Part I

[Illustration: _Frontispiece._]

IN AN UNKNOWN

PRISON LAND

AN ACCOUNT OF CONVICTS AND

COLONISTS IN NEW CALEDONIA

WITH JOTTINGS OUT AND HOME

BY

GEORGE GRIFFITH

AUTHOR OF “MEN WHO HAVE MADE THE

EMPIRE,” “THE VIRGIN OF THE SUN,”

A TALE OF THE CONQUEST OF PERU,

“BRITON OR BOER?” A STORY OF THE

FIGHT FOR AFRICA, ETC., ETC.

WITH A PORTRAIT AND NUMEROUS

ILLUSTRATIONS

London: HUTCHINSON _&_ CO

Paternoster Row [Illustration] 1901

PRINTED BY

HAZELL, WATSON, AND VINEY, LD.

LONDON AND AYLESBURY

To

THE EARL OF DUNMORE

WHOSE KINDNESS AND HOSPITALITY MADE MY SOJOURN IN PRISON-LAND MUCH MORE

PLEASANT THAN IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN.

CONTENTS

PAGE

Part I

_A STREAK THROUGH THE STATES_

I. DUTIES AND DOLLARS 3

II. CONCERNING CITIES, WITH A PARENTHESIS ON MANNERS 17

III. THE QUEEN OF THE GOLDEN STATE 34

A SEA-INTERLUDE 51

Part II

_PRISON LAND_

A PRELIMINARY NOTE ON CONVICTS AND COLONISTS 83

I. SOME FIRST IMPRESSIONS 96

II. SOME SOCIAL SIDELIGHTS 109

III. ILE NOU 128

IV. MEASUREMENT AND MANIA 143

V. A CONVICT ARCADIA 160

VI. SOME HUMAN DOCUMENTS 176

VII. THE PLACE OF EXILES 194

VIII. A PARADISE OF KNAVES 202

IX. USE FOR THE USELESS 219

X. A LAND OF WOOD AND IRON 236

XI. MOSTLY MOSQUITOS AND MICROBES 262

Part III

_HOMEWARD BOUND_

I. “TWENTY YEARS AFTER” 279

II. DEMOS AND DEAR MONEY 290

III. A COSMOPOLITAN COLONY 303

NOTE

The last sentence on p. 137 should read:

“The Cachots Noirs were never opened except at stated intervals,—once

every morning for inspection, and once every thirty days for exercise

and a medical examination of the prisoner.” I am glad to be able to

state on the authority of the Minister of Colonies that this terrible

punishment has now been made much less severe. Every seventh day the

prisoner is placed for a day in a light cell; he is also given an hour’s

exercise every day; and the maximum sentence has been reduced to two

years, subject to the medical veto. In the text I have described what I

saw; but this atrocity is now, happily, a thing of the past.—G. G.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Portrait of the Author _Frontispiece._

Two Snapshots up and down the Rio Sacramento, taken as the

train was crossing the bridge _Page_ 30

Diamond Head, Honolulu ” 54

Sanford B. Dole. First Governor of the Territory of Hawaii ” 62

A Lake in the interior of New Caledonia ” 86

The Plague Area at Noumea. Offices of the Messageries

Maritimes, with Sentries in front ” 100

The Convict Band playing in the Kiosk in the Place des

Cocotiers, Noumea ” 116

The Town and Harbour of Noumea ” 120

In the Harbour, Noumea ” 122

The Inner Court of the Central Prison, Ile Nou ” 136

The Central Prison, Ile Nou ” 142

The Bureau of Anthropometry, Ile Nou ” 146

An Arab Type of Convict. A combination of Ideality and

Homicidal Mania ” 148

The Courtyard of a Disciplinary Camp, Ile Nou ” 150

The Avenue of Palms, leading to the Hospital, Ile Nou ” 154

Part of the Hospital Buildings, Ile Nou ” 156

The Island of “Le Sphinx,” one of the tying-up places on

the south-west coast of New Caledonia ” 162

A Native Temple, New Caledonia ” 168

Permit to visit a Prison or Penitentiary Camp _en détail_ ” 176

The Kiosk in which the Convict Courtships were conducted at

Bourail ” 180

Berezowski, the Polish Anarchist who attempted to murder

Napoleon III. and the Tsar Alexander II. in the Champs

Elysées ” 184

One of the Lowest Types of Criminal Faces ” 190

The Peninsula of Ducos ” 194

The remains of Henri Rochefort’s House ” 200

The Bedroom of Louis Chatelain, ”The Caledonian Dreyfus” in

Ducos ” 200

The “Market” in the Convent, Isle of Pines ” 212

The Convict Railway at Prony ” 240

The Mines of the International Copper Co., Pilou, New

Caledonia ” 266

The Saloon of the Ballande Liner, _St. Louis_ ” 270

The Quarantine Station, North Head, Sydney ” 282

The Storage House at Seppeltsfield, forty years ago ” 309

The Present Storage House ” 308

Grape-crushing by machinery, at Seppeltsfield ” 312

A Vineyard at Seppeltsfield, South Australia ” 316

Part I

_A STREAK THROUGH THE STATES_

I

_DUTIES AND DOLLARS_

It was on the fifth night out from Southampton that the threatening

shadow of the American Custom House began to fall over the company in the

saloon.

One could see ladies talking nervously together. The subject was the

one most dear to the female heart; but the pleasure of talking about

“things” was mingled—at least in the hearts of the uninitiated—with an

uneasiness which, in not a few cases, amounted to actual fear; for that

evening certain forms had been distributed by the purser, and these forms

contained questions calculated to search out the inmost secret of every

dress-basket and Saratoga trunk on board.

By the time you had filled in the blanks, if you had done it honestly—as,

of course, no one except myself did—you had not only given a detailed

list of your wardrobe, but you had enumerated in a separate schedule

every article that you had bought new in Europe.

You were graciously permitted to possess one hundred dollars’, or, say,

twenty pounds’ worth of personal effects. If you had more than that you

were treated as a commercial traveller importing dry goods, and had to

pay duty in case you sold them again, and thus came into competition with

the infant industries of Uncle Sam.

At the foot of the schedule was a solemn declaration that you had given

your wardrobe away to the last pocket-handkerchief, and the next day you

had to repeat this declaration verbally to an urbane official, who was

polite enough to look as though he believed you.

When it came to the actual examination in the wharf-shed, I found myself

wondering where Uncle Sam’s practical commonsense came in. You had to

take a paper, given to you on board in exchange for your declaration, to

a desk at which sat a single clerk.

As there were about four hundred first- and second-class passengers, this

took some little time, and provoked considerable language. When you had

at length struggled to the desk the clerk gave you a ticket, beckoned to

a gentleman in uniform, handed him your paper, and remarked:

“Here, George, see to this.”

In my case George seemed to have a pressing engagement somewhere else,

for he went off and I never set eyes on him again. My modest effects, a

steamer trunk, a Gladstone-bag, and a camera-case, lay frankly open to

the gaze of all men in cold neglect, while small mountains of trunks were

opened, their contents tickled superficially by the lenient fingers of

the examiners, closed again, and carted off.

A couple of hours later, when I had interviewed every official in the

shed on the subject of the missing George, and made a general nuisance of

myself, I was requested to take my things out and not worry—or words to

that effect. Outside I met a fellow-voyager, who informed me that he and

his wife had taken thirteen trunks full of dutiable stuff through without

paying a cent of duty—at least not to the Exchequer of the United States

Customs.

He had been through before and knew his man. It may have cost him

ten dollars, but Uncle Sam would have wanted three or four hundred;

wherefore it is a good thing to know your man when you land at New York

with a wife and a two years’ wardrobe.

From this it will be seen that there was none of that turning out of

trunks and shameless, heartless exhibition of things that should only

be seen in shop windows before they are bought, which one heard so much

about a few years ago. That is practically stopped now, and it was

stopped by the officials themselves.

They didn’t scatter precious, if unmentionable, garments around the

shed floor out of pure devilry or levity of soul. The American official

is like any other; he wants to earn his salary as easily as possible,

and the new tariff regulations gave him a tremendous lot of work, so

he took counsel with himself and came to the astute conclusion that if

he systematically outraged the tenderest sentiments of the wives and

daughters of millionaires, senators, congressmen, political bosses, and

other American sovereigns for a certain period either the regulations

would have to be considerably watered down or there would be another

civil war.

His conclusions were perfectly correct. The big customs officials faced

the music stubbornly for a time; then invitations to dinner and the most

select social functions began to fall off. Their wives and daughters

lost many opportunities of showing off the pretty frocks which they had

smuggled in from Europe.

Election time came near—in other words, Judgment Day for every American

official from the Atlantic to the Pacific. It was openly hinted in high

places that the authors of such outrages on America’s proudest matrons

and most dainty maidens were soulless brutes who weren’t fit to hold

office, and then the United States Customs Department came down on its

knees, kissed the hems of the garments it had scattered around the shed

floor, and, as usual, the Eternal Feminine had conquered.

In Paul Leicester Ford’s delightful word-picture of American political

life, “The Honourable Peter Sterling,” the worthy Peter delivers a

dinner-table homily on the immorality of five hundred first-class

steamboat passengers conspiring to defraud the revenue of their native

land by means of false declarations such as most of us signed on the _St.

Louis_.

I was surprised to find that Peter, a shrewd politician and successful

ward-boss, knew so little of human nature.

