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American Notes-Part4_RUDYARD KIPLING(1865-1936)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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in the fifties were physically, and, as far as regards certain

tough virtues, the pick of the earth. The inept and the weakly



died en route, or went under in the days of construction. To

this nucleus were added all the races of the Continent--French,



Italian, German, and, of course, the Jew.

The result you can see in the large-boned, deep-chested,



delicate-handed women, and long, elastic, well-built boys. It

needs no little golden badge swinging from the watch-chain to



mark the native son of the golden West, the country-bred of

California.



Him I love because he is devoid of fear, carries himself like a

man, and has a heart as big as his books. I fancy, too, he knows



how to enjoy the blessings of life that his province so

abundantly bestows upon him. At least, I heard a little rat of a



creature with hock-bottle shoulders explaining that a man from

Chicago could pull the eye-teeth of a Californian in business.



Well, if I lived in fairy-land, where cherries were as big as

plums, plums as big as apples, and strawberries of no account,



where the procession of the fruits of the seasons was like a

pageant in a Drury Lane pantomime and the dry air was wine, I



should let business slide once in a way and kick up my heels with

my fellows. The tale of the resources of California--vegetable



and mineral--is a fairy-tale. You can read it in books. You

would never believe me.



All manner of nourishing food, from sea-fish to beef, may be

bought at the lowest prices, and the people are consequently



well-developed and of a high stomach. They demand ten shillings

for tinkering a jammed lock of a trunk; they receive sixteen



shillings a day for working as carpenters; they spend many

sixpences on very bad cigars, which the poorest of them smoke,



and they go mad over a prize-fight. When they disagree they do

so fatally, with fire-arms in their hands, and on the public



streets. I was just clear of Mission Street when the trouble

began between two gentlemen, one of whom perforated the other.



When a policeman, whose name I do not recollect, "fatally shot Ed

Hearney" for attempting to escape arrest, I was in the next



street. For these things I am thankful. It is enough to travel

with a policeman in a tram-car, and, while he arranges his



coat-tails as he sits down, to catch sight of a loaded revolver.

It is enough to know that fifty per cent of the men in the public



saloons carry pistols about them.

The Chinaman waylays his adversary, and methodically chops him to



pieces with his hatchet. Then the press roars about the brutal

ferocity of the pagan.



The Italian reconstructs his friend with a long knife. The press

complains of the waywardness of the alien.



The Irishman and the native Californian in their hours of

discontent use the revolver, not once, but six times. The press



records the fact, and asks in the next column whether the world

can parallel the progress of San Francisco. The American who



loves his country will tell you that this sort of thing is

confined to the lower classes. Just at present an ex-judge who



was sent to jail by another judge (upon my word I cannot tell

whether these titles mean anything) is breathing red-hot



vengeance against his enemy. The papers have interviewed both

parties, and confidently expect a fatal issue.



Now, let me draw breath and curse the negro waiter, and through

him the negro in service generally. He has been made a citizen



with a vote, consequently both political parties play with him.

But that is neither here nor there. He will commit in one meal



every betise that a senllion fresh from the plow-tail is capable

of, and he will continue to repeat those faults. He is as



complete a heavy-footed, uncomprehending, bungle-fisted fool as

any mem-sahib in the East ever took into her establishment. But



he is according to law a free and independent

citizen--consequently above reproof or criticism. He, and he



alone, in this insane city, will wait at table (the Chinaman




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