I left the description of the journey when in the desert, and now

return there. As the line enters the State of Arizona it begins to

descend. It had ascended previously, which had made the heat

bearable. But a few hours of descent made a woful change. Coats,

waistcoats were discarded by the men, while the female passengers

followed suit as far as they could. No use! we all gasped and panted

and used many pocket-handkerchiefs. The temperature rose higher and

higher, and the night was the worst, for we were then at the lowest

point. Between Tucson and Yuma the heat was simply infernal. I

believe this tract is the bed of what, ages ago, was an inland sea;

anyhow it had all the appearance of it, and I was later told

geologists thought so too. It is, to say the least, very likely, for

Yuma, I heard, is several hundred feet below sea-level. The latitude

is 32½° north, a warm latitude in any case, but with desert for

hundreds of miles all round, with perhaps as low an elevation as

exists on earth, shut in on all sides so that not a breath of air can

get at it, what wonder that Yuma and all about there is hot? I have

experienced great heat in many parts of the world, but Suez, the Red

Sea, the hottest parts of India, are a joke to what I felt there. I

have since heard it has the reputation of being the hottest place on

earth!

Between Yuma and the head of the Gulf of California is about eighty

miles. It would not therefore be difficult to let the water of the

ocean into this dry bed, and make a large sea there, the same as they

propose to do in Northern Africa.

Yuma is on the boundary-line between the States of Arizona and

California, but it is some six hours further west by rail ere you

leave this supposed dry sea bed and begin to ascend. California had

been painted to me in such bright colours, both in England and

America, I could not, when daylight came the following morning, and

there was still nothing but desert, believe we were really there. But

so it was. We ascended for some hours, and the climate bettered as

we did so, until at last we could breathe once more, but the desert

was still there, and it was not till we came near Los Angeles, which

is some 150 miles beyond Yuma, that we began to encounter vegetation.

Los Angeles (the Angels) was so named by the Spaniards who founded

it. It is on the barren Pacific coast alluded to, but the soil is of

desert kind number two, that is, it has vitality in it, and water

makes it fertile. Thus by artificial means (for of rain there is very

little) the environs of the town are highly cultivated. Fruit is the

main product. The grapes are magnificent, so are the peaches, in

appearance at least, but they lack flavour. This defect is common to

that fruit all over California; but I need not enumerate each kind of

fruit grown, all that thrives both in temperate and semi-tropical

regions is found there, and, the peaches excepted, all first rate of

their kinds.

It was here I first appreciated the cheapness of fruit in California.

A big basket of splendid black grapes, which at the cheapest time in

London would cost say eight shillings, I bought there for a few

cents, say sixpence, and all other fruit in proportion.

I did not stay at Los Angeles; I was anxious to see my sons in the

Antelope Valley, and we were now nearing it. I omitted to mention

that while I was at New York, I received a letter from them, in it

they told me that I had been grossly deceived, and that the said

valley was, to repeat their words, "an out-and-out do." That nothing

could be done there, that I should never stay, &c., &c. Of course I

was much disappointed, but as they were there, I must join them, and

I determined to see for myself. Thus, in spite of their warning, I

had come to California.

A few miles from Los Angeles the country became bare again. No trees,

no vegetation, sand everywhere, with low hills, but they were sand

too. "Is all California like this?" I asked in despair of an

intelligent American near me. "Yes," he answered, "pretty nearly so,

south of San Francisco. North of that city there is rain and any

amount of vegetation." My after experience showed me he was right,

but he qualified his statement. The mountain range, which runs down

the middle of this great country, is, he told me, richly clad, and

any amount of vegetation exists on either side some miles from its

base. This, he explained to me, is partly due to the greater rainfall

there (the hills and the vegetation on them being the cause), partly

to the rivers and streams issuing from this mountainous region, and

fed by the melting snows. Along their course for miles into the

plains, the country is thus watered, in a measure naturally, partly

by artificial means. He also told me that the waste and desolate

country we were then traversing only wanted water to make it fertile.

We were very near the Antelope Valley by this time, and I asked him

if he knew it. "Of course I do," he replied, "you are not going there

are you?" I told him all I have told the reader. "Well, it might be

worse," he added, "there are quite a few there now, sent out by the

same man (I know him well) from the mother country, who would go away

to-morrow if they could, but they have spent their all to come, and

are now in a tarnation fix. You take my advice, don't you stop there.

Take your sons with you, and be off while you can." I asked him if

doing anything there was hopeless? "Not at all," he replied "_if_

you've got lots of money, and can import labour, which does not exist

there, _if_ you sink a lot of artesian wells (they run expensive),

and _if_ when sunk they prove a success (the last two have been

failures), _if_ you care to live in such a barren spot, and like a

hot climate and the fiery glare from the sand. I might add a few more

'ifs,' but I've said enough. Given water (the rain I guess would not

wet your pocket-handkerchief through six times in a twelvemonth), the

soil will grow most things, but then you see there _is_ no water, and

as for the artesian wells, when successful, they can each only

irrigate a small area; but here we are in the valley."

We had been passing through some deep cuttings lately, and had now

entered a vast plain bounded by distant hills. No trees of any kind

were in sight, the soil sand, but browner than most I had seen. Every

few feet was a little shrub, some two feet high, what I know not,

but a miserable specimen of vegetation, and besides this not a stalk

or leaf anywhere. A more miserable site I have never set eyes on. We

passed miles and miles, all the same, till we came to where I had

been told to have my letters sent, "Lancaster City"! The last two

miles before arrival, an attempt had certainly been made at

cultivation. A few acres of alfalfa (a productive American grassy

crop), some rye, Indian corn, vegetables, and what not. But the whole

area was not fifty acres, the cultivators inhabiting plank huts

alongside. The train stopped at the station, and lo! Lancaster City

lay around. It consisted of one decent-sized, two-storied building,

viz. the hotel, two stores, a saloon, and half a dozen huts. Not

another edifice, and the dreary plain described for miles and miles

around. This was the haven, the Eden, I had come some six thousand

miles to attain!

The hotel, quite close to the line, had an open verandah to the upper

story, and the rail in front had some thirty or more pairs of boots

and shoes apparently attached to the top bar. Still it could scarcely

be so, for only the soles were visible. Presently, as the train drew

up, some of the boots disappeared, and men took their place.

Gradually it became evident that each pair of soles represented an

individual, who lay luxuriously poised on the back legs of a chair,

with his feet up in the true American posture, which, however, mind

you, I in no way decry, being much given to it myself. I had

telegraphed to my sons to meet the train, and there they were as I

got out. But they were both so sunburnt I scarcely knew them. Luckily

the train stayed half-an-hour, so there was time to arrange matters.

I plied them with questions. The answers were all to the same effect,

viz. that the Antelope Valley (they had seen it from end to end) was

in every part as what lay before us. That there existed no hope of

doing anything in it, and that the only wise thing was to get away as

quick as possible. They told me that the same agent who had sent me

out, had also induced all the boot-owners in the verandah to come,

and that far the greater number would go away at once, had they the

means to do so. Also as to the last artesian wells being failures,

and this being so that all hope was gone. Every day or two a fresh

lot of victims arrived, and that none with means stayed above a few

hours. I mentioned the fruit specimens I had seen in London, they and

the bystanders laughed, and averred there was not any fruit in the

valley. They told me much more, which was all corroborated by several

who had come out of the hotel, and it was really only necessary to

look round to be convinced the Antelope Valley was in every sense a

miserable tract.

I determined to take my sons on with me by the train. They had

supposed I would do this, and were all ready. But there was a

difficulty. They had no money, and I had not enough, so I was obliged

to leave them there until I could send back funds from San Francisco.

I thus went on alone, bidding good-bye to the dreary Antelope Valley

for ever.

Night fell soon after, and next morning there was cultivation

around, together with enormous orchards of fruit. Soon we reached the

terminus on the splendid bay of San Francisco, and steamed across in

a ferry larger and even more luxurious than those at New York, which

I described.

So my journey was done, and I stood in the great western capital of

America, which so many have heard of, and so few, comparatively,

seen. "What have I come for?" I asked myself as I landed, and echo

answered "What?"

But San Francisco, if any city on earth does, deserves a chapter to

itself.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] These letters, I was told by my sons and others, were in no way

genuine.

[3] Broadway should be called Longway. It is very long; it is not at

all broad.

[4] In Belgium, not only are the classes distinguished by numbers,

but the carriages are painted different colours. This is the best

plan of all.

[5] This may be partly accounted for by the fact that the said

American deserts are all, or nearly all, on the west side of the

Rocky Mountains, and that this distant part of the States has not

hitherto been very much visited by Europeans.

[6] This is the great range of hills which runs, north and south,

pretty well through the whole 800 miles of latitude California

occupies. The vegetation on these mountains is luxurious, and some of

the forest-trees are of an incredible size. Much beautiful scenery

exists there.

CHAPTER IV.

San Francisco--Army and Navy--International Court--Pacific

coast--Californian ranch--Social customs--Good-bye, California!

