ial operations be continual increase, had no reason, nor had
the others, his friends, to put himself out for the sake of one Briton
more or less; but he rested not till he had accomplished all in my
behalf that a mother could think of for her _debutante_ daughter. Do you
know the Bohemian Club of San Francisco? They say its fame extends over
the world. It was created somewhat on the lines of the Savage by men who
wrote or drew things, and it has blossomed into most unrepublican
luxury. The ruler of the place is an owl--an owl standing upon a skull
and cross-bones, showing forth grimly the wisdom of the man of letters
and the end of his hopes for immortality. The owl stands on the
staircase, a statue four feet high, is carved in the woodwork, flutters
on the frescoed ceilings, is stamped on the note paper, and hangs on the
walls. He is an Ancient and Honourable Bird. Under his wing 'twas my
privilege to meet with white men whose lives were not chained down to
routine of toil, who wrote magazine articles instead of reading them
hurriedly in the pauses of office-work, who painted pictures instead of
contenting themselves with cheap etchings picked up at another man's
sale of effects. Mine were all the rights of social intercourse that
India, stony-hearted step-mother of Collectors, has swindled us out of.
Treading soft carpets and breathing the incense of superior cigars, I
wandered from room to room studying the paintings in which the members
of the club had caricatured themselves, their associates, and their
aims. There was a slick French audacity about the workmanship of these
men of toil unbending that went straight to the heart of the beholder.
And yet it was not altogether French. A dry grimness of treatment,
almost Dutch, marked the difference. The men painted as they spoke--with
certainty. The club indulges in revelries which it calls "jinks"--high
and low,--at intervals,--and each of these gatherings is faithfully
portrayed in oils by hands that know their business. In this club were
no amateurs spoiling canvas because they fancied they could handle oils
without knowledge of shadows or anatomy--no gentleman of leisure ruining
the temper of publishers and an already ruined market with attempts to
write "because everybody writes something these days." My hosts were
working, or had worked, for their daily bread with pen or paint, and
their talk for the most part was of the shop shoppy--that is to say,
delightful. They