CHAPTER VI.

Ranch again--Tea--American press--Celebrities

victimized--Last journey--Chicago--Beauty--Niagara

missed--New York--Atlantic--Home 195

THE TRUTH ABOUT AMERICA.

CHAPTER I.

More or less introductory--Americans and Yankees

not synonymous--Want of courtesy in the

States--The Press--Voyage out--New York climate.

Apart from the object with which most authors write, viz. to make

money, I purpose this little book to serve three objects.

Firstly, to make the United States of America, and the Americans,

better known than they are at present to the mass of the English

public.

Secondly, to put a certain class of emigrants on their guard against

the machinations of a few agents in London, who victimize them not a

little.

Thirdly, to let the many who suffer from pulmonary diseases in

Europe know that across the Atlantic is a cure-place excelling, owing

to its peculiar climate, any in the Eastern hemisphere.

That my own knowledge of the United States is a superficial one, I

admit in stating I was there not quite five months. _If_ I have a

talent for anything, it is the power of absorbing facts and

describing them later. I kept no journal in America, but I made

copious notes of all I saw and heard while the impressions were

fresh. As I view all these in a bundle on the table before me, I feel

that I must describe succinctly, to bring all I have to say into a

"little book," and there are weighty reasons, with me at least, why

it should be no more.

As my book will be truthfully written, and my intentions are good,

success will not elevate me much, blame will not depress me. If the

book is a fair picture, as far as it goes, of a vast and wonderful

tract on the earth's surface, if it shows clearly the prevailing

characteristics of the Americans, what there is for us (the English)

to copy, what to avoid, if it prove of use to the ever-increasing

class of emigrants, and if it is readable and amusing withal, I shall

be more than satisfied.

I affirm that the United States and its denizens are _not_ more than

superficially known to English men and women. I beg the question. Why

is it? There are doubtless many books of American travel, politics,

descriptions, and what not. I had read many of these, but surprised

as I was on much I encountered after arrival, I was far more

surprised how little what I had read had prepared me to find. The

following may in some degree explain this. By far the larger number

who go to the States are of two classes. 1. The rich, who go for

travel, pleasure, and change. 2. The emigrant, who is poor, and who

stays there. The first, naturally, see the best side of everything,

and if they describe their experiences, the pictures drawn are

scarcely fair ones. The second class, as a rule, it goes without

saying, are not strong with their pens, and were it otherwise, having

to win the bread of life, they have no leisure. There are of course

exceptions. The political aspect of America has been well depicted,

the features of that huge continent aptly described in several books

by good authors, but of true social pictures there are few. Among

these there are no better than what Dickens wrote in "Martin

Chuzzlewit," for the types there discussed are truly painted with

great humour, the only fear is the reader thereof may conceive they

are national, instead of what they truly are, characteristic of a

large class.

The Americans know us far better than we know them. While, including

emigrants, more pass from Great Britain to the States than America

sends eastward, the proportion in _visitors_ is certainly American.

They come in shoals to England and Europe, returning generally the

same year. Not strange, therefore, that their knowledge of our habits

and customs exceeds ours of theirs. That the Americans know this is

so, is shown by the style of conversation held with a "Britisher,"

when by chance (if he does not show it otherwise) his nationality is

discovered. In England if A, an Englishman, meets B, an American, A

does not discuss England with B as if it was necessarily all new to

him. B is supposed to have probably been here before, possibly to

know England as well as A does, and often it is so. But on the other

side of the Atlantic A (and generally truly) is supposed to know

nothing of the country. This was one of the salient features that

first struck me. Quite true, in my case at least, I did know nothing!

When, in England, a conversation, say on a rail carriage, is held

between an Englishman and an American, the chances are against the

latter being asked how he likes England. The Englishman should feel,

if he does not, that it is begging a favourable answer, anyhow that

the reply, politeness considered, cannot be worth much. Under the

same circumstances, in the States (unless the American has visited

Europe), the chances are three to one the query will be put in the

first half-hour. The form varies. Sometimes it is put diffidently,

and in the nicest words. Sometimes just the other way. "Does not your

mind expand when you consider the institutions of this great country,

when you see how like a clock the machinery works, &c.?" Or, more

shortly, "And how do you like our glorious country?" This last is a

very favourite form. It was asked me many times in exactly the above

words. My general reply (a safe and true one) was, "Well, I don't

like it as well as England, though I see much we might copy with

advantage, &c." The American, perhaps, then adds, "Ah, that's

natural, but I'm glad you can discriminate, which few Britishers can,

for believe me" (here he gives you a painful dig in the side), "they

are prejudiced right away in favour of that little insignificant

island." I cannot say the words are exact, but their drift is. The

expression, "How do you like our glorious country?" I'll swear to.

Let it not be supposed that the above is characteristic of the

Americans. It is so of the Yankee class alone. It is a significant

word that "Yankee," I do not like it altogether, for it has more or

less of depreciation in it. Still no one writing of America can help

using it occasionally. What does it mean? In Latham's Dictionary it

is defined, "Term applied in England to the Americans of the United

States generally." This may have been so, it is certainly not the

case now. Why, I know not, but the term has acquired a low meaning.

In speaking to a subject of the United States, you might ask him,

"Are you an American?" You could certainly not, without transgressing

good taste and most certainly offending him, ask if he is a Yankee.

In what sense, then, may the word rightly be used? Sometimes it is

employed to designate the inhabitants of the Northern States, but

this again is wrong, simply, if for no other reason, that they do not

relish it. By "Yankee" _I_ understand, and shall use it to mean, a

denizen of the Northern States, but one of a low type. The North

American gentleman or lady can vie in that way with any nationality

(in intelligence they are perhaps ahead of their compeers), but the

Yankee, "the cute Yankee," is a very _prononcé_ type, peculiar to

America, and there are, alas, many of them. They hail principally

from the North, but I have seen some in the South, and when met with

there they grate against you more in proportion because civility and

courtesy are generally the rule in the latter States.

We have all heard that servants in America are named "helps." This

alone signifies a great deal. They object to serve you, they do not

mind, "if you make it worth their while," helping you. The same

feeling pervades all but the well-educated and intellectual classes

in the States. Even where, as in New York, contact with Europeans has

rubbed off some of this peculiarity, it exists. The shopman serving

you seems to do so under protest. The conductor on the rail treats

you as his equal. The hotel official picks his teeth, and

expectorates in dangerous proximity to your boots, while entering

your name. You need not, 'tis true, shake hands with the shopkeeper,

even if he recognizes you, simply because there is no time in New

York for such courtesies, but you have to do it out West.

The first thing that strikes you on landing in America is the want of

deference and courtesy among all classes. Not only from the inferior

to the superior, but _vice versa_ also. The maxim _noblesse oblige_

has no sway there. In England, speaking to an equal or a social

inferior, "Kindly do this," or "Please give me that," is general. In

America the "kindly" and "please" are carefully omitted, and the

servant or "help" retaliates by the substance and tone of the answer.

But I am wrong, perhaps, to use the word retaliates, for I never

found that civility in asking produced any other effect.

The maxim in America seems to be that every man is as good as his

neighbour, or better, at least every man seems to think so, and why,

thinking so, they should address anybody as "Sir," beats their

comprehension, and they simply don't do it.

It seemed to me, among the class I write of, that the feeling is

"Civility argues inferiority, _ergo_, the less given the better." It

can only be some feeling of the kind, deeply implanted, that accounts

for the fact that the Yankee (mind I use the word as I have defined

it above) is the most uncourteous being in creation.

The press in all countries reflects public opinion more than it leads

it. Suppose a paper--I say not in London, but in Manchester, then the

comparison is perfect--were to write of the Empress Eugenie as some

American papers write of our Royal Family. Were she spoken of as

simply "Eugenie," and even lauded as such, would not the paper so

speaking of her be certainly damned? But "Wales" I have seen in

several Northern States papers, do duty for our Queen's eldest son

and future king. Nay more, in such papers woman's sex is no defence.

Her Royal Highness, Princess Beatrice, is written of by her Christian

name only, and her husband is alluded to as "Battenberg." Even worse,

I have an article (I care not to sully this page with even an

extract) about him, which was headed "Beatrice's Mash," the last

being a slang word used in the States for lover!

There are, of course, papers and papers in America, and many would

not be guilty of the solecisms above alluded to; still, such are the

exceptions. I do not care to name the two in which the above

appeared, but as they were the leading journals in the capital of a

western state, it is evident that this kind of thing goes down, for

they, and many like them, flourish.

But to other subjects. I went out to New York in that magnificent

Anchor Line steamer, the _City of Rome_, which, after the _Great

Eastern_, is the largest vessel afloat. The Atlantic was

exceptionally kind, like a mill-pond, all the way between Liverpool

and Sandy Hook, and the passage was nice in every way. We crossed in

something less than eight days. The society on board was extensive

and good--Americans, French, Germans, English, and others, there was

no lack of choice. I studied the Americans most, for they were to me

a new study, and I was very much pleased with the result. When I left

the ship, I did so with the impression that, nation for nation, as

regards intelligence, wide views, and general knowledge, the women

certainly, if not the men, were ahead of us English. I had not many

opportunities in America of mixing with the upper classes, but my

limited experience there strengthened the above belief. Of course,

all I met on the _City of Rome_ were more or less travelled Americans

(in no country, perhaps, does travel make a greater change than among

our transatlantic cousins), but I was particularly struck by the

intelligence, and the broad and charitable views of the ladies.

