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Five thousand years the cry of " Westward ! " rose

Within the ardent, restless Aryan race ;

Five thousand stormy years they sought the grace
Of some Hesperian land of pure repose.
At last God greatly smiled ; here ever glows

The sun of peace on man's and nature's face.

The crowning crown is gained — beyond is space —
And all that man may ask this land bestows.

Rest now, O weary race, for evermore !

'Tis afternoon, and wanderings are done.
The Lord of Life still beckons on before

To His own land of peace beyond the sun.
But California ends the earthly quest.
'Tis afternoon : joy, and lie down, and rest.
iUjrwudi, c»i.

Whatever else he hasn't, the missionary has to have patience.
Without it he would be as useless as a congressman without
pockets. So the Western kindergartner need not mind if his
efforts to dispel the ignorance of the East are apparently fruitless for a
long time. He has a huge contract on hand, to begin with ; and then,
it is so much more restful to stay untaught — particularly when you can
peddle your ignorance at ten cents a copy or a dollar the volume by big
editions. As for the Lion, he expects nothing less than discouragement.
Any rapid conversion of Boston and New York publishers to the gospel
of giving honest measure for good money would surprise him beyond
what is safe for the nerves.

No, he is grieved but not a whit astonished to note how endemic
ignorance persists in the self-satisfied centers. The Appletons, for
example, have just turned loose on the world, in Crane's Red Badge of
Courage, enough horrible grammar to send any dozen grammar-school
boys down a grade or two. Why should one bother to hire an editor or
a proofreader who knows the English language from a porous-plaster ?
As for grammar, if much worse was ever published than adorns the
Critic's leader of May 2, one hopes not to discover it. Mr. Crane's story
is a strong one ; and the Critic's article is high-grounded censure of a
public abuse ; but neither has pardon for being illiterate. Contributors
are paid to write ; but editors are paid — by the public if not by the
publishers — to watch how that writing is done, and to correct it where
correction has need. It is not honest to mislead ignorant readers, nor
wise to offend educated ones, by permitting a vulgar abuse of the

In about the same breath, we find the Boston Literary World egre-
giously praising Wm. Elerojf Curtis's Venezuela — the book over whose
ignorance and incompetency the Nation had proper fun the week before.
A great many people have published what they didn't know about South
America ; but Mr. Curtis is probably entitled to first rank. His former
book — Capitals of Spanish- America, or title to that effect — was un-
doubtedly the most impossible work (and probably the most unscrupul-
ous) ever written on a continent we have a right to take some interest in.
As for his Venezuela performance, the Nation's exposure of the book is
enough to settle his status forever. The Literary World is an excellent
journal ; and it should not feel happy over having sent this volume to
such an incompetent reviewer. To be a laughing-stock among those
who know, is bad enough ; but it is worse to remember that you have
sold bogus information to trusting readers who do not know.





Were these exceptional cases, the Lion would not carp ; but they are
habitual. Not a week goes but some such offense is committed by some
prominent concern in the East. But patience, brethren ! It may be
that by perseverance for a century or so we Westerners shall teach our
condescending instructors to earn their salary. At any rate, we are
going to try.

other Except the Nation, no weekly in America has made so

kinds of magnificent a fight as the Argonaut's against the stultification

of us with reference to Cuba. In its abundant space it gave
reasons enough to satisfy any reasoning person four times over that we
should not bark our national shins in behalf of the Senegambian Debses
of the Ever Faithful Isle. But it is enough to make any lover of the
Argonaut grieve — and the Lion has for years been one — when that
weekly gravely clinches its arguments by declaring that the A. P. A. is
agin' Cuba, and that "whatever its opponents may think of the A. P. A.,
there is no doubt of its Americanism." There are still Americans,
please God, who do not need to learn patriotism from any secret society,
whatever its name or aim ; who have not yet discovered that it is Amer-
ican to proscribe any man for his faith or lack of faith. And there are
certainly Argonaut readers who know the difference between the
Argonaut' s usually sane arguments and such beheaded imbecility as

