PIONEER LAW AND LAWLESSNESS
California certainly contained what Borthwick describes as "the elite of
the most desperate and consummate scoundrels from every part of the
world"; but they were in a very small minority, and the rather common idea
that the miners were a mass of brutal and ignorant men is a wild
misconception. An English writer once remarked, somewhat hysterically,
"Bret Harte had to deal with countries and communities of an almost
unexampled laxity, a laxity passing the laxity of savages, the laxity of
civilized men grown savage."
Far more accurate is the observation of that eminent critic, Mr.
Watts-Dunton: "Bret Harte's characters are amenable to no laws except the
improvised laws of the camp, and the final arbiter is either the
six-shooter or the rope of Judge Lynch. And yet underlying this apparent
lawlessness there is that deep law-abiding-ness which the late Grant Allen
despised as being the Anglo-Saxon characteristic."
The almost spontaneous manner in which mining laws came into existence,
and the ready obedience which the miners yielded to them, show how correct
is the view taken by Mr. Watts-Dunton. What constituted ownership of a
claim; how it must be proved; how many square feet a claim might include;
how long and by what means title to a claim could be preserved without
working it; when a "find" should become the property of the individual
discoverer, and when it should accrue to the partnership of which he was a
member,--all these matters and many more were regulated by a code quickly
formed, and universally respected. Thus a lump of gold weighing half an
ounce or more, if observed before it was thrown into the cradle, belonged
to the finder, and not to the partnership.
[Illustration: SACRAMENTO CITY IN 1852]
In the main, mining rules were the same throughout the State, but they
varied somewhat according to the peculiar circumstances of each
"diggings"; and the custom was for the miners to hold a meeting, when they
became sufficiently numerous at any point, and make such laws as they
deemed expedient. If any controversy arose under them it was settled by
the Alcalde.
In respect to this office, again, the miners showed the same instinct for
law and order, and the same practical readiness to make use of such means
as were at hand.[47] The Alcalde (Al Cadi) was originally a Spanish
official, corresponding in many respects with our Justice of the Peace.
But in the mining camps, the Alcalde, usually an American, was often
given, by a kind of tacit agreement, very full, almost despotic powers,
combining the authority of a Magistrate with that of a Selectman and Chief
of Police.
The first Alcalde of Marysville was the young lawyer already mentioned,
Stephen J. Field, and he administered affairs with such firmness that the
town, although harboring many desperate persons,--this was in
1850,--gamblers, thieves and cut-throats, was as orderly as a New England
village. He caused the streets and sidewalks to be kept clean and in
repair; he employed men to grade the banks of the river so as to
facilitate landing, and he did many other things for the good of the
community, but really with no authority except that of common consent.
Sitting as a judge, he did not hesitate to sentence some criminals to be
flogged. There was no law for it; but it was the only punishment that was
both adequate and practicable, for the town contained no prison or
"lock-up."
And yet, so far as was possible, Alcalde Field observed the ancient forms
with true Anglo-Saxon scrupulosity. "In civil cases," he relates, "I
always called a jury if the parties desired one; and in criminal cases
when the offence was of a high grade I went through the form of calling a
grand jury, and having an indictment found; and in all cases I appointed
an attorney to represent the people, and also one to represent the
accused, when that was necessary."
Spanish and Mexicans, as well as Americans, reaped the benefit of the
change in government. Property, real estate especially, rose in value at
once, and justice was administered as it never had been administered
before. An entry in the diary of the Reverend Walter Colton, Chaplain in
the United States Navy, and Alcalde of Monterey, whose book has already
been cited, runs as follows:--
"_September 4, 1849._ I empanelled to-day the first jury ever summoned in
California. One third were Californians, one third Mexicans, one third
Americans. The trial was conducted in three languages and lasted six
hours. The result was very satisfactory. The inhabitants who witnessed the
trial said it was what they liked,--that there could be no bribery in
it,--that the opinion of twelve honest men should set the case forever at
rest. And so it did.... If there is anything on earth for which I would
die, beside religion, it is the right of trial by jury."
At first no one quite knew what laws were in force in California. The
territory became a part of the United States by means of the treaty with
Mexico which was proclaimed on July 4, 1848, but California was not
admitted as a State until 1850, and in the mean time it was a question
whether the laws of Mexico still prevailed, or the common law, or what. In
this situation the Alcaldes usually fell back upon common sense and the
laws of the State from which they happened to come.