Never from now till the dawn of the millennium abolishes the last Customs

House will men and women be convinced that it is immoral or even wrong to

smuggle. It is simply a game between the travellers and the officials. If

they are caught they pay. If not the man smokes his cigars with an added

gusto, and the woman finds a new delight in wearing a dainty costume

which all the arts of all the Worths and all the Redferns on earth could

never give her—and of such were the voyagers on the _St. Louis_.[1]

Before I got to bed that night I had come to the conclusion that no

country was ever better described in a single phrase than America was by

poor G. W. Steevens when he called it the Land of the Dollar.

From the Atlantic to the Pacific, and from Maine to Mexico, you

simply can’t get away from it. In other countries people talk about

money,—generally and incidentally about pounds, or francs, or marks, or

pesetas,—but in America it is dollars first, last, and all the time.

Where an Englishman would say a man was keen on making money, an American

would say “he’s out for dollars.” On this side we speak of making a

fortune, over there it’s “making a pile,”—of dollars understood,—and so

on.

But there is another sense in which the pungent phrase is true. I am not

going to commit myself to the assertion that everything in the States is

a dollar, because there are many things which cost more than a dollar.

There are also some—a few—which cost less, such as newspapers and tramcar

tickets, but, as a rule, when you put your hand into your pocket a dollar

comes out—often several—and you don’t have much change.

Thus, when I had released my baggage from the lax grip of the United

States Customs, I took a carriage ticket at the desk. Three dollars. In

London the fare from the station to the hotel would have been about half

a crown. The gentleman who put my luggage up received a quarter. If I

had offered him less he would probably have declined it and asked me,

with scathing irony, to come and have a drink at his expense.

Still, that carriage was a carriage, and not a cab; well-hung,

well-cushioned, and well-horsed. In fact, I was not many hours in New

York before I began to see that, although you pay, you get. Everything

from a banquet to a boot-shine is done in better style than it is in

England.

“We are very full, sir,” said the clerk at the Murray Hill Hotel; “but

I can give you a four-dollar room. I daresay you’ll like a comfortable

night after your passage.”

I thought sixteen shillings and eightpence a good deal for a room,

but I found that the room was really a suite, a big bed-sitting-room,

beautifully furnished, with bathroom, lavatory, and clothes-cupboard

attached.

The next morning I had a shine which cost fivepence, but that shine

lasted all the way to San Francisco. The boots simply needed dusting and

they were as bright as ever. Then I went and had a shilling shave, and

found that the American shave is to the English one as a Turkish bath is

to a cold tub; and so on throughout. You spend more money, far more,

than in England, but you get a great deal more for it. But to this rule

there is one great and glorious exception, and that is railway travelling.

I presented my ordinary first-class tickets at the booking-office in the

Central Depôt, and then came from the lips of the keen-faced, but most

polite and obliging clerk, the inevitable “five dollars please—and if

you’re going on the South-Western Limited it will be one dollar more.

You see this is one of the fastest trains in the world, and we keep it

select. You’ll have a section to yourself all the way.”

I checked my trunk in the baggage-office and said a thankful good-bye to

it for three thousand two hundred miles, after buying a new strap for it,

which, curiously enough, was not a dollar, but seventy-five cents. Then I

took possession of my cosy corner in the long, luxuriously furnished car

to be whirled over a thousand miles of iron road in twenty-three hours

and a half.

Soon after we had pulled out of New York and the bogey wheels had begun

the deep-voiced hum which was to last day and night for the inside of a

week, I saw something which struck me again and again in the run across

the continent. A big American city is like a robe of cloth of gold with a

frayed and tattered border of dirty cotton. Its outskirts are unutterably

ragged and squalid.

A few minutes after you leave the splendid streets and squares of Central

New York you are running through a region of mean and forlorn-looking

wooden huts—really, they can hardly be called houses—crowded up together

in terraces or blocks beside broad, unpaved roads, which may some day

be streets, or standing in little lots of their own, scraps of unkempt

land, too small for fields, and as much like gardens as a dumping-ground

for London rubbish. All the houses wanted painting, and most of them

repairing. The whole aspect was one of squalid poverty and mean

discomfort.

But these soon fell behind the flying wheels of the South-Western

Limited. Another region was entered, a region of stately pleasure-houses

standing amidst broad, well-wooded lands, and presently the great train

swept with a stately swing round a sloping curve, and then began one of

the loveliest railway runs in the world, the seventy-mile-an-hour spin

along the level, four-track road which lies beside the eastern bank of

the broad and beautiful Hudson.

It was during this delicious spin that I went into the smoking-room to

have a pipe and something else. I sat down in a seat opposite to a man

whose appearance stamped him as one of those quietly prosperous Americans

who just go to their work and do it with such splendid thoroughness that

the doing of it saves their country from falling into the social and

political chaos that some other Americans would make of it if they could.

He gave me a light, and we began talking. If it had been in an English

train we might have glared at each other for five hundred miles without

a word. As it was, we had begun to know each other in half an hour. We

talked about the Hudson, and the Catskills, and West Point, and then

about the train, and so the talk came back to the inevitable dollar.

“A gorgeous train this,” I said; “far and away beyond anything we have in

England. But,” I added with uncalculating haste, “it seems to me pretty

expensive.”

“Excuse me,” he said, “I don’t think you’ve figured it out. You’re going

to San Francisco, thirty-two hundred miles from here. All the way you

have a comfortable train,”—that was his lordly way of putting it,—“you

have servants to wait on you day and night, a barber to shave you, a

stenographer to dictate your letters to, and you never need get off the

train except for the change at Chicago.

“When you get to San Francisco you will find that the total cost works

out at about three cents a mile, say three halfpence. I believe the

legal first-class fare in England—without sleeping-accommodation, in

fact without anything you have here except a place to sit down in—is

threepence a mile.”

I didn’t make the calculation, because when we subsequently exchanged

cards I found I was talking to the President of the Mercantile

Transportation Company, a man who knows just about as much of travel by

land and sea as there is to be learnt.

After this we got on to railroading generally. I learnt much, and in

the learning thereof came to think even less of British railway methods

than I had done before. I learnt why it was cheaper to carry grain a

thousand miles from Chicago to New York than it is to carry it a couple

of hundred miles from Yorkshire to London; why cattle can be carried over

thousands of miles of prairie at less cost than over hundreds of miles of

English railroads; and many other things all bearing on the question of

the dollar and how to save it—for your true American is just as keen on

saving as he is lavish in spending—which I thought might well be taught

and still better learnt on this side.

It was during this conversation that I had an example of that absolutely

disinterested kindness with which the wanderer so often meets in America

and so seldom in England.

“By the way,” said Mr. President, “have you taken your berth from Chicago

in the Overland Limited?”

“No,” I said; “I was told I could telegraph for it from Buffalo.”

“Well,” he said, “you know the train is limited and will probably be

pretty full. There’s quite a number of people going west just now.

However, don’t trouble; I guess I can fix that for you.”

Now, I had never seen this man before, and the probability was that I

should never meet him again, and yet when I got to the North-Western

Depôt at Chicago there was a section in the centre of one of the newest

and most luxurious cars reserved for me.

“Mr. Griffith?” said the clerk, as I presented my transportation tickets.

“That’s all right, sir. Your section’s engaged. Here’s your check, ‘2 D,

San Vincente.’ Got a porter? Well, you can have your baggage taken down

right away. She pulls out 3.30 sharp. Seventeen dollars, please.”

II

_CONCERNING CITIES, WITH A PARENTHESIS ON MANNERS_

I have seen cities in many parts of the world, from the smoke-grimed,

flame-crowned, cloud-canopied hives of industry of middle and Northern

England, of Belgium, and Northern France, to the marble palaces and

broad-verandahed bungalows which sleep among the palm-groves by the white

shores of tropic seas; but never—north, south, east, or west—have I seen

a collection of human habitations and workshops so utterly hopeless, so

irretrievably ugly as that portion of Chicago about which I wandered

during my three hours’ wait for the starting of the Overland Limited.

The roadways—really one cannot call them streets—would of themselves have

been far inferior to similar streets in Manchester or Wolverhampton,

because here at least the streets are paved. In Chicago they are not.

Many years ago an attempt seems to have been made to pave them, but the

stones have sunk, and the mud and slush have come up, and every variety

of filth covers them except about the lines over which the tramcars rush,

hissing and clanging on their headlong way. But the roadways of Chicago

are also tunnels, for over them stretches the solid, continuous iron arch

of the overhead railway whence come the roar of wheels, the snorting

of steam-engines, the shriek of whistles, and the wailing groan of the

brakes.

Now and then you reach a crossing or open place where you emerge from the

tunnel, out of semi-darkness into comparative light, and you see vast

shapes of stiff-angled, steep-roofed buildings lifting their sixteenth or

seventeenth storey up into the murky, smoke-laden sky. They are part and

parcel of Chicago—huge, ugly, dirty, and exceedingly useful.

There are big buildings in New York, but they are to the Chicago

buildings as palaces compared to factories. There are others in

San Francisco which are merely eccentricities and not altogether

unpicturesque, but the Chicago sky-scraper is a sort of architectural

fungus, an insulting excrescence from the unoffending earth, which makes

you long to get big guns and shoot at it. Still, it is useful, and serves

the purpose for which it was built, and that is why Chicago is not only

content with it, but even proud of it.

Believing many things that were said to me afterwards, I doubt not that

Chicago, elsewhere and other than I saw it, is one of the finest and most

beautiful cities on earth. Far be it from me to believe otherwise, since

some day I hope to see it again; and he who thinks ill of Chicago will

have about as good a time there as a man who thinks well of New York.