Speaking generally of both nations, the English woman who holds

matured and decided opinions on politics, theology, or social

questions, hesitates to give them vent. Not so the American. And, as

regards the failings of her own sex, commend me to the ladies over

the water, who are far more Christian-minded than we are in that way.

It was also a real pleasure to converse with many of the American

gentlemen on board. As I have nothing to say, except in his favour,

one of them will perhaps forgive my naming him. Mr. D'Almar is a

well-known man in the States. He is a great writer on political

economy and currency, and I believe an authority in the States on

those and other heads. But I wish to speak of him here as a

companion. Highly gifted with thinking power, and possessing an

amount of knowledge which is extraordinary, so diversified are the

subjects, he literally bristled all over with information. The above,

joined to a modest demeanour and pleasant manner, made him one in

many. All on board liked him, and that alone speaks much in a man's

favour; for ten days on a vessel betrays more of character than

months elsewhere. If children like a man, I always think I shall do

the same. We had a large nursery on board; the little ones liked Mr

D'Almar, and so did I.

The _City of Rome_ is a luxurious boat, and, given calm water and a

set of passengers such as we had, what nicer than the Atlantic under

such conditions? I do not like the sea, and am often sea-sick. The

last thing I would do is to keep a yacht. So, enjoying the trip as I

did, speaks volumes for the comfort and pleasure which was

attainable. But then the _City of Rome_ is not an ordinary ship. The

sweep of deck for a walk, the superb saloon made gay with flowers,

the _cuisine_, which tempted you to eat more than is well on board,

the spacious smoking-room, the comfortable cabins, the absence of

vibration from the screw, all and everything about the ship was

simply perfect, and I felt almost sorry when we arrived, for though I

have travelled much I have never ploughed the deep in this wise.

New York--I am not going to add one more to the many descriptions

extant. As to the city, the many beautiful churches, the grand

museums, perfect picture-galleries, magnificent opera-house,

luxurious clubs, and numerous theatres, are they not all described,

and far better than I could do it, in Murray's hand-book and many

others. Still I will say a few words. First, as to climate. I was

there twice, once in the height of summer, once late in the autumn.

The temperature was as nice the last time as it was disagreeable the

first. I have spent years in the tropics, but I never suffered more

from heat than I did in New York last July. The nights were very

nearly as hot as they are in Calcutta the same month, and while in

the capital of Bengal to sleep except under a punkah is thought

impossible, in New York, punkahs or any cooling appliances being

unknown, you really suffer more. Still there is a difference. In

Calcutta, at that time of the year, you simply _cannot_ walk out in

the day time, the sun would knock you down. In New York you can, but

any time towards the middle of the day it is very disagreeable to do

so. Calcutta is in latitude 22°, New York 40°. This accounts for the

less powerful sun in the latter place; but why the nights there are

so cruelly hot, I know not. The sea, as is well known, lessens

extremes of temperature, but it does not seem to have that effect in

New York, though it is virtually on the sea, for the winters there

are as cold as the summers are hot. Twice in the year is the climate

exquisite, viz. spring and autumn, but both summer and winter are

intensely disagreeable. We have no idea here in England of extremes

of temperature, for we never experience them. Were we visited with

the heat and cold of New York, 100° Fahr. in summer, 20° to 25° below

zero in winter, as maximums and minimums, we should feel new

sensations, and be thankful for the temperate climate we have,

instead of abusing it as so many of us do.

I cannot, I doubt if many can, sympathize with the sailor who,

returning from a Pacific station, and entering the Channel one

typical English day, thick with fog and sleet, buttoned his overcoat

around him, and looking up aloft, exclaimed, "Ah! this is the sort of

thing. None of your d--d blue skies here." If the story is not true,

it is well invented. Poor Jack was sick of blue skies and hot suns,

but why he should have selected for commendation perhaps the main

point in which the English climate is deficient, makes it very

humorous. As I said, I cannot go as far as he did, and while I admit

the English climate is far from perfect, that it is a climate of

changes, the only rule being that no day shall be like its

predecessor or its successor, that the winter is dark and dismal,

that rain and slush, fog and mist, easterly winds and such like are

the rule, and bright, balmy days the exceptions, still, in the

immunity we possess from extremes of temperature, I think we have a

blessing that balances all these drawbacks. Who, except those who

have so suffered, can realize the lassitude, the intense discomfort

of great heat, the acute physical suffering produced by extreme cold.

I have been in many climes, but I know of one only I would, if I

could, substitute for the English climate. I found that one in

America, at San Francisco, on the Pacific coast, but of this farther

on.

The entrance to New York is very beautiful, and a great contrast to

the dingy approach to London by the Thames. On a bright day, and

bright days there are the rule, excepting perhaps the Bosphorus as

you near Constantinople, I have seen nothing to equal it. Shortly

before arrival the Brooklyn suspension bridge, the finest structure

of its kind on earth, comes in view. But of this wonderful bridge

presently. We left the good ship _City of Rome_ some three or four

miles down-stream, and after being transferred and closely packed in

an inland boat, we steamed up the Hudson river to New York.

It is only two and a half centuries (1609) since the first European

entered the New York Bay, and yet the _coup d'oeil_ from the water

of the vast city and its surroundings argues many centuries of

existence. America is wonderful in much, but in nothing more than its

growth. I felt this first then, and my after life daily increased my

wonder.

But here we are at the custom-house. My first experience of the

scarcity of labour in the States came that day. There were no porters

of any kind in the searching-room to move the luggage (it is

"baggage" in America), and I had to carry all mine myself. It was

brought in and thrown down anywhere. The examination took place at

the far end of the building, but each and every one had to carry his

own things there. With this exception it was plain sailing, for the

officers did the work quickly, and were not painfully suspicious.

CHAPTER II.

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

domicile.

As London is the capital of Great Britain, I suppose New York may be

called the first city in the United States, and yet I doubt its right

to be so named. Commercially and in size it may be so, but scarcely

in appearance. As regards buildings, cleanliness, commodious

high-ways, the _tout-ensemble_ which one looks for in a capital, San

Francisco, on the Pacific coast, takes by much the precedence, and I

am not sure that Chicago does not in a measure do the same, though

not in a like degree. As regards the climatic advantages of New York

and the capital of California, there cannot be two opinions. New York

is certainly not a nice climate, while I believe there is none on

this earth to equal in excellence that of San Francisco. Still, the

inhabitants of a city are not answerable for the climate!

There is not a decently paved street in New York. The asphalte and

wooden pavements of London and Paris are unknown there. I was told

both had been tried, but that the climate was against them. I could

understand this as regards the latter but not the former. Anyhow they

proved failures. Blocks of stone, when of one size and height, and

laid in the best way, make a jolting, noisy road, but it is not even

thus in New York. Take Broadway, the principal thoroughfare, the

stones are not the same size, and a large proportion of them are one

to two inches higher than their neighbours, while every here and

there are depressions. This being so, I imagine, accounts for the

scarcity of wheeled vehicles except tram-cars. These latter,

generally drawn by horses, seemed to me to run in every street and

road in the city. Of course on rails they travel smoothly, but they

and the rails greatly increase the difficulty for cabs and carriages.

The traffic in a New York street in no way resembles that in a

London one. Where there is one tram-car in London there are fifty in

New York, and fifty cabs here to one there. The same as to carriages.

Nearly the whole of the passenger traffic is done in the tram-cars

and elevated railroads, and no wonder it is so, for to traverse the

streets on wheels in any other way is very painful.

The foot-pavements are not much better than the roadways. The

paving-stones are not evenly laid, and every here and there a thin

iron ridge runs across an inch or so higher than the foot-way,

apparently ingeniously placed with a view to cause accidents.

In two words, I have never seen a city with such bad roads and

pavements as New York.

The tram-cars are much better than ours. They are better designed,

far more roomy, and commodious. The fares, too, are moderate,

generally five cents = 2½_d._ for any distance. Another advantage:

when you want to get out, you pull a rope, and the driver stops. How

much better this than poking the conductor with an umbrella, the

general plan in London!

The few cabs there are resemble ours, four-wheelers and Hansoms. But

woe to the visitor who hires one. I was told, and believe, there _is_

a tariff of fares, but in no way is it acted up to. For a short

distance, say one mile, the least demanded is one dollar = 4_s._

2_d._, and if you object there's a row. I asked several Americans why

the tariff is not enforced. "Few, only rich people, use cabs," they

replied, "and it's not worth their while." Anyhow the cabbies have it

their own way. I was warned on this head before I arrived, but I was

obliged once to take one. I paid about six times the London fare.