Others had recourse to an older dispensation. Thus, on one occasion the
Alcalde of Santa Cruz had before him a man who was found guilty of shaving
the hair from the tail of a fine American horse, and the sentence of the
court was that the criminal should have his own head shaved. The young
attorney who represented the defendant thereupon sprang to his feet, and,
with great indignation, demanded to be told what law or authority there
was for so unusual a punishment. "I base that judgment," said the Alcalde
with solemnity, "on the oldest law in the world, on the law of Moses. Go
home, young man, and read your Bible."
In another case a Spaniard was suing for a divorce from his wife on the
ground of infidelity; but the Alcalde, an American, refused it, inasmuch
as the man was unable to swear that he had been faithful himself. "Is that
United States law?" asked the suitor in naive amazement. "I don't know
about that," replied the Alcalde; "but it is the law by which I am
governed,--the law of the Bible, and a good law too."
The Alcalde of Placerville very properly refused to marry a certain man
and woman, because the woman was already married to a man who had been
absent for three months. But another Alcalde who happened to be present
intervened. "Any man in California," he declared, "who has a wife, and so
fine looking a wife as I see here before me, and who remains absent from
her for three months, must be insane, Mr. Alcalde, or dead; and in either
case the lady is free to marry again. I am Alcalde of Santa Cruz, and will
with great pleasure make you man and wife. Step forward, madam, step
forward; I feel sure you will get through this trying occasion without
fainting, if you make the effort, and do not give way to your natural
shyness. Step forward, my dear sir, by the side of your blushing bride,
and I will make you a happy man."
One other case that was tried in an Alcalde's court is so illustrative of
California life that the Reader will perhaps pardon its insertion at
length.
"Bill Liddle, conductor of a mule train of eight large American mules, had
just started from Sacramento for a mining camp far in the interior. He was
obliged to pass a dangerous trail about two miles long, cut in the side of
a steep cliff overhanging the river. The trail was only wide enough for a
loaded mule to walk on. In the lead was 'Old Kate,' a heavy, square-built,
bay mule. Bill always said that she understood English, and he always
spoke to her as if that were the fact, and we were often forced to laugh
at the wonderful intelligence she showed in understanding and obeying him.
Sometimes she broke into the stable, unlatching the door, went to the bin
where the barley was kept in sacks, raised the cover, took out a sack, set
it up on one end, ripped the sewing as neatly as Bill could, and then
helped herself to the contents. On such occasions Bill would shake his
head, and exclaim, 'I wonder who Kate is! Oh, I wish I knew, for of course
she is some famous woman condemned to live on earth as a mule!'
"The train had advanced about a quarter of a mile on the trail just
described, Bill riding behind, when he was startled by hearing a loud bray
from Kate, and all the mules stopped. Ahead was a return train of fifteen
Californian mules, approaching on a jog trot. The two trains could not
pass, and there was not space for Bill's large and loaded mules to turn
around. Bill raised himself in his saddle and furiously called on the
other conductor to stop. He did so, but refused to turn his mules around,
although Bill explained to him the necessity. At last, after much talk,
the other conductor started up his mules, shouting and cracking his whip
and urging them on. Meanwhile Old Kate stood in the centre of the trail,
her fore-legs well apart, her nose dropped lower than usual, and her long,
heavy ears thrown forward as if aimed at the head mule of the other train,
while her large bright eyes were fixed on his motions. Seeing the danger,
Bill called out, 'Kate, old girl, go for them; pitch them all, and the
driver with them, to hell!' Thereupon Kate gave an unearthly bray, dropped
on her knees with her head stretched out close along the rocks, her neck
and lower jaw rubbing the trail, and received the leading mule across her
neck. In a second more that mule was thrown into the air, and fell into
the river far below.
"Two or three times the conductor of the other train made a similar
attempt, urging his mules forward, and did not stop until five of his
mules had gone into the river. Then he said, 'Well, I will go back, but
when we get out of this trail you and I will settle accounts.' Bill drew
his revolver and his knife, made sure that they were all right, and as
soon as they emerged from the cliff rode up to the other conductor with
his revolver in his hand, and said, 'Shall we settle this business here,
or shall we go before the Alcalde of the next diggings?' The man looked at
him for a moment in silence, and then said, 'Damn me if you don't look
like that she-devil of a mule of yours that threw my mules down the cliff.