Still, common honesty obliges me to say that the impression which I took

away with me in the Overland Limited was one of vastness, uncleanness,

and ugliness, redeemed only by that sombre, Plutonic magnificence which

seems to be the one reward of an absolute and unhesitating sacrifice to

blank utility.

And yet I did find one view in Chicago which qualified this, and that

was from the western end of the Lake Front. The ragged steamboat piers,

the long rows of posts marking the shoals, the piles of the groynes, one

or two dilapidated and almost prehistoric steamboats, and blistered,

out-of-date yachts laid up along the lake wall, the stately sweep of

houses, the huge bulks of the factories in the east, with their towering

chimneys pouring out clouds of smoke and steam—these, with the smooth

water of the horizonless lake, made a pleasanter mental photograph to

take away with one than the unlovely roaring streets and the hideous

wealth-crammed stores and warehouses.

From Chicago to Ogden the route of the Union Pacific is about as

uninteresting as the central section of the Canadian Pacific, only here

the towns and villages are more frequent and the country is naturally far

more advanced in cultivation.

Cities, of course, are numerous. They vary in size from two to fifty

thousand inhabitants; but structurally they are all the same—tin-roofed

houses of weather-board, banks and offices, stores and factories, and

elevators of brick ranged along wide and mostly unpaved roads with plank

side-walks.

No apparent attempt has been made at order or uniformity. Where a big

building is wanted there it is put, and where a little wooden shanty

serves its purpose there it remains.

There is plenty of elbow-room, and so the village spreads itself into

the city in a quite promiscuous fashion, something like a boy left to

grow up into a man according to his own sweet will. But be it well noted

that he becomes a man all the same, for every one of these cities, big

or small, wood or brick, or both, was teeming with life and humming with

business.

One of the many visible signs of this could be seen in the number of

telegraph-wires slung on huge unsightly poles running up both sides of

the unkempt streets; in fact, an American inland city of five thousand

inhabitants seems to do a good deal more telegraphing and telephoning

than an English town of fifty thousand.

One other feature of the villages, towns, and “cities” along the route

struck me rather forcibly. Nearly all of them, big and little, have very

fine stations—I beg pardon, depôts. In fact, the practice seems to be

to build a fine, big depôt and let the city grow up to it. Thus, for

instance, at Omaha City, where we had a half-hour’s wait changing horses

and looking out for hot boxes, I found the depôt built of grey granite,

floored with marble, and entered by two splendid twin staircases curving

down through a domed and pillared hall to spacious waiting-rooms and

offices opening on to a platform about a quarter of a mile long.

It was the sort of station you would expect to find in a go-ahead English

or European city that possessed streets and squares and houses to match.

Now Omaha is go-ahead, and big, and busy, but for all you can see of it

from the train and station it is scattered promiscuously around hill and

dale, and the palatial station itself stands in the midst of a waste

of sloppy roads traversed as usual by the hurrying electric trams, and

bordered by little, shabby, ill-assorted wooden houses which don’t look

worth fifty pounds apiece. For all that, Omaha is one of the busiest and

wealthiest cities of the Middle States.

At Ogden, where the iron roads from every part of the continent seem

to meet, and where big, high-shouldered engines from Mexico and Texas

whistled their greetings to brother monsters from Maine and California, I

felt sorely tempted to stop off and take the thirty-mile run to Salt Lake

City, but

“The steamer won’t wait for the train,”

and I should have risked missing my boat to Honolulu—added to which I

had made some friends on the train who were going to show me round San

Francisco in case I had a day or so there, so I read my Kipling instead,

and saw the Mormon city with keener eyes than mine.

By the way, American manners appear to have altered very much for the

better since Kipling made his journey “From Sea to Sea.” I traversed a

good deal of the same ground, and stayed at some of the same hotels that

he did, but I never met with more straight-spoken, dignified courtesy in

any part of the world.

I never saw hotel clerks who blazed with diamonds, or who treated me

like a worm. As a matter of fact I never met more polite, obliging,

well-informed men in any similar position. Certainly they could give many

points to hotel managers and clerks in England and Australia.

The waiters, too, both white and black, must have vastly improved. The

white waiter in America, as I found him, is quite the smartest, most

intelligent, and, in his own manly way, the most polite of his class—a

class very well typified by the bugler of the _St. Louis_. His coloured

_confrère_ does his work deftly, silently, and well.

Kipling relates a conversation which took place in the Palace Hotel

between a coloured waiter and himself, in which George—every servant in

America whose name you don’t know is George—made the remark:

“Oh ——! Wages like that wouldn’t keep me in cigars!”

I stayed at the Palace in San Francisco, and from what I heard and saw I

should say that a waiter who made a remark like that nowadays would very

soon find that cigars were an unattainable luxury to a man out of work.

He would be “fired” on the spot.

My own experience certainly is that the Americans are the politest people

on earth, or, perhaps I ought to say, the most courteous, because any

one can be polite if it pays him. Only a gentleman can be courteous.

They have learnt, apparently at the hands of Mother Nature herself, that

subtle blending of politeness and dignity which we call courtesy.

For instance, an American waiter, or barber, or shoeblack says “Sir”

quite differently to anybody else in the world, except perhaps the

American gentleman who may be worth his millions. There is no suspicion

of cringing or inferiority about it, whether it comes from the shoeblack

or the millionaire. It seems to say equally from the one as from the

other “our circumstances may be different, but we are both of us

gentlemen in our way, and so we will behave to each other as gentlemen,”

and politeness of that sort is the pleasantest of all politeness.

Now, in Australia—but Australia is still seven thousand miles away

across the broad Pacific, so we will talk about that later on. Meanwhile

a couple of iron giants have been harnessed to the long line of

palace-cars, the mails have been exchanged from train to train, the bells

begin to swing and clang out soft musical warning notes, the mellow

whistles sing good-bye from engine to engine; “all aboard” is the word,

and the Overland Limited threads its way through the maze of shining

metals, and heads away westward to where a long, gleaming line of silver

backed by a black screen of mountains tipped with diamonds shows the

position of the Inland Sea of the Wilderness.

Salt Lake, the Dead Sea of the Mormon Land of Promise, is smaller now by

a good many scores of square miles than it was some thirty years ago,

when the Southern Pacific was connected up with the Union Pacific, and so

completed the iron chain which links the Hudson with the Sacramento.

For three or four hours the train runs over embankments surrounded

by vast salt mud-flats, which in those days were covered by the

fast-shrinking waters. It is the old story, the story of nearly all these

upland desert regions. Every year less rain falls in the valleys and

less snow on the mountains. As the clouds grow thinner and fewer the sun

blazes hotter and sucks up more and more vapour, and so year by year the

waters of the Great Salt Lake are getting less great and more salt.

With all due deference to American susceptibility on such points, I must

say that the scenery of the Rockies which one sees from the windows of

a car on the Union Pacific does not begin to compare with the scenery

along the Canadian Pacific line. Even Echo Cañon and Weber Cañon, the

show places of the line, struck me as comparatively insignificant when I

remembered the splendours of Eagle Pass and the grandeurs of Bear Cañon.

But when the wilderness of Nevada had been cast behind our flying wheels,

and we began to climb up the wooded foothills of the Sierra Nevada—that

snow-crowned mountain wall which divides one of the dreariest from one

of the most beautiful regions on earth, the Great American Desert from

“God’s own country”—it was time to sit up and use both your eyes and do

your best to look out at both sides of the car at once.

It was here that the last and most beautiful stretch of the

thirty-two-hundred-mile run began. Up the straight grades and round

and round the twice and thrice-tiered loops the great train twined

and circled; now skirting the shore of a still, pine-fringed lake,

filling the bottom of a mountain valley; and now burrowing under the

long snow-sheds, groaning under their weight of snow far away up the

mountain-side, and so, mile by mile of distance, and yard by yard of

height, the top of the Great Divide was reached.

The iron horses took a rest and a long drink at Alta, the summit station,

and then,

“Down the valley with our guttering breaks a-squeal,”

we started on our way to that lovely land which lies between the

mountains and the sea.

The snow vanished; first from the sides of the track, and then from the

gullies between the hills round which we twined. The mist-clouds rolled

away behind us up the wooded slopes. The snow-peaks far beyond gleamed

out above them, and ahead and below the dropping sun shone on a land of

broken red hills, and, beyond them, over a vast level stretch of green

grass and fruit-land, with a broad river flowing through it.

Beyond this again it glimmered far and faintly on a long streak of

flickering silver. The red hills were the native land of Truthful

James; the green plains below were the Valley of the Sacramento; and

the shimmering silver in the far distance was the Pacific Ocean, whose

character I propose hereafter to revise.

Then we rushed down through the last cañon out on to an open slope, and

pulled up at Red Gulch. That is not its name on the time-tables, but it

ought to be.

A freight truck had got off the line about two miles lower down. So,

instead of a stop of ten minutes, we had to wait two hours, which I

thankfully employed in making a little excursion through Bret Harte

Land, the land of red earth and yellow gold, of towering pines and

flower-filled valleys, of deliciously mingled beauty and ugliness; where

the skies are as blue as they are above the Isles of the South, and the

air seems like what one would expect to breathe in Paradise.

Climbing down from the car was like getting out of the world of reality,

as represented by the Overland Limited (which, remember, had brought me

from Chicago) into the Garden of Romance. I had left the comfortable but

emphatically materialistic gorgeousness of the Pulman Palace-car, and I

was actually standing on the same earth that Jack Hamlyn had trodden,

and I was breathing the same air that he had inspired when he sang that

famous song.