However, as you can go almost anywhere in a tram-car with comfort, it

does not much matter, especially as you escape the woful jolting a

cab entails.

The names of streets in America are not put up on the corners as with

us. They are painted on the nearest lamp-glass. This is well for the

night, but inconvenient for the day. The name is only on one lamp,

and so small you must go close to read it. You have thus generally to

cross the road, and where four streets meet it is not easily found. I

did not like the plan. But London is also far from perfect in this

way, and might take a lesson from Paris. There, as a rule, the name

of the street is at every corner.

The elevated railways are a feature in New York. Like our underground

lines they lessen much the street traffic. They run about the height

of the second floor windows, and must be an awful nuisance to the

inhabitants of those rooms. The rails are supported on a timber frame

which rests on stout wooden piles. These latter are possibly twenty

feet high, they are very rough, and greatly disfigure the

thoroughfare. Another disfigurement in the streets of New York are

the telegraph-poles. We run our wires over the house-tops or

underground. They do not. The wires are probably more numerous than

ours, but all are supported on poles.

I went one trip on the elevated railroad. As you cross the open

streets, you get good views of the city, but only then; at all other

times the houses on either side shut out every thing. I thought the

service, the punctuality, the carriages quite equal to, if not better

than, our underground lines.

Among other things I went to one of the principal Fire Brigade

Stations. We all know, or ought to know, the Americans are an

inventive race. Much I saw showed great ingenuity, and not only that

but high powers of organization. I may mention one instance. The

horses for service stand ready harnessed except their collars (the

harness is peculiarly simple). The said collars are suspended in

front of the fire-engine, as far from it as when on the horses. The

collars open at bottom, and hang thus something like the capital

letter V inverted. A telegraph-bell rings when a fire breaks out

anywhere. The horses are taught, when they hear this bell, to go at

once in front of the engine, and put their heads and necks through

the collars till they are in their places. The collars close with a

spring, and the engine is ready to start! If I remember right, two

minutes is the time allowed for the engine, with horses harnessed,

firemen on it, and everything complete, to leave the yard. The

firemen on duty are always ready dressed in the loft of the building

where the fire-engines and horses stand, and it is significant of

the value attached to time, that they do not come down stairs as this

would take too long. There is a square opening in the floor of their

room, and through this a polished, round iron pillar ascends. When

the bell rings, they slide down in quick succession.

The horses were noble beasts, and gentle as lambs. A lady and her

child were with me, and the fireman, a most obliging fellow, put the

child on the backs of the pair in succession. Upwards of sixteen

hands high, the girl, nine years old, looked a very mite when so

elevated. It may be that my lady friend petting the horses, won the

fireman's heart. Anyhow he offered to show us how quick all could be

got ready. He asked us to stand on one side, and giving notice above,

to prevent the men descending, he rang the bell. Both horses

immediately rushed forward and put their heads and necks through the

collars. He fastened the traces in a moment--some quick way, I forget

how--and all was ready. I timed the operation: all was done under the

minute!

The said fireman showed us many other things, and having found out we

were "Britishers," was much pleased at our encomiums. He said that

Captain Shaw, the head of the London Fire Brigade, visited New York

in 1884, and adopted much that was shown him. "In fact," he said,

"the London Brigade has to thank _us_ for much of its excellence." I

smiled when he so spoke, the remark was so American; but I doubt not

we have in this department, as in so many, profited by their

inventive faculty, though I ventured to suggest it was not likely the

obligation was _all_ on one side.

The Brooklyn Suspension Bridge is, I think, _the_ sight of New York.

It connects New York with Brooklyn. It is the longest suspension

bridge in the world, and I believe the best in every way. It took

eight years, I think, to build. It is one mile 720 feet long between

the entrances, and 85 feet wide. From either entrance to the large

supporting towers is 2200 feet, which leaves a clear length of 1600

feet for the main span. The said towers, constructed of huge blocks

of granite, are 268 feet high. The bridge is 135 feet above

high-water mark. It cost $17,000,000, i.e. about three and a half

million sterling. There are three roads, or ways, below and one

above. The centre lower way is for carriages, the other two for

single lines of rails, trains crossing both ways. The upper road or

way is for foot-passengers, and thus as you cross the bridge you see

the carriages and trains below. The peculiarity of this wonderful and

beautiful structure is the enormous span between the supporting

towers, and the apparent extreme lightness of the whole bridge. It

would take more engineering knowledge than I possess, and pages of

space, to describe the manner the roadways, i.e. the whole bridge, is

supported. But the idea conveyed is that the supporting-rods, and the

ties of every kind, are far more numerous and lighter than in other

suspension bridges. The mesh of a spider's web, but with threads

running in every direction, is the only thing I can compare it to. I

know not who the engineer was, but his name should go down to all

posterity. I have travelled in many lands, but I never saw any human

achievement that impressed me so much as this Brooklyn Bridge. In

vastness, in beauty, in ingenuity, there is no edifice, I believe,

reared by man to equal it.[1]

New York is divided into three parts. The larger is New York proper.

The other two are Jersey City and Brooklyn. The Hudson river runs

between New York proper and Jersey City. This is not bridged, being

about two miles wide, but I doubt not the go-ahead Americans will do

it some day. The East river divides Brooklyn from New York, and is

crossed by the bridge described above. The termini of the great rail

lines, running North, South, and West, are in Jersey City, so when

leaving New York you cross the Hudson river. There are six lines of

ferries across. The boats are of enormous size, with separate

compartments for wheeled vehicles and passengers. The horses pull the

vehicles on board, and off at the other side. The saloons for the

passengers are pictures of ornament, elegance, and comfort. In all

such things the Americans are far ahead of us. Look at the

steamboats running up and down the Thames, what miserable craft they

are. You could put six or eight of them on board one of the American

steam-ferries described, not to descant on the absence of all decent

accommodation. I like to be fair and give the Americans their due.

There is much I must decry. Will it make my praise appreciated on the

other side of the Atlantic? I doubt it; but it will, I feel sure,

make my English readers believe I write fairly, and do not hesitate

to point out the many things in which the Americans are ahead of the

"Britisher." Do you, if English, mind the word? I do not, but it is

very American.

It has always struck me that nationalities, judging of each other, do

not act fairly. Each individual, be he or she English, American or of

any Continental country, is apt to regard the question at issue

solely from the nationalistic point of view, and does not attempt to

place himself or herself on the other side, and try to realize how it

would look there. There are no people on earth more apt to do this

than the English, though the Americans do it likewise to quite as

great an extent. There is nothing, I think, to choose between them in

this respect, and for national egotism these two nations head the

list. There are not many more disagreeable beings than the

egotistical, untravelled young Englishman (age generally modifies his

views), who reviles everything foreign, and thinks nothing really

good is found out of Great Britain! The class are well known on the

Continent, and naturally avoided, for they exhibit little or no

delicacy in propounding their views. The young Englishman in

question, often of the upper classes, and also often rich, is

disagreeable in other ways also. He adores wealth and despises

poverty. He is a very slave to what is most foolish in our social

customs, ignoring entirely those that are commendable. He would not

carry a parcel through the street if any amount of money would induce

some one else to do it for him. He scoffs at religion of every kind.

He scarcely believes in the existence of right and wrong. He is

shallow to an extent, and fast it goes without saying. Yet is he not

all bad. He _has_ a code, loose as it is, and acts up to it. It is

real pain to him to be backward with a debt of honour (though I write

it, how foolish the expression: as if all debts were not equally

incumbent), but any tradesman may wait for years. He does not lie,

except to save a woman's reputation (query--Is it then justifiable? I

really don't know), but he exaggerates fearfully. Animal courage he

has, but nothing of the moral attribute. Except as regards his

egotism, personal and national, he is not offensive in manner or

language. To ladies he is courteous, but his opinion of woman is of

the lowest. I have said enough to show such a one does not commend

himself to foreigners.

There is an American of the same type, but he differs. Far more

intellectual than his English brother, he has much wider views. He is

equally puffed up with conceit as to his own "glorious country" (odd

how often you hear this expression in the States), but he recognizes

it is a new country, and _may_ thus have some shortcomings. Still,

that it is on the high road to eclipse all others is part of his

creed. He does not, like the other described, look up to a rich man

because he is rich, but because he must have been "cute" to attain

the position. Social customs of all kinds he ignores, and if with the

Englishman aforesaid would willingly carry his parcel for him! He too

is a free-thinker in theology, but he is more tolerant of creed and

dogma in others. I cannot call him "fast" as compared with other

Americans, for they are all fast in a sense. The word, as we

understand it, somehow does not apply to them. So much for his best

side. As regards any code of honour, or appreciation of the virtue of

truth, it is not in him. As regards physical courage I would back the

Englishman, moral courage the American. He (the latter) is often

offensive both in manner and language. Courtesy to any one he does

not practise, for he thinks it argues his own inferiority. I know not

what he thinks of women, for I never cared to discuss the subject

with him.