No one, who has read so far, can think I am unduly prejudiced in

favour of America and the Americans. I have tried to write fairly,

and point out in what respects their institutions, habits, &c., excel

ours; but, on the other hand, I have criticized in no sparing

language what I consider are faults or peculiarities distasteful to

outsiders, and possibly there is more blame than praise in the

foregoing pages. If now, therefore, I write strongly in favour of the

great capital of Western America, it ought to be accepted as truth.

I have travelled much and seen many cities and towns in different

parts of the world, but I have seen nothing to equal San

Francisco--not in size of course, but in every respect which makes a

town a desirable residence.[7] Climate is the most important, so I

will dilate on that first. There is much about it that puzzles me,

and that I cannot explain. I leave the solution to others, and

confine myself to the facts. There are no extremes of temperature in

San Francisco, neither the days nor nights are ever either

uncomfortably hot or cold. In summer the usual temperature is warm

enough before noon to wear light clothing, but about one o'clock a

breeze sets in from the bay and the ocean which reduces the heat

considerably, and which sometimes blows stronger than is quite

pleasant. This is the only possible fault that any one can find in

the climate, and the said periodical wind only lasts for the three or

four midsummer months. Winter there differs but little from summer,

frost and snow are unknown, and inasmuch as in winter the said

periodical sea-wind is quite absent, I have heard many of the

inhabitants aver that winter is, in the daytime at least, warmer than

summer! Whether this be so or not, it is a fact the winter days are

very charming, for as a rule there is a total absence of clouds,

fogs, or mist, and the sun shines merrily in a bright blue sky from

sunrise to sunset. In that latitude (38°) the sun has considerable

power even in the winter. The want of rain on the Pacific coast,

south of latitude 42°, applies of course to San Francisco. I was

there about five weeks. It only rained twice, and not more than one

quarter of an hour each time. I stupidly forget what the yearly

rainfall is, but very small, I know. How odd, by the bye, are the

variations of rain in different parts of the world. Let us guess San

Francisco at ten inches, I doubt if it is so much. Here in England

put it down at thirty-two inches, though the west coast of Ireland

is, I expect, nearer fifty inches. In the tropics, say, 130 inches,

though I have been in one place where 300 fell. But there is a spot

in Bengal which has the largest rainfall in the world, viz. 600

inches. Fancy, fifty feet of rain! The place is a hill-station, by

name "Cherra Poonjee," and the country is so steep none of the rain

can lie on it.

With so little rain, fine weather at San Francisco is nearly

continual the year round. The air is very dry. It is seldom too hot,

never too cold; there are no dark, gloomy days. What more can any one

desire? Verily it is, without exception, by far the finest climate on

earth.

But there is an odd feature. The above is the climate of San

Francisco; it is _not_ the climate of a dozen miles off, either

north, south, or east (the west is of course the ocean). For

instance, Sacramento, a large town lying north-east about fifty

miles, is a very hot place, and abounds with mosquitoes, which are

unknown in the capital.

San Francisco resembles New York in the paucity of cabs. Here again

nearly every one travels in the street cars. Horses are used in a few

of them, but with most the motive power is steam at one end of the

route, which works an endless rope. This wire rope runs on rollers

under ground between the rails, and there is an orifice from end to

end in the roadway above the said rope. Through this said orifice or

narrow slit, a pair of pinchers, connected with the car, descends and

nips the rope, which runs continually. The said pinchers are made to

grip and loose the rope as required.

When you first see these monster cars, with no apparent motive power,

rushing about the roads and streets and climbing the steep hills of

the town, the effect is very strange. When I first did so I made sure

they were driven by electricity. The said cars are of great size, and

most luxuriously and conveniently fitted up; with excellent springs

and smooth rails, they glide over the ground at about eight miles an

hour, with no perceptible motion. A ride in them is most enjoyable.

Market Street is the principal one. It is a noble thoroughfare, at

least twice the width of Broadway in New York, with trees on either

side, and very wide pavements. The buildings, mostly stone, cast into

the shade anything we can show in London, and nowhere on the

Continent have I seen such a main artery to any town. The Palace

Hotel in it is by far the largest and finest in America, and even

those we have here in Northumberland Avenue are more or less small in

comparison. It is an enormous, very lofty quadrangle, with inner

verandahs on each story, built round a spacious court, which is

glazed in at top of the building. I forget how many hundred bed-rooms

it contains. The interior is also a model of luxury and comfort. In

every department money has been lavishly spent, and the result is

that the Palace Hotel is possibly the largest and best in the world.

The charges also, considering the comforts offered, are by no means

high. I believe it was built by one man out of the enormous fortune

he accumulated in the first gold days, but what is the result of the

speculation I could not ascertain.

There is a large and very beautiful park outside the town. Trees,

shrubs, and flowers from all parts of the world are collected

therein, while for those that require tropical temperature huge glass

buildings are provided. All testifies to a luxurious growth, and the

smooth, closely-shaven, mossy grass is of a picturesque bright

emerald green. It is all artificial! Neither grass, shrubs, flowers,

or trees would grow at all did they depend on rain alone. Everything

is irrigated. Below the surface a network of waterpipes runs in all

directions with taps available everywhere. I was much struck by the

way the turf is watered. The water is forced with great power through

minute orifices in the large splay metal end of a hose, ascends some

thirty or forty feet, and falls exactly in the form of very fine

rain; thus every blade of grass is moistened. Wonderful indeed is the

effect as you stand at the park entrance and compare the scene

outside and within. The dry, baked soil, innocent of vegetation on

the one hand, the luxurious growth of many lands combined on the

other, interspersed with a green sward you long to fling yourself

down and roll on!

The Bay of San Francisco is the finest harbour in the world. The

navies of all nations could congregate and manoeuvre in it. It is

simply a huge inland salt-water lake communicating with the ocean.

There is only one entrance, the Golden Gates, possibly one-third of a

mile wide. It is commanded by fortifications, built on the rocks on

either side, but these being stone appeared to me ill adapted to the

enormous forces gunnery can exert to-day. Just outside the Golden

Gates, lashed by the waters of the Pacific, is a large solitary rock,

called the Seal Rock. Hundreds of seals live on it, finding their

food in the ocean. No one is allowed to molest them, but the

fishermen on the coast cannot regard them with favour, for they must

devour tons of fish daily. The said rock, covered with seals, some

sleeping, some playing, rolling off into the water, and clambering

out of it, is a very curious and characteristic sight as you enter

the bay.

Living in San Francisco is very cheap as regards the cost for food.

Fruit, as I have said, is far cheaper there than anywhere in the

world. It is quite incredible what a few pence will procure in that

way. Enough of splendid grapes, apricots, greengages, currants,

strawberries, and what not to last three or four people several days.

The price of meat too is very low. Mutton or beef, which costs here

in England say 10_d._, per pound, can be had there for 3_d._ to 4_d._

Vegetables are the same. Bread is cheap too, say three-quarters the

price it commands here. Thus very little will keep body and soul

together in San Francisco, but outside bare necessaries in the way of

food, most things are dear. Groceries are about the same cost as in

England. Furniture, and the many things required in a house, are all

much dearer, but this of course only affects the poor in a measure.

There are no beggars, no very poor, in San Francisco, for labour is

in demand; the climate necessitates but a small outlay for fuel and

clothes; and as for food, what better meal than bread and grapes, the

latter to be had almost for the asking.

San Francisco is a very cosmopolitan town. All nationalities are to

be found there. In the first gold fever days crowds poured in from

all parts of the world, and they or their descendants are there

still. Perfect as San Francisco is as a city, it is not thirty years

since a small fishing village alone stood there. How such a perfect

town has been erected in the time is truly a wonder, more wonderful

still that in so many respects it should excel other capitals.

There are curious stories told of those gold-fever days. How law and

order there was none. A man there at that time held his life by a

frail tenure, viz. only as long as he could himself take care of it--

"The good old rule, the simple plan,

That they should take who have the power,

And they should keep who can,"

held in California at that time. Later, as San Francisco enlarged, as

the first attempts to put down violence and bloodshed were made,

gambling in the gold stocks and mines assumed huge proportions. New

mines, or new water-courses rich in gold dust, came forward daily.

Shares often attained one hundred times their original value in a

week. Beggars became rich, the millionaire a pauper in the same time.

We shudder when we read of a suicide at "Monte Carlo" once or twice

in the season. At the time of which I write there were often two or

three at San Francisco in a day! That it should be so, was perhaps

natural, for never, I believe, in this world's history were there

such violent and sudden ups and downs as California then witnessed.

While I was at San Francisco an English man-of-war came into the bay.

She was an object of great interest, and crowds flocked on board to

see her--the result a wholesome appreciation of England's naval

power. The fighting power of the United States at sea is very

limited. She has really no navy to speak of. Odd that it should be

so, but it is no less a fact. Congress is well aware of this, and

admits it. But it will not be long thus, for the Americans realize

how truly helpless they are in this way, and have commenced to remedy

the defect as fast as they can. The United States, almost as much as

England, need fear no foes except from over the water, but her

position to-day in that respect is a sad one. Did war occur between

Great Britain and the States, there is not a town on her sea-board

which could not be annihilated by British men-of-war. America,

isolated as she is, need fear no European or Asiatic convulsions, and

the time is distant, if it ever come, that Canada, without England's

support, though her neighbour, will be able to cope with her in the

field. But to give her a voice among nations, a navy is a necessity,

and, as I have said, she has now fully realized that fact.