All around I could see gashes of red amid the green and brown of the

slopes along the river banks—just such gulches as the one Tennessee lived

in with his immortal partner. Somewhere up in the dark valleys through

which the Overland Limited had just thundered the Outcasts of Poker

Flat had found their last refuge, and John Oakhurst, after pinning that

inscribed Deuce of Spades to the pine-tree with his bowie-knife, had

passed in his checks like a gambler and a gentleman.

In just such a little schoolhouse as stood near the depôt, Mliss had

flung down her astronomy book and paralysed one part of her audience

and ecstasied the other by that famous heresy of hers re the Miracle of

Joshua.

“It’s a damned lie. I don’t believe a word of it.”

Down yonder, in the lowlands across the river, not very far from its

junction with a tributary, might have been North Fork and Poverty Flat;

and just such a red hole as I found a hundred yards or so from the track

might have been the forty-foot grave into which Dow descended “with a

derringer hid in his breast,” making his last despairing search for

water—and finding gold.

The clang of the bell and the soft “hoo-too” of the whistle called me

back out of my dream as I was having a drink at just such a bar as the

gallant Colonel Starbottle might have slaked his immortal thirst at. A

few moments more and the tireless wheels had begun to revolve again,

and we slid down the curving slopes leading to the broad vale of the

Sacramento.

[Illustration: Two Snapshots up and down the Rio Sacramento, taken as the

train was crossing the bridge.]

On the way to the Golden Land I had fallen into conversation with a young

Californian, a fine specimen of the Western race, of whom his country

might well be proud, as he was proud of it.

“It’s God’s own country, sir. And when you’ve seen more of it you’ll

think so,” he said, as we swept across the fat, fertile farmlands which

lay beneath the foot-hills. “You’ve travelled a bit, you tell me; but

I guess if you go from end to end of this country you’ll say you never

struck one like it.”

“Well,” I said, “I sha’n’t see much of it this time, I’m afraid; but if I

ever do get the chance of seeing it right through I’ll tell you whether I

think it’s better than England.”

“Yes,” he replied reflectively, “I’ve an uncle who went to England, and

he came back, right to home here, and said it was the most beautiful

place God had ever made—but then, you see, it was new to him. He hadn’t

been over there before.”

I thought that this wasn’t a bad place to change the subject, so I asked

him to have a drink, and switched off on to purely local topics. We

crossed the big bridge over the Sacramento river, stopped a few minutes

in Sacramento City, and then rolled on to Porta Costa station.

I have heard people say that they have gone from New York to San

Francisco by rail. This is one of those sayings which are wanting in

certain qualifications of fact to make them unimpeachable. It is nearly

true, but not quite.

The train, weighing I am afraid to say how many tons, ran into Porta

Costa, which is a sort of detachable depôt on the estuary of the

Sacramento river. When it stopped I got out of the car to have a look

round. There was a “local” and a freight train lying alongside of us.

There was also a vast superstructure running over the station, and in

these I noticed two huge engine-beams slowly swinging.

Shortly after this I became aware of the fact that this piece of the

depôt had gone adrift, and was, calmly and without any perceptible

motion, carrying our train and the two others across the river to the

depôt on the Oakland side.

I had been four and a half days in America and so I didn’t feel

surprised. All the same, it was sufficiently wonderful for admiration

even there. I climbed back into the car and enjoyed the sensation of

travelling by rail and sea at the same time, and then I got out again to

see how the thing was done.

The piece of the Porta Costa station on which we were floating steered

into another station. The rails on the steam-driven platform were fitted

on to other rails on _terra firma_; the engine-bell clanged; the whistle

tooted in its soft, melodious way; and the Overland Limited steamed from

sea to land in the most commonplace fashion possible.

The next stop was at Oakland, on the eastern shore of the bay. Opposite

glittered the lights of the Golden City. Here we detrained, and, having

crossed on the biggest ferry in the world, we embarked on the biggest

ferry-boat in the world—California, like the rest of the States, is great

on big things—and an hour or so later I found myself installed at the

Palace Hotel, which is also believed by all good Californians to be the

biggest hotel in the world.

III

_THE QUEEN OF THE GOLDEN STATE_

(FROM A GUIDE-BOOK—WITH ANNOTATIONS AND AN IMPRESSION OF CHINATOWN)

“Serene, indifferent to Fate,

Thou sittest at the Western Gate.”

San Francisco—no well-bred American, unless he comes from Chicago,

ever says ’Frisco—is a delicious combination of wealth and wickedness,

splendour and squalor, vice, virtue, villainy, beauty, ugliness, solitude

and silence, rush and row—in short, San Francisco is just San Francisco,

and that’s all there is to it, as they say there. It was discovered and

settled by Franciscan friars. It would be no place for them now.

It is also quite a considerable city as to size. This is what the local

guide-book says:

“It is bounded on the west by the Pacific Ocean, on the north by Golden

Gate Strait and the Bay of San Francisco, on the east by the bay, and on

the south by San Mateo County.”

One would naturally expect a city bounded on the west by the Pacific

Ocean to have a considerable water frontage, some nine thousand miles,

in fact. This, however, is not quite the case; it is only the American

guide-booker’s way of putting it.

As a matter of fact, San Francisco is a most picturesque city of some

three hundred thousand inhabitants, and it is spread over the bay shore

and the adjacent hills to the extent of about twenty-seven thousand

acres. It is the eighth city in size in the United States, and the third

in commercial rank, but it is not jealous either of New York or Chicago.

It is the capital of God’s country, and with that it is modestly content.

A page advertisement of a magazine in the guide-book begins with the

query:

“Are you interested in God’s country?”

It doesn’t quite say Heaven, but the implied analogy is obvious.

Still, even San Francisco has to keep its end up, and it is just a little

sore on the subject of earthquakes.

“These,” says my guide-booker, “are of rare occurrence. For the past

half century there are not known to have been more than half a dozen

lives lost from the effects of earthquakes; while in the New England

and Middle States and in the Mississippi Valley hundreds are killed

annually by sunstroke, lightning, hurricanes, and tornadoes, in addition

to the millions of dollars’ worth of property destroyed by tornadoes and

blizzards.”

Down east they say that the drink and other things you get in the West do

all that these can do, and a bit over. This, of course, is mere jealousy;

and to this San Francisco is as serenely indifferent as she is of Fate.

She also seems to be indifferent to everything else. Even dollars. This

doesn’t sound true, but it is. The splendid recklessness of the Argonauts

of the fifties still glows in the blood of the true San Franciscan.

Quite a short time ago a man worth a couple of million dollars—a

comparative pauper in a place where they think nothing of paying three

millions for a house—gambled every cent he had on the success of a

certain more or less honest deal. A friend of his had interests the other

way, and dumped down more millions to block the deal. He blocked it. They

met at their club the evening after the smash, and conversed as follows:

“Well, how goes it?”

“D——d bad.”

“In that—deal?”

“Steal, I call it.”

“How much?”

“Whole caboodle! Want a janitor up yonder?”

“Janitor—no. I want a nervy man to come in with me. Come?”

“I’m there.”

And now those two men are piling up millions together instead of betting

them against each other. That’s San Francisco.

The Golden City is entered naturally enough by a Golden Gate. It is as

proud of its Golden Gate and bay as Sydney is of “our harbour,” and that

is saying a good deal. All the same, Sydney doesn’t quite like California

calling itself God’s country.

My guide-booker says, “The entrance through the Golden Gate cannot be

surpassed.” If he said that inside Sydney Heads he would be thrown to

the sharks. And, as a matter of fact, having said that which is not the

truth he would in some measure deserve his fate. Moreover, outside the

Golden Gate there is a bar, of which more anon. There are other bars

in the city which are safer except for millionaires, because you can’t

spend less than twenty-five cents in them. A drunk in San Francisco is

therefore an undertaking not to be entered on lightly.

Talking of millionaires naturally suggests Nob Hill, the millionaire

quarter of the Golden City. It is veritably a place of palaces. I have

never seen so many splendid houses collected in such a small area.

Their price in bricks and mortar alone runs anywhere from two to four

millions, and yet it is a literal fact that the streets between them

are grass-grown. If I had five dollars I should be inclined to bet them

against five cents that this is a combination which no other city on

earth can show.

The reason, of course, is that on the mountainous streets which the

cable-cars climb traffic of any other sort is practically impossible. No

good American walks more than a block or so on a quite level street, and

you might as well ask him to walk up the side of a house as to climb Nob

Hill.

Wherefore the cable-cars rush solitary up and down through a wilderness

of stone-paved, grass-grown streets, flanked by palaces whose owners, I

presume, have horses and carriages. How they get them down to the city

and up again is one of the two or three unsolved problems which I brought

away with me. Another of these is: Why did the practical American genius

think it worth while to pave the precipices which they call streets round

Nob Hill?

Talking about streets reminds me that they don’t say street much in

San Francisco. There isn’t time. They just mention the name. This is

the way my guide-booker speaks somewhat flippantly of the streets in

Millionairetown:

“Upon taking the car you immediately pass through the banking and

insurance district, climb up one of the steepest hills of the city

to Nob Hill, passing on the left at the corner of Powell the late

Senator Stanford’s residence, corner of Mason, the late Mark Hopkins’

residence.... Corner of Taylor, the residence of the late A. M. Towne....

Corner of Jones, Mr. Whittles’.... Corner of Taylor, the Huntington

residence, while opposite is the residence of the late Charles Croker,

adjoining, and on the corner of Jones is the residence of his son, W. H.

