The Englishman in the West i8i 



face downwards, at the bottom of his portmanteau, 

 where he cannot see them, nor they him. But our 

 Moral Idiot was afflicted with no such sentimental 

 scruples. His photographs stood — blushing, so it 

 seemed to me — upon the mantelpiece of his room, 

 whence they witnessed many a shameful scene ; and 

 beside them were other pictures of other women 

 (although one might ask Heaven if they were in 

 truth of the same sex) ; and seeing this it was 

 obvious that nothing would suffice to stop the run- 

 away, that, morally speaking, he was dead. Not 

 long after his body died also. 



The Eemittance Man is the curse of all new; 

 countries, although in a sense he is nobody's enemy | 

 but his own. The monthly dole he receives from 

 home serves to keep his body, but it plays havoc 

 with his soul. As a rule the remittance is squan- 

 dered within three days ; and then follows a period 

 of incubation, perhaps of repentance, during which 

 the poor fellow lies snug on his ranch, or in his 

 squalid room, if his tastes be urban. The homes 

 (?) of the remittance men are curiously alike ; an 

 epitome, in fact, of the men themselves. If the 

 remittance man be still young, a ranchero of three 

 years' standing, you will note in and around his 

 cabin the half-effaced signs of labour ; a garden full 

 of weeds, a cypress fence untrimmed, white-washed 

 outbuildings now stained and discoloured, but once 

 as clean and bright as the steel bits and stirrups 

 which our friend brought from home. If you are 

 of a curious turn of mind, the dust-heap at the 

 back is worth exploring. The upper strata reveal 

 a sorry collection of tomatoes and sardine cans; 



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