57o 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
THE HERMIT OF SAN CLEMENTE. 
A Lonely Pacific Island. 
[It was at the Island of San Clemente that the Chil¬ 
ian Insurgent steamer Itata received her cargo of 
arms from the schooner Robert and Minnie.— Eds ] 
One day I was standing on the blnff at 
Lagnna Beach, southern California, look¬ 
ing off upon the vast Pacific, its restless 
surf thundering at my feet. It was towards 
evening, and the brilliant sea-blue of mid¬ 
day was changing to the dull grayish-blue 
of night. Just then the sun shone out be¬ 
tween a low-lying bank of clouds and the 
horizon, bringing into bold relief every¬ 
thing above the sea-line, no matter how 
distant. “ See 1” said my companion, point¬ 
ing westward, “ there is an island—it must 
be San Clemente.” I looked, and saw far 
off in the extreme distance an indigo-color¬ 
ed bit of land, like a cloud, just floating, as 
it were, above the horizon. The word went 
round that San Clemente was visible, and 
many came out to see the unusual sight. 
For a few moments the blue, cloud-like 
speck was visible, then the million waves 
between were tipped with sunset fire and 
the rare vision faded from our sight. 
I have been many times to the sea shore, 
but have never seen this far, lone island 
from there again. It is 60 miles away, and 
when we consider that there is no point 
upon it that is 2,000 feet high it seems quite 
remarkable that it should be visible from 
the shore. The most interesting thing 
about this island is that there has been just 
one man living upon it for nearly 30 years. 
I call him the “Hermit of San Clemente.” 
A few days after the island was visible the 
yacht San Diego took apirty over to seeit, 
and they came back with such an interest¬ 
ing story that I determined- to go there 
myself some day. They said the hermit 
had two dogs and that when the boat ap¬ 
proached the shore the poor creatures were 
so overjoyed to see other human beings 
again that they swam out quite a consider¬ 
able distance to meet them. The past sum¬ 
mer I had quite a good opportunity to 
gratify my curiosity about the hermit. I 
was spending some weeks at Avalon, Cata¬ 
lina Island, when a party was made up to 
sail over to San Clemente, to be gone three 
days. Our vessel was a sloop, with one 
great advantage over sailboats in general, 
which was, that she carried a little screw 
propeller by which we could go about five 
miles an hour independent of the wind. 
The engine was not a common steam 
engine, but was run by gas made from 
gasoline—a rather dangerous thing, I think, 
to have on board ship, but nobody seamed 
afraid, so I took what chances there might 
be and went. It was a good thing we had 
a propeller as the wind turned out to be 
dead ahead all the way, and we should have 
had to make long lacks to get there with 
sails. Towards evening we anchored In a 
little cove, the faint blue speck I saw from 
Laguna that day having expanded Into a 
long, mountainous island extending in 
front of us for 20 miles. It looked very 
desolate—not a tree was in sight, and we 
found out afterwards that there was not a 
single tree on the isle. 
Opposite our anchorage we saw a long, 
low, board house, the only one on the is¬ 
land, with some sheds near it, and on the 
veranda stood the figure of a man. For a 
long time he did not move, but he was evi¬ 
dently gazing intently at the sight of the 
other human beings invading his mys¬ 
terious domain. 
As our boat grated toward the pebbly 
beach, the silent figure moved, descended 
the steps and came toward us. I then saw 
that he was an old man, stout and large, 
with a short, black pipe in his mouth. Two 
ugly dogs folio wed at his heels, and a tawny 
goat stood posing in sullen indifference 
nearby. The shore was so packed with 
smooth, round bowlders that it was posi¬ 
tively dangerous to one’s ankles to walk 
anywhere but in the path. 
Our skipper hailed the hermit with a 
‘Well, Tom, how are you this time ?” to 
which the modern Selkirk replied with a 
guttural laugh, intimating that he was well 
enough, and adding, “and so ye’ve brought 
another party over, have ye ? ” His pipe 
having been out of his mouth quite a long 
time while saying this, he replaced it and 
puffed away with evident satistaction. The 
sailor, who knew what old Gallagher 
liked, then presented him with a sack of 
choice smoking tobacco, which made him 
chuckle again, and put him in high good 
humor. 
We bad by this time reached the house, 
at which the hospitable old man urged us 
all to stop, freely offering us the use of 
everything it contained. But we had come 
prepared to camp, aDd, besides, the inside 
of the house, though it might suit a lone 
hermit, was not exactly as clean as the 
shlniDg kitchen of a model housewife. Far 
from it. Everything was of a dingy brown, 
from the tables and benches to the dried 
fish hanging on the rafters. So we politely 
declined the proffered hospitality, and made 
down our beds on a high bench of brushy 
land above the house. The jolly hermit 
forced me to accept a tin cud of tea which 
he poured out hot from the stove, but the 
water from whi h it was made was so old 
that it was undergoing the process of fer¬ 
mentation, and it made the tea so sour and 
nauseous that after swallowing one mouth¬ 
ful I had to set it down. We made bold 
to ask Gallagher what ailed the water, but 
he said it was good, healthy water and 
would soon taste all right. He took down 
his dose straight without winking, and evi¬ 
dently enjoyed it. As we had brought 
drinking water along, we took his word for 
its healthfulness, and drank no more of it. 
Soon night had fallen, and as I peeped 
out from my snug roll of blankets as I lay 
high up on the bluff, I could dimly see the 
outline of the restless ocean, with one 
twinkling light swaying back and forth in 
the cove where the vessel was stationed. 