Such are, in my opinion, the general characteristics of two similar

types of young men in England and America. Both, after travel and as

they advance in years, improve. But, as painted, they are, of course,

neither of them desirable companions, and I do not think there is

much to choose between them.

I care not here to continue the subject, and try to depict the

opposing national characteristics of the Americans and English (of

course, what is written above applies to neither, only to the

particular type of each country as set forth). I have already done it

more or less in the foregoing pages, and would rather it peeped out

in the same way as my book proceeds.

But all this is not New York, which I am bound to finish in this

chapter. Before we go further I had better, for the benefit of those

who know it not, state the American currency and its equivalent value

in English money, for it will save repetition. The "almighty dollar"

is the unit of currency in the States. Why the coin is thus lauded in

American phraseology is a puzzle, for it certainly procures less as

regards its nominal value than any coin I know. The dollar is divided

into 100 cents, and is worth itself 4_s._ 2_d._ Thus each cent

represents one halfpenny; twenty-five cents, roughly one shilling;

and the English sovereign is generally worth $4.85, generally

written $4^85, and read four dollars eighty-five cents. This decimal

system is most convenient for all calculations. I may give one

example. Suppose the exchange to be as above, £1 = $4.85, and I want

to send the equivalent of £210 to America; I simply multiply 485 by

210 and divide the product by 100; practically cut off the two last

figures in the said product. Thus--

485 × 210=101850.

The two last figures, the five and the cypher, are cut off, and they

indicate the cents, the figures reading $1018^50, which is the true

amount I shall get at the above rate of exchange.

Again, in casting up columns of English money figures, we have to

divide the total of the pence by 12, the total of the shillings by

20, and only set down the remainder, carrying over the quotient. With

the American currency the dollars are set down in one column, the

cents in another, but the whole are added up together, then the two

right-hand figures of the product struck off. These are the cents,

all the rest are dollars. There are other ways in which this decimal

system is convenient, but I have exemplified it sufficiently. Shall

_we_ ever have as good a system?

The silver coins are ten cents, quarter, half, and whole dollars. The

gold, five, ten, and twenty dollars, which are roughly worth a little

over one, two, and four pounds sterling. The last is a very handsome

gold piece, a trifle smaller in diameter than an English crown, but,

I think, thicker. The bank-notes, called "Bills," begin at fifty

cents, and run up to one thousand dollars. There may be higher, but I

have not seen them. There is nothing to be said in their favour. They

are of many patterns and devices, and most of them dilapidated and

dreadfully dirty; so dirty that they stick to one another, and so

greasy and discoloured by usage that I always fancied they gave off

an unpleasant odour. They are not nice things to put in your pocket!

I speak of those of moderate value, say 100 dollars. I believe those

of higher denominations, not so much in use, are better. Accustomed

to our clean and crisp notes, I was surprised that the go-ahead

Americans had such paper money, for bad as it is in some parts of

the continent, I have never seen such offensive notes as the

American. I believe, here in England, all paper money paid into the

bank is destroyed, and new issued in its stead, and that this

accounts for our clean, crisp, and undilapidated notes. I wish the

same plan held over the water.

I had forgotten the copper coins. These are one cent, two cents, and

five cent pieces. The last is covered over with some nickel

composition, so that it looks like silver. Side by side with the ten

cent silver piece, the five cent nickel bit looks the more valuable,

and it takes time to realize it is only worth half the other. The

five cent piece is often called "a nickel," the ten cent piece "a

dime."

Out far west the copper coinage is not current under five cents. When

at "San Francisco," I found that nothing was sold under that amount,

which is, of course, 2½_d._ The poor there take two or three of

any cheap thing to make up the sum. Not only did the storekeepers

there _not_ think it inconvenient, they regretted the time in the

gold fever days when ten cents was the lowest tender, and if I

remember right, when that splendid city was in its first infancy

(i.e. gold in California was first discovered) nothing could be

bought under 25 cents, or one shilling!

It is a great mistake to suppose America is a cheap country. It may

be, nay often is, a good country to make money in for the very reason

that things are _not_ cheap, but it is, a very dear country to live

in, and, take it all in all, the dearest I have ever visited. It is

well that this all-important fact should be known, for numbers of

emigrants go out, deceived by agents in London, with quite a contrary

opinion. But still the broad fact requires qualification. Some few

things are cheaper than in England or the continent, but most are far

dearer. Food of some sorts is cheaper--notably meat--in many places

less than half the price it is here. Bread, beer, and liquors much

the same. Preserved provisions are a little dearer. Vegetables,

perhaps, are cheaper. But all other necessaries of life are two or

three times their cost here. Clothing is very dear. Furniture more

reasonable. Crockery, three times the home price, and everything else

that is wanted in a house exceeds by much what it would cost here.

Travelling is far more expensive, but more on this head farther on.

The truth is as follows:--If a man or family live in the States in an

out-of-the-way place, and are content so to live without the comforts

of life, nothing but the bare necessaries, they can then, _after once

setting themselves up_, live cheaper than in England. But only in

this case can it be done. To live otherwise, that is to allow

yourself and family things on the ordinary scale we have them in

England, costs far more.

The reason why things are dear in the States is simply because labour

is scarce and expensive. For an ordinary day's work, a man there gets

one to one and a half dollars besides his food. This is certainly

equal to three times the ordinary English wage. The consequence is,

that, in spite of the heavy import dues on foreign manufactured

goods, the Americans, in many cases, find it cheaper to import than

to manufacture them. Take crockery for instance. By far the greater

part in use comes from England. They have as good clay in the States

as there is here. I need not say that the Americans, ingenious and

_au fait_ at all machinery as they are, _could_ make it, still they

do not, to any extent, simply because, so made, it would be dearer

than what they import. English crockery will be found all over

America; it has borne sea freight, import dues, rail charges for

perhaps fifteen hundred miles, what wonder then that when you buy

such it costs three or four times what it does here?

It is the same with many other things. In fact, the purchasing power

of a dollar in inner America is not, for all such articles, much more

than one shilling in England! It goes without saying, that English

emigrants of the lower class, settling in America, can, by selling

their labour, as they do, at such a high price, and with the cheap

common food available, more than make up for the high cost of such

things as I have described. But people who have been accustomed to

comforts in England should avoid the States, unless they are prepared

to forego society, and live the sort of life one leads on a cattle

ranch, where nothing in the way of appearance is necessary.

One word more as to the poor emigrant class. It is not all _couleur

de rose_ for them. True, labour is in demand and its cost high, but

the man, or the family, have often a hard fight before they can take

advantage of these conditions, and during the interval they have

necessarily to spend far more than they would in England. I do not

say that the said poor class, who cannot find work here, should _not_

emigrate to America, but I do say they are unwise to do so, unless

some assured favourable locality, some kind of probable opening, is

assured to them. America needs population, but the need is America's,

and _she_ should give the inducements.

Back to New York. There are many very good hotels there; among them

may be named the Fifth Avenue Hotel, the Windsor, Brunswick, and

Astor House, but all these are expensive, five to six dollars per day

per head, which is a good deal more than the best hotels in London.

There are also many good hotels in which the charges are not more

than half the above, but in most of the latter breakfast only lasts

from 7 to 9, and dinner is at 1 o'clock--hours many will object to.

You _can_ have baths in all these houses, but the comfort of a sponge

bath in your bedroom is not usual, and if you insist on it, you pay

for your obstinacy. I went to Earl's Hotel: it is quite as good as

any of the second-class houses; the waiters there are all negroes,

they are attentive and serve well. It was the height of summer when I

landed, and the heat was awful. The nights were suffocating; I could

have fancied myself in the tropics, for the high temperature lasted

till early morning. Sleep and great heat, in my case at least, are

antagonistic, and, as I tossed on my bed, I longed for the waving

punkah we have under such circumstances in India.

I was not sorry to leave the place, and advise any one visiting it,

to do so either in the Spring or the Autumn, at those times the

climate is delightful, but avoid both Summer and Winter, the extremes

of temperature, heat and cold, at those seasons, are such as we in

England wot not of, for above 100° in summer and 20° to 25° below

zero (Fahr.) in winter _are_ extremes.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] In vastness and ingenuity it has certainly no rival on earth. In

beauty, the Palais de Justice at Brussels may be a rival.

CHAPTER III.

Why I went to America--Agents in London and the Eden promised--New

York to New Orleans--Railroads in the States--American scenery--Ranch

life--Deserts in the States--Antelope Valley.

I left New York for California, which is right on the other side of

the huge continent, but why I did so I must explain, for thereby

hangs an important tale.

My object in going to America was to buy an estate and settle on it

with my two sons, whom I had sent out there some eighteen months

before. They went to learn farm and cattle ranch work, and had been

so employed. Before leaving London I inquired much as to the best

part of America to go to, but, as is so often the case, I found that

nearly all the advice I received was prompted by self-interest, i.e.

that among the class I applied to, mostly agents connected in some

way or other with America, each vaunted the excellence of the State

and locality he worked for. In short, the result of all my inquiries

was that a great many different States were the best in the Union!