Of the United States' army I can say but little, for I saw but little

of it. That little I was not favourably impressed with. No one who

recalls the war between the North and South, can doubt the material

is at hand, the question is whether the best is made of it. The

physique of the American (national physique can only be spoken of

generally) is perhaps not equal to the physique of some European

nations, still the inferiority, if it exists, is slight, and physique

has not so much to say in battle now as in times gone by. A soldier

is more of a machine to-day than he was then. Courage given, it is

discipline, coolness under fire, self-reliance, all teachable

qualities, which makes the individual valuable. Has the American

soldier these qualities in perfection? I rather doubt it from the

little I saw. I have trained soldiers myself, and from rough

materials (I raised a cavalry regiment of Albanians during the

Crimean War, and previously served with the native army in India), so

I speak with experience.

While armies and navies of large dimensions are necessities for

nations to-day, is it always to be so? Because one nation, as

Germany, has bloated armaments, must others have the same? Is there

to be no limit to the fighting-power each nation must have on hand,

with the waste of labour, the misery, the poverty entailed on the

masses thereby? Cannot international arbitration supersede the roar

of the cannon, the brute force which now decides the differences of

nations? The Almighty has made man a reasoning animal, and yet in

spite thereof the ultimate resort is senseless slaughter. Shame to

the age that it should be so! Why cannot Cobden's great idea of an

international Court, to decide national disputes, be carried out? The

difficulties in its way are, I believe, more imaginary than real. I

have thought on this matter so long, and most willingly would I lay

down my life to-morrow to see the attempt made. Suppose two or three

powerful nations, say France, England, and one other, commenced it.

At the request of _either_ of two nations disputing, both

should be called on for the facts, and the judgment given. The

powers composing the Court should be bound by united action and

force of arms to compel obedience to their mandate. The Court once

formed would issue invitations to all other powers to join, that

is, to appoint members and delegate them to the said Council. Those

kingdoms that _did_ join would realize the advantage that their

representatives would form part of the deciding body in any case in

which they were directly or indirectly interested, while those that

held aloof would lack this benefit, and yet be amenable to the

decision, if the opponents in any quarrel asked for the judgment of

the said Court. What nation would eventually hold aloof? Verily none,

I believe, for though in any possible case it _might_ be that the

establishment of such a Court was not approved of, yet once

constituted, to keep out of it would necessarily be a losing game.

The only way that any power could keep clear, and still hope to hold

its own, would be by holding fighting forces in hand equal to, or

superior, to the combined power of all the nations forming the Court,

which would be simply impossible.

Such a Court once established would increase in numbers quickly,

until the whole civilized world had joined, and then war, among the

said civilized nations, would be at an end, or rather, if there was

war, it would be the many against the one, a justifiable, a quick,

decisive war, with only one possible ending. The first would probably

be the first and last!

Then would armies be reduced to the small dimensions necessary to

enforce order in each country. Then would the sufferings, the

dreadful horrors entailed by war, cease. Then would the millions

sterling of expenditure on bloated armaments, representing

incalculable labour wasted, come to an end, and thus allow of light

taxation. Then would there be food for all, and, as a consequence of

less want, less crime. Then could great works, benefiting all

mankind, be executed. Then would man progress as he has never done

yet. In a word, the millennium, at present a religious myth, would

then be realized!

Oh! that abler pens than mine, that some great statesman, would take

this subject in hand. That the press would agitate it, that nations

would _try_ and carry it out, not on the rude outlines I have given,

so faulty in all but intention, but on the collective wisdom of the

great and wise on earth. If it failed, what harm? If it succeeded,

what millions yet unborn would bless their efforts!

As I write I see that the great European Powers are about to deliver

an ultimatum to Greece, backed with force if disregarded, to stay her

warlike preparations against Turkey and disarm. Of the _wisdom_ of

the step, both in the interests of Greece and the said great Powers,

there can be but one opinion, viz. that it is well. But of the

_right_ so to act on the part of the Powers, of the justice thereof,

I do not think there can be the same unanimity in the affirmative. I

for one think the Powers are in no way justified. Were Greece a great

kingdom instead of a very little one, they would not do so. The fact

of her being weak can be no argument in favour of the course taken.

When France wantonly tried to invade Germany some years back, there

was quite as much, nay more, reason for united action to restrain

her. But such an idea was never mooted, simply because France is a

great Power. As things are, and always have been, any nation can, and

does, make war on the most frivolous pretexts, often wars of

aggression and conquest on no pretext at all. How often has England

done so! What right, except conquest, have we to the whole of

Hindustan which we hold to-day? How would England, or any great

Power, have brooked interference such as is exercised in the case of

Greece now? No. As things are among civilized nations to-day, I see

not how the action of the powers in this case can be defended, except

on the score of expediency, for, in truth, the interference is most

unjust and arbitrary.

But what is wrong now would have been right had an international

court been previously convened, and had Turkey asked for arbitration.

What is taking place to-day, and the result, if the Powers are firm,

viz. the avoidance of a bloody war, and the risk of other nations

being drawn into it, Europe possibly in a few months in a blaze--all

this evil set aside, by the action of the many against the one, is

surely an example in favour of an international Court to settle

national disputes.

Arbitration _has_ made progress in nationalistic public favour during

the last few decades. But, alas! it is only when both disputants sue

for it that it is exercised. As I have said, my idea is that the

proposed Court being formed at the request of one of the parties,

judgment should be given. If neither applied, then let them fight it

out. But this last, I think, would be rare, and more, I think many

will agree with me, that when in a few years the advantages of the

Court would be recognized by all nationalities, and its members were

consequently many, they would with general sanction enact that _all_

national disputes should be laid before them for decision.

Such are my crude ideas on this all momentous subject. There is none

on earth with a tithe of its importance. Will international

arbitration ever be an accomplished fact? I think yes for the

following reasons:--

Much as it argues degradation in man, or want of even common sense

if he allows the present state of things to continue, it _has_ lasted

for all time, and may well, therefore, march yet awhile. But there

are forces at work which will compel him, sooner or later, to ponder

the subject. I think possibly the progress of Socialism will one day

cause the masses to refuse to fight, and lay down their lives for the

ambition, the purposes, of the few. But if this fail, and it is, I

admit, only a possibility, there is still looming a more potent and

likely hindrance to war in the wonderful power of attack over the

power of defence. Already, by the use of torpedoes (still in their

infancy) the largest iron-clads can be destroyed by two or three men

in a small boat. Can we suppose that invention in this respect will

stay where it is? In a few years it may well be that either in this

direction or some other we wot not of, the whole of a national fleet

will be in the power of one man with destructive engines at command.

Will this not stop maritime warfare? Further, think you invention,

science, will be idle as regards the annihilation of armies? How many

new destructive agents, how many new modes of applying them, the

last few years have brought forth. Is there to be no more progress?

Is it not reasonable to suppose that, in time, even armies will be at

the disposal of a few? When that day comes, how can nations continue

their senseless wars? What then will remain but international

arbitration? This generation may not see all the above, but science

is no laggard in these days, and the next possibly will. Why wait for

it? Let us do now what they will be obliged to do then, and avoid all

the intervening misery.

But enough, for this book is supposed to be on America, and the above

is a sad digression.

I have not much more to say about San Francisco (its pet name is

Frisco), and this reminds me of the great affection some Americans

have for California, and especially its capital. On my way west I met

a man in the train who had lived a long time in California and knew

the capital well. In answer to my inquiries, he replied, "California

is God's country, I can't say more." He did, however, say a great

deal more, for he lauded it in every way, and as for "Frisco," he

only wondered how any one, who could live there, lived anywhere else.

Others also spoke to me in the same way. I need scarcely say my later

experience, while corroborating their opinions of the capital,

stopped short there. The real fact is that the State of California

has been very much overrated--"distance has lent enchantment to the

view,"--for while San Francisco is truly next door to a Paradise, the

said state cannot with truth be much eulogized. It is the first fruit

country in the world, and when irrigation is possible it is in many

parts wonderfully fertile; but, like all spots on earth where there

is a deficiency of rain, the general outlook is far from pleasant. Up

north of San Francisco it is, I believe, better, for there is much

more rain, but I did not go there.

One of my objects in going to America was to start my sons on land of

their own, and though much disappointed with what I had seen of

California, I inquired there about land. I found it could be had from

the Government on very easy terms, but that all worth anything had

been taken up long ago. There were enormous tracts, millions of

acres, free, but it was either forest, necessitating a large outlay

to clear it, or some equally valid reason why it had not been

hitherto appropriated. It was, of course, possible that, travelling

about and spending months in searching, some land well worth having

might be found, but after much inquiry I had come to the conclusion

that cattle-raising was the best thing to go in for, and I need

hardly say that California, with its small rainfall and consequent

want of grass is _not_ a good cattle-raising state. Still I continued

my inquiries. I found there was any amount of land held by private

owners for sale, but that very high prices in every case were asked.