Are you and she any blood relation that you know of?' Not at all offended,
Bill answered, 'I can't say positively that we are, but one thing I can
say: I would rather be full brother to a mule that would act as Kate did
to-day, than a forty-second cousin to a man that would act as you did.'
'Well,' said the other, 'put up your revolver, and let us settle matters
before the Alcalde.'
"The mule-drivers found the Alcalde working in the bottom of a shaft which
he was sinking. They asked him to come up, but he said that was
unnecessary, as he could hear and settle the case where he was.
Accordingly, he turned a bucket upside down, sat down on it, and lit a
cigar, leaning his back against the wall of the shaft. The two conductors
then kissed a Bible which the Alcalde had sent for, and swore to tell the
truth; and they gave their testimony from the top of the shaft, the driver
of the unloaded mules asking for six hundred dollars damages, five hundred
dollars for his mules and one hundred dollars for the pack saddles lost
with them. When they had finished, the Alcalde said, 'I know the trail
well, and I find for the defendant, and order the plaintiff to pay the
costs of court, which are only one ounce.' Thereupon the Alcalde arose,
turned up his bucket and began to shovel the earth into it. As he worked
on, he told the plaintiff to go to the store kept by one Meyer not far
off, and weigh out the ounce of dust and leave it there for him. This was
done without hesitation. Bill went along, treated the plaintiff to a
drink, and paid for a bottle of the best brandy that Meyer had, to be
given in the evening to the Alcalde and his partner as they returned from
work."[48]
California magistrates were somewhat informal for several years. On one
occasion, during a long argument by counsel, the Alcalde interrupted with
the remark that the point in question was a difficult one, and he would
like to consult an authority; whereupon, the clerk, understanding what was
meant, produced a demijohn and glasses from a receptacle beneath the
bench, and judge and counsel refreshed themselves. A characteristic story
is told of Judge Searls, a San Francisco magistrate who had several times
fined for contempt of court a lawyer named Francis J. Dunn. Dunn was a
very able but dissipated and eccentric man, and apt to be late, and on one
such occasion the judge fined him fifty dollars. "I did not know that I
was late, your Honor," said Mr. Dunn, with mock contrition; "I have no
watch, and I shall never be able to get one if I have to pay the fines
which your Honor imposes upon me." Then, after a pause of reflection, he
looked up and said: "Will your Honor _lend_ me fifty dollars so that I can
pay this last fine?" "Mr. Clerk," said the judge, leaning over the bench,
"remit that fine: the State can afford to lose the money better than I
can."
But informality is not inconsistent with justice. The Pioneers did not
like to have men, though they were judges, take themselves too seriously;
but the great majority of them were law-abiding, intelligent, industrious
and kind-hearted. It was, as has been said already, a picked and sifted
population. The number of professional men and of well-educated men was
extraordinary. They were a magnanimous people. As the Reverend Dr.
Bushnell remarked, "With all the violence and savage wrongs and dark vices
that have heretofore abounded among the Pioneers, they seldom do a mean
thing."
An example of this magnanimity was the action of California in regard to
the State debt amounting to five million dollars. It was illegal, having
been contracted in violation of the State Constitution, and the money had
been spent chiefly in enriching those corrupt politicians and their
friends who obtained possession of the California government in the first
years. But the Pioneers were too generous and too proud of the good name
of their State to stand upon their legal rights. They were as anxious to
pay this unjust debt as Pennsylvania and Mississippi had been in former
years to repudiate their just debts. The matter was put to popular vote,
and the bonds were paid.
Stephen J. Field remarked in his old age, "I shall never forget the noble
and generous people that I found in California, in all ranks of life."
Another Pioneer, Dr. J. D. B. Stillman, wrote, "There are more
intelligence and generous good feeling here than in any other country that
I have ever seen."[49] "The finest body of men ever gathered together in
the world's history," is the declaration of another Pioneer,[50] and even
this extreme statement is borne out by the contemporary records.
That there was a minority equally remarkable for its bad qualities, is
also unquestionable. Moreover, many men who at home would have been
classed as good citizens gave way in California to their avarice or other
bad passions. Whatever depravity there was in a man's heart showed itself
without fear and without restraint. The very Pioneer, Dr. Stillman, who
has just been quoted to the effect that California had, on the whole, the
best population in the world, gives us also the other side of the picture:
"Last night I saw a man lying on the wet ground, unknown, unconscious,
uncared for, and dying. Money is the all-absorbing object. There are men
who would hang their heads at home at the mention of their heartless
avarice. What can be expected from strangers when a man's own friends
abandon him because he sickens and becomes an encumbrance!"