where In the matter of a harbor for Southern California, the whole-

the blame sa i e d amn i n g f Mr. Huntington has been a little silly and a

belongs. ]ittle cowardly "Uncle Collis" is a remarkable man, in
some ways a great one. At seventy-five one may think he would better
be making his peace with God than acquiring Congress ; but that is his
personal affair. In the present instance he is merely trying to get what
he can for himself and for the corporation he heads. The politics we
have made do not liven the moral perceptions, and it is quite conceiva-
ble that Mr. Huntington believes he is fully justified and that the rest of
us are a fool. But there is no such apology for Congress. // is elected
to promote, not any corporation, but the people; and whereby it fails it
is a traitor. You may explain it as you prefer. The presence of a tre-
mendous lobby in Washington may not be for corruption. But the fact
remains that the Rivers and Harbors Committee spat in the face of an
overwhelming majority of the people of Southern California, in the face
of the government engineers, and tried to give the owner of the lobby
all he asked. The California papers which are flaying Mr. Huntington
would better get after Mr. Frye, the Maine man who has made so savory
a record all through this Congress and capped it now. And we all might
quit abusing " Uncle Collis " long enough to remember what we are who
elect the Fryes. For in a government of, by and for the people, the
ultimate blame of whatsoever misgovernment there is, rests with us
who did it with our little ballot. Thanks to the truth, and to Senator
Stephen M. White its magnificent champion, the congressional attempt
to pay three million dollars reward to a private citizen for having a pull
has been thwarted— at least for the present.


New Mexico should not be admitted to statehood, says the fiction
Argonaut, because it is "ignorant and priest-ridden." As AND

one who knows more about New Mexico than the Argonaut
will ever know — and this is no vanity, but a mere chance — the Lion
begs to advise the brightest weekly in the West not to let its religious big-
otries run away with its patriotism or its intelligence. New Mexico
has faults. There are a great many of its people who do not know the
useful things the editor of the Argonaut does ; but they all know many
things he does not — and things worthy to be known. They have been
in the country a century or so longer than his forebears have, and are
quite as much entitled to full American citizenship as he is. If they
cannot write so brilliantly as he, so what they write or say is less danger-
ous when wrong — and as a matter of fact they are quite as often right as
he on matters of morals or of sense. As every man knows who is not
naked of knowledge — even though he have no paper wherein to write
what he doesn't know — the trouble in New Mexico is not from the
"priest-ridden" native population. They are uneducated, godfearing,
law-abiding, America-loving folk, whom only an ignorance less excusable
than their own would ever mock. If there be any menace in the admis-
sion of the Territory to statehood, it will be in the few scoundrels —
educated, English-speaking, unridden by any religion whatever — who
often get into power there. They are of the same stripe as the best-
known San Francisco politicians. New Mexico is human, but there
has never been a day in her three centuries when her society, her politics
and her morals would not make a white mark on those of the city where
the Argonaut has been published for nineteen years.

And now comes the Youth's Companion, advising that neither another
should Arizona be admitted to statehood — because her prisons hasty

are too well patronized. It is plausible to argue for " the con-
tinuance of Arizona under Federal control until a larger per cent, of its
people show moral principle enough to keep out of the penitentiary."
But know, O cherished Companion, that these are not " its people."
Without dwelling discourteously upon the fact that many Eastern folks
never get their desserts till they come West, and that a vast proportion
of the inmates of Arizona jails were never born in Arizona, let the Eion
remind you that there is a difference in courts. When justice goes gun-
ning for a man in Arizona, it is pretty apt to get him.

Whatsoever cowboy ought to feel entirely at home in our beasts
present Congress. Even as horned cattle think with their OF THE

hoofs, and paw the earth, and snort, and run away they know
not why and the deuce knows whither, so the mavericks now in Wash-
ington assembled have all the traditions of the herd. They have fairly
earned the brand of the Stampede Congress. Anyone who has ever
watched a bunch of longhorns sniff the air, and bellow, and get their
heads down and their tails kinked, and break away on a stampede, must
have " felt natural " when the Venezuela and Cuba episodes came. Ex-
cept that the cattle generally have a little better idea what they are



Decent criticism is to know what
you tell and tell what you know. It
does not damn a good thing for a hole in its
J f &>;C" coat, nor crown an immaculate triviality. It sees by

detail but counts by majorities. It presupposes learning, fairness and
skill. And there is precious little of it in the United States — it being
so much cheaper to praise ignorantly or abuse for malice' sake.

