F all the notable California characters of thirty-five and forty years ago there was none so courtly, so gallant, so picturesque or so generally intelligent as the Knight of the Lash, and especially of the Sierra. But the stage drivers of those days have all or nearly all passed over the last divide, and have left none to succeed them, except that the evolution has not done away with perfectly safe and satisfactory driving. Such Jehus as Foss the elder and Foss the younger, Baldy Green and Hank Monk, Billy Hamilton and Buffalo Jim, Hill Beechy and George Monroe, Cherokee Bill and E. W. Church, and scores more of their kind, were not only known intimately from Siski

you to San Diego, but they were celebrated more or less throughout the country; for they had driven. Grant and Sherman, Hayes and Garfield, Blaine and Colfax, Cameron and Richardson, Mark Twain and Artemus Ward, Carl Schurz and Edwin Forrest, Julia Dean and Grace Greenwood, and thousands of other eminent persons.

The stage driver of the days alluded to was almost always an Apollo, and the best dresser on the road; his clothes being dark and made to order, his hat a creamcolored felt, and his gauntlets the finest worn in any land; his boots fitted like gloves, his shirt was spotlessly clean, his cravat was always genteelly adjusted, and he used a

was the oracle of the barn, the inn and the station; a good talker, generally, and a superb listener. He smoked only the best cigars, was extremely moderate in the use of intoxicants when on duty, and was never profane in the presence of travelers. He read the Sacramento Union religiously; he loved his horses better than he did his old folks at home, really, and he swore by Wells, Fargo & Co.

There are just as good and just as reliable drivers in the Sierras today as there were forty years ago. But here all similarity ceases. The dress of the stage driver of the present day differs in no respect from that of the freighter-a limp light hat, tan or canvas shoes, woolen shirt and overalls, cheap gloves, and generally a rather slouchy appearance and unobtrusive manner. He has very little to say; merely answers when spoken to, and on the whole betrays diffidence or indiffer

ence.

In all the galleries of Sierra Knights, from Shasta to Tehachapi, George Monroe, a Mariposa County mulatto, was the monarch of all; and when General Grant visited the Yosemite Valley nearly a quarter of a century ago, he was accompanied, from Merced to Wawona by Henry Washburn (lately deceased), one of the proprietors of the Yosemite Stage and Turnpike Company; and from that point to the Valley, the General and his party were driven by Monroe, then about twenty-six, and conceded to be the best man that ever held the reins over six horses along that extremely beautiful twenty-six miles of road.

As is well known by all visitors to the Yosemite, by Wawona, this

stretch is a continuous succession of the letter S, winding in and out in many places so sharply as to make the turns seem nearly impossible or thrillingly dangerous and to make the three teams of horses form the three sides of the letter.

The General sat with the driver, of course, and was in ecstacies all the way, as he had never witnessed such a splendid exhibition of mountain driving before. George Monroe was also in a paroxysm of joy. He was not very light; but his features were as regular as those of a Greek, and his figure was perfect. His dress was a combination of Old Mexican and the newest American adaptation; his hat a creamy-white, half-stiff, half-limp, and his gauntlets, costly ones, given him by a distinguished tourist.

As he sat there, with his six lines and long whip, with one foot on the brake and the other braced against the footboard, he arrested the attention of the illustrious American soldier and traveler by his side, for he appeared to have as perfect control of Henry Washburn's selected horses as if the whole turnout were an automaton. He would throw those six animals from one side to the other to avoid a stone or a chuck hole as if they were a machine or a single quadruped; sometimes a hub would just gently scrape the bank on the upper side, and in a moment afterward infinitesimally overlap the precipice on the down side. Crack! went his whip, every once in a while, and down would go the teams on a rapturous canter, and around the sharp curves and over plank culverts, and up again on a clean run-the crack of the whips making piccolo screeches amidst the thunders of the coach and the rushing waters. Had the reins been electric ribbons or delicate galvanic threads, or tissues of life, they could not have more adequately or omnipotently conveyed the thoughts and designs of the handsome Jehu to the equine

sextette, whose dilating nostrils and palpitating bodies told of a movement that had probably never been equaled since the daring son of Nimshi drove furiously six thousand years ago.