Mrs. Bates, whose account of California is never exaggerated, tells us of
a miner who, night after night, deserted his dying brother for a gambling
house, leaving him unattended and piteously crying for water until, at
last, he expired alone.
It must be remembered, also, that the moral complexion of California
changed greatly from year to year. The first condition was almost an
idyllic one. It was a period of honesty and good-will such as never
existed before, except in the imagination of Rousseau. There were few
doors, and no locks. Gold was left for days at a time unguarded and
untouched. "A year ago," said the "Sacramento Transcript," in October,
1850, "a miner could have left his bag of dust exhibited to full view, and
absent himself a week. His tools might have remained unmolested in any
ravine for months, and his goods and chattels, bed and bedding might have
remained along the highway for an indefinite period without being stolen."
There was much drinking, much gambling, and some murders were committed in
the heat of passion; but nowhere else in the world, except perhaps in the
smaller villages of the United States, was property so safe as it was in
California.
"I have not heard," wrote Dr. Stillman in 1849, "of a theft or crime of
any sort. Firearms are thrown aside as useless, and are given away on the
road." Grave disputes involving the title to vast wealth were settled by
arbitration without the raising of a voice in anger or controversy. Even
in Sacramento and San Francisco, merchants left their goods in their
canvas houses and tents, open to any who might choose to enter, while they
went to church or walked over the hills on Sundays. Their gold was equally
unguarded, and equally safe.
"It was wonderful," said a Pioneer early in the Fifties, "how well we got
on in '49 without any sort of government beyond the universally sanctioned
action of the people, and I have often since questioned in my own mind if
we might not have got on just the same ever since, and saved all the money
we have paid out for thieving legislation and selfish office-holders."[51]
The change came in the late Summer and early Autumn of 1850, and was
chiefly owing to the influx of convicts from Australia and
elsewhere,--"low-browed, heavy-featured men, with cold, steel-gray eyes."
In a less degree the change was also due to the deterioration of a small
minority of Americans and Europeans, whose moral stamina was not equal to
life in a lawless community, although at first that community was lawless
only in the strict sense of the word;--it had no laws and needed none. As
one Pioneer wrote, "There is no law regarded here but the natural law of
justice."
Beginning with the Autumn of 1850, things went from bad to worse until
February, 1851, when robbery and murder in San Francisco were stopped by
the first Vigilance Committee; and in the mines the same drastic remedy
was applied, but not always with the same moderation. A Sacramento paper
said in December, 1850: "It is an undeniable fact that crime of almost
every description is on the increase in California, especially
horse-stealing, robbery, arson and murder. In the city of Sacramento
alone, since last April, we should judge there have been at least twenty
murders committed, and we are not aware that any murderer has suffered
capital punishment, or any other kind of punishment. We have got used to
these things, and look upon it as a matter of course that somebody will be
killed and robbed as often as once a week at least; and yet
notwithstanding all this our people generally are composed of the most
orderly, respectable citizens of the United States. The laws furnish us no
protection because they are not enforced."
But the Reader may ask, why were the laws not enforced? The answer is that
the Pioneers were too busy to concern themselves with their political
duties or to provide the necessary machinery for the enforcement of the
laws. State officers, municipal officers, sheriffs, constables and even
judges were chosen, not because they were fit men, but because they wanted
the job, and no better candidates offered themselves. Moreover, the
Pioneers did not expect to become permanent residents of California; they
expected to get rich, off-hand, and then to go home, and why should they
bother themselves about elections or laws? In short, an attempt was made
to do without law, and, as we have seen, it succeeded for a year or so,
but broke down when criminals became numerous.
A letter from the town of Sonora, written in July, 1850, said: "The people
are leaving here fast. This place is much deeper in guilt than Sodom or
Gomorrah. We have no society, no harmony. Gambling and drunkenness are the
order of the day."
In four years there were one thousand two hundred homicides in California.
Almost every mile of the travelled road from Monterey, in the southern
part of the State, to San Francisco, was the scene of some foul murder in
those eventful years. There was more crime in the southern mines than in
the northern, because the Mexicans were more numerous there.