The last half-decade has invented a distinct new sort of magazines —
made not to be read but to be looked at. They are a liberal education in
the possibilities of the female form divine at about a quarter-to-bedtime.

The only book which can at all claim to be " a complete guide "
to God's country is L,indley & Widney's California of the South,
guidebook. of which the third edition, "rewritten and printed from new
plates," has just issued. It contains 330 pages filled with the very
information for which people go to a guide-book ; and no material point
seems to have been omitted. Part I, by J. P. Widney, A.M., M. D.,
LL. D., deals with the climatology and physical geography of the Coast,
and is the solid and important essay we expect from this deep scholar
and unusually capable writer. Part II, by Walter Lindley, M. D., covers
the towns and counties, the rivers, lakes and mineral springs, the
mountain and seaside resorts, the routes of travel, the resources and the
attractions of Southern California for those who seek health, pleasure or
profit. These matters are set forth comprehensively, if rather inco-
herently ; and it is a marvelous sum to be added up — the charms of this
region and the unprecedented development which has so transformed it
in a decade. One must respect the industry by which such a mass of
information has been gathered ; and on the whole the story is adequately
told — though without any of the literary charm which makes Van Dyke's
valuable books on California so readable.

It is wrong that so handsome a book should be disfigured by the in-
numerable carelessnesses which mark nearly every page of Part II.
They detract little from the material usefulness of the volume ; but its
dignity is seriously lowered by its being overrun with bad grammar and
sheer blunders, to say nothing of a few errors of more import. Spanish
words are oftener misspelled than not ; and for English company they
have plenty of such mistakes as " Nymphia" (the water-lily), "Spreck-
les," " Vandyke " and the like. The railroad names are confusion worse
confounded ; and, except in the case of the Southern Pacific, are more
often wrong than right. The "California Central " railroad is a favorite
fiction of this book — it certainly exists nowhere else. Los Angeles was
never named " Pueblo de la reina de los Angeles ; " and Fremont's head-
quarters are not "still standing;" and no place-name in America is
pronounced " Cat-aye-lee-nah ; " nor is San-Juan-by-the-Sea "a center
of population." There are scores of these blunders, doubly aggravating
because so inexcusable. One would fancy that pride would have led to
their correction before now— particularly as Eastern critics, years ago,
exposed so many of them in the first edition.


It would have been pardonable in Boom days to say :

"An acre of oranges will often yield $675 per year."

"After the eighth year an acre in oranges may safely be relied upon to yield a net
profit of $500 a year."

But it is inexcusable now. Even the unpremeditated " tenderfoot "
knows that half those figures would be a rich average.

The book is a monument of labor ; and, rid of these unworthy blem-
ishes, would remain a standard for many years. D. Appleton & Co.,
N. Y. $2.

Since the Ahkoond of Swat discontinued business, the art of might
swallowing a dictionary without tasting the words had come try

near to being lost. But it has been found again, and with a 1

fullness which that lamented potentate never dreamed of. The New
Bohemian is a Cincinnati magazine, published half to prove the culture
and modesty of the Queen City, and half to resuscitate those abused
writers whom other editors have habitually drowned in the waste-basket.
The New Bohemian is doing justice to both aims. The dripping geniuses
are all in sight ; and there is certainly no other place in the world except
Cincinnati where the culture-atmosphere — or the drinking-water — could
inspire such flights as these, which are fair samples of the Bohemian .
editorials :

" It goes pecking at your think-center, and fluttering through your imagination like
a birdie dreamlet. It does this with irrecusable periodicity.

" Through his wingful little pet, he cheeps lowly and collusively, clucks in fritinant
expostulation, twitters impeccable idyls, chants sacrosanct canticles, and sings gangli-
onic epoes."

"Between the jejune insanity of Bokish exploitation and the hectic apex of decadent
ribaldry there is a mean, native to rectilinear thought."