The land rose a silent, black mass on either 
side. It was a lonely spot to pass just one 
night in ; and I thought of what my sensa¬ 
tions would be if that little sloop, our one 
connecting link with the outer world, 
should sail away and leave me a prisoner 
here I Yet, this old man in the house be¬ 
low had spontaneously lived on this same 
desolate shore for nearly 30 years, and only 
seen the face of his brother man at inter¬ 
vals many months apart. 
Thomas Gallagher was born in Ireland 
about 70 years ago, and after a rovlDg 
soldier life, settled in Los Angeles as a shoe¬ 
maker. This was shortly before the war. 
Two men in that city, sheep owners, con¬ 
ceived the idea of putting a large band of 
sheep on San Clemente Island and lettirg 
them increase there where there would be i o 
one to molest them. This they did, and shot- 
maker Gallagher was secured to go with 
them to guard against “ pirates.” The 
sheep needed no care, no herding, but got 
their own living by grazing, so Mr. Galla¬ 
gher had nothing to do but take care of 
himself, and, barring lonesomeness, he led 
a jolly life enough. No black-hulled, swift¬ 
sailing vessels, manned by fierce Algerian 
sea robbers troubled his little harbor. All 
was as peaceful as a southern Californian 
valley under the mission fathers, and the 
sheep increased till nobody knew how many 
there were on the sea girt island. 
Once a year a schooner sailed out from 
San Pedro harbor, with Indian and Mexi¬ 
can shearers on board, carrying provisions 
and water to this “good old Iri“h gentle¬ 
man.” Then ensued a busy time. The 
winding cafions and rocky shores re¬ 
sounded and echoed the musical cries of the 
Spanish vaqueros as they “ rounded up ” 
the timid sheep. Thfsewere driven into 
the corrals, sheared, passed into another 
field, and at last let out again shivering for 
want of their warm overcoats. The huge 
stove roared, the many kettles saug, the 
tortillas fried, the strong coffee shed its 
aroma around and the tough old goat fared 
well. 
There is not a single fresh-water spring 
on the island, yet the sheep live and grow 
fat. There are natural “tanks” on the 
heights, which collect water from the winter 
rains, and here the sheep come to drink. 
When these give out, they eat a plant 
which grows there and which contains 
much water, thus quenching their thirst. 
But now this is mostly eaten off and the 
poor things are beginning to suffer. They 
have been known to attack the “ tunies ” or 
cactus, for the sake of the water it contains, 
but this kills them by its thorns. 
Many years ago, Gallagher told us. there 
were trees on San Clemente, but the sheep 
have eaten bark and trees so persistently 
that all have died and disappeared. There 
is nothing left now but cactus, and a worth¬ 
less kind of chapparel that even sheep can¬ 
not eat. 
Once in a while the hermit would go back 
with the men to the mainland ; but he al¬ 
ways sighed for the independent, easy life 
he had left, and soon returned to his sheep, 
his dogs, his pipe and his books. He keeps 
quite a good library, including standard 
fiction and biography, and his bed room is 
papered with the London Illustrated News. 
He has picked up many beautiful shells 
from time to time, which we saw. 
Ancient Tom welcomes visitors, who are 
more frequent of late years, with grave 
friendliness, but does not seem to feel any 
sadness when they depart. Some of these 
days his dogs will listen for his cheery call 
in vain; they will lick his still face, but 
he will not answer—the Hermit of San 
Clemente will have taken his last pull at 
his short black pipe, and will stand on that 
desolate shore no more. 
The western shore which we visited to 
gather the rare white abalone shells is a 
marvel of desolation. A two-mile slope of 
drifted sand terminates in jagged ledges of 
black, black rock, against which the cease¬ 
less surges dash with angry thunders. Yet 
here we found two curiously different evi¬ 
dences of the presence of man. Heaps of 
fresh shells, from which the abalcnes had 
been lately extracted indicated the recent 
visit of Chinese abalone fishers, who touch 
at these far islands in their clumsy junks 
for this purpose. 
Again, on examining a hollow in a sandy 
mound near the beach, we picked up three 
decayed skulls and other tones of those 
who once were men. Glass beads and 
wampum told that they were Indians. 
There are very many of these remains, 
which puzzle the wisest antiquarians ; for 
how could a numerous population live on 
such a desert spot f 
Wondering, tired and happy, we re- 
embarked on the faithful Hattie, and after 
another day of bowling along through the 
vasty deep, the lights of Avalon greeted 
our eyes, and soon we were on shore, in 
bed, and dreaming of—who knows what f 
San Bernardino Co , Cal. jambs h roe. 
AUG. i 
THE R. N.-Y.’S FERTILIZER EXPERI¬ 
MENTS. 
I went out to the Rural Grounds some 
days ago to look over the small-plot fer¬ 
tilizer experiments The R. N.-Y. has told 
us about. Many farmers think this “ small- 
plot ” business is all nonsense. “ Give us 
acres 1 ” they say. It looks to me as though 
this point had been pretty well aired in re¬ 
cent issues. The average farmer, working 
hard for every cent he gets, could not afford 
the time or money needed to conduct such 
experiments as those at the Rural Grounds. 
The hand culture would cost too much on 
acres, and the work of weighing and 
handling all the different forms of chemi¬ 
cals used in these small rows could not be 
done by one who is forced to earn his liv¬ 
ing by farming. And yet it must be a very 
short sighted man who would say that a 
study and application of the remits of these 
experiments will not prove useful to any 
intelligent man. Take such a common 
operation as killing potato beetles, or spray¬ 
ing fruits, or any of the dozen similar 
things that are now considered absolutely 
necessary. The learning how to do these 
things to the best advantage was slow, put¬ 
tering and expensive work. It would not 
have paid any farmer to go through all the 
motions and study needed to learn how to 
do these things in the best way, though at 
the same ti ne he could not afford to do 
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