In Sonora County, in 1850, there were twenty-five murders in a single
month, committed mainly by Mexicans, Chilians, and British convicts from
the penal colonies. A night patrol was organized. Every American tent had
a guard around it, and mining almost ceased. Murder and robbery had
reached the stage at which they seriously interfered with business. This
was not to be endured; and at a mass meeting held at Sonora on August 3,
the following resolution was passed: "Resolved: That for the safety of the
lives and property of the citizens of this portion of the country, notice
shall be given immediately ordering all Mexicans and South Americans to
remove from township No. 2 in one week from this date."
The consequence was a melancholy exodus of men, women and children, which
included the just and the unjust. Many of them were destitute, and, as
respects the Mexicans, many were being banished from the place of their
birth. "We fear," remarked a contemporary citizen, "that the money-making,
merry old times in Sonora are gone forever."
This was a characteristic Pioneer remark. The "old times" meant were
somewhat less than a year back; and their "merry" quality was, as we have
seen, considerably modified by robbery and murder. The point of view is
much like that of the landlord of a hotel in Virginia City, where Bret
Harte was once a guest. After a night disturbed by sounds of shouting,
scuffling and pistol shots, Mr. Harte found his host behind the counter in
the bar-room "with a bruised eye, a piece of court-plaster extending from
his cheek to his forehead, yet withal a pleasant smile upon his face.
Taking my cue from this, I said to him, 'Well, landlord, you had rather a
lively time here last night.' 'Yes,' he replied, pleasantly, 'it _was_
rather a lively time.' 'Do you often have such lively times in Virginia
City?' I added, emboldened by his cheerfulness. 'Well, no,' he said
reflectively; 'the fact is we've only just opened yer, and last night was
about the first time that the boys seemed to be gettin' really
_acquainted_!'"
The absence of police, and, to a great extent, of law, led to deeds of
violence, and to duelling; but it also tended to make men polite. The
civility with which cases were conducted in court, and the restraint shown
by lawyers in their comments upon one another and upon the witnesses were
often spoken of in California. The experience of Alcalde Field in this
regard is interesting:--"I came to California with all those notions in
respect to acts of violence which are instilled into New England youth; if
a man were rude, I would turn away from him. But I soon found that men in
California were likely to take very great liberties with a person who
acted in such a manner, and that the only way to get along was to hold
every man responsible, and resent every trespass upon one's rights."[52]
Accordingly, young Field bought a brace of pistols, had a sack-coat made
with pockets appropriate to contain them, and practised the useful art of
firing the pistols with his hands in his pockets. Subsequently he added a
bowie-knife to his private arsenal, and he carried these weapons until the
Summer of 1854. "I found," he says, "that the knowledge that pistols were
generally worn created a wholesome courtesy of manner and language."
Even the members of the State Legislature were armed. It was a thing of
every-day occurrence for a member, when he entered the House, to take off
his pistols and lay them in the drawer of his desk. Such an act excited
neither surprise nor comment.
At one time Mr. Field sent a challenge to a certain Judge Barbour who had
grossly insulted him. Barbour accepted the challenge, but demanded that
the duel should be fought with Colt's revolvers and bowie-knives, that it
should take place in a room only twenty feet square, and that the fight
should continue until at least one of the principals was dead. Mr. Field's
second, horrified by these savage proposals, was for rejecting them; but
Field himself insisted that they should be accepted, and the result was
what he had anticipated. Judge Barbour, of his own motion, waived, first
the knives, then the small room, and finally declined the meeting
altogether. But the very next day, when Field had stepped out of his
office, and was picking up an armful of wood for his stove, Barbour crept
up behind him, and putting a pistol to his head, called upon Field to draw
and defend himself. Field did not turn or move, but spoke somewhat as
follows: "You infernal scoundrel, you cowardly assassin,--you come behind
my back, and put your revolver to my head, and tell me to draw! You
haven't the courage to shoot,--shoot and be damned!" And Barbour slunk
away.
Shooting at sight, especially in San Francisco and the larger towns, was
as common as it is represented by Bret Harte. For the few years,
beginning with and succeeding 1850, the newspapers were full of such
events. On November 25, 1851, the "Alta California" said: "Another case of
the influenza now in fashion occurred yesterday. We allude to a mere
shooting-match in which only one of the near by-standers was shot down in
his tracks."
