Altho’ they sat amongst the scorners.
It is a curious experience, and one well worth trying, this ten days’
voyage. When you go on board at Liverpool, and look round at the first
dinner, there are probably not half a dozen faces you ever saw before.
By the time you walk out of the ship, bag in hand, on to the New York
landing-place, there are scarcely half a dozen with» whom you have not
a pleasant speaking acquaintance; while with a not inconsiderable number
you feel (unless you have had singularly bad luck) as if you must have
known them intimately for years, without having been aware of it. As
you touch the land, the express men and hotel touts rush on you, and the
spell is broken. The little society resolves itself at their touch into
separate atoms, which are whirled away, without time to wish one another
God-speed, into the turbulent ocean of New York life, never again to be
gathered together as a society in this world, for worship, for food, or
fun. “The present life of man, 0 king!” said a Saxon thane in Edwin’s
Witenagemot, when they were consulting whether Augustine and his priests
should be allowed to settle at Canterbury, “reminds me of one of your
winter feasts where you sit with your thanes and counsellors. The hearth
blazes in our midst, and a grateful heat is spread around, while storms
of rain and snow are raging without. A little sparrow enters at one door
and flies delighted around us, till it departs through the other. Such
is the life of man, and we are as ignorant of the state which went
before us as of that which will follow it. Things being so,” went on
the thane, “I feel that if this new faith can give us more certainty, it
deserves to be received,”--which last sentiment has, I allow, no bearing
on the present subject, nor, perhaps you will say, has the rest of it.
But somehow the old story came into my head so vividly as I was leaving
the steamer, that I feel like tossing it on to your readers, to see
what they can make of it; though I own, on looking at it again, I am not
myself clear as to the interpretation, or whether I am the sparrow or
the thane.
New York is more overwhelming than ever,--surely the most tremendous
human mill on this planet; but I must not begin upon it at the end of a
letter.
Life in Texas, Ranche on the Rio Grande, 16th September 1884.
It must be many years now (how they do shut up in these latter days
like a telescope) since I confided to you in these columns the joy--not
unmixed with reverence--of my first interview with that worthy small
person (I am sure he must be a person) the tumble-bug of the U.S.A. I
looked upon him in those days as on the whole the most industrious and
athletic little creature it had ever been my privilege to encounter. I
am obliged now to take most of that back, for to-day I have discovered
that he isn’t a circumstance to his Mexican cousin on this side the Rio
Grande. At any rate, the specimens I have met with here are not only
bigger, but work half as hard again, and about twice as quick. I was
sitting just now in the verandah in front of this ranche cabin, waiting
for the horses to be saddled-up at the corral just below, and looking
lazily, now eastward over the river and the wide Texan plains beyond,
fading away in the haze till the horizon looked like the Atlantic in a
calm, now westward to the jagged outline of the Sierra Nevada, gleaming
in the sunshine sixty miles away, when I became aware of something
moving at my feet. Looking down I found that it was a tumble-bug rolling
a ball of dirt he had put together, till it was at least four times
as big as himself, towards the rough stony descent just beyond the
verandah, at a pace which fairly staggered me. In a few seconds he was
across the floor, and in amongst the stones which lay thickly over
the slope beyond. Here his troubles began. First he pushed his ball
backwards over a big stone, on the further side of which it fell, and he
with it, headlong--no, not headlong, stern foremost--some five inches,
rolling over one another twice at the bottom. But he never quitted hold,
and began pushing away merrily again without a moment’s pause. Then he
ran the ball into a _cul-de-sac_ between two stones, some inches high.
After two or three dead heaves, which lifted the ball at least his own
length up the side of the stones--and you must remember, to judge of the
feat, that he was standing on his head to do it--he quitted hold,
turned round, and looked at the situation. I am almost certain I saw him
scratch his ear, or at least the side of his head, with his fore-claw.
In a second or two he fixed on again with his hind-claws, pushed the
ball out of the _cul-de-sac_, and continued his journey. If that bug
didn’t put two and two together, by what process did he get out of that
_cul-de-sac?_ “Cogito, ergo sum.” Was I wrong in calling him a person?
Well, I won’t trouble you further with particulars of his journey, but
he ran his big ball into his hole under a mesquite-bush, 19 1/2 yards
from the spot on the verandah where I first noticed him, in eleven
minutes and a few seconds by my watch. I made a calculation before
mounting that, comparing my bug with an average Mexican, five feet eight
inches high, and weighing ten stone, the ball of dirt would be at least
equal to a bale of cotton, eight feet in diameter, and weighing half
a ton, which the man would have to push or carry 2 1/2 miles in eleven
minutes, to equal the feat of his tiny fellow-citizen. In the depressed
condition of Mexico, might not this enormous bug-power be utilised
somehow for the benefit of the Republic?