While in doubt what to do, and with the determination not to be

"done" by an agent, I read a very tempting advertisement, and

eventually, like many more, _was_ done very completely by the

advertiser and his representations! The said advertisement set out

that 160 acres in California would be granted free of cost by the

Government to any one, above twenty-one years of age, and that any

further area could be bought on very reasonable terms. The locality

was said to possess a charming climate and many advantages, all of

which would be detailed on application, &c., &c. I have not the

advertisement, unfortunately, or would set it out. This I thought

looked tempting. My two sons and I could take up 480 acres, and I

could buy any more I wanted. I went to the advertiser (I found out

later that he was an American, but he had been long in England and

did not betray it), and what I saw of him I liked. He said the

locality was in California, and that it was known as the "Antelope

Valley" (a taking name!), and possessed a very perfect climate. The

winters were very mild, the summers not hot, and bright sunny days

were the rule. That he was there in June, and wore with comfort the

same clothes he did in England. That the rainfall was scanty, but the

deficiency was supplied by artesian wells, which could be sunk at a

small cost anywhere in the valley, and with certain results. That

California was known to be a great fruit country, and that the valley

in question was pre-eminently fitted for all kinds of fruit. That

settlers had only begun to go there a few months before, and were

increasing in number at a great pace. That a railroad ran through the

valley, and that all the land in its vicinity was taken up, but that,

if I went out soon, I could probably get land two or three miles from

it. That crops of most kinds, besides fruit of all kinds, could be

grown there, and that the rail connecting at either end with San

Francisco and Los Angelos (the former the capital of California and

on the sea, the latter a large town and seaport), there was an

unlimited market for all produce. The scenery, too, he said, was

beautiful, the valley being surrounded by picturesque hills, &c.,

&c., &c. All these statements he supported by a map of the valley,

showing the lands taken up, by a pamphlet he had written, in which

the glories of this Eden were highly painted, and to which were added

letters from the settlers, thanking him for having brought such a

paradise to their notice.[2] But this was not all. Specimens of the

crops and fruits grown in the valley, some dried, some imitations in

wax, heavy bunches of grapes, peaches wonderful as to size,

Brobdingnag strawberries, and what not! The only wonder was _why_ so

desirable a tract had only lately become known, and I asked as much.

The answer was, "Want of population. California is roughly 800 miles

long, with perhaps an average width of 200 miles. In this large

tract, twice as big as England and Wales together, there are about a

million inhabitants."

And I, like a fool, was more or less satisfied, for I found the areas

and population mentioned were right.

Now in all the above, truth and fiction were so closely blended,

that, to discriminate which was which, I should have to travel over

the whole ground again, and this is not the place to do it. Wait till

we get there. But I would ask the reader to note this page, and

compare it later on with the facts.

Suffice it here to state that the said agent, who sent me and many

others there, knew that not one in twenty would remain, and that

numbers in fair positions here in England, who, influenced by him,

sold up all they had and went out, some with wives and families, to

this El Dorado, crossed the Atlantic on the high road to ruin!

But what was his object? Did he own lands there and want to sell

them? Not an acre, I believe! He got a commission on the passengers

he sent over a particular line of rail, and thus managed to send all

his victims the same way that I went.

Now the oddest part of the whole affair is that he _did_ manage to do

this. If any one looks at a map of the States, he will see that the

direct and consequently the shortest route from New York to

California is _viâ_ the Central Pacific Railway to San Francisco. The

distance thus is about 3000 miles. By the route he sent me, and all

the aspirants to become land-holders in the Antelope Valley, viz.

_viâ_ New Orleans and the Southern Pacific railroad, the distance is,

say, 4500 miles. Thus, 1500 miles out of the way! I did not realize

when he offered me tickets by that southern line how much longer it

was. Still a glance at the map showed me it was longer, and I

objected. "Yes, it _is_ longer," he replied, "but I can get you

tickets cheaper that way, and you will be far more comfortable." I

assented. But I am surprised he succeeded with the others, as I am

now that he did so with me--that none of the many, more suspicious

than I am, did not fathom his object. But so it was. All who went to

the happy valley travelled over that route, 1500 miles out of the

way!

Besides the extra distance, and consequent extra expense, there was

another very serious disadvantage in summer (the time I did the

journey) to the line he recommended. It is much farther south, and in

consequence a great deal hotter. I suffered not a little therefrom.

Others did the same, and as they dropped in by twos and threes,

exhausted by the heat, and joined the exasperated and despairing

prior arrivals in the valley, they cursed, in no measured terms, the

man who had so deceived them. In two words, the Antelope Valley is a

howling desert. Not a blade of grass, not a green tree, no trees at

all. In this it is a perfect contrast to the swampy "Eden," so well

described by Dickens in "Martin Chuzzlewit," but as regards the

impossibility of making it a home, the two are alike. More on this

head when we get there.

I am not one of those to whom "money is no object;" quite the

reverse, and more especially had I to study economy when I left for

America. I therefore took second-class tickets from the said agent

for the whole line from New York to San Francisco. The Antelope

Valley is, by the route I was to travel, some 300 miles nearer, but I

thought it better to go to the capital of California first, and get

what I might want. He assured me I should have every comfort in the

said second class, and the amount I paid him for the tickets,

considering the enormous distance (I forget the sum), was not great.

He told me I should not get a regular bed as in a Pullman car, but

that if I took a small mattress and blankets, I should find room to

lie down and sleep. The tickets he gave me were to be exchanged at

New York for a rail-book, with coupons in it to carry me over the

different lines.

When leaving New York I went to the office to have this done, but

only on the morning of the day I was to leave. I then found to my

astonishment there was no second class, only first and emigrant

class, and that my tickets were really only good for the latter. On

further inquiry, I ascertained that between New York and New Orleans

(the first part of the journey, taking about two days and nights), no

sleeping space whatever was provided in the emigrant cars, and

consequently that I should have to sit up on the seat the whole of

the forty-eight hours, but that from New Orleans to San Francisco,

the said emigrant cars were built on an improved plan, the seats

pulling out and forming bed-spaces, and that therefore the hardship

on that, by far the longer part of the journey, four days and five

nights, would not be so great. "But," I said, "I paid for

second-class tickets, and emigrant class is third." "Very sorry,"

replied the rail official, "but there _is_ no second, and you will

see that the sum paid and marked on your London paper indicates

emigrant rates." This was true, and I had no redress. I then

observed, which I had not before, that on the tickets I purchased in

London, "Second Class" was only written in ink on the side. I felt I

had been deceived, but that no other course now lay open except to

accept the said emigrant tickets, or pay the difference and go first.

I decided eventually to do the latter as far as New Orleans, and

after that, as there would then be sleeping space, to travel in the

emigrant cars. I therefore paid the difference (it was considerable),

and left the office with first-class tickets to New Orleans, and

emigrant class beyond.

Crossing the Hudson river to Jersey City in one of the magnificent

ferries described, we started from the terminal station there. By the

bye, the word station is not used in the States; dēpot, pronounced

as written, does duty for it. I was surprised how, in many ways, the

language used in America differs from our English. I will give a few

examples: A cock is a rooster--biscuits, crackers--deficiency,

shortage--put in prison, jailed--drapery, dry goods--cabman,

hackman--horses' reins, lines--sleepers under rails, tyes--guard,

conductor--cabin, state room--engine-driver, engineer--funnel,

smoke-stack--engine, locomotive--to post, to mail--sending by rail,

to ship--clergyman, minister--to harness, to hitch--to think, to

guess--to do, to fix--to carry on any business, to run--barmaid,

bar-tender--public house, saloon--many, quite a few--and pages might

be so filled. Doubtless the language, the idioms vary more and more

yearly, and probably the pronunciation also. You do meet Americans,

travelled ones, who have no nasal twang, but otherwise the

nationality, partly by that, partly by the way occasional words are

pronounced, is easily recognized. Some of the Americans seem to

forget that England was the birthplace of the English language. One

said to me, when pronunciation was one day the subject under

discussion between us, "Very true, we do pronounce many words

differently, and I can always recognize your countrymen by the

British accent they use when speaking our language." I laughed, and

remarked that unless I mistook, _we_ had spoken it before Americans

existed. He did not answer; it seemed to strike him as a new view of

the subject, and he ruminated!

Running south from New York, the country we passed through until

night fell was very beautiful. That, and some I saw near Lake Erie

months later, was the most charming pastoral country I beheld in the

States. It was quite equal to anything in England, which is so rich

in pastoral scenery. One charm in American travel is, that, in

traversing that mighty continent, you see scenery equal to, and

like, the best that any country on earth produces. While executing

the enormous distances on American rail lines, you lie down at night,

the last of the twilight having shown you rural scenes--peaceful

villages, ivy-clad churches, browsing cattle, waggon teams and green

fields. You awake in a desert--a real desert like the great African

ones. Far as the eye can reach, for hours and hours as the train

rolls on, sand and nothing else. Not a house, not an inhabitant, no

water anywhere. You close your eyes that night on the arid waste, and

lo! next morning you are in Swiss scenery. Great fir-clad mountains,

capped with snow, border the rail, a precipice is below, and you

shudder as you realize how near you are to the edge. A mountain

stream, with numerous cascades, accompanies you for miles. Domestic

animals are confined to a small breed of horses and goats, but if

lucky you may see a large stag, or a grizzly bear, and possibly have

a shot at the latter. Before evening all changes again. Vast and

interminable plains of grass, with an occasional sluggish stream.