Even so late as August, 1855, the "San Francisco Call" was able to refer
in a modest way to the "two or three shooting encounters per week" which
enlivened its columns.[53]
Duels were common, and in most cases very serious affairs, the battle
being waged with destructive weapons and at close range. As a rule, they
took place in public. Thus, at a meeting between D. C. Broderick, leader
of the Democratic Party in the State, and one J. Cabot Smith, seventy or
eighty persons were present. Broderick was wounded, and would have been
killed had not the bullet first struck and shattered his watch.
These California duels must be ascribed mainly to the Southern element,
which was strong numerically, and which, moreover, exerted an influence
greater than its numbers warranted. One reason, perhaps the main reason,
for this predominance of the Southerners was that the aristocratic,
semi-feudal system which they represented had a more dignified, more
dashing aspect than the plain democratic views in which the Northern and
Western men had been educated. It made the individual of more importance.
Upon this point Professor Royce makes an acute remark: "The type of the
Northern man who has assumed Southern fashions, and not always the best
Southern fashions, has often been observed in California life. The
Northern man frequently felt commonplace, simple-minded, undignified,
beside his brother from the border or the plantation.... The Northern man
admired his fluency, his vigor, his invective, his ostentatious courage,
his absolute confidence about all matters of morals, of politics, of
propriety, and the inscrutable union in his public discourse of sweet
reasonableness with ferocious intolerance."
The extreme type of Southerner, as he appeared in California, is
immortalized in Colonel Starbottle. The moment when this strange planet
first swam into Bret Harte's ken seems to have been seized and recorded
with accuracy by his friend, Mr. Noah Brooks. "In Sacramento he and I met
Colonel Starbottle, who had, of course, another name. He wore a tall silk
hat and loosely-fitting clothes, and he carried on his left arm by its
crooked handle a stout walking-stick. The Colonel was a dignified and
benignant figure; in politics he was everybody's friend. A gubernatorial
election was pending, and with the friends of Haight he stood at the hotel
bar, and as they raised their glasses to their lips he said, 'Here's to
the Coming Event!' Nobody asked at that stage of the canvass what the
coming event would be, and when the good Colonel stood in the same place
with the friends of Gorham, he gave the same toast, 'The Coming Event!'"
This may have been a certain Dr. Ruskin, a Southern politician, who is
described by a Pioneer as wearing "a white fur plug hat, a blue coat with
brass buttons, a buff-colored vest, white trousers, varnished boots, a
black satin stock, and, on state occasions, a frilled shirt front. He
always carried a cane with a curved handle."[54] This, the Reader need not
be reminded, is the exact costume of Colonel Starbottle,--the "low Byronic
collar," which Bret Harte mentions, being the only item omitted.
From this person Bret Harte undoubtedly derived an idea as to the
appearance and carriage of Colonel Starbottle, and it is not unlikely that
in drawing the character he had also in mind the notorious Judge David S.
Terry. Terry, a native of Texas, was a fierce, fighting Southerner, a
brave and honest man, but narrow, prejudiced, abusive, and ferocious. He
was a leading Democrat, a judge of the Supreme Court of the State, and a
bitter opponent of the San Francisco Vigilance Committee. He nearly killed
an agent of the Committee who attempted to arrest one of his companions,
and was himself in some danger of being hung by the Committee on that
account. Later, Terry killed Senator Broderick, of whom mention has just
been made, in a duel which seems to have had the essential qualities of a
murder, and which was forced upon Broderick in much the same way that the
fatal duel was forced upon Alexander Hamilton.
Later still, Terry became involved in the affairs of one of his clients, a
somewhat notorious woman, whom he married,--clearly showing that mixture
of chivalrous respect for women, combined with a capacity for
misunderstanding them, and of being deluded by them, which was so
remarkable in Colonel Starbottle. In the course of litigation on behalf of
his wife, Terry bitterly resented certain action taken by Mr. Justice
Field of the Supreme Court of the United States,--the same Field who began
his judicial career as Alcalde of Marysville. Terry's threats against the
Justice, then an old man, were so open and violent, and his character was
so well known, that, at the request of the court officials in San
Francisco, a deputy marshal was assigned as a guard to the Justice while
he should be hearing cases on the California circuit. At a railroad
station, one day, Terry and the Justice met; and as Terry was, apparently,
in the act of drawing a weapon, the deputy marshal shot and killed him.
It was Judge Terry who remarked of the San Francisco Vigilance Committee,
which was mainly composed of business men,--the lawyers holding
aloof,--that they were "a set of damned pork-merchants,"--a remark so
characteristic of Colonel Starbottle that it is difficult to attribute it
to anybody else.