I had barely finished my ciphering when I was called to horse, and in a
few minutes was riding across a vast plain, nearly bare of grass in this
drought, but dotted with mesquite-bushes, prickly pear, and other scrub,
so that the general effect was still green. The riding was rough, as
much loose stone lay about, and badgers’, “Jack Rabbits’” and other
creatures’ holes abounded; but the small Mexican horse I rode was
perfectly sure-footed, and I ambled along, swelling with pride at my
quaint saddle, with pummel some eight inches high, and depending lasso,
showing that for the time I was free of the honourable fraternity of
“gentlemen cow-punchers.” Besides myself, our party consisted of the
two ranche-men--an Englishman and an American, aged about thirty, old
comrades on long drives 1000 miles away to the North, but now
anchored on this glorious ranche on the Bio Grande--and a cowboy. The
Englishman’s yellow hair was cropped close to his head, and his fair
skin was burnt as red, I suppose, as skin will burn; the Marylander’s
black hair was as closely cropped, and his skin burnt an equally deep
brown. The cowboy, an English lad of about twenty, reconciled the two
types, having managed to get his skin tanned a deep red, relieved by
large dark brown freckles, from the midst of which his great blue eyes
shone out in comical contrast. I fear--
The very mother that him bare,
She had not known her child.
They were all attired alike, in broad felt sombreros, blue shirts, and
trousers thrust into boots reaching to the knees. Each had his lasso at
pummel, and between them they carried a rifle, frying-pan, coffee-pot,
big loaf, and forequarter of a porker--for we were out for a long day. A
more picturesque or efficient-looking group it would be hard to find.
I must resist the temptation of telling all we did or saw, and come at
once to our ride home shortly before sunset. The ranche-men and I were
abreast, and the cowboy a few yards behind, when we came across a bunch
of cattle, conspicuous amongst which strode along a stalwart yearling
bull calf, whose shining brindle hide and jaunty air showed that he, at
least, was not suffering from the scanty food which the drought has left
for the herds on these wide plains. He was already as big as his poor
raw-boned mother, who went along painfully picking at every shrub and
tuft in her path, to provide his evening meal at her own expense. Now
these dude calves (who insist on living on their parents, and will do
nothing for their own livelihood) can only be cured by the insertion of
a horse-ring in the upper lip, so that they cannot turn it up to take
hold of the maternal udder, and it is often in bad times a matter of
life or death to the cows to get them ringed. After a conference of
a few seconds, the Marylander shifted the rifle to the saddle of the
Englishman (already ornamented with the frying-pan and the coffee-pot),
and calling to the cowboy, dashed off for the bunch of cattle. Next
moment the cowboy shot past us at full speed, gathering up his lasso as
he went; the bull-calf was “cut out” of the bunch as if by magic, and
went straight away through mesquite-brush and prickly pears, at a pace
which kept his pursuers at their utmost stretch not to lose ground. It
was all they could do to hold it, never for a full mile getting within
lasso-reach of Boliborus, the ranche-man following like fate, upright
from shoulder to toe (they ride with very long stirrups), bridle hand
low, and right hand swinging the lasso slowly round his head, awaiting
his chance for a throw; the cowboy close on his flank; ranche-man number
two clattering along, pot, kettle, and rifle “soaring and singing” round
his knees, but availing himself of every turn in the chase, so as to
keep within thirty or forty yards. I, a bad fourth, but near enough to
see the whole and share the excitement (if, indeed, I hadn’t it all
to myself, the sport being to the rest a part of the daily round). The
crisis came just at the foot of a mound, up which Boliborus had gained
some yards, but in the descent had slackened his pace and the pursuers
were on him. The lasso flew from the raised hand, and was round his
neck, a dexterous twist brought the rope across his forelegs, and next
moment he was over on his side half, throttled. I was up in some five
seconds, during which his lassoer had him by the horns, ranche-man
number two was prone with all his weight upon his shoulders, and the
cowboy on his hind quarters, catching at his tail with his left hand.