Cattle by the thousand in great flocks, sometimes grazing peacefully,

sometimes driven by wild-looking cowboys on wiry horses with the

high-peaked Mexican saddles and long whips. Here again you may travel

for hours and see no habitation. Trees, too, there are none. It seems

to be a country designed by nature for cattle only, and such is

indeed the use it is put to.

The enormous cattle-ranches we read of exist here. The life of the

owners or managers is a very Robinson Crusoe kind of existence. Miles

probably from any rail, and miles also from their nearest neighbours,

the solitude is extreme. Women delight them not, for there are none.

An occasional newspaper finds its way there, but complete ignorance

of the affairs in the outer world is the rule. A ranch-man's library

is very limited, so not much can he do in the way of reading. He

lives in a log-hut he has probably built himself, and he or his

companion, if he has one, cook their simple fare. They have beef _ad

libitum_, milk by the pail, they can wallow in cream, and consume any

amount of butter. Tea and coffee too they have--sad the day they run

out--and possibly a bottle or two of spirits, but the last they are

very sparing of, for such is not easily obtained, and they are a

sober race. Two iron beds, which either of them gives up willingly to

a friend and makes his own on the floor (hospitality is a law with

them), a table or two, three or four chairs, shelves and pegs to put

and hang everything on, and this is all the furniture in the hut.

But, except at night, they are seldom indoors. Riding many miles

after stray cattle, milking, butter-making, rearing crops for cattle

food in the winter. There is plenty of occupation and they work well.

The cattle on such ranches stay out the year round. On the largest

the owner often knows not how many there are. Occasionally they are

driven into corrals (wooden enclosures), and counted, while the young

stock are then branded. The life is necessarily wild, rough, and

solitary. The ranch-owner, like Robinson Crusoe, is lord of all he

surveys for many miles round. His work is not hard, his gun, his rod,

his horses are his amusements, but domestic happiness, the charm of

"home" is not his. Think you he is to be envied or pitied?

All ranches in the States are not as above described. Where there is

more population the ranches are smaller and differ in other ways. I

shall have to describe one later which I bought, so will not do it

here.

I had with me a mattress and blankets for the emigrant car beyond New

Orleans, but having a first-class ticket I supposed this entitled me

to a regular made-up bed in the Pullman carriage which was next to

the first-class car. I found though it was not so, and that two

dollars a night had to be paid for the luxury. In the first-class

carriage, with small seats holding only two, it was impossible to lie

down at all, and so I paid it, but this was the first experience I

had of the way Europeans are deceived on the American railroads. When

I paid at New York the difference of third to first as far as New

Orleans, the official well knew, for I told him, I did it to secure

sleeping accommodation, but he took good care not to undeceive me. I

have known the same sort of thing occur again and again. The most

flagrant case I met with I will mention here. I was in Colorado at

the time, and about leaving for England. I wrote to a high official

of the Central Pacific Railway, at Denver, for the rates of through

tickets to New York. He replied that first-class was 48 dollars,

second, I think, 44, and added, the difference was small (which was

quite true), and that an additional advantage obtained by going

first-class was that "it entitled you to sleeping accommodation." (I

can swear to the six words quoted.) "Yankee cuteness" had made me

suspicious by this time, besides I had never known the Pullman beds

included in first-class fare, so I wrote again, and asked if he meant

what his letter said. Driven into a corner he explained what I had

previously known, viz. that only first-class passengers _could_ use

the Pullman, but had to pay extra for it. I wrote back indignantly

and said the statement in his first letter was analogous, and equally

truthful, to the following supposititious case. A meets his friend B

in a town. A points to a jeweller's shop, and tells B he is

"entitled" to anything in it. So he is if he pays for it, and it was

the same with the Pullman car!

We reached New Orleans in due course. It is in latitude 30° while New

York is 41°. It is thus much further south, about 1600 miles by rail.

It is not a healthy place, the yellow fever often makes great

ravages, but I heard nothing of it. I was only there one day, so can

say very little about the town. The sun was very powerful and I did

not care to roam. There are many French, and they had imported Cafés

on their national plan, with seats outside. Of course the coloured

race was numerous, and as a consequence the semi-coloured also. Many

ladies and women of this latter class are very handsome; I saw some

beautiful faces among them. The "Yankees" are not in the ascendant so

far south, and as a consequence the habits of the people are more

courteous. The large French element there also conduces thereto.

Another thing struck me, the inhabitants seem to take life easier,

there is not the rush and drive one meets with in New York. As

regards the people I should not object to live there, but the climate

is a sad drawback. The winters are much pleasanter than met with

north, but the summers must be far worse, and the yellow fever is a

sad ogre.

The principal street is a grand one, very wide, with trees on the

Boulevard plan. In this respect it far surpasses Broadway in New

York,[3] while in buildings it is equal to it. I also found New

Orleans much cheaper, the dollar commands more. I was only there

about sixteen hours, and then left by the Southern Pacific line _en

route_ for California.

As I said before, for this part of the journey I had only emigrant

class tickets. The distance is very great, right across the

continent, and to San Francisco, where I was bound, some 2900 miles.

It was with no little anxiety, therefore, I stepped into and

inspected the said emigrant class carriage, in which I was to spend

some five days and nights. The interior will be better understood

after I have described the general plan and principle of American

trains.

Here in England each carriage is divided into compartments, distinct

from each other, holding 6, 8, or 10 passengers. In America there are

no compartments whatever. Whether first, second, or emigrant class,

the carriage is open from end to end. In the middle, connecting the

doors at either extremity (there are no doors at the sides), runs an

open space, about three feet wide, and the seats are on either side

of this passage, and placed at right angles to it. Each seat holds

two people, the seats are placed in front of one another on both

sides the whole length of the carriage or car, except a certain space

at either end, of which presently. When the passengers are seated

they thus all face the engine, but the back of each seat works on a

pivot at its foot, so that the said back can be placed on either side

of the seat. In other words, you can thus sit either with your face

or back to the engine. This is a great convenience, for, if the

carriage is not crowded and two people can occupy two seats, by

placing the backs different ways, you can put your legs on the

opposite cushion. But it is a greater convenience still in the

emigrant cars, for in them a board can be drawn out to fill up the

vacancy between the seats, and you thus have space for a bed. In the

emigrant carriages each passenger is entitled to space for his bed at

night, and it is thus arranged. The two seats hold four in the day.

At night two of the said four vacate, and occupy a space above, made

large enough for two beds. This is the arrangement when the car is

full, which is not often the case, but otherwise one sleeps above and

one below. I was fortunate. Sometimes I occupied the upper, sometimes

the lower space, but I never had to share either with another. The

above arrangement, viz. spaces for beds, is only in the emigrant

cars. In the first class, and in the second if there is one (for a

second class carriage is the exception), there is no board to pull

out to fill up the vacancy between the seats, nor is there any space

for beds above, so that really, unless you go first and pay the

nightly charge for the made bed in the Pullman car, you are far

better off in the emigrant carriage than in either of the others.

The spaces alluded to above at both ends of the carriages are

occupied in one case by a stove and reservoir for iced water, in the

other by a lavatory and retiring closet. The long journeys in America

_could_ not be undertaken without these conveniences.

In front of the door at each end of the carriage is a small platform,

which joins on to and very nearly touches the adjoining one of the

next car. The conductor or guard can thus at any time go from one end

of the train to the other. So in fact can anybody else, though not

permitted into a higher class than paid for. There is no difficulty

whatever in going from one carriage to another. I have often seen

children do it with the train running at full speed. The said

platforms, except the passing space, are railed in, and it is often

very pleasant to stand out there in the day time and see the scenery,

often at night too, when it is hot, for the draught then is very

welcome.

The seats in the emigrant cars have no cushions, they are plain wood.

The passengers sit on the pillows or mattresses brought with them,

and there is thus no hardship in it. The other carriages have all

cushioned seats. The Pullman cars are models of luxury. In some

trains there are two Pullmans; one used as a drawing-room in the day

and for beds at night, the other for meals. The lavatories in these

are most commodious, one for men and one for ladies, and in every

possible way the comfort of the passengers is studied. You have your

meals at any hour you like, the _cuisine_ is good, and all kinds of

wine are on the list. You pass the day reading or writing, though the

last is not easy, perfect as the springs are. You smoke, when you

will, in a luxurious smoking-room. You can wander from one end of the

train to the other, and at night you have a perfect bed. What more

can one desire? Under such circumstances, a week's journey is no

hardship; but, and it is an important "but" to many, to "do" America

in this way is very expensive. The fare is high, the meals dear;

thus, to cross the continent in this wise, costs perhaps 40_l._

I advise none but the rich to visit America with travel in view. But

those to whom "money is no object," as the saying goes, can wander in

the States with more comfort and luxury than anywhere in the world.