Colonel Starbottle was as much the product of slavery as Uncle Tom
himself, and he exemplified both its good and its bad effects. His fat
white hand and pudgy fingers indicated the man who despised manual labor
and those who performed it. His short, stubby feet, and tight-fitting,
high-heeled boots conveyed him sufficiently well from office to bar-room,
but were never intended for anything in the nature of a "constitutional."
His own immorality did not prevent him from cherishing a high ideal of
feminine purity; but his conversation was gross. He was a purveyor, Bret
Harte relates, "of sprightly stories such as Gentlemen of the Old School
are in the habit of telling, but which, from deference to the prejudices
of gentlemen of a more recent school, I refrain from transcribing here."
He had that keen sense of honor, and the determination to defend it, even,
if need be, at the expense of his life, which the Southern slave-holder
possessed, and he had also the ferocity which belonged to the same
character. One can hardly recall without a shudder of disgust the "small,
beady black eyes" of Colonel Starbottle, especially when they "shone with
that fire which a pretty woman or an affair of honor could alone kindle."
The Reader will remember that the Colonel was always ready to hold himself
"personally responsible" for any consequences of a hostile nature, and
that by some irreverent persons he was dubbed "Old Personal
Responsibility." The phrase was not invented by Bret Harte. On the
contrary, it was almost a catchword in California society; it was a
Southern phrase, and indicated the Southerner's attitude. In a leading
article published in the "San Francisco Bulletin" in 1856, it is said,
"The basis of many of the outrages which have disgraced our State during
the past four years has been the 'personal responsibility' system,--a
relic of barbarism."
Colonel Starbottle's lack of humor was also a Southern characteristic. The
only humorists in the South were the slaves; and the reason is not far to
seek. The Southerner's political and social creed was that of an
aristocrat; and an aristocrat is too dignified and too self-absorbed to
enter curiously into other men's feelings, and too self-satisfied to
question his own. Dandies are notoriously grave men. The aristocratic,
non-humorous man always takes himself seriously; and this trait in Colonel
Starbottle is what makes him so interesting. "It is my invariable custom
to take brandy--a wineglass-full in a cup of strong coffee--immediately on
rising. It stimulates the functions, sir, without producing any blank
derangement of the nerves."
There is another trait, exemplified in Colonel Starbottle, which often
accompanies want of humor, namely, a tendency to be theatrical. It would
seem as if the ordinary course of human events was either too painful or
too monotonous to be endured. We find ourselves obliged to throw upon it
an aspect of comedy or of tragedy, by way of relief. The man of humor sees
the incongruity,--in other words, the jest in human existence; and the
non-humorous, having no such perception, represents it to himself and to
others in an exaggerated or theatrical form. The one relies upon
understatement; the other upon overstatement. Colonel Starbottle was
always theatrical; his walk was a strut, and "his colloquial speech was
apt to be fragmentary incoherencies of his larger oratorical utterances."
But we cannot help feeling sorry for the Colonel as his career draws to a
close, and especially when, after his discomfiture in the breach of
promise case, he returns to his lonely chambers, and the negro servant
finds him there silent and unoccupied before his desk. "''Fo' God! Kernel,
I hope dey ain't nuffin de matter, but you's lookin' mighty solemn! I
ain't seen you look dat way, Kernel, since de day pooh Massa Stryker was
fetched home shot froo de head.' 'Hand me down the whiskey, Jim,' said the
Colonel, rising slowly. The negro flew to the closet joyfully, and brought
out the bottle. The Colonel poured out a glass of the spirit, and drank it
with his old deliberation. 'You're quite right, Jim,' he said, putting
down his glass, 'but I'm--er--getting old--and--somehow--I am missing poor
Stryker damnably.'"
This is the last appearance of Colonel Starbottle. He represents that
element of the moral picturesque,--that compromise with perfection which,
in this imperfect and transitory world, is universally craved. Even
Emerson, best and most respectable of men, admitted, in his private diary,
that the irregular characters who frequented the rum-selling tavern in his
own village were indispensable elements, forming what he called "the
fringe to every one's tapestry of life."[55] Such men as he had in mind
mitigate the solemnity and tragedy of human existence; and in them the
virtuous are able to relax, vicariously, the moral tension under which
they suffer. This is the part which Colonel Starbottle plays in
literature.