Which is probably reliable if true. It reminds one again of God's
thoughtfulness in putting much geography between Cincinnati and the

Every man and woman who knows to read what is worth read- His
ing has a loss in the death of H. C. Bunner. In American SHORT six

literature he was a marked figure. We have had other writers '

as delicate as he, and others as virile ; but perhaps not one, in our mod-
ern national life, so virile and so delicate at once. No other man has
ever held a humorous paper so high as he held Puck; and by that clean
engine of fun and satire he did most to mold public opinion. But it is
aside from his duties as a high journalist that the taught few will longest
remember him. His purely literary work is not great but it is beautiful;
inspired with the same fine taste and deft strength which marked what-
ever he did, and with the best opportunity for their expression. He died
at forty-one, with his best work to come. To those who loved him for
himself as well as for what he did, his untimely death is a great blow.
And American literature in this adulterated day can ill afford to lose a
man who never lost his head or his literary scrupulousness.

For some folks a book is made to be read ; for others, it is a
made to be picked to pieces. Once opened, no one but an rattling

Anabaptist will slam the covers of H. B. Marriott Watson's stori

Galloping Dick until the last page is read ; for it has as galloping a way
as its hero, and as insistent. It chronicles various exciting episodes in
the career of a knight of the road in the time of " Old Rowley ; " and
is a clever, roystering and unexpected tale which takes hold upon the
blood and the imagination. Naturally, there are lapses in the local and
temporal color ; but as a rule these are as apt as the unusually ingenious
plot— or series of plots. The book is beautifully made. Stone and
Kimball, Chicago ; $1.25.

That Flora Macdonald Shearer belongs among the few on the " the
Coast who are entitled to write in verse, her recent volume, legend

The Legend of Aulus, bears conclusive witness — though the of aulus.


inspiration of California evidently has never found her out. Miss Cool-
brith feels every poetic touch of her environment, but Mrs. Shearer
seems to feel only the traditions. Her muse is a Scot, and a severe one,
and reads no fashion-plates but the classics ; but for all that, 'tis a high-
minded, clear-voiced muse. The title poem, set to a fable of the Cesta
Romanorum, is consistent if a trifle heavy. The sonnets and other
verses, which fill more than half the little volume, are more spontane-
ous. Though one may regret that they are so inevitably in gray, their
average pitch is excellent, and their highest notes are fine. As charac-
teristic as anything in the book is the close of her sonnet on the violin :

" Listening, I hear the secret of thy heart

And why thy trembling strings must still complain :

Thou art a lamentation and a cry

Of bodiless souls, that, turning to depart,

From off the threshold of the vast inane.

Call upon us who are about to die."

This, no one need be ashamed of.

The book is on deckle-edged, handmade paper, and in Doxey's best
taste. Wm. Doxey, San Francisco.

Joaquin Miller has just issued a new volume of poems, Songs of the
Soul. Whitaker & Ray, San Francisco. The same firm is also bringing
out Prof. David Starr Jordan's Care and Culture of Men.

Tessa L. Kelso, sometime librarian of the public library of Los Angeles,
is conducting a department " About Libraries" in the Lotus.

The Critic says (Ap. 25) of Grace Ellery Channing's Sister of a Saint :

. . . " It is this divinely human gift of finding a man or woman, where the world
finds only a beggar, a barber or a waiter, that vitalizes Miss Channing's work [For the
benefit of the Critic be it known that Miss Chauning is Mrs. Channing-Stetson. — Ed.]
. . . this little volume is nothing if not artistic. In genre it is the same kind of %vork
that Millet has done with his brush for peasant life."

The Critic is quite right in its quiet disdain of Maude Mason Austin's
trash}- 'Censcion. But our esteemed New York friend is respectfully
advised that there is no such Spanish word as "serape" (it should be
zarape ) ; and that "caballi " as the plural of caballo is enough to make
the cripple of Lepanto burst his grave.

There is small excuse for not reading Maurus Jokai's characteristic
novel, Pretty Mic/ial, now that one can get a legible edition for so little.
"The Globe Library," Rand, McNally & Co., Chicago; paper, 25 cents.

Stone & Kimball, the active young Chicago publishers, have "aparted."
Mr. Kimball goes to New York with the book business, and Mr. Stone
(who is just now in Southern California), will continue the Chap-Book
in Chicago.

Constance Goddard Du Bois, author of The Shield of the Fleur de Lys
and other novels, is visiting Southern California.

