man to his fellow on the yard was a shadow and a paleblot of a face; each voice was a windy whisper, a bellow blown down intosilence. As the ship ran, and lifted, and pitched and trembled, hernarrow wedge shape was a blot beneath us: on each side of her white foammarked the hissing, hungry sea. But, with the sail surging before us inits gear like a mad balloon, who noted aught but the sail? I leant outupon my taut bulge of living canvas, beat it with the flat of my hand, and being the youngest waited for the word to "leech" it or "skin" itup. Being tall I was not at the extremity of the yard arm; my fellowfore-topman and a little squat man from the lower Thames stood outsideme. My mate and the man inside were my world. The others I saw and heardnot. The word came along the yard from the bunt to "leech" it up, and weleant over and caught the leech and pulled it on the yard. Now the fightbegan, but the beginning of it was easy sparring, and though the windblew heavy, and each minute we had to remember death when she checkedher roll with a jerk, the weather leech came up easy and we chuckled, each being glad. And in half an hour, or an hour, we were half mastersof the wind, or as much of it as gave the sail life, after many smalldefeats. And then (whose fault of fingers for not being steel hooks, whoshall say?) the wind, having got reinforcements, tore the victory fromus and away went the sail once more free and thundering in the dark. Theword was passed again, the indomitable word by the indomitable bo'sun atthe bunt, this time to "skin" it up, and each man clawed out again atthe flat booming canvas, clawed at it with his crooked fingers aswrestlers claw for hold behind each others' backs. A wrinkle gave hold, we nipped it, and then the ironic devil in the gale shrieked withlaughter and snatched even so small an advantage from us. We knew the"old man" and the mate were cursing us down below. Did they curse us, orthe weather, or the owners, or our English Agincourt trick once more?What did it matter to us, beaten and unbeaten, as we rested for a momentand then again stretched out bleeding fingers for some little advantage, knowing well that when such a gale blew victory was only possible whenby constant trials the chance came of each being given good or fairhandhold at once. Then came a shriek of wind and a blown-out lull and awrinkle lapsed into a fold. We shouted "Now!" left hold of thejack-stay, and with feet outstretched grabbed slack canvas and hung onas another squall came singing like shrapnel across the peaks of theleaping sea. "Hold on now, hold on!" so sang all of us, and we cursedeach other furiously. "Oh, oh, you miserable devil, hang on or it's lostagain!" We cursed ourselves, felt our muscles crack, our nails shred, our skin peel and stretch and sting, and yet (thanks to our nobleselves) we only lost an inch. Once more--"Now, now up, you dogs!" andthat's the long-lost, long-waited, sudden, surprising clock of dawnyonder. We have been two hours here, and once more the sail leaps up andcomes down. Here, two hours, two compressed swift hours, two compactedeternities measured in gasps and half the work is done unless we weakenand let up and let go. 

But that's the dawn!

Morning and the glory of it, the grey wash of Eternity; sea-grey andworld-grey and sky-grey, all in one great wash with a little whitenessstanding for daylight. Beyond the illimitable wash where the sea breaksagainst the sky is the sun; source of all, strength of all. And there isno sleep to wash out of our eyes before we catch up strength from it, and encouragement. Lately we might have raised the Ajax cry, "In thelight, in the light, destroy us, " but now we see the little sea-plant ofgrey-green grow in the east, and we are strong. There is light, or ablight, a greyness out ahead and the deck whitens all awash, and the"old man" shivers in his oilskin coat as he hangs on to a pin in therail to watch us. The poop is wet and gleaming, wet with the spray offollowing seas, and as our ship rolls the swash of shipped seas hisses, and her cleanness is as the cleanness of something newly varnished. Onceand again as she rolls (the wind now quartering) the scuppers spoutgeyser-like and gurgle. As she ran like a beaten thing she wallowed alittle, dived, scooped up seas and shook them off. And yet the topsailwas not conquered. 

And now and once again the squalls howled, and we held on, gainingnothing, yet losing nothing. We were blind but obstinate; to have gainedsomething when everything might be lost beneath us gave us grip andcourage. Ah, and then, then the great chance came, and as the last greatfold of white canvas rose up like a breaking wave we shouted, flungourselves upon it, and as our bellies (lean by now) held the rest, smothered it and beat its last life out. The thing had been alive; thegods too had blown, and we had been all but dissipated, but now we wereconquerors, and the gaskets bound our dead prey to the yard. And themorning was up, a wild and evil-minded waste it flowered in; the musicof the storm shrieked like the Valkyries scurrying through grey space. But what cared we, since now she would carry or drag what sail remained, creaseless, resonant, wide-arched and wonderful. The light leapt fromcrest to crest, and a little pale yellow blossom of blown dawn peepedout of the grey. Like a touch of fire it reanimated our washed andreeling world; we laughed as we dropped down after our three hours'battle with the demons of the air. It was morning; there was coffee andtobacco; our souls were satisfied and satiated with rewarding toil; ifFate was kind there would be neither making nor shortening of sail tillthe next day. We touched the deck and ran for'ard laughing. We salutedthe cook, blinking at the door of his galley. "Good-morning, doctor!"and it _was_ "good-morning!" for we were mostly young. 