The idea of all landowners there seemed to be that it was only a

question of time before numberless emigrants of all classes would

pour into California, and that when that day came even much higher

prices than now asked would be realized.

_I_ came to quite an opposite conclusion, and have not wavered from

it since. I do not think there will ever be a large tide of

immigration into California; and I think, moreover, that, ten years

hence, the present owners of land there will be glad to take far less

than they ask for it now. Great efforts are being made at San

Francisco, by a large and well-organized staff, and in a most

efficient way, sparing neither time, money, nor labour, to attract

immigrants into California from all parts of the world. Numberless

pamphlets and maps, describing the country, where and how land can be

had, what it will grow, the enormous crops produced, its wonders as a

fruit region, &c., &c., are being published, and sent to many

countries, as well as all over the States. In all these there is much

truth, and I need scarcely add, the source being American, much

exaggeration, and, worse still, important omissions. _The_ great

feature of the country, want of rain, though allowed in a passing

way, is made light of, and the facilities of irrigation dwelt on. I

doubt not the said publications have, and will, attract (I am one

instance), but as few will be satisfied after arrival, the real truth

will eventually be known, and therefore, I think, the great tide of

emigrants looked for will fail.

Though California, as I have said, is not well suited for raising

cattle, I was surprised to find at San Francisco that cattle ranches

existed, and several were advertised for sale. I determined to go and

see one. It was situated down south, possibly two hundred miles from

the capital, and not far from the Pacific coast. I took one of my

sons with me. We went down in a coasting-steamer, stopping at

different places _en route_. The coast was the same in character all

the way down, patches of cultivation here and there where irrigated,

but otherwise brown-baked earth, be it hill or plain, with nothing on

it. I have never seen a less inviting coast. We landed at some of the

places we called at, and inspected the country as far as we could in

the given short time. The towns were clean and nice, and some houses

had gardens attached, but outside the town limits always the same

dry-baked earth and no vegetation or trees. The heat, which more or

less prevails in inner California, is tempered by the Pacific on the

coast. "Charming climate, woful country," my son exclaimed, and I

quite agreed with him.

Some twenty hours on board brought us to our destination, the port of

San Obespo, and a short railway took us up to the town, where we

hired two saddle-horses on which to go out and see the ranch. English

saddles, the Americans call them pancake saddles, are quite the

exceptions in mid-America and out west. Nothing but Mexican saddles

are used. I have ridden on many kinds in different countries, but for

keen discomfort the Mexican, in my opinion, beats them all. There is

a peak in front, about a foot higher than the saddle-seat, which is

capped by a wooden pin with a large wooden button on the top. The

object of this is to twist the lasso round when, after a successful

hunt behind cattle, wild or tame, the struggling beast is at the

other end. But however useful it may be, it is not a pleasant

appendage to a saddle, and must give cruel wounds to the rider if he

is thrown forward. There is also a cantle behind, higher than any

saddle cantle I have seen, and between these two the seat of the

saddle slopes down before and behind, forming an obtuse angle

between the slopes, which obtuse angle you sit on! When in the saddle

you feel possibly like Mazeppa did on the wild horse, safe not to

fall off, but very uncomfortable and helpless. The stirrups--but no,

never mind them or any other part of the saddle, the whole affair

seemed to me ingeniously constructed for the purposes of torture, and

when I returned in the evening, I had not lost "leather," in the way

it is understood in England, I was simply raw, not only on the part

over the obtuse angle aforesaid, but for many inches higher, before

and behind, owing to the lasso pin and cantle described. It was some

weeks after ere I could sit down comfortably. My son was more or less

used to these ingenious Mexican torturing machines, and declared that

I too would by use arrive at the same state, but when I _did_ succeed

in dismounting that night (a difficult gymnastic feat at any time,

sore as I was, a very trying operation), I vowed never to trust

myself to a Mexican saddle again, and never did!

The ranch, as I expected, disappointed us. It was large, above 1000

acres, an undulating valley bordered by high mountains. But grass, as

we understand the word, there was none. Still the land was not bare.

There was a scanty vegetation on it, and here and there much wild

oats, which is, I believe, good food for cattle. I do not doubt

cattle could be raised there, and that they would thrive more or

less. It was well watered by two running streams. But, in both my

son's and my opinion, the vegetation was far too scanty, and the

price asked for it, above 2_l._ per acre, was, I thought, much above

its value, and I don't believe the owners will ever get anything like

that figure. I declined in any case to become the purchaser.

There was a very decent hotel at San Obespo, where we slept that

night. There is one thing common in rooms in America which it would

be well to introduce in England. Above all the doors are glass

window-frames, working on a centre pivot, so that they can be either

opened or shut. When open into the passage, staircase, or hall, you

thus obtain fresh air, and being high up near the ceiling, the

privacy of the room is not endangered thereby, while its altitude

prevents draught. Thus in a bedroom, when the weather is too cold to

sleep with the outer window open, this inner one supplies fresh air.

The ventilation thus secured is utterly wanting in English rooms. You

can't have a bedroom door open, and if the outer window is shut the

same air is breathed over and over again all night long, which is a

monstrous evil in a sanitary point of view.

Another matter, though a small one. At meals, in America, as pepper

is shaken out lightly from a perforated castor over food, so can you

do with the salt, which is in similar receptacles. This is a great

improvement over our English salt-cellars. We have the salt castors

in India too; we call them muffineers there. In India, as a rule,

each individual has both a salt and pepper muffineer before his

plate. If you doubt how far it is an improvement, just try it.

The steamer we came down in was a very fairly comfortable,

well-appointed, and quick boat, but as she went down much farther

south, she would not be due on her way back for some days, and I

cared not to wait. A small passenger-steamer, on the way to San

Francisco, was expected next day, and we returned in her. She was in

every way a most miserable craft. She called at all the coast

stations, and took forty-eight hours _en route_. There were many

Americans on board, but few of a good class. The saloon was as dirty

as any pig-sty, and the table-cloth must have been in use many days

to judge by its coloured appearance. It could not have been

designedly, but there was a capital gravy map of North America in the

centre. Knives were much in vogue, to the exclusion of forks and

spoons. It really was wonderful the practice some had attained with

the weapon. A combination of meat and vegetables was carefully, but

quickly, adjusted on the said knife, and then a slight turn of the

wrist, and _presto_--it disappeared. As the performer's mouth was

nowhere near, what had become of the greasy mass at first puzzled me,

but watching closely, for the sleight-of-hand was marvellous and the

passage between knife and mouth instantaneous, I realized it all!

"You can't say these people _eat_ with their knives," I said to a

nice and exceptional American by me.

"No," he replied, laughing, "you must go to Germany to see that. _My_

countrymen--I hope, however, we don't all do it--have left that

vulgar and dangerous practice far behind. The knife, you see, is used

only as a propeller, and very neatly they do it."

"It must take a lot of practice," I added.

"Doubtless, and so does a Yankee's power of spitting. Their aim in

that way far beats the knife exhibition," he replied with gusto. He

was a Southerner, and evidently no friend to Yankees. "Ah now," he

continued, "that's bad, and I object."

"Yes," I replied, "so do I," as a fat man opposite sucked his knife

first to clean it, and then helped himself to butter. "The liberty of

the subject entitles him to do as he will with his own food, but

scarcely with that of the masses," I added.

As other knives were shortly used in the same way, neither my

companion nor I cared to have butter, and contented ourselves with

cheese, which luckily was cut at a side-table, and presented to us in

large blocks, in the shape of dice, mathematically correct as to

planes and angles.

I shall never forget the berth I was given on board that steamer. It

was a lower one, and as to sheets and bedding clean enough, but the

cabin, a deck one, was very low, and thus the space for two berths,

one above the other, was confined. There was only about fifteen

inches' space between the two, entailing when lying down a painful

sensation of confinement. But to get in at all was the difficulty,

only exceeded by the difficulty of getting out. The only way of

getting in practicable was by lying quite flat on the projecting

board, considerately, I presume, placed there for the purpose, and

wriggling in like a worm; to get out much the same, except that the

upper sheet and blankets came out with you, and increased the

difficulty. They say one gets used to everything, but this I do deny;

I should never have got used to that berth, for entering or leaving

it was a gymnastic and painful puzzle.

There was an American stewardess on board, to whom I complained of

the berth in my cabin. She bristled up dreadfully as she replied,

"Cabin! I guess you're a Britisher. I presume you mean your

state-room. As for the berth, I guess again it whips what you're

accustomed to the other side of the water," and she sailed off with

great dignity.

I felt crushed, of course, but I called after her, "Well, it _is_ a

state-room in one sense, for the state I get into before I succeed in

crawling in quite--" But she had slammed the saloon door, and could

hear no more. True, I had the last word, still I did not feel I had

come off victorious.