The American rail-cars, in their construction and arrangements, being

so different to ours, it is well worth while to consider which is the

better. I do not hesitate for a moment to award them the palm, in

their phraseology, "far and away." In the first place, in such

carriages the murders, thefts, and outrages, we occasionally hear of

in England, are simply impossible. I will not dwell on this point, it

must be so obvious. Secondly, you can quench your thirst, when you

will, in whatever class you are; here you cannot do it at all. More,

you can wash, you can retire for any purpose, while here, the

suffering both sexes often go through, for want of such conveniences,

is often very great, sometimes permanently injurious. Thirdly, you

are not boxed up in a confined space in their cars as you are in our

carriages. You can have change, choose your society, stretch your

legs, go outside, and all this necessarily makes the time pass

pleasantly. That all this is so, every one must allow. Should we not

then do well to copy their plan? The conservative feeling, prevalent

with some, that _because_ "our plan is ours it cannot be beaten, and

we'll stick to it," is so contemptible. Let each nation, I say, learn

from the other in every way. Perfection is not human, there is always

room for improvement, and narrow-minded is the individual who, puffed

up with conceit for his own or national attributes, fails to

recognize it outside. I know, of course, that to change our plan of

rail carriages must in any case take many years, but some might be

built on the new plan, and the change tried gradually. If any like

privacy, a carriage on the old build would meet the want.

But beyond the carriages there is nothing regarding American

railroads equal to, or as good, as our system. Here in England the

lowest tariff, the third class, is fixed by Act of Parliament. Every

line is compelled to provide traffic at a given rate, viz. one penny

per mile (parliamentary fares), and thus the poor can always travel

cheaply, or the rich either if they choose to go third class. In

America, as far as I could ascertain, there is no Government

interference at all in this respect, and each railroad company can

charge what fares it pleases. The consequence is that on some lines

the rates are simply prohibitory.

In England we have first, second, and third class, to suit the means

of passengers. In America some lines have first and second class,

some first and emigrant class, but some again only first! The second

class avails nothing for long distances, inasmuch as you have no room

to lie down, and if you go second, as I said above, you cannot, even

if ready to pay the charge, get a bed in the Pullman car. You are

therefore, unless prepared to go emigrant, practically driven into

the first class. On those lines where there is only first class, you

are, of course, still more helpless, and can simply elect between

rail and any other conveyance. I later bought a ranch in Colorado,

close to a railroad. On that line there was only first class. I there

wrote the following letter to a local newspaper, and I give it here,

as it elucidates much of what I have said.

A RANCHMAN'S PLAINT.

_To the Editor of the_ DAILY GAZETTE.

Sir,--I am an Englishman. I have lately bought a

ranch near a station on the Denver and Rio Grande

Railway. I naturally thought when I did so, that

being near one of the iron roads would be a great

advantage in many ways, but experience has shown

me I was mistaken, inasmuch as the rates for

passengers, goods, and live stock are so high, no

benefit whatever is conferred by the said

railroad.

First, as to the said rates. On all the railroads

I have seen in all the many countries I have

visited, and I have travelled much, there are

different classes for passengers. Here, on this

railroad, there is only one, and that first-class.

Where the justice, nay the policy, of this, even

in the interests of the railroad? Is it fair to

make a poor man travel in a velvet bedecked and

gilded carriage and pay for the same, when economy

being the one important point to him, he would

rather pay less for ruder accommodation? Of course

the only object the railroad directors can have by

this unique and singular arrangement is to

increase the receipts. But does it do so? I say

no; many times no. How empty the carriages are! In

my own case, had there been a cheap class, I

should, since I have been here, have once or twice

a week visited Denver or the Springs. Instead of

perhaps twenty trips, I have made three (my family

none), and the last time there were only two other

passengers with me in the carriage. None of the

ranchmen around use the rail. If they have to go

anywhere on the line they drive, and all say it is

far cheaper to do so and pay livery for the team

than incur such high rates. Is not this an

absurdity? The rate is, I believe, six cents a

mile, which is just about three times that for

the third class in England. A railway should

increase and foster travel. It always does so. No;

one exception: the D. and R. G. Railway does not.

In the same way as individuals use their legs,

horses, anything in preference to the rail, so it

is on this line found cheaper to cart crops to

market, and it is so done. Another result: crops

don't pay here because the cost of taking them to

market is so high. So not only does the railroad

not get the existing crops, it also forfeits all

which would be grown were the rates reasonable.

Truly the policy figured is a strange one and

exemplifies exactly the best way "not to do it."

But I dare not trespass more on your space, or I

could enlarge greatly on other singular facts.

How, because there is competition in one case and

not in the other, short distances cost more for

both passengers and goods than longer ones. How it

was (I am not sure as to the present) cheaper to

take a through ticket when the destination was an

intermediate station and get out at that

station--if you could! These and much more are not

peculiar to the railroad under discussion, though

peculiar to America. The whole system of railroads

in America puzzles me. With much that other

countries might with advantage copy, there are

crying evils which, were public opinion more

expressed, could never be tolerated. But enough

for to-day. If you care to insert this I may write

again. E. M.

The American carriages have not the class painted on them as ours.[4]

How you are supposed to know which is which, beats my comprehension.

Having settled yourself with all your small parcels, you suddenly

find you are not in your right class, and have all the trouble of

changing!

When the train stops, be it for meals or otherwise, you are not

warned beforehand, and no notice is given when about to start again.

Not even a whistle when it _does_ start! How different this from our

plan, or the one on the Continent. The object in the States would

seem to be to try and leave passengers behind. This uncertainty also

diminishes the advantage of stoppages, especially when meals are in

the case.

I omitted, when describing the carriages, to dilate on the advantages

of the stoves. These warm the cars most thoroughly. With the

thermometer outside 20° or 25° below zero, the interior will be, say,

60°! Here the most we get is a foot-warmer, and must needs shiver!

The Americans certainly score against us in all as regards the

carriages and their comforts.

In England there are porters at all stations. In the States there are

very few. Luggage once "checked," that is registered, you have no

further trouble with it, but you will find no one to help you with

what you keep by you. Changing trains with mattresses, bedding,

baskets with food, &c., &c., is often very difficult. You carry your

belongings, or rather as much as you can, to the new train, there is

nothing to indicate the class, so you place them in any carriage, and

rush back for the rest, doubtful how much may be stolen at either

end. Perhaps three trips are necessary, and you know not how long

before the new train starts. No one thinks of helping you. Darkness,

possibly, adds to your difficulties, for you can't find your last

carriage, or the train you came in has been shunted. You are lucky

if, after gymnastic performances with luggage which is a new

experience, and wishing, as no porters exist, barrows were supplied,

for then you could carry all in one trip, the new train has not

started, without you, but with a share of your belongings!

I have seen ladies with children, emigrant women with their little

all in peril, nearly insane in such cases. I have done their porter

work more than once myself, and broken my shins in doing it. It is

very shameful that it should be so; more shameful the fact that if

on railroads, in such cases, you ask for information or help, the

chances are you are answered _à la_ Yankee, i.e. rudely, and no

assistance or information given you. Oh, this beastly want of

courtesy in America, how I did loathe it!

The rail wars in the States are a grand feature--grand in the sense

that they produce great results, some of them very absurd. One line

tries to swamp the other by lowering its rates; the other retaliates,

and quotes still lower figures. The first comes down more still, and

the second follows suit. This goes on for months, to the advantage of

the public, to the ruin of the lines. At last the _reductio_ is truly

_ad absurdum._ 1500 miles for $5! Then the companies agree, and,

presto, the rate is $50!! On a line there may be competition at

either end, not in the middle, e.g. the Denver and Rio Grande Railway

above. Then is it cheaper to take a ticket right through than for

half the distance, and get out at your destination if you can, for

they often try to prevent your doing so! The Americans may be, nay,

they are, "cute," but common sense would be more to the purpose in

cases like the above.

Cut-rate-offices exist in all the large towns. The meaning of the

term is an office where rail tickets can be bought under the existing

rates. This is accomplished legitimately, and also by fraud; the

first, by the fact that the companies think it worth their while to

give such agents a commission on tickets sold, and they allow you a

portion of such commission; the second, by selling you, often at a

large reduction, the return ticket of another, who on arrival has

found it unnecessary, and sold it for what he could get. As such

tickets are not transferable, you have, after buying such, to

personate on the return journey the original possessor, and sign his

name. But the Yankees think nothing of this. Thank goodness, all

Americans are not Yankees!