Croker.”

“Powell” has a cable one and a quarter inches in diameter, twenty-six

thousand feet long, and weighing sixty-six thousand six hundred and

twenty-five pounds. Some San Franciscan cables last three months. This

was expected to last about five weeks. You can understand how terrific

the clutch and the wear and tear must be when you sit down on the front

seat of a car carrying thirty or forty people, and see a hill half as

steep again as the one from Richmond up to the Star and Garter rush down

underneath you at about sixteen miles an hour. It was here that the newly

landed Chinaman saw his first cable-car and made the historic remark:

“No pushee, no pullee; all same go like hellee,” which brings me, no

very great distance, only a few blocks in fact, from Millionaireville to

Chinatown.

Chinatown, San Francisco, is a city within a city. Go through it by night

as I did with one who knows its inmost secrets, and you will find that it

is also a cancer in the body corporate of a fair city (which is itself

one of the most politely and delightfully wicked on earth), a foul blot

on a fair land, a smudge of old-world filth across a page written by the

most nervous hands and the keenest brains that modern civilisation has

produced.

Geographically, as San Francisco is bounded on the west by the Pacific

Ocean, etc., Chinatown is bounded by “California” and “Pacific,” “Kearny”

and “Stockton.” It has a population of ten thousand Mongolians, and

an unknown number of Americans and Europeans, men and women, who have

lost caste so hopelessly that they can no longer live among their own

kind. The men certainly would not be considered fit society even for an

American politician.

As for the women—well you see most of them painted and powdered and

tricked out in scanty, tawdry finery, sitting in little rooms behind

lattices open on to the street, and opposite these the wayfarer, western

or eastern, European or American, Jap or Chinaman, may stand and peer in.

There are whole streets of these latticed rooms, and the women are of all

nationalities. The leaseholders pay enormous rents for the houses, and

their owners are amongst the most respected citizens of San Francisco.

To these last it is only due to say that San Francisco is also a city

of magnificent churches, and that it sends every month or so many

missionaries, male and female, travelling in palace-cars and the saloons

of steamers, to enlighten the heathen. Many of the good citizens

aforesaid subscribe tens of thousands of dollars both to the churches and

missions, and so, somehow, I suppose, they get the account squared.

During my stroll through this quarter of Chinatown, I must admit that I

saw very few Chinamen. Of Japs, Tonkinese, Sandwich Islanders, niggers,

half castes, and the lower-down sort of American, there were plenty, and

business appeared to be fairly brisk.

The better-class San Franciscan doesn’t go to Chinatown simply because

he doesn’t need to. In fact, as a distinguished and experienced resident

said to me after I had been through Chinatown:

“My dear Mr. Griffith, Chinatown may be pretty bad, but anyhow it’s run

open and above board, as anybody can go and see that likes to take the

trouble. If you were stopping here a month instead of two or three days,

I could show you things that Chinatown isn’t a circumstance to. You

just roof all San Francisco in, and you’ll have the biggest, dandiest,

high-toned, up-to-date——”

“Yes,” I interrupted, “I see what you mean. I heard about that in the

train. Sorry I’m not stopping.”

This of course only referred to decent, Christian vice, the sort which

some of the most respectable of us practice without compunction as long

as we’re not found out. But when you have eastern and western vice mixed,

as you do in Chinatown and San Francisco, you get a compound calculated

to raise the gorge of a graven image. There are certain crimes which have

no names, and of such is the wickedness of Chinatown.

Some one once said that the exterior of a house was a pretty good

criterion of the character of the people who lived in it.

This is certainly true of Chinatown. The streets are narrow, ill-paved,

and dirty. They also smell, as the other streets in San Francisco don’t.

Those who have travelled know that the Purple East has a smell entirely

its own, just as a London lodging-house has.

Moreover, wherever a piece of the East like Chinatown is transplanted

into the West, you get that smell, full-bodied and entire. Wherefore,

when I dived into Chinatown, San Francisco, I remarked:

“Why, is this King Street, Hongkong, or Malay Street, Singapore?”

The East never changes, no matter whether it is west or east. The

restaurants, with their gaudily carved beams and their queer windows,

with their upstairs rooms, containing priceless treasures of Oriental

art, their iron money-chests, with half a dozen different locks on them,

so that they could only be opened in the presence of all the partners in

the concern; the paper lanterns outside, the weird hieroglyphical signs,

the little joss tables in the inner compartments of the shops, with their

images and odorous incense sticks—it was all the undiluted Orient, ages

old, in the midst of the newest of the Occidental civilisations, one of

those queer paradoxes which go to show the looseness of our most rigid

principles and the shallowness of our deepest convictions.

After seeing sundry other things which would be difficult of description

in printable English, I made a tour of a common lodging-house in

Chinatown. I have slept in a common lodging-house in London, and I have

seen humanity go to sleep under many and various conditions; but I never

saw anything like this.

Only a few hundred yards away was the Palace Hotel, with its

rooms at four dollars a night; here you could sleep for five

cents,—twopence-halfpenny,—but what sleeping!

Little, dark, stifling cells—I have seen infinitely better ones in

prisons—lit through a little window by a caged gas-jet on the flagged and

iron-railed footway which ran round each floor inside the court within

which these doss-houses are built. In the cell a narrow wooden bedstead,

covered with unwashed rags and nothing else. Below in the court, horrors

unnameable.

In the particular lodging-house which I visited I was shown a big, dark,

hideous apartment, a perfect Black Hole, in which nine of the richest

merchants of Chinatown—and some of them are very rich—were confined on

ransom by the gang known as the High-Binders for four months until some

died and the others paid. A remnant who stuck out were released by the

police and a detachment of the United States Militia after a regular

siege. It was Alsatia over again, and yet it happened less than a dozen

years ago.

As I was feeling my way down the stairs a figure rose out of a corner on

one of the landings, and I heard a thin voice say:

“Boss, gimme ten cents—I’m hungry!”

It was the first time I had ever heard an American beg, and it was quite

a shock. Somehow, the accent seemed to add an infinite pathos to the

words; perhaps because until now I had only heard it from the lips of

the proudly prosperous. As I passed he turned his face after me, and the

light from a distant gas-lamp fell on it. It was ghastly in its thinness

and paleness, and yet it was refined, and the voice, if not the speech,

was that of an educated man. I gave him a quarter, and my guide said:

“Guess that’ll give him two days in heaven. It’s opium he’s hungry for.

Bin there myself.”

When we left the lodging-house we went a few yards along the crowded,

weirdly lit street with its swarms of paper-lanterns, and then we plunged

down a narrow alley up which there drifted a wave of stench, dominated by

the acrid, penetrating smell of opium.

Presently I discovered that there were lower depths in Chinatown even

than the doss-house and the brothel. Here were not houses, only miserable

sheds and shanties round an unpaved courtyard foul beyond description.

We went into some of the shanties. There stood in each near the door a

little bench, and on this were two or three pipes and some tiny pots

filled with what looked like black-brown treacle. It was opium, and

each pot contained ten cents’ worth of Heaven and Hell, the Heaven of

oblivion opening out into dreamland of Paradise, and then the Hell of the

awakening horror.

Behind the bench squatted a half-clad skeleton, pipe in hand and lamp

beside him. He opened his half-shut eyes as we entered, and murmured:

“Wantee smoke, tlen cent!” Then he recognised my guide, and added, “Ah,

wantee look; all light.” Then his eyelids fell again, he dipped his

needle in his pot, and got ready for another whiff.

Round the walls of the shanty were two tiers of bunks, just a few planks

propped on bare poles. There were ragged blankets on the boards, and on

these, with pipe and pot and lamp, lay other scantily clad skeletons,

some frizzling the globule of opium in the flame, some rolling it on the

flat top of the pipe-bowl, others inhaling the magic blue smoke, others

motionless and lifeless, their souls, if they had any, in paradise. One

of the skeletons had once been the figure of a white woman.

Outside we found other hovels, but without lamps. We struck matches in

one, and found other figures, some white and some yellow, huddled about

the filthy floor.

“Free dosses,” said the guide, in his curt speech, “they’re broke. Spent

their last dime on a smoke and got fired. After that it’s the poor-house

or the bay.”

As we were picking our way out of the court, he continued:

“There’s a cocaine fiend here; better see him. George, where are you?”

The remains of a man tottered out from under a shed. He was white, what

there was left of him. As soon as his miserable eyes caught sight of me

he began a whining, rambling account of how he fell a victim to the drug;

his stock narrative, I suppose.

Then he rolled up a dirty, ragged shirt sleeve, and showed me a thing of

skin and bone that had once been an arm. It was pitted and seamed and

scratched from elbow to wrist. I had seen two or three choice samples of

leprosy and other diseases that horrible night, but this made me nearer

sick than any of them.

He had a strangely extemporised syringe of wood and quill and

sealing-wax, and a piece of hypodermic needle in his other hand. He

picked out a comparatively vacant spot, drove in the needle, and pushed.

The skin swelled up in a little lump. It may only have been water,

certainly the syringe was made ready for the occasion, but in a moment or

two he straightened up, his eye grew brighter, and his voice stronger as

he asked me for a dime to buy a supper. I gave it to him, and he crept

back into his hovel. I went out into the street feeling that I had been

in Hell.

We went to wind up the night at the Chinese Theatre; but the performance

was nearly over. So, instead, we made a much more interesting excursion

through the subterranean dressing-rooms of the company. Women never

appear on Chinese boards. So when we visited the ladies’ dressing-rooms

we found men and boys in female attire, which, after all, doesn’t differ

very much from the male, standing before little mirrors painting and

powdering themselves and making-up their eyes and eyebrows, and fixing

themselves up generally for all the world like an European actress.