The Americans know the value of time; anyhow the way they despatch

their meals argues it. When the bell rings for dinner on board ship

or at an hotel, there is a strange scene. As the time approaches, so

eager is the expectation, conversation lulls. Some, anxious to get a

good start, congregate near the companion ladder or the door. Tingle,

tingle, at last goes the bell; every one jumps up, and away they go

to the dining-room pell-mell, as men crush in for the best seats in

the pit of a theatre. Seated, they devour their food as if eating

against time, and the stranger who cares not to be left a course or

two behind, has to look sharp too. Dinner is naturally soon over, and

then they lounge out in striking contrast to their mode of entrance.

Half an hour at the outside, and the table is clear. I asked my

American friend, a travelled man, to account for it all, striking as

it is in its contrast to the European mode.

"I can't do so," he replied, "for of course here on board ship they

have nothing to do afterwards, and at hotels most of them lounge

about for an hour or two after dinner. It can only be habit; but it

does not hold in good society anywhere in the States, and down south,

whatever the society, meals are taken in a leisurely way."

It is a great mistake to suppose the antagonism between north and

south has died out. Of course I know not what it _was_, but it exists

very plainly now. They are really separate races in thoughts and

habits, and will not easily amalgamate. Courtesy is the rule in the

south, the exception in the north, and the southerners naturally

resent this, both for their own sakes and the national credit.

Will the United States continue for all time as one united republic?

I doubt it, if for no other reason, because of its size. Were all

Europe one united kingdom, should we expect it so to remain? And yet

the cases are nearly alike. Leave out one-third of Russia, and the

two areas are about the same. Nevertheless all works well now.

What to do after my return to San Francisco became a question. My

sons, from all they had seen in America, liked the idea of breeding

cattle best, and thought to possess a good ranche was the best way to

make money. I was inclined to the same opinion, and discussing the

matter after my return, we decided that a ranche should carry the

day. But California is not the country for ranches, and we determined

to go elsewhere. They had both been a long time in Colorado, and seen

many ranches in that state. There, they said, was any amount of

grass, making Colorado one of the best, if not _the_ best, ranch

country. I had heard much the same from others, and Colorado was

eventually decided on. Between decision and departure not many days

elapsed. Our stay at San Francisco had still further limited my

means, there was a ranche to buy and pay for, and thus economy was

more necessary than ever. We took third-class tickets to Denver, the

capital of Colorado, and for a part of the way, luckily, got an

emigrant car, in which we could find room for our mattresses, and so

managed to sleep at night. But, as I have said before, accommodation

for emigrants is given westward only, and I know not why this

exception was made over a part of the line; but this I do know, when,

during the last two nights and one day of the journey, we were put

into a second-class carriage because there was no third, and had to

sit up on seats all night, it was very trying.

Every one knows the Americans spit a good deal, but few know the

extent to which they carry the nasty habit. The second-class

carriage was far worse in this respect than the emigrant car. The

floor was literally covered with saliva, and sit where you would, for

it was crowded, you did not feel safe. True, they are good shots, and

can generally make sure to three square inches of the spot they aim

at; still, when you are surrounded with shooters, as we were in this

car, you feel nervous, especially at night when the dim light makes

it more than ever hazardous. In the Pullman car spitting on the floor

is not allowed; the class so travelling are naturally more

considerate in this way, nay, possibly, we will hope, steer clear of

the habit, but to some even there it is a necessity, and entails an

open window or frequent rushes to the spittoon, put considerately out

of the way, so that in the Pullman car you avoid the nuisance.

I may as well group nasty subjects together, then the fastidious

reader can skip them. The toothpick is more in vogue in America than

in any country I have seen. A prolonged use of it is made after each

meal, but some people are never without it. It is held in the hand

when an argument is enforced with manual action, and when the

speaker is satisfied he has proved his case, it is transferred to the

lips, as if that was its natural place, while the owner leans back

and surveys you blandly. If you are convinced, it probably remains

there; if you are not (though some have acquired the power of

speaking without removing it), the hand grasps it once more, and

brandishes it like a dagger. I must though, in justice to the

American, state that the most inveterate toothpick-man I ever met was

an Englishman who had been in America since boyhood, and crossed the

Atlantic with me on my return. He always, morning, noon, and night,

had one either in his hand or projecting out of his mouth. It

signified not what was his occupation, the little stiletto was always

to the fore. We used to speculate on board if he so slept, and the

ayes were in the majority.

California is about 800 miles from north to south, but across, from

west to east, the average width is only, perhaps, 200 miles. The rail

line, the direct one from San Francisco to New York, was the line I

ought to have taken when bound west, as I explained before. Owing to

the northerly course the rail takes after leaving San Francisco, some

300 miles in California, not 200, has to be traversed ere you reach

the next state, Nevada, and having left the western capital in the

afternoon we crossed the boundary next morning. I could not, of

course, see much of the Californian scenery at night, but the general

character of the country we passed through seemed to be much as I had

seen in other parts of that state, very fertile where water for

irrigation was at command, but barren otherwise.

Before finally leaving California I must add the last I heard of that

"almighty swindle" (so styled by an American I met, who was one of

the victims) the Antelope Valley. Every one who could leave it had

done so, but there were many who could not, who had spent their all

to get there. Some of these had wives and children, and their

condition was of course most pitiable. There was naturally no work to

be had there, and I heard that many of them were living on charity.

The hotel-keeper in the valley, a most charitable man, and his good

wife, did all in their power to mitigate the suffering, which was

excessive. What became of the colony after I left I know not. Some

who departed to return to England vowed they would be revenged on the

agent in London, and if there was no legal redress (which I imagine

is the case) thrash him well! I hope they did, but I have heard

nothing, except that I saw in the paper one of the victims appeared

before a London magistrate, and detailed the case. How he had sold up

everything in England to go there, induced to do so by the said

agent's representations, and on arrival found himself landed in a

vast desert. But it did not appear that the magistrate could help

him.

I can only hope the Antelope Valley episode will be a warning to

emigrants. The United States is too well known, the country too much

explored, to make it likely that any spot, or El Dorado, with the

advantages the Antelope Valley was said to possess _can_ exist

unutilized. The Americans are far "too cute," if they found such a

place, to tout for occupants from England.

As this is the last I have to say about California, I will close this

chapter.

FOOTNOTE:

[7] Always excepting the pavements. These are bad, but not as bad as

in New York.

CHAPTER V.

Nevada--Utah--Wyoming--Denver--A restless

night--Seeking for a ranch--Ranch work--Colorado

Springs, the Sanitarium of Western America.

Nevada, east of California, is a wretched waste, and like Arizona,

described some pages back, mostly, if not all, desert. True, in both

cases, I only saw the parts traversed by the rail, but it is absurd

to suppose, were any part otherwise, it would not have been selected

for the line. The whole distance across the state is, say, by rail,

350 miles, and certainly 250 of that is a sandy waste. Then came the

state of "Utah," famous as the abode of the Mormons, and part of this

was also bare sand, but not like Nevada, for where irrigated, as

California, it seemed fertile.

This was the last I saw of the American Deserts, and recalling the

hundreds of miles of such I had traversed in my two journeys, I

wondered greatly at the ignorance of Western nations on this head. It

may be so, because, if you look at the map, you will see the parts

described by me as desert are far out west, and that few Europeans go

there. Of course Americans do, but even with them it is the

exception, and quite in keeping with national characteristics to keep

it quiet. The day will come that we shall know how many square miles

of desert there are in the States. When it does many, not I, will be

surprised.

In "Utah" we skirted the north side of the Great Salt Lake, but saw

nothing of the Mormons. Salt Lake City, their abode, is perhaps 100

miles south, at the southern end of the lake. The next state we

entered was "Wyoming," which differs much from either "Nevada" or

"Utah." Here are great rolling plains of grass, such as hold in

Texas, and cattle raising is carried on over the whole state, at

least so I was told. It is a large country, about 350 miles long east

and west, and 250 broad. The line of Rocky Mountains runs through

it, and some of the scenery is superb. As far as abundant food in the

shape of grass goes, Wyoming must be a good ranch locality. But the

winters are very severe, and the snow lies a long while on the

ground. At such times, of course, cattle have all to be more or less

sheltered and fed, which diminishes profits, and great losses are

experienced from the extreme cold, which kills many. Here in England

we think it very cold if the quicksilver shows 10° (Fahr.) below

freezing-point, that is 22°. Zero there is not thought cold, and the

thermometer varies between that and 35° below zero, for two or three

months. Fancy 35° below zero which is 67° below freezing-point! I

have experienced similar cold in Norway, and recall how acutely

painful it was. The English climate is far from perfect, but in our

immunity from extremes of temperature we are blessed.

Tempting, therefore, as the grassy plains of Wyoming looked in a

ranch view after the bare Californian ground, the long snow-sheds we

passed through told me much, which inquiry confirmed, as regards the

cold in winter, and neither my sons nor I cared to stop short there.

I had never seen snow-sheds over rails before. They are simply long

wooden tunnels, erected above ground over the line in spots where

snow is likely to drift and block it.

The next state we entered was that of our destination, viz. Colorado,

and what I saw of it, in the 120 miles we traversed before arriving

at the capital, "Denver," I liked well. Grass and to spare

everywhere, well-wooded in parts, some exquisite scenery, and so on.

"This is the country," I said to my sons; "glad you brought me here."