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John Russell Young once ferred to General Grant as the Sphinx. But there was another beside him that day, for Monroe never spoke a word nor turned his head. The two were a "Sitting Colossi" in flesh and blood. After the stop at Inspiration Point, however, they mutually relaxed and indulged in conversation until the Valley was reached, when Monroe handed the lines and the whip to the General, but maintained his seat and foot at the brake. In a few years afterward, Monroe took President and Mrs. Hayes over the same route, and treated them to some of his most artistic driving. Many distinguished people have been taken into the Yosemite Valley by this famous driver, notably Blaine, Garfield, Garfield, Sherman, Dana, the Duke of Cumberland, Dr. Russell, Arthur Sullivan, George Augustus Sala, Marquis of Salisbury, Lady Franklin, Lillie Langtry, Princess Louise, and may others.

Óne evening, some years ago, I was chatting with Henry Washburn about Sierra drivers, and he said:

"After an experience of nearly forty years, and having had as many as fifty regular drivers some season, I have never known another such an all-round reinsman as George Monroe. Just as there are the greatest of soldiers and sailors, artists and mechanics at times, so there are greater stage drivers than their fellows-and George Monroe was the greatest of all. He was a wonder in every way. He had names for all his horses, and they all knew their names. Sometimes he spoke sharply to one or more of them, but generally he addressed them pleasantly. He seldom never used the whip, except to

or

crack it over their heads. Metaphorically, he spoke daggers, but used none. He drove over my lines for nearly twenty years and never injured a person. I always put him on the box when there was a distinguished party to be driven, and fast and showy driving was expected or necessary, and he never disappointed me or exceeded the limit scheduled or fell behind. Once he drove a party from the valley to Madera, a distance of seventy miles, in eleven hours, and in two hours afterward, in an emergency, took the reins and drove back to Wawona. Once, coming down the last grade into Mariposa, his brake broke short off while his teams were on a clean run, and he dashed the whole outfit into a chaparral clump; in less than two hours he had the animals extricated, the stage pulled out, and was trotting into Mariposa; he came into Merced on time; the fourteen passengers made up a purse of seventy dollars for him, and the two English ladies aboard sent him acceptable Christmas presents annually until I informed them of his death some years later."

The last days of Monroe cast sadness among all who knew him. He had driven daily between Wawona and the Valley every season for many years without an accident of any kind. No obstacle in the way of a fallen tree, fire or sliding rock ever deterred or dismayed him. He knew his horses so well, and they knew him so well, that they would do anything he asked them to do, and many a time he has taken them carefully over a fallen tree two feet or more in diameter, without injury. to animal, harness or vehicle. Thousands of people have telegraphed to reserve seats on his stage or have staid over at Wawona to drive with him. He was dangerously, I may say mortally injured, at last while riding a fractious mule that threw him and rolled over on him. The next day he was placed

on a bed made in his own stage, drawn by his own six horses, which, by the way, became unmanageable or partly so at the hands of a new driver, until George drew himself up, although in dreadful pain, and talked them out of their disorder. When he arrived at Wawona, the Washburns lifted him out of the stage and put him in one of the best rooms of their hotel, and gave him as much care and medical aid as if he were one of their family. He was in great pain, but all he said was: "I've driven for the last time, but don't tell my mother." In a few days, however, he became impatient to be taken to his mother, and was carried down. to Mariposa, where he died in her arms in a few hours. Although he was a mulatto, or quadroon, and an especial favorite with tourists, he was greatly liked by the other drivers; and Fort Monroe, between Chinquapin and Inspiration Point, is named after him.

Among a few old Sierra drivers

George Monroe, Yosemite driver.

still living and driving over the Yosemite route is E. W. Church, who is known by tens of thousands of San Franciscans, as he drove between Truckee and Tahoe twentyeight years. Church is extremely

proud of the fact that he took President and Mrs. Hayes from Truckee to Tahoe