In other dressing-rooms we found mild-eyed Celestials trying on or

taking off masks hideous enough to frighten even an American baby.

The rooms were merely little cellars connected by narrow, low, stone

passages. Their furniture was a little table under the mirror, a big,

brass-bound chest, on which stood the inevitable opium apparatus, and a

low, dirty sleeping-couch.

The whole scene was literally a piece of the underworld. A few years ago

it was veritably so for unfortunates who were decoyed into its depths

and never got out again. That is done with now, but for all that I felt

better when I was out in the street again.

If I had dreamt that night, the dream would certainly have been a

nightmare. As it is, whenever I hear any one letting his emotions loose

over the glories and triumphs of civilisation I think of Chinatown, San

Francisco, and remain in a comparatively humble frame of mind.

_A SEA-INTERLUDE_

ACROSS THE PACIFIC ON A STEAM-ROLLER

(WITH INCIDENTAL REMARKS ON THE PARADISE THEREOF AND THE GREAT TROPICAL

FRAUD)

I

By the end of my third day’s stay in San Francisco a splendid sea-wind

had blown the smell of Chinatown out of my nostrils, and the mephitic

stuffiness of its streets and shops and restaurants out of my lungs. I

would fain have stayed longer, for I was beginning to like the Queen of

the Golden Shore, and some of her loyal subjects were beginning to like

me, wherefore there was every prospect of a goodly time ahead for me.

When your Californian likes you he wants to give you his house, and his

town, and his clubs, and all that therein is, and when he doesn’t he

makes no secret of it.

But for the man who has connections to make, who has to hitch trains on

to steamers and steamers on to trains, and get across the world in the

shortest possible time, even the temptations of Californian hospitality

must be in vain. So the next morning I and my baggage were jolted over a

couple of miles of appalling streets—the one defect in the beauty of the

Golden City—at a cost of three dollars and partial dislocation of the

vertebral column, to the wharf where a very polite citizen was obliging

enough to carry my steamer trunk on board the _Nippon Maru_, for half a

dollar more.

The crowd on the wharf was cosmopolitan enough even for the Drive at

Singapore, or the Praya at Hongkong. Of course there were globe-trotters

like myself, speaking many tongues from Russian to American; there

were commercial travellers, mostly German, with mountains of samples

prepared with great cunning to suit the varied tastes of Hawaiians,

Japs, and Chinese; there were short, thick-set, flat-faced Japs in grey

tweed trousers, tail coats, and top hats, fresh from the colleges and

the counting-houses of the Eastern States; there were grave, impassive

Chinese, mandarins and millionaires, in silken robes and black skull-caps

(with the little red button on top), with their wives and children also

in silken vesture and orthodoxly shapeless; and then there were the

coolies and sailors, Jap and Chinese, with a sprinkling of wicked-eyed

Lascars and mild Hindoos.

To finish the picture, on the Government wharf hard by a detachment

of blue-clad, felt-hatted United States troops were lining up for

embarkation on one of the transports bound for Manila.

The good sea-wind did not seem quite so good when we got outside the

Golden Gate, for there was a villainous sea running on the bar and

through the narrow passage between the tail of the bar and the rock-bound

coast, which is called the Main Ship Channel. In a bad sea this is one of

the most ticklish pieces of navigation in the world.

On the port side, as we went out, the breakers were piling themselves up

into mountains of foam on the end of the bar a couple of hundred yards

away. To starboard, another two or three hundred yards off, the big

Pacific rollers were thundering along the base of the cliffs, flinging

their spume and spindrift sky-high. The water in between was just what

one would expect it to be, and so passenger after passenger, male and

female, missionary and mercantile, disappeared from the deck.

I afterwards learnt that there was much suffering below, and many of

the victims did not reappear till we reached the smooth, sunlit waters

which wash the shores of what the American tourist agencies, since the

Annexation, have christened “the Paradise of the Pacific.” The Jap

passengers collapsed first of all.

When I had made the closer acquaintance of the _Nippon_ I found that

her sailors and quartermasters and junior officers were Japs, while her

stewards and barmen were Chinese. The captain and first officer were

English, and the chief engineer, of course, a Scotchman. I have often

wondered how many “Chiefs” on the Seven Seas are not Scotch.

The _Nippon_, like most Japanese mail-boats, was cheap and gaudy. She

gave evidence of her cheapness by bursting a steam-pipe just as she was

fighting her way through the channel. It might have been serious, but it

wasn’t, though it lengthened our passage by several hours, for the wasted

steam, instead of getting into the cylinders, went roaring away in noisy

impotence up to the cloudy sky which overhung the alleged Pacific Ocean.

[Illustration: Diamond Head, Honolulu. The town lies in the bay about

halfway between the two headlands.]

On the third night we got into smoother water and stopped while the Chief

and his assistants repaired the damage. The next morning at breakfast the

deserted saloon began to fill up.

So far I and a fellow-traveller from Chicago had had the corner table to

ourselves. By lunch-time it was full of lady missionaries going to China

and Japan. For three or four of them that was destined to be their last

voyage. The nicest and most pleasantly spoken of them was travelling many

thousands of miles to meet an unspeakable fate at the hands of the Boxers.

On the fourth morning great blue-grey masses of land began to rise up

to port and ahead of us, and that day we spent steaming through summer

seas under a lovely sky, between shores whose beauty may well have led

Captain Cook’s sailors to believe that they had at last reached the

long-dreamed-of Islands of the Blest.

For all that, I must confess that I was disappointed with the approach to

Honolulu. Even the most patriotic Hawaiian would, I think, agree with me

that the capital has not been placed either on the most beautiful of the

islands or in the most picturesque position possible.

Still, you would travel far before you found a fairer sea-flanked city

than Honolulu itself. It is a city of broad, tree-shaded streets, of

buildings which are dignified without being pretentious, of palaces and

Government offices built on a scale of splendour which argues eloquently

for the financial conceptions of former monarchs and a belief in their

destinies which the sceptical Fates and the American Republic have since

declined to justify.

There are, of course, many churches and schools in Honolulu. Your

Hawaiian takes his or her religion in a cheerfully earnest fashion, and

sings hymns with keener delight than any one else on earth. Still, the

schools and churches of Honolulu were not built wisely. Where everything

else is beautiful, softly lined, and tree-embowered, they are hard, bare,

and angular, even after the fashion of the Ebenezers of the Midlands and

the North of England. The very gaol looks nice in comparison with them.

But the private houses—for instance, those stretching away along King

Street, west, to Waikiki, perhaps the loveliest bathing-place in the

world—are, after all, the pleasantest memories that one brings away from

Honolulu. Mostly low and broad-verandahed, white-painted, and embowered

in foliage of every shade of green, faced with smooth, emerald lawns

spangled with flower-beds blazing bright with every colour that Nature

loves to paint her tropical flowers, they seemed rather the dwellings of

lotus-eaters in “the land where it is always afternoon” than the houses

of hard-headed, keen-witted business men and politicians, mostly of

American descent, who have not only piled up many millions by various

methods, but have also created this leafy paradise out of the bare and

swampy seashore that it was when Captain Cook landed upon it.

I happened to arrive in Honolulu at a very interesting time. The Monroe

Doctrine had been stretched across the Pacific from San Francisco to the

Philippines, and Honolulu was a sort of hitching-post which kept it from

sagging into the water. Among the white population there was a good deal

more American than English being spoken. The harbour was full of American

transports. Blue-clad, very business-like-looking American troops were

marching and drilling and patrolling all over the place. Many of the

men wore, in addition to their regimentals, portrait-medallions of the

President or their best girls—a sight to make a British War Office Person

ill for the rest of his official days. For myself, it liked me well.

Saving the American occupation, but not by any means unconnected with

it, the four salient facts of Honolulu seemed to me to be Missionaries,

Mosquitos, Millionaires, and Morality spelt backwards.

The missionaries and the mosquitos came to Honolulu at the same time,

about seventy-five years ago. The mosquitos are supposed to have come in

old sugar-casks from Mexico, and it is known that the missionaries came

chiefly first-class from San Francisco. I mention the coincidence for

what it is worth. Both are at present going strong.

The missionaries practically own and run the place with the assistance of

the sugar millionaires who helped the United States to annex the islands.

The mosquitos are, with one exception, the most venomous and insidious

that I have ever suffered from.

There is one notable point of difference between the missionaries and the

mosquitos in Honolulu. The missionaries and their congregations sing

voluminously, and also very prettily. The Hawaiian mosquito does not

sing. He makes his descent silently and stealthily, sucks the life-blood

out of you, and goes away, leaving you to scratch and swear and wonder

how on earth he managed to get his work in without you knowing it.

There are some unregenerates, both white and bronze, still in Honolulu

who say something like this about the missionaries and the country. This

may or may not have any truth in it. It is certainly quite true that the

missionaries have done an immense amount of good in the Sandwich Islands.

It is also true that they and their descendants form the aristocracy

and ruling class of the islands. They have the most magnificent

houses and most beautiful estates. They also run the most lucrative

businesses. Not the worthy pastors themselves, of course. In Hawaii,

the word “missionary” means not only the missionaries themselves, but

their descendants to the third and fourth generations. Perhaps the most

good-natured way to put it would be to say that here the labourer was

worthy of his hire and saw that he got it.