We reached "Denver" in due course, a good-looking town, and put up at

an hotel near the rail. After the journey accomplished, about 1700

miles, and sitting up two nights, we were pretty well knocked up, so

had a hurried dinner and went to bed. But alas! not to sleep. The

creatures that attacked us were _not_ fleas, something worse. I have

such a horror of the little black thing, we all have, I need not

define it. They were in swarms. We had turned in confidingly, we

jumped out of bed horrified and lit the candle. They were in dozens

on the whitewashed walls, and running all over the beds. To remain

was impossible, but it was too late to seek fresh quarters, and we

spent the night on tables and chairs below in the bar!

Next morning I complained to the landlord.

"Never heard of such a thing. You must have brought them with you, I

guess."

"What, hundreds of them? Come upstairs and look."

He did so, but he did not give in. "Well, it may be some of them

belong to the place, but I guess you brought most of 'em."

He was of the true Yankee type--the worst type on earth. So I cared

to say no more, but paid the bill and went elsewhere, finding

cleanliness, comfort, and as much courtesy as you look for in

America, in the next hotel.

"Denver" is a clean, commodious, and pleasant town enough. There are

many of the Yankee type there, but also some very nice people. We

spent some days inquiring about ranches, and then made trips out to

inspect them. I need not drag the reader with me on these little

journeys; we mostly travelled in a light one-horse van, taking our

food with us, and, as the weather was charming, camping out at night.

Except in the winter, when it is far too cold, at night in any case,

Colorado is just the country for this gipsy life. The atmosphere is

wonderfully dry, and there is no danger whatever in sleeping outside

without any shelter. This free kind of life has always had a great

charm for me, and, except in winter, Colorado is just the place for

it.

After some time I found a ranch to suit me. I bought it, the cattle,

and everything on it. The former owner and his family were not long

ere they left, and then my sons entered on their duties. They

understood the work, I did not, but I used to potter about and help

in any way I could.

The profits on a ranch are derived by breeding cattle and horses, and

selling the surplus stock, also from dairy work. Firstly, as to

breeding cattle. The procedure is different in different parts.

Climate principally regulates it. In Texas, a low latitude (33°), the

winters are very mild, and the cattle there are never housed, they

wander over the vast plains the year round. In Wyoming, and Montana

and Dakota which join it, the cold in winter is intense, and the snow

lies long. When the land is snow-bound, cattle, of course, can find

no food for themselves, and during such time they have to be

sheltered (scarcely housed) and fed. To do this costs money, and it

goes without saying that in this respect the warm sites are the

better. More, in the cold localities many cattle are lost in hard

winters, simply frozen to death. But there is compensation as in most

of the actions of nature. The cold localities have better grass in

the summer.

In latitudes like Texas there is no necessity to grow crops for

winter food. In the cold localities much has to be done in this way.

Colorado is between these two extremes, latitude about 38°, nearly

the same as San Francisco. But it is far warmer in summer, much

colder in winter, than that capital. This is in a great measure due

to its being so far inland, and also to the fact that most of the

state is high table-land. Thus in Colorado (the snow seldom lies

there more than three or four days at a time) the cattle are only

sheltered and fed for short periods.

As a rule they calve in the spring. If it is required to increase the

stock, only the male two and three years old and any worn out old

cows are sold yearly. There is always a market for them; in fact, in

spring and summer dealers travel round to the ranches and buy. If the

above plan of keeping all the young female stock is followed out, and

the mishaps are few, the cattle on a ranch double themselves in three

or four years. When the limit a run will carry is attained, all the

increase can yearly be sold.

Great numbers of horses are bred on ranches, and it is a question

whether these or cattle are the more profitable. Horses are hardier

than cattle, stand both heat and cold better. They consequently

require less shelter, and also less food in winter, for horses will

paw up the snow and find food when cattle cannot do so. They "rustle"

better for themselves, as the Americans forcibly express it.

There are no natural enclosures in ranch countries like hedges,

though I see not why, in time, there should not be such. In vast

plains, such as are found in Texas, I believe ranches are not fenced

in at all, and the cattle wander where they will. But in countries

like Colorado, where pretty well every acre has an owner, fences are

a necessity. The usual one is a barbed wire-fence. This is thus

constructed: at distances of 30 or 40 feet, sometimes more, strong

poles, 3 feet in the ground, and say 5 feet above it, are set up.

Three wires, the lowest say 18 inches from the ground, the second and

third, a like distance from the first and second, run from pole to

pole, and are attached thereto by iron cleets. This alone, however,

would not suffice to keep cattle in the enclosures, for they often

charge the fences in great numbers at a time, and would thus easily

break through. But the wires are studded at every 18 inches with

sharp spikes, which soon teach the cattle that they cannot run

against them with impunity. This is why it is called a "barbed

wire-fence," and it is a very efficacious one.

On the ranch I had purchased (I called it the Water Ranch as it was

exceptionally well watered with two streams running through it), the

snow never lies long, not usually more than two or three days after a

fall; thus it is only during these short intervals the cattle require

to be fed, and in a measure sheltered. But this occurs again and

again during the winter, and the food necessary has to be provided

and grown during the summer months in the shape of Alfalfa (a

peculiar and productive American grass), hay, turnips, and rye.

Besides, as all the food the ranch workers require has to be produced

at home, there is thus plenty to do in the kitchen-garden, in growing

potatoes and other things. Then there is the poultry-yard. Geese,

ducks, and fowls are bred in large numbers, and require much

attention. Ranch-men naturally live well, for, besides meat and

poultry, there is the produce of the dairy, which, in all its

shapes--milk by the bucket, cream _ad libitum_, and butter in

abundance--they can revel in. I never was better fed than on the

Water Ranch.

The dairy work is very profitable. Either the cream is sent away and

sold to butter and cheese factories established for that purpose in

ranch localities, or such are manufactured at home, and sent to the

market-town for sale. But it will readily be conceived that milking

thirty to forty cows, and the dairy-work in all its shapes, gives

plenty of work.

I was convinced, after a little experience, that my two sons, alone,

could not do all necessary, and as it does not pay to hire labour in

the States (wages are so high), and as the cost of the Water Ranch

was more than I could afford to give in its entirety to my sons,

after my return to England I sold to two young gentlemen the

half-interest on the condition that they should at once go out and

work there. This they did, and there are thus now four partners with

equal interests in the Water Ranch, and working there together.

I think the reader can now, in a measure, appreciate what sort of

existence ranch-life is. Early to bed and early to rise, the latter

four a.m. in the summer, breakfast at seven, dinner at one, tea at

six; work of some kind or the other all day, but not as a rule _hard_

manual work; many interests, absence of care, good food and sound

sleep. It is a placid, if not a very intellectual existence; the

charms of society, the ameliorating influence of woman, are wanting,

but on the principle some hold, though unjustly, that "she" is at the

bottom of all calamities, to such, at least, this latter want is not

much felt! Civilization, society, has many charms, but their absence

is not an unmixed evil. The freedom entailed thereby, the

non-existence of social restrictions, are at least advantages

ensured.

I _had_ intended to make my home with my sons on the ranch. The

roughness of the life in no way disgusted me, for I am accustomed to

such, having experienced it in many countries, and in various

occupations. But the want of intellectual pursuits, the absence of

society, the lack of woman's influence, and the many charms connected

therewith, wearied me sadly. In two words I found I was too old for

the life, and that I could not, at my age, adapt myself to such great

and violent changes. I was happy while there, but I felt it would not

do as a continuance, and thus determined, having started my sons and

provided for them, to return to Europe.

"Colorado Springs," the great health resort of Western America, is

some twenty-five miles only from the Water Ranch. It is, in many

respects, an unique Sanitarium, and should therefore be better known

than it is to Europeans. Its climatic and soil advantages (the latter

no mean factor), as a cure-place for consumption, asthma, bronchitis,

and all pulmonary diseases, are perhaps exceptional, for I doubt if

any spot on the earth's surface, owing to weather, temperature,

elevation, locality, and soil, possesses so dry an air.[8] When we

consider how many thousands of young lives, often the flowers of the

household flock, here in England alone, succumb to these maladies,

how neither age nor sex is spared, it is surely well that such an

exceptional cure-place as Colorado Springs existing should be made

known far and wide.

_I_ should be quite incompetent myself, from lack of medical

knowledge, to dilate on this point satisfactorily, were it not that

during a visit of a week to the place, I made the acquaintance of an

English physician there of high repute, Doctor S. Edwin Solly, who

went there years ago to seek relief himself from some pulmonary

complaint (I forget what), found it, and eventually settled there. He

gave me a book descriptive of Colorado Springs and Manitou (the

latter is the spot, five miles distant, where the medical springs

are), which is in two parts. The first is a prize essay by a Mrs.