Francis F. Browne, editor of the Chicago Dial, the foremost literary
fortnightly in America, has just wrenched loose trom God's country for
the fourth time. He admits that each parting is harder ; and while his
work is in Chicago his heart is here.

Capt John G. Bourke, one of the most scholarly men in our regular
army, a well-known writer on many phases of the Southwest, and this
year President of the American Folklore Society, has been revisiting
Southern California. His present station is Fort Ethan Allen, Vt.; but
he has seen as much frontier service as almost any officer on the roster.

Puck celebrated its 1000th issue the other day. One may not always
agree with its politics, but no one can disagree with Puck's brains. It
is confessedly the foremost humorous paper in the world.

Cycling in Southern California,



ig^HERE is a place in
VS'P this big world
" where it is always
afternoon to the lover of
the cycle ; where the riding
season lasts all the year ;
where sea, mountain, val-
ley, wood, river and canon
combine in picturesque

Nature's lover finds the
bicycle his best friend in
this land of sun-going-
down ; for it is most prac-
tical, most convenient and

Mausard-Collier Eng. Co A _ j ,„

the author. most common. And to

him who finds most delight in speed, the Southwest also becomes a
Mecca ; for here are bicycle race-tracks galore in a climate that makes
record breaking and the fastest speed possible.

The world of cycling is learning that "far-away California" can pro-
duce the best racing men as well as the speediest race horses and winning
athletes. This is indeed the pleasure ground of the earth.

Nowhere are sunshine, flowers, atmosphere and civilized comforts so
nicely combined with scenery that excites and yet rests, that delights,
that inspires all ; and, over all, the bluest of serene skies.

The bicycle is everywhere. The horse, our friend of ages — so dear to
the traveler, the tiller and the man of family — seems to have been half
superseded in this sunny land by that strange bird-like creation of rub-
ber, wood, steel and leather. Go about the cities and you see the wheel
more common than the horse.
Sally out into the country, among
the orange groves, the plains, the
grain fields, and the bicycle is
there. Follow nature among the
foothills, and beside the sea —
and the steed of silence is ever

Those grand old piles, the
saintly-named Missions, our
world-famous, historic ruins, are
bound together and brought
closer by the swift cycle.

The sun rises upon you in Los
Angeles, near that chapel beside

Mausard-Collier Eng. Co.

Illustrated (rom photos, by the author.


the green Plaza ; and you are soon whirling along the romantic Mission
Road, part of the Camino Real, to San Gabriel's pilastered walls and
ancient chime of bells. And, like the magic carpet of the Arabian
Nights, this air-shod steed whisks you almost in a wink to a modern
hotel where breakfast is welcome. You tear yourself away from the oft-
described beauties of the San Gabriel valley, and your wheel sweeps you
along the foothills of the Sierra Madre, where the wide green valley of
San Fernando unfolds to you with its border of a hundred mountain
peaks surrounding this Eden.

Long before noonday you are inspecting the walls, colonnades, and
arches of what was once San Fernando Mission. A temple, like
Solomon's, made by thousands of hands ; with timber hewn in the hills
full twenty miles away and brought oft-times on the shoulders of the toil-
ers ; with stone and metal from foreign lands completed, and with gold
from the mountains and the fruit of the land enriched.

You tarry here with your camera, perchance ; seek lunch in the near-
by town, and then off to the next Mission in far-away San Buenaventura ;
skimming along the mountain sides and over the broad, fruitful valleys,
with their thousands of sheep, cattle and horses.

After the late dinner, which only a bicycle trip can make taste so well,
you sink to dreamless rest, and rise the next morning early for another
exhilarating ride to the quaint old Mission at far-famed Santa Barbara.
On every hand new sights and wonders greet you, while by your side
old ocean's organ peals.

To the user of the cycle (and who does not ride should at once learn)
Southern California offers greater charms than any spot else in America.
On every hand historic landmarks and ruins are found. The freedom
from rain takes away worry. And exercise puts the rider in good humor
with himself and the rest of the world.

"Where Nature's harps are all in tune,

Online LibraryArchaeological Institute of America. Southwest SocOut west (Volume 5) → online text (page 4 of 34)