But there was one deadly contrast in Honolulu which I frankly say

shocked and horrified me, hardened globe-trotter as I am! I don’t think

I ever saw a place which possesses more churches, schools, missions,

and other missionary machinery to the acre than Honolulu. It also runs

considerably to saloons and hotels with bar-annexes; but these justify

their existence by paying enormous licences to the revenue. Wherefore

they charge the thirsting citizen a shilling a time for a drink,

no matter how small or common; which, of course, either keeps down

drunkenness or punishes those who drink with poverty. Millionaires, and,

some whisper, the missionaries, take their liquid comforts at home.

But one night after dinner, having nothing else to do but smoke and

listen to small talk in the intervals of fighting the mosquitos, I went

off by myself to explore the Asiatic Quarter. I had no hint or direction

from anybody, and, by sheer accident, I found myself in a street which

was the exact replica of the slave-market in Chinatown, San Francisco.

Slaves of all colours and nationalities, white and brown and yellow and

black, were sitting behind the lattices of their prisons. Chinese and

Japanese “Houses of Delight” were running full steam ahead. It was only

natural that I should catch myself wondering whether I had not been

spirited back into Chinatown, instead of walking the streets of Holy

Honolulu where the missionaries and the churches have reigned practically

supreme for fifty years.

One curiously revolting feature of the scene was this: The

Americanisation of Hawaii was proceeding apace just then. Four or five

big transports, bound for Manila, were in the harbour. There were

American sentries at the Government Buildings over which Old Glory

floated from sunrise to sunset. Squads of American troops drilled daily

in the open places. American patrols marched through the streets by

night, and American soldiers and sailors jostled with Jap and Chinaman,

Negro and Malay along the narrow pavements of the Hawaiian slave-market.

It was a curious mingling of East and West, not by any means flattering

to the West.

The next day I asked certain citizens who should have known how this

thing came to be in such a godly country, and the various answers about

came to this: “The Government and the Churches have done their best to

shut those places up, but somehow they haven’t succeeded. And then, you

see, they pay enormous rents.”

“But who owns the property?” I asked one old and highly respected

resident.

“Well, if _I_ did I shouldn’t tell you,” he replied. “Come and have a

drink!”

It was a hot day and I thought I might as well leave it at that.

Later on this moral plague-spot became a physical plague-spot as well.

The Black Death spread its sombre wings over it, and the purging fires

have swept it in smoke and flying flame from the face of the insulted

earth up to the yet more insulted heavens. Wherefore the Paradise of the

Pacific ought to be a good deal cleaner now than it was when I was there.

[Illustration: Sanford B. Dole. First Governor of the Territory of

Hawaii.]

That afternoon I called at Government House and sent my card in to Mr.

Sanford B. Dole, President of the Hawaiian Republic. He is the man who

came to the front when the reactionary tactics of King Kalakaua and

his sister and successor, Liliuokalani, raised the somewhat important

question as to whether the Hawaiian Islands were going to fall into line

with civilisation or fall back into a state of semi-barbarism—for that

is about what it came to.

President Dole is a “missionary”; that is to say, he belongs to the

clerical aristocracy of Honolulu. He is not a clergyman himself, and he

has the credit of belonging to one of the very few missionary families in

the islands which have not become wealthy.

The last President that I had interviewed was Paul Krüger, late of Kerk

Street, Pretoria. There was a very striking difference between the

two men. The Boer was bulky, slow of speech and motion, with manners

unspeakable; also little keen eyes which looked at you piercingly for a

moment, and then dodged away—cunning incarnate in the flesh and a good

deal both of the cunning and the flesh.

Still, at the time, I confess that I thought him a man, and, in his way,

a great one—not a common boodler who would squeeze his country for all

it was worth, and then, at the first note of danger, bolt with all the

plunder he could lay his hands on.

When I went into President Dole’s Council Chamber—which had once been the

Queen’s boudoir, and in Kalakaua’s time before her, the scene of many

a half-barbaric orgie—I was greeted by a tall, rather slight, but well

set-up man dressed in spotless white.

He had the air of being at once virile and venerable, for his hair and

his long, almost patriarchal beard were both grey. But the figure was

alert. He walked up and down the room the whole time we were talking.

The grey-blue eyes were quick and keen and steady. I may also add, _en

parenthèse_, that he was one of the handsomest men I have ever spoken to.

He told me the story of the battle between reaction and advancement,

corruption and comparative cleanliness, just as a man who had seen it all

but had taken no share in it might have done. The story is history now,

and needn’t be repeated here. To me the most interesting fact was that

President Dole told it without once mentioning himself until it became

unavoidable.

When the fighting was over there were seven conspicuous citizens of

Honolulu in prison under sentence of death as conspirators against the

Commonwealth, and it rested with Mr. Dole to say whether they should be

executed or not.

“It was, of course, a very painful position for me to be placed in,” he

said. “You see I was the head of the Provisional Government and Chief

Magistrate, and some of them were personal acquaintances of my own.”

“Then, after all, you had something to do with it, Mr. President? That’s

the first time I’ve heard you mention yourself in the whole story.”

There was a smile under the heavy moustache as he answered:

“Oh, yes, of course, I had a good deal to do with it. When the revolution

was over they elected me President; and the prisoners—well, we sentenced

them to different terms of imprisonment, and then let them out gradually.

To tell you the truth I hadn’t much fancy for signing death-warrants.”

I was afterwards told on quite reliable authority that if the revolution

had not succeeded, Sanford B. Dole and a few others would undoubtedly

have been hung.

Mr. Dole, being of American descent, very naturally considered that the

United States were the proper Power to run the Hawaiian Islands, whether

the Hawaiians liked it or not. It is a way that all great Powers have

with small ones. We have it ourselves to a considerable extent. In

fact, we once had these same islands with all their vast possibilities.

That was in the dark ages of British diplomacy when colonies were “not

wanted.” So a few distinguished idiots in Downing Street gave orders

for the flag to be hauled down from the flagstaff on the Old Fort of

Honolulu. After which it avails little for an Englishman to talk about

Cousin Jonathan stealing the islands for himself.

Mr. Dole assisted conspicuously and, I believe, quite conscientiously in

the transfer. He saw that it was either annexation or semi-barbarism and

corruption. He thought that what great Powers call annexation and small

ones call stealing was the better of the two, and I think he was right.

Hawaii is now a Territory; and Sanford B. Dole is its Governor. Still, I

was a little afraid that there might be something of prophecy in the last

remark he made as we shook hands.

“There is no doubt about the future or the prosperity of the islands,”

he said, in answer to my last question. “With good settled government

capital will come in, as it has been doing, and everything will go ahead.

But,” he added very gravely, “if we get the millionaire monopolist and

the professional politician over here, they’ll ruin us.”

“Exactly!” I said. “Here you have the paradise, the Eden of the Pacific.

Politics will supply the serpent.”

He shook his head and smiled, and I went away without telling him that I

had travelled from Chicago with a gentleman who had been to Washington to

see about the introduction of that self-same serpent.

* * * * *

When people who have not been there read about the tropics in books,

especially in story-books, the impression they get is one of general

gorgeousness pervading the heavens and the earth, and a human state of

things not far removed from what some of us honestly hope to deserve some

day when days have ceased to count.

Blue seas lie rippling gently under azure skies; islands of almost

inconceivable beauty, palm-crowned and coral-fringed, gem the surface of

the waveless waters. The heat of the sun is tempered by cool, scented

breezes.

The day begins and ends with sunrises and sunsets which seem like the

opening and shutting of the gates of Paradise.

The nights are languorous dreams of soft delights under skies spangled

with myriads of stars such as northern eyes have never seen. On other

nights earth and sea are bathed in silvery moonlight such as never fell

on northern sea or shore.

Some authors get their moon and stars shining at the same time. These

have probably done their travelling in an armchair. Diana of the Tropics

is a good deal too autocratic for that.

Those are the tropics of the novelist and the traveller who wants to make

his untravelled readers envious. As a story-writer I have myself sinned

thus; wherefore, partly, this confession.

The trouble with most people who have described the tropics in fiction

and otherwise is that they leave too much out. All that they put in is

correct. You really can see all these beauties, and more, between Cancer

and Capricorn; but you don’t see them everywhere or all the time.

Another very serious fault with your tropical word-artist is that he

generally ignores the swamps, the fevers, the agues, the rains which

come down like bursting water-spouts, the hurricanes which blow brick

and stone walls about as if they were paper. Further, as to the rippling

sunlit sea, they too often omit to state that, when it is inclined that

way it can get up into waves which will take a ship clean over a reef and

land it halfway up a hillside, and that it has a swell through which a

ship may wallow for days, rolling scuppers under every minute of the day

and night for weeks on end.

This, by the way, is one of the most villainous features of the tropical

Pacific. For instance, you wake up out of a nightmare-slumber, bruised

and sore and sweating, after hours of sleepy struggle to brace yourself

somehow between the sides of your berth so that you may not be flung

against the opposite side of your cabin. You watch for a favourable

moment—the best one is just when she is going to stop and your side is

down. Miss this, and you’ll wish you’d waited for the next.

In spite of all your precautions your luggage has broken loose and has

taken charge of the floor. Nothing is where you put it the night before.

Your hair-brushes are under the lower berth in the farthest possible

corner. Your tooth-brush is probably on the other side under the sofa;

and your box of tooth-powder has got into one of your boots and has

emptied itself there. Your bath-sponge has probably carried away from the

rack, and got itself saturated with the contents of your only bottle of

scent, which has dashed itself to pieces in its struggles to leap out of

its appointed place.