That bull calf’s struggle to rise was as superb as Bertram Risingham’s
in _Rokeby_, and as futile; for the cowboy had caught his tail and
passed it between his hind legs, and by pulling hard kept one leg
brandishing aimlessly in the air, while the weight of the ranche-men
subdued his forequarters. The ring was passed through his upper lip,
and the lasso was off his neck in a few seconds more, and the ranche-men
turned to mount, saying to the cowboy, “Just hold on a minute.” The
cowboy passed the tail back between the hind legs, grasped the end
firmly, and stood expectant. Boliborus lay quiet for a second or two,
and then bounded to his feet, glaring round in rage and pain to choose
which, of his foes to go for, when he became aware of something wrong
behind, and looking round, realised the state of the case. Down went his
head, and round he went with a rush for his own tail end, but the tail
and boy were equal to the occasion, and the latter still holding on
tight by the former, sent back a defiant kick at the end of each rush,
which, however, never got within two feet of the bull’s nose, and could
be only looked upon as a proper defiance. Then Boliborus tried stealing
round to take his tail by surprise, but all to as little purpose, when
the ranche-men, who were now both mounted, to end the farce, rode round
in front of the beast, caught his eye, and cried, “Let go.” Whisking his
freed tail in the air he made a rush, but only a half-hearted one, at
the nearest, who just wheeled his horse, and as he passed administered
a contemptuous thwack over his loins with a lasso. Boliborus now stood
looking down his nose at the appendant ring, revolving his next move,
with so comic an expression that I burst into a roar of laughter, in
which the rest joined out of courtesy. This was too much for him, as
ridicule proves for so many two-legged calves, so he tossed his head in
the air, gave a flirt with his heels, and trotted off after his mother,
a sadder, and let us hope, wiser bull-calf; in any case, a ringed one,
and bound in future to get his own living.
On my ride home my mind was much occupied by that cowboy, who rode
along by me--telling how he had been reading _Gulliver’s Travels_ again
(amongst other things), found it wasn’t a mere boy’s book, and wanted
to get a Life of Swift--in his battered old outfit, for which no Jew in
Rag-Fair would give him five shillings. The last time I had seen him,
two years ago, he had just left Hallebury, a bit of a dandy, with very
tight clothes, and so stiff a white collar on, that on his arrival he
had been nicknamed “the Parson.”
At home he might by this time be just through responsions by the help
of cribs and manuals, having contracted in the process a rooted distaste
for classical literature. Possibly he might have pulled in his college
boat, and won a plated cup at lawn tennis, and all this at the cost
of, say, £250 a year. As it is, besides costing nothing, he can cook a
spare-rib of pork to a turn on a forked stick, hold a bull-calf by the
tail, and is voluntarily wrestling (not without certain glimmerings of
light) with _Sartor Resartus_. Which career for choice? How say you, Mr.
Editor?
Crossing the Atlantic, 4th September 1885.
A mug-wump! I should like to ask you, sir--not as Editor, not even as
English gentleman, but simply as vertebrate animal--what you would do
if a stranger were all of a sudden to call your intimate friends
“mug-wumps,” not obscurely hinting that you yourself laboured under
whatever imputation that term may convey? I don’t know what the effect
might have been in my own case, but that the story of O’Connell, as
a boy, shutting up the voluble old Dublin applewoman by calling her a
“parallelopiped,” rushed into my head, and set me off laughing. I
haven’t been able to learn more of the etymology of the word than that
it is said over here to have been first used in a sermon (?) by Mr. Ward
Beecher, and now denotes “bolters” or “scratchers,” as they were called
last autumn, or in other words, the Independents, who broke away from
the party machine of Republicanism and carried Cleveland. More power to
the “mug-wump’s” elbow, say I; and I only wish we may catch the
“mugwumps,” “mug-wumpism,” or whatever the name for the disease may be,
in England before long. One of the groups on the deck of the liner,
amongst whom I first heard the phrase, was a good specimen of the
machine-politician, a democrat of the Tammany Hall type. “You bet” I
stuck to him till I got at his candid account of the campaign of last
autumn, most interesting to me, but I fear not so to the general English
reader, so I will only give you his concluding sentence:--“Well,” with a
long suck at the big cigar he was half-eating, half-smoking, “I tell you
it was about the thinnest ice you ever saw before we were over,--but, _I
got to land!_” From what I heard on board and since, I believe the
President is doing splendidly; witness his peremptory order for the
great ranche-men to clear out of the Reserves which they had leased from
the Indians, and fenced to the extent of some millions of acres; the
righteousness of which presidential action is proved (were proof needed)
by the threatened resistance of General B. Butler, one of the largest
lessees. I can see too clearly looming up a determined opposition to the
President’s Civil Service reform from politicians of both parties,
mainly on the ground that he is “establishing a class” in these U.S.--a
policy which “the Fathers” abhorred and guarded against, and which their
only legitimate heirs, the machine politicians, will fight to the death.