Dunbar, a resident at Colorado Springs, and deals with the climatic,

social, and scenic conditions of the Sanitarium as set out in the

following notice to her work:--

"In the spring of 1883 a prize of one hundred dollars was offered by

a committee of the citizens of Colorado Springs and Manitou for the

best article upon these two towns as places of residence and health

resorts. Numerous articles were presented and several were of marked

merit. Rev. Willis Lord, D. D., and Rev. James B. Gregg, the

examining committee, adjudged the prize to Mrs. Simeon J. Dunbar, a

resident of Colorado Springs for the past two years, and a

correspondent of the Boston press. Mrs. Dunbar has sought to prepare

such a statement of facts as she would have welcomed (and believes

others desire) when she contemplated making a home in the New West;

in this endeavour she has been eminently successful. It is believed

that this is the most complete, compact and accurate body of

practical information in print concerning these two places, which are

becoming more popular every year; and that it will be of great and

permanent value to all persons seeking a change of climate or

proposing to visit or settle in Colorado."

The second part is written by my friend, Doctor Solly, and treats of

the place from a medical point of view. I can, therefore, by giving

extracts from the said book, state with very good authority all that

is necessary to tell, in the author's own words.

But before I do so, I would, in gratitude to the said Doctor Solly

and another, say a few words. My sons, previous to joining me in

California, had been several times at Colorado Springs, staying with

a Mrs. Garstin, an English lady I had known in London, who has now

finally taken up her abode there. Her kindness to my poor boys (who

were living a hard life, working as common labourers for ranch and

farm owners in the neighbourhood, and who, it goes without saying,

had no spare cash) was excessive. She was as a mother to them, and

being far from rich herself the doing so often entailed personal

privations. Both my sons, while with her, fell ill, and at her kind

instance Dr. Solly attended them gratis. This was no exceptional

case, he is one of those "who do good by stealth, and blush to find

it fame." When, therefore, I went from the Water Ranch to Colorado

Springs, partly to see the place, partly to get cured of a sprained

back which some farm work had entailed, I went straight to Doctor

Solly, both for medical aid, and to thank him for his kindness to my

boys. I was, indeed, pleased to make his and Mrs. Solly's

acquaintance, and they both, thinking I must be dull all alone at the

hotel, insisted on my dining with them daily during my stay. The

doctor soon put me all right, and I spent a happy week wandering in

the neighbourhood, climbing the Rocky Mountains, and enjoying society

at his house in the evening. Surely one may dilate, even in print, on

the qualities of individuals of the fair sex if it be all praise.

Mrs. Solly is an American lady, and her, among others, I had in my

mind when I dilated on the intellectual and broad views, with

charitable tendencies, of the best class of our transatlantic

sisters. With a high order of intellect, and a capacity for

appreciation such as is granted to few women, Mrs. Solly was, in two

words, one of the most charming companions I have ever met. _On dit_,

and the idea is a nice one, that in many married lives the wife

strives to, and often attains the husband's level. Sometimes, more

rarely, it is the other way, and the woman's intellect soars above

the man's, while he may, or may not, try and climb so high. In either

case, if even perfect success is not attained, the intercourse

between the two benefits the weaker vessel, be that male or female.

But the above theory did not, in either form, hold good in those I

wish to portray. Both were highly intellectual, yet were they quite

different. Their individuality had not been affected, as far as I

could judge, by marriage. Perhaps the companionship begotten thus is

the most charming of any in marital life, but it is rare.

Of the daughter I need only say that she was a fit daughter for such

parents, and seemed to me to partake of the individual excellences of

both, while the English ideas received from the father, the American

from the mother, made a very charming diversity in her individual

character.

Doctor Solly has an extensive practice in Colorado Springs and the

neighbourhood, and is reputed to be, I should think justly, the

first medical man there. What he says, therefore, on the advantages

of the Sanitarium deserves every attention, the more so that he

honestly points out, in more than one place, the individual

conditions which are more likely to receive harm than good from a

residence on such high, dry table-land.

I will now proceed to make extracts from the combined book of Mrs.

Dunbar and Doctor Solly, and as, in a medical point of view, it

explains much, I will first set out the preface to Doctor Solly's

work _in extenso_.

"A committee appointed by our citizens having requested the County

Medical Society to select one of their number to write an article,

for general publication, upon the qualities of this locality as a

health-resort, the choice fell upon me, and the following pages have

been written to comply with this request. The opinions therein

expressed are set forth upon my individual responsibility, and not as

being the combined outcome of the views of the County Society at

large. I am, however, indebted to my colleagues for several valuable

suggestions and points of experience, but with respect to a subject

so complicated as Climatic Influences the saw applies '_Tot homines,

tot sententiæ._' Nine years ago I resigned the practice of medicine

in England to try the influence of the Colorado climate upon my

health, with satisfactory results, and the opinions and statements

here advanced are founded upon my experience and observation as a

practitioner of medicine in this locality for the last nine years.

The article being limited did not permit the publication of clinical

records or extended discussion of the many interesting problems

referred to, but is put forward as an effort to assist physicians and

their patients in answering the often recurring question of the

wisdom of a change to Colorado, from some safe standpoint and not

merely from hearsay reports unsupported by evidence or reasonable

inference. Viewing this subject of Climate as resting upon a

scientific basis, and not alone upon empirical knowledge gained in

particular regions, I have followed the plan of first stating the

facts and opinions that are generally known or accepted concerning

the features and essentials of climates in general, and their

influence upon the healthy body; secondly, giving the general

features of elevated climates and their effects both in health and

disease, and finally, comparing these general effects with the

special effects observed in this particular locality. Thus I have

endeavoured to show good reason for the faith that is in me, by

connecting this fragmentary study of climate with the whole great

subject of climatology."

"S. EDWIN SOLLY."

"Colorado Springs, 1883."

Colorado Springs is thus described by Mrs. Dunbar.

"Pike's Peak Range is the most eastern spur of the Rocky Mountains,

taking its name from the Peak itself, which rises high above the

rest, viz. 14,150 feet above sea level. This eastern sentinel of the

vast Rocky Mountain system has its advance-guard directly in front.

Cones, peaks, and great shapeless masses of rock, terminating to the

south in Cheyenne Mountain, and in the north in a long chain of

lower mountains. Twenty-five miles north from base of Pike's Peak, a

ridge of hills, 8000 feet high, called the Divide (the water-shed

between the Arkansas and Platte river), shoots out into the east for

seventy-five miles, its blue-black outline cut sharply on the

northern sky. Nearly 100 miles away the sharp eye will detect the

outline of the Spanish Peaks almost upon the New Mexico line.

"Out from this semi-circle of hills and mountains stretch the great

plains beyond the distant eastern horizon; not suddenly and in one

smooth slope, but foothills and small broken mesas end in scattered

and irregular bluffs, these gradually blending and losing themselves

in the billowy rolling country, which makes up the eastern plains of

Colorado.

"On one of these small mesas, close to the foothills and within the

first line of bluffs, is situated Colorado Springs, on a level with

the summit of Mt. Washington, in New Hampshire, 6000 feet above the

sea.

"Neither nature nor art could design and lay out a more finished and

beautiful spot for a town. Nature has made the grading perfect for

streets and sidewalks, for drainage and for irrigating ditches. The

whole town appears perfectly level, but the mesa has just enough

descent towards the south and east to take water from the main

irrigating ditch as it enters the town from the north-west, and carry

it freely throughout the whole city on each side of every street;

four of the main streets and avenues have twelve miles of open boxed

ditches about two feet wide running in absolutely straight lines. The

lawns and gardens are graded and laid out to correspond with the

grade of the ditches, from which they are flooded once a week by a

box ditch running under the sidewalk.

"The town was founded in 1871 by a colony composed mostly of

gentlemen from Philadelphia who were then projecting and building the

Denver and Rio Grande Railroad from Denver. The town plat is three

miles long and two wide, laid out in blocks four hundred feet square,

separated by streets one hundred feet wide, and every third street an

avenue one hundred and forty feet wide. These streets and avenues

are bordered by rows of flourishing cottonwoods, twenty-five feet

apart, that greedily drink the water running over their roots through

the spring and summer. The grass on the sides of these small

irrigating ditches is green all summer and sprinkled with bright

blossoms, and, with the grateful shade of the cottonwoods, makes

pleasant walks through the city, which is full of beautiful homes.

"The houses are built of wood, stone, and brick, put together in all

styles, varieties, and combinations of architecture, there are hardly

two houses alike in the city, and with combinations of colours as

various. Everywhere are well kept gardens and beautiful lawns, for

the people like pleasant and large yards as well as wide streets and

walks. Each householder takes pride in keeping up his place, even the

plainest, and it is a rare thing to find a shabby house and yard.

More than half of the dwellings are cottages, but there are many

large and handsome houses, notably in the north part of the city,

which has been built up rapidly within the last two years. There are

several elegant stone residences costing from twenty to forty

thousands dollars.

"The public buildings are remarkably fine for so young and small a

city. The new hotel, The Antlers, the El Paso Club building, the High

School building and Colorado College are built of a fine, beautifully

pink-tinted stone taken from the Manitou quarries. The City Hall and

business blocks are substantial structures, and the Opera House a

fine brick building, is a gem inside, perfect in its arrangements,

and fitted and furnished with exquisite taste."