You squeeze this sorrowfully out into the tumbler, if there’s one left

unbroken. At peril of life and limb you grope around and find your

deck-shoes, and then you start out for the bathroom. The ship is groaning

and shuddering like a man with tertian ague and toothache. If your

sea-legs are good you get there without a broken limb or many additions

to your bruises.

The water in the bath is having a miniature storm all to itself. The bath

is usually marble nowadays, and very hard. If you lie down in it you are

absolutely at the mercy of the raging waters, and they dash you from side

to side, and end to end till you struggle feebly to your feet and try to

stand.

You clutch at anything for support. Sometimes, as happened to a

fellow-voyager of mine, it is the steam-pipe for heating the water, and

off comes the skin in a twinkling. When you have got into something like

an erect position you keep yourself from being hurled out with one hand

and pull the string of the shower with the other.

“Swish,” comes the douche, and you have a moment of cooling luxury. Then

follows the slow inexorable heave of the next roll. You hold on, partly

to the string; the water rises up on one side of the bath and slops

over, probably filling your shoes. The douche leaves you, crosses the

bathroom at an angle of sixty degrees, and drenches your pyjamas, and,

peradventure, your towels as well. If this has not happened, you stagger

out and dry yourself in the intervals of trying to sit or stand.

Whatever else has happened to you in your bath, you’ve got cool for a few

minutes. Meanwhile the pitiless sun has been rising higher, the exertion

of drying yourself has put you into a violent perspiration, and you are

about as wet when you give it up in despair as you were when you began.

You get into your pyjamas and shoes, and, if the demoralisation of the

tropics has gone far enough with you, and the bar is open, you go and

get a cocktail to put a little life into you after a night of gasping,

perspiring insomnia. This function is tropically termed “sweetening the

bilge-water,” and is greatly in vogue among those who have sat up late in

the smoking-room overnight.

Then you pull yourself up on deck by handrails and anything else you can

get hold of. The morning air is delicious in its virgin freshness, and

you begin to draw new breaths of life. The decks are wet and sloppy, but

still cool. In a few hours the pitch will be boiling in the seams, and

the planks will be hot enough to melt the rubber soles off your shoes.

The masts and funnels are describing slow arcs across the vault of the

Firmament; deck-chairs are skating about, chasing each other around, or

huddling themselves in scared heaps in the safest and wettest corners of

the deck.

Down below there is the tinkling clatter of crockery, mingled with

language from the stewards who are trying to set the table for breakfast.

When you have cooled off a bit you nerve yourself to go below again into

the furnished oven you call your room and get dressed. Perhaps you have

to shave—but this is an added agony which may be passed over in silence.

You stagger back on deck to get cool again. You meet your

fellow-sufferers and say things about the ship with disparaging

references to round-bottomed old tanks, butter-tubs, steam-rollers, and

the like. These things are not exaggerated. I crossed the Pacific from

Honolulu to Sydney on a steam-roller called the _Alameda_, and I am

speaking of that which I know.

Then, perhaps after another visit to the bar, you go to breakfast.

You eat your meals in the tropics partly because you must repair the

exhaustion of perpetual perspiration, and partly because you have paid

for them in advance. Naturally, you don’t like the company to get too far

ahead of you.

If it wasn’t for this you would probably eat a great deal less and

be much better, but human nature is human even in the saloon of a

steam-roller on the Pacific with the thermometer standing at 97° Fahr.

Thus you eat and drink and loaf your way through the listless, sweltering

hours, and vaguely wonder what your liver will be like when you get

ashore.

There is another speciality of the tropics to which the tropical

glory-mongers have never done full justice. This is the mosquito. Of

course, there are mosquitos outside the tropics. A veracious British

Columbian once told me that on the Yukon they shoot them with revolvers

and catch them in seine nets.

The tropical mosquito, however, does not run to size as a rule. In

Guayaquil I have seen them a little smaller than sparrows, but they were

exceptions. Still, for his size, the tropical mosquito carries a greater

load of sin and responsibility than any other beast of prey inside the

confines of Creation.

I never really knew what artistic profanity was till I met him. I had no

idea of the magnificent capabilities of the English language, helped out

with a little American, till he had his first meal off me.

I have said before that the Honolulu mosquito does not sing, so the

first night out I went to bed unsuspecting, and foolishly congratulating

myself that I had got rid of him for a time. I knew better when I woke

up in the still watches of the night, scraping myself from head to foot,

like Job with his potsherd—it was too hot for bed- or any other kind of

clothes—and wondering what had got me.

I turned up the light, and there was the cloud of witnesses. I gave up

the struggle there and then, got into my pyjamas, and went on deck with a

rug over my arm and many evil thoughts in my heart.

One of those mosquitos got as far as Samoa with me. He was the only one

that the sea air seemed to agree with, and he was as elusive as a Boer

brigand surrounded by half a dozen British armies. I killed him the

morning we sighted Apia. He was too gorged to fly. It was literally blood

for blood, only all the blood was on one side.

I didn’t discover any mosquitos in Samoa. At least, none discovered me,

but that is perhaps because I escaped without sleeping there, and the old

steam-roller was lying a long way off the shore. There were, however,

plenty of the other winged pests which are characteristic of most

tropical paradises.

Some of us walked up to Vailima in response to the invitation of a

fellow-traveller, a rich German merchant, who had bought the ruins of

Robert Louis Stevenson’s house—it was torn to pieces by the shells during

the bombardment—and “restored” it. I hope the gentle ghost of “R. L. S.”

will never revisit it in the glimpses of the moon.

Samoa is one of those tropical paradises over which the romancers have

spread themselves with the most lavish verbal embroidery. The cold, or

rather tepid, truth as to my own brief experiences of it is this.

We trudged over four miles and a half of muddy road, under a grey, leaden

sky that would have done justice to an English mid-summer day. From this

descended an almost impalpable but drenching mist, the air was thick with

flies and other intrusive things, which got into your eyes and nose and

mouth and ears.

The exertion of plodding through the mud quickly reduced us to a state of

almost intolerable limpness. It was like four and a half miles of Turkish

bath adorned with tropical foliage. You had to get some of this foliage

and swing it about with what vigour you chanced to have left, so that you

might keep the flies far enough off to be able to breathe.

We took a languid interest in the shell-smashed and bullet-pierced trees

by the wayside, and in the rude entrenchments which the Samoans had

thrown up, for it was along this road that the British and American

detachments had to fight their way to dubious victory so as to get things

ready for the German occupation.

At Vailima we had warm champagne, for not even all the wealth of our

good-hearted host could buy an ounce of ice in Samoa, and we ate cakes

and pineapples where Robert Louis Stevenson had alternately feasted and

half starved, as he tells us in those daintily pathetic “Vailima Letters”

of his.

But a proper respect for the eternal verities forces me to say that this

place, round which so many reams of imaginative eulogy have been written

and typewritten, entirely disappointed me. Everything was shabby and

ragged and squalid except the newly “restored” house and the furniture,

which might have been sent by telegraph from Tottenham Court Road that

morning.

The avenue from the main road to the house, which the Samoans voluntarily

made for Stevenson in repayment for the whole-hearted work he had done

for them against the foreign aggressor, was puddle-strewn and inches

deep in mud. The paddock was no better than you would have found round

the shanty of a first-year selector in Australia. There were no paths,

only tracks, mostly mud. The historic stream was little more than a

stone-strewn brook.

Even from the upper verandah of the house you can only just get a glimpse

of the sea. A hill crowded with tangled tropical growth rises on either

side of the little plateau on which the house stands. On the top of the

one to the left hand as you look towards the sea is the grave of the dead

Word-Magician. Behind the house another broken, tree-clad slope rising to

the misty clouds; and that is all.

Personally I would not live at Vailima, rent free and everything found,

for a thousand a year. I know other places in the Pacific where with

suitable society life would be a dream of delight if one only had a tent,

a hammock, and about ten shillings sterling a week to spend.

The steam-roller did not stop long enough for us to attempt the ascent

of the mountain. I left Vailima dejected and disappointed, in a state of

mind which even the warm champagne had failed to cheer. I tramped back

through the mud under the everlasting mist, and through the same cloud of

flies.

When I got on board I found a sort of political demonstration, mingled

with a cosmopolitan orgie going on.

The ship was crowded from end to end with splendid specimens of Samoan

manhood. There was a brass band on deck, and the smoking-room was simply

floating in champagne. When I got to the heart of matters I found that

the most popular man in Samoa was leaving. He was the American Consul,

and his name was Blacklock, which, being translated into Samoan, is

Pillackie-Lockie. Certain friends of his—men who would raise you out

of your boots on a pair of twos—were coming with us, and from Samoa to

Auckland it was my privilege to travel with the hardest crowd I have ever

been shipmates with.

This was just the beginning of the German occupation. During the

bombardment the first shot fired from the German warship had wrecked

the German Consulate on the beach instead of hitting the hills beyond,

where Mataaffa’s men were supposed to be concealed; and this, with other

things, seemed to have produced a bad impression in the minds of the

natives.

At any rate, after the second whistle had gone, when the band played

“God Save the Queen” and the “Star-Spangled Banner,” the Samoans sang

their versions of the words for all their lungs were worth, but when, in

deference to the presence of the German Consul on board, an attempt was

made at “Die Wacht am Rhein,” there was first a deadly silence and then a

deep-voice “hoo-o-o,” which I interpreted as being the Samoan for “come

out of it,” or words to that effect.

This, by the way, is a humble, but by no means unmeaning “footnote to

history.”