You may gauge the worth of this opposition by contrasting their two
principal arguments--(1) Nine-tenths of the work of the Departments
(Post Office, Customs, etc.) can be learnt just as well in three months
as in ten years; and (2) the other tenth, requiring skilled and
experienced officers, has never been interfered with by either side.
But, if argument two is sound, _cadit quostio_, as there is _ex
hypothesi_ already a permanent class of civil servants, I conclude that
were I an American I would accept “mug-wump” as a title of honour
instead of resenting it, and help to get up a “Mug-wump” club in every
great city.
We had a splendid crossing, deck crowded all the way, and the company
gloriously cosmopolitan and communicative during the short intervals
between the orthodox four full meals a day. There is surely no place in
the world where that universal instinct, the desire to get behind
the scenes of one’s neighbours’ lives, is so easily and abundantly
gratified. Here is one of my rather odd discoveries. On reaching
the deck, after my bath on the first morning, for the tramp before
breakfast, I was joined by a fine specimen of an old Yorkshireman. It
seems we had met years ago, at some political or social gathering,
and as he looked in superb health and fit to fight for his life, I
congratulated. Yes, he said, it was all owing to his having discovered
how to pass his holiday. He used to go to some northern seaside place,
one as bad as the other, for “whenever the wind blew on shore you might
as well be living in a sewer.” So he saved enough one year to buy a
return-ticket on a Cunard liner, calculating that whatever way the wind
blew he must be getting sea-air all the time. He has done it every year
since, having found that besides sea-air he gets better food and company
than he could ever command at home. My next “find” was a pleasant
soldierly-looking man who called to me from the upper deck to come up
and see a sword-fish chasing a whale. Alas! I arrived too late. The
uncivil brutes had both disappeared by the time I got up; but I was much
consoled by the talk which ensued with my new acquaintance. He was a
Lieutenant of Marines in the Admiral’s flag-ship off Palermo in King
Bomba’s last days, and was sent ashore to arrest and bring on board all
sailors found with the Garibaldini. He seems to have found it necessary
to be present himself at the battle of Metazzo (I think that was
the name) and at the storming of the town afterwards, in which the
Garibaldini suffered severely. The dead were all laid out before the
gate after the town was taken, and he counted no less than seventy
bluejackets amongst them! They used to drop over the sides of the ships
and swim ashore, or smuggle themselves into the bum-boats which came
off to the fleet with provisions. No wonder that we have been popular in
Italy ever since.
Then, attracted by a crowd on the fore part of the deck, roped off to
divide steerage from saloon passengers, I became one of a motley
group assisting at a sort of moral “free-and-easy,” got up for the 300
steerage folk by two ecclesiastics, whom I took at first for Romish
priests from their costume. I found I was mistaken, and that they were
the Principal and a Brother of “the Fraternity of the Iron Cross,” an
order of the American Episcopal Church, which, it seems, has taken root
in several of the large cities. The Brethren are vowed to “poverty,
purity, and temperance” (or obedience, I am not sure which); and these
two were crossing in the steerage to comfort and help the poor folk
there--no pleasant task, even in so airy a ship and such fine weather.
One can imagine what power this kind of fellowship must give the Iron
Cross Brethren with their rather sad fellow-passengers, to whom they
could say--one of them, indeed, did say it--“We are just as poor as the
poorest of you, for we own no property of any kind, and never can
own any till our deaths.” This Brother (a strapping young fellow of
twenty-five, who I found had been an athlete at Oxford) waxed
eloquent to them on his experiences in Philadelphia, especially on the
working-men Brethren there. One of these, a big, rough chap, with a
badly broken nose, he had rather looked askance at, first, till he found
that the broken nose had been earned in a rough-and-tumble fight with a
fellow who was ill-using a woman. Now they were the closest friends, and
he looked on the broken nose as more honourable than the Victoria Cross,
and hoped none of the men there would fail to go in for that decoration
if they ever got the same chance.
In melancholy contrast to the Iron Cross Brethren were two other
diligent workers in quite another kind of business. They haunted the
smoking-room from breakfast till “lights out,” officious to help to
arrange the daily sweepstakes on the ship’s run; gloating over, and
piling caressingly as they rattled down on the table, the dollars and
half-crowns; always on the watch and ready to take a hand at cards, just
to accommodate gents with whom time hung heavily. Bagmen, they were
said to be; but I doubt if they travel for any industry except plucking
pigeons on their own account--unmistakable Jews of a low type, who never
looked any man in the face:--
In their eyes that stealthy gleam,
Was not learned of sky or stream,