The above description is accurate enough, but it is not right to our

ideas to speak of Colorado Springs as a "city." It is only a

decent-sized, picturesque town. But the Americans name even five or

six houses cities, e.g. the City of Lancaster, in the Antelope

Valley, which consisted of an hotel, a rail station, and two or three

shops! The Antlers Hotel, alluded to, seemed to me, while I was

there, to be a very perfect one.

Doctor Solly, on his part, thus describes this charming town and

health resort.

"Colorado Springs is situated upon a plateau 6023 feet above

sea-level, latitude 39°, longitude 105°. It is about five miles from

the foothills in which the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains

terminates and from which the great plains stretch 800 miles east to

the Missouri river, south to the Gulf of Mexico, and north to the

Black Hills.

"Colorado Springs cannot strictly be called a mountain health-resort,

for it is actually situated upon the first plateau of the great

plains, but is surrounded on three sides by a semi-circle of hills.

Immediately to the west is the great mountain of Pike's Peak, 8000

feet above it and to the summit on an air-line ten miles distant from

this the shoulders spread, to the south-west, terminating abruptly in

a much smaller but very picturesque mountain named Chiann, while to

the north they merge into a spur called the Divide, which melts away

eastward into the rolling prairie, first throwing off, some four

miles to the east, another spur, this breaking into the irregular

shapes of bluffs curves towards the south, extending the shelter

that the mountains on the west afford sufficiently to break the force

of wind from the north-east, and leaving the plateau open to the

plains in its southern and south-easterly aspects.

"The barriers from the wind and weather that this semi-circle just

described affords, being an average distance of four miles from the

edge of the plateau upon which the town is spread, do not detract

from its openness or free exposure to the sun. The Peak lying to the

west robs it of the direct effect of the last beams in setting but

gives a longer twilight than is usual on this continent. The value of

this semi-circle as a protection from storms is especially in the

attraction it affords to the clouds that form upon the Peak, drawing

the storms along its ridges to the north-east on one side or the

south-west on the other, and thus frequently leaving the plateau free

from the rain or snow that forms upon the mountains."

Again he thus remarks on the soil, the drainage, and the

water-supply, all of them so important in a sanitary point of view.

"There is a top soil of about two feet, below which sand and gravel

are found to an average depth of sixty feet, when a clay bed is

struck which follows the slope of the surface and the fall of the

water-shed to the south. The soil, therefore, is naturally absolutely

dry beyond what little moisture the top soil can hold to feed the

grass, and with as perfect drainage as could be devised.

"The drainage is into leaching pits which have ventilating pipes in

them and in the connecting soil pipes. As no water is taken from the

soil and the ground is extremely dry and porous, this system works

without danger. The smaller and older houses, however, mostly have

earth-closets.

"Irrigating ditches supply the lawns and trees with water, and are

further supplemented by that which is conveyed in iron pipes for

drinking and domestic purposes. This supply is brought a distance of

seven miles from a pure mountain stream, taken at a point among the

foothills, above all danger of contamination. The pressure is

sufficient to throw the water above the highest houses without the

need of fire-engines, and the amount of air bubbles confined in the

water gives it a most refreshing taste, but a milky appearance when

first drawn, which, as the air escapes, leaves it beautifully bright

and clear. The supply is ample, so that baths and water-closets can

be well flushed."

Mrs. Dunbar remarks as follows on the water supply, how the town is

lighted, and the scenery.

"A complete system of water-works supplies the city with the purest

water, brought seven miles in pipes from Ruxton's Creek, beyond

Manitou, a clear, pure stream, abundantly fed by the springs and

melting snows of Pike's Peak. The same pipes passing through Manitou

supply that town and its hotels with water.

"A distributing reservoir on a mesa, considerably higher than the

city mesa and two miles distant, receives the water. This gives a

fine head and good protection against fire. Hydrants are placed a few

hundred feet apart, and three efficient fire-companies have only to

attach the hose to throw water over any building.

"Besides the temperance provisions for the social benefit of the

town, the colony at the same time wisely provided for its permanent

improvement and beauty by setting apart the proceeds, above cost, of

a large portion of the lots first sold, for the construction of an

irrigating canal, and the planting of trees throughout the city; for

trees and vegetables do not grow on these mesas and plains without

irrigation. This ditch takes water from the Fountain a short distance

below Manitou, and, winding round the foothills and mesas to keep its

grade, extends for a distance of thirteen miles before it reaches

Colorado Springs. From this point, as already stated, branches extend

to all parts of the city, and to the vegetable-gardens on the

outskirts.

"The city is lighted by gas; the principal business street has a line

of herdics, and telephone wires connect all parts of the town.

"The scenery about Colorado Springs, embracing the mountains and the

plains, is grand and beautiful. On the western side the mesas skirt

the foothills, these swell to mountains which rise one above another

till the magnificent dome of Pike's Peak stands alone above them all,

For ever to claim kindred with the firmament,

And be companioned by the clouds of heaven.

The whole mountain is one barren mass of rock as we see it from the

town, for the eastern face is open to us almost down to the

foothills; deep perpendicular gorges and terrible ravines reveal

themselves by narrow white rifts, snow overlappings mark the cañons

and the course of streams. A dense black moss, as it appears to the

naked eye, covering some of the slopes and delicately fringing

summits and sharp ridges, is in reality a heavy growth of timber, the

sturdy pine, the tree beloved of Shakspeare. They cling mostly to the

southern slopes, leaping the northern ones to climb the south slope

of the next fold, sometimes leaving behind in their hurry a few

stragglers whose scrawny branches seem pitifully beckoning their

companions to wait."

Of the population and death-rate Dr. Solly writes:--

"The town extends over four square miles, upon which the houses of

the 6000 inhabitants are widely scattered. The residence lots are

mostly 50 × 190 feet; and the streets and avenues vary from 80 to 125

feet in width. There are therefore none of the objections of a city

in respect to overcrowding, and no manufactories or smelters to

pollute the air. The death-rate, exclusive of death from consumption,

is only 5·6 per 1000; from zymotic diseases, 1·6 per 1000."

There is a very extraordinary and I think an objectionable feature in

the town. No alcoholic liquors are allowed to be retailed. Thus if

you want even a glass of beer you can't get it. But you can have what

you will at home, or, if I remember right, in the principal hotels

_if_ you are living there. Temperance in _all_ indulgences is a grand

thing, and drunkenness is a beastly habit, but the parental

legislation described below by Mrs. Dunbar, scarcely recognizes the

liberty of the subject, and is a very strange fact in what is

supposed to be the freest country on earth.

"There are no saloons and bars in the city, for this is a temperance

town. The colony, after receiving the United States title to the

town plat, incorporated the following strong provision into the deed

of every lot and piece of ground thereafter sold:--

"'That intoxicating liquors shall never be manufactured, sold, or

otherwise disposed of, as a beverage, in any place of public resort,

in or upon the premises hereby granted.'

"Provision was also made in all deeds that if these conditions were

violated, the land and buildings thereon should revert to the

original owners. There have been violations of this clause, and the

courts of this state, and the Supreme Courts of the United States,

having decided in favour of the provision, valuable property has been

lost to the owner."

Colorado Springs is a misnomer, inasmuch as the medical springs are

not there but at Manitou, five miles off, in the heart of the

mountains, and in superb scenery. Mrs. Dunbar thus describes it:--

"Five miles west of Colorado Springs, in the midst of the hills, lies

Manitou, at the foot of Pike's Peak, in the beautiful valley of the

Fountain, out of whose banks bubble the mineral springs that have

made this place the most fashionable summer resort of the West. It is

a small and quiet town in itself, of about five hundred inhabitants,

with churches, and schools, and pleasant residences, and four large,

first-class hotels. During the summer months it swarms with life; its

hotels overflow, and private houses take in the strangers; summer

cottages and tents are perched like birds' nests on the hillsides,

among the rocks and in the cañons, and in every available place.

SODA AND IRON SPRINGS.

"The Fountain is a stream of clear, swift-running water that comes

from high up among the mountains, through Manitou Park and down

through the Ute Pass, forming there the beautiful Rainbow Falls.

Ruxton's Creek, flowing down Engleman's Cañon, joins the Fountain at

Manitou. In this cañon of remarkable beauty are several iron springs,

the best known and oftenest visited being the Iron Ute. On either

bank of the Fountain are scattered the other springs. Their abundant

waters overflowing into the Fountain have coloured the rocks and

earth with the mineral matter which they contain. Rocks near the Iron

Ute look like huge blocks of iron. About the Shoshone, rocks and

earth are clothed with a yellow, mosslike crust. Down the sides of

the Navajo and Manitou the water trickles over rocks that are white

with soda, and striped with green and peacock blue.

"There are six or seven springs in all. Their Indian names and

legends are all that remain to remind us of our red brothers, whose

offerings to the 'Manitou' of the 'medicine waters' filled the basins

of the springs and hung from the neighbouring trees and bushes when

the 'pale face' invaded this their favourite camping-ground. The

springs differ much in their properties of iron, sulphur, and soda.

Some of the waters are taken as a pleasant draught; others should be

used only as a medicine, taken when needed and then discontinued;

their temperature varies from 43° to 56° Fahr.

BATH HOUSE.