 * * * * *

On the lofty sloping plains of Texas and Kansas the air is often keen atnight, even in the summer time. And what it is in winter let train handson the Texas Pacific declare. But in the warmer season, when northershave ceased to blow, it has an intoxicating, thrilling quality onlycomparable to the breath of the higher South African veldt. It is goodto be alive then, and the glory of the morning is an excellent andmoving glory since it wakes one to swift activity and the very joy ofbeing. For long months I had worked upon a ranch in the SouthernPanhandle, and now felt healthy energies stirring within me. In WesternAmerica the very blood of life is unrest; to remain is difficult; thedifficulties of motion are its joys, though hardship and privation bethe migrant's life for ever. For me the ever-present prairie grew alittle dull; for sheep were sheep always, and there were mountains afaroff and strange, bright rivers and the dark, odorous forests of thenorth. Though my boss was of the order that remains and accumulateswealth he understood when I declared that I must go or die. On the thirdday hereafter he and an old confederate "Colonel" (discharged as "FullPrivate" doubtless) and I and a Mexican sheep-herder moved southwardtowards the railroad. We travelled on horseback and in a two-mule buggy, and with the movement discontent dropped away from me and all was wellwith the world, even though I knew not what weeks or even days shouldbring me. That night we camped thirty miles from the ranch and thirtyfrom the little town we called a city, which had grown up in thesand-dunes by the banks of the Texan Colorado. We lighted our scantyfire at sundown. It was a typical camp of the later days upon the highprairie, and a not untypical set of men. Our talk was of horses andsteers and sheep and of Virginia, whence our grizzled colonel came, andthe Mexican sat and smoked and said nothing, save with his beady, brilliant eyes, as he made his yellow papers into flat _cigaritas_. Andat nine o'clock silence and sleep fell upon us while the mules andhorses champed their dry fare beside the buggy. For me the sleep of thejust was my due, for I had worked hard that day. Yet I woke suddenlybefore the dawn, and woke all at once, refreshed and alive. It was stilldark and yet I knew it was not properly night, for the time sense in me, measured healthily by refreshment, told me of the passage of time, and Iarose from my blankets. As I walked out among the shadows softly mycompanions made no motion, and the horses whinnied coaxingly, as thoughI were still the guardian of their provender. The wind was cool, evencold, as it blew from the north, and on every side the vast prairiestretched like a mysterious dark green sea, with here and there a shadowheaving itself out of the infinite level. I walked lightly with a happysense of detachment and well-being, almost with the feeling of a quietresurrection. 

Elsewhere and in cities one awakes reluctantly; the trumpet of the Angelof the Day is heard with deaf ears; but here in the keen coolness, thevast greenness, the infinite interspace of prairie betwixt city andcity, I was awake and keen and cool as dewy grass, and as peaceful asthe stars even before the Day blew her horn upon the verge of a farhorizon. This was summer, but it was not dawn yet; the year was youngeven in August because this was night; and I was part of the hour andthe year. It was well with the world and well with me as I left the campand marched snuffing the air like an antelope and with as keen a joy. And as I walked I was aware again that it was not night, for there was aDay-spring in the East, a pale glow like a whitish mirage, and star bystar the night departed, till I stayed and looked back to the west andsaw the silent waggon under which my sleeping comrade still layunconscious of the hour. And slowly, very slowly the Glory of theMorning broke out of bondage and covered the glory of the night untilthe pallor of the new-born day was fine pale gold, and the gold wasunder-edged with rose, and the rose grew insistently and shot upwardlike a great corona upon the eclipsing earth. And as I stood, balancinglightly upon my light feet, bathed with dew, I moved my lips and greetedDay without conscious words, being even as my own ancestor, who perhapshad no words of greeting. And so upon that solitude the day was bornlike a new miracle with only one visible worshipper, and the sun rose uplike a star and was then a convexed line of fire, and presently it ate alittle into the prairie; and the world was light and rose and green andvery near me, so that I sighed a little and then walked back briskly tothe camp and raised a loud shout, not to the sun, but to my fellow-men. For the Glory had departed and there was the work of the day to be done. 

THE END

_Colston & Coy. Limited, Printers, Edinburgh. _