The object "far west" being population, emigrant carriages are

supplied westward, in order that this said poor class shall go

cheaply; but having arrived, it is wiser to keep them there, and

_ergo_, if they return they must do so first, or at least

second-class, for there are no emigrant fares back, i.e. eastward. I

presume they are supposed to make so much money by even a short

sojourn in the west, that economy can be no object on their return!

In England luggage is not registered, why, I never understood, for

there is practically no safety in our plan. The boxes are labelled

for their destination, and are thus safe so far; but if from any

cause you are not then by to claim them, any one can walk off with

any portion, and consequently the smallest delay on arrival is

dangerous. Strange that losses are not more frequent. _For_, or _on_

the Continent, it _is_ registered through, and you get a receipt for

the number of packages. So far good, but if you are obliged to stop

_en route_, you cannot obtain the luggage or any part of it. Only at

its destination can it be claimed by the production of the receipt.

The Continental plan is better than ours, but inferior to the

American. They use brass labels with numbers; one is attached to the

package, one given to the owner. Presenting this label, he can claim

the baggage it represents at any time _en route_. The said labels

are convenient enough, thin brass plates about half an inch square,

and can easily be carried in a purse. The corresponding label is

attached to the package in an excellent way. It is fastened to a

leather strap, some six inches long, and in this, at the opposite

end, is a slit; the strap is passed through the handle of portmanteau

or carpet-bag, or under the cord of any box, the label passed through

the said slit, and the strap drawn tight. It cannot possibly come

off. On the label attached is the destination besides the number. On

arrival there it is kept until claimed by the production of the

corresponding ticket. It is by far the best arrangement for luggage I

have ever seen.

Before arriving at any large town the train is boarded by what are

called express-men. If you deliver to one of these your labels he

gives you a receipt for them, and telling him where your baggage is

to be sent, you will receive it there, without fail, in a couple of

hours. There is no risk whatever in doing so, and the plan is very

convenient; but as regards their charges the said express-men are

most extortionate. They think nothing of fifty cents for each

article, however short the distance may be, but half that amount if

the things are few and large, one quarter if many and small, is

enough, and when they find you won't give more, they agree.

Still you are then not quite safe. Having been "done" once or twice

by express-men to a considerable amount, I, on one occasion, when

leaving Denver, the capital of Colorado, made a bargain with an

express-man to take my baggage to the rail for a certain sum. He

brought it to the station, delivered to me what I supposed was all,

and I had it duly "checked," as described. I then tendered him his

payment; he asked half as much again, saying the amount agreed to was

not enough. I objected. He replied, "I kept back one thing till you

paid me; it is in the waggon outside, and I shall not give it up." I

appealed to the rail officials; they answered curtly that it was no

business of theirs, and that I had better go to the police. This was

impossible, for the train was just leaving. I had my son with me,

and I thought I could take it from his waggon by force, but there

were many of his class by, and I did not fancy a free fight. "Pay the

money," said some one, "take his number and report him to the

superintendent of police," and I thought this the better way and did

so. I did report the case fully, and offered to return to Denver to

prove it by my son's evidence, but the said superintendent was not

even courteous enough to reply. The express-men are licensed by the

police, and accountable to them, but many told me, e'er I wrote, I

should get no redress, for unless prepared to spend money in the case

I should not get a hearing. The law on every point is most lax in the

States, for bribery and corruption are acknowledged on every side to

be the rule, and cases promising no profit are passed over. Still I

must add the above was an exceptional case, I having always found the

express-men act up to their bargains. I think, therefore, a bargain

made with them will be completed.

But all this does not advance the journey from New Orleans to San

Francisco. If you look them up on the map you will see how far they

are apart--some 2500 miles as the crow flies, and by rail, say, 3000

miles. You traverse the states of Louisiana, Texas, a little of New

Mexico, Arizona, and California. A state in America is, speaking

generally and leaving out the smallest, as large as England, some

much larger, twice as big. Thus it was no small journey; it took me

five days' and nights' incessant travel by rail. But what must the

distances in America have been before the days of railroads. Here in

England, between the old waggon era and the rail time, we had an

interregnum of coaches, which for speed were the best in the world.

Thus from one end of the kingdom to the other was then only an affair

of three or four days. It was different in the United States. As far

as I could ascertain there never had been a coaching-time, except for

short distances. The long ones were done by waggons, at the rate of,

say, fifteen miles a day, the passengers sleeping in or under the

said vehicles at night. From New York to California at that time took

a good six months. It is now done by the direct route in something

less than that number of days.

Louisiana, the first state we traversed on leaving New Orleans, is an

uninteresting and swampy country, and must be very unhealthy. The

vegetation is luxurious and semi-tropical. Mosquitoes exist in

swarms. Some of the jungle we passed through (it has that character)

reminded me of the jungles in the south-east of Bengal. Louisiana

cannot be a good state for emigrants.

Texas, the next, is very different. No swamps, indeed not much water.

Vast and interminable plains of grass, very thinly inhabited, and

almost entirely destitute of trees. The soil in many parts seemed

good; the climate, though hot, is not bad, and millions of emigrants

might find homes here. This is the largest cattle-breeding state, and

the ranches there are of enormous size. I have said much on this head

previously, so we need not linger here.

New Mexico comes next. We only traversed a corner of this; it was all

desert, and from this point, all through Arizona and well into

California, there was nothing else as far as the eye could reach on

either side but sand, sand, desert sand, and not a drop of water. If

I remember right, we were nearly two days and nights traversing it. I

was astonished beyond measure; I had read much about the United

States, and I knew that there was a desert around Salt Lake, the

abode of the Mormons, but I had never heard of any other. When later,

both from what I saw and what was told me, I found that a very

considerable part of the States is desert, I wondered more that such

a great and important fact is not at all known in England, and that

none of the numerous writers on America have brought it forward.[5]

In the following, I may in one or two cases be open to correction,

but substantially I know I am right, for most cases are the result of

my own experience.

A great, if not the best part of Arizona, Nebraska, Nevada, and Utah

are mostly desert.

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

A small part of Daho and Texas may, I believe, be included, but my

information on these is from hearsay.

There may be much more than the above. I cannot doubt, from what I

have seen in the parts I traversed, that there is, but the above is

enough to justify my assertion that "a very considerable part of the

States is desert."

I would I could give a map here of the States with all the deserts

painted yellow. No map extant delineates these vast wastes. I am

afraid to hazard a guess what proportion the said painted parts would

bear to the whole, but enough, I am sure, to make the reader wonder

as I did.

How enormous these deserts are may be judged of by the fact that the

four first states in the list above are together roughly about one

third larger than France ... and that the far greater part of them,

to say the least, are howling wastes!

A great part of these vast tracts are as truly desert as those in

Africa. Sand and nothing but sand; water would have no effect as

regards fertilization, and, besides, there _is_ no water. But other

parts are different. Not more tempting to the eye, what looks like

sand has vitality in it. Water produces a wonderful transformation,

and crops, trees--everything will grow with its aid. Thus, in this

better class of desert and in the favoured spots where water is

procurable, the said blank waste becomes a smiling spot. Such is the

desert the Mormons have fertilized, such, as a rule, the deserts in

California. Much of the splendid fruit that state produces has its

birthplace in such localities.

Where the deserts of the last-mentioned kind are found, did anything

like a moderate rainfall happen yearly, they, of course, would not

exist. But rain in these localities is very rare, as indeed it is all

over the world in such spots. The want of rain, I conceive, _makes_

the desert, and the arid waste responds by keeping off the rain. It

is well known vegetation conduces to rainfall, and that a country

thickly wooded, when cleared, has less rain after. I have myself seen

striking instances of this. On the other hand, vegetation and rain

increase simultaneously. It _may_ be, therefore, that, in the course

of very many years, a portion of the American deserts will disappear,

for where the soil has any vitality in it, and water is procurable,

artificial means will bring vegetation, which again, little by

little, will increase the rainfall; until at last (it may take

centuries) the now said desert tracts will thrive with the rain from

heaven alone.

While on the subject of rain, I would mention some curious facts.

From what we know of the climate in different European localities (or

rather let us confine ourselves to Great Britain, where the western

parts, especially Ireland, near to and exposed to the effects of the

Atlantic, have an increased rainfall), we (by "we" I mean others,

like me, ignorant of meteorology) would think the western Pacific

coast of America, with that boundless ocean (far wider than the

Atlantic, and stretching across to Asia) in front would fare

likewise. But it is _not_ so. In fact quite the reverse. On the

greater part of that coast, up to about latitude 42° north, the

rainfall is exceedingly scanty, so much so that very little

vegetation will thrive without artificial watering, and though north

of 42° there is much more, it is still less than on our western

coasts. The deficiency cannot arise, except very partially, from lack

of vegetation, for though the said coast, south of 42°, is very bare,

not far back exists a high and well-clad mountain range.[6]

What is the cause I know not, perhaps meteorologists do, I only state

the fact. But more: though not to the same degree, all the large

tract west of the Rocky Mountains has a deficient rainfall, and

artificial irrigation is more or less resorted to everywhere. I

shall have more to say as to how it is done when, later, I describe

the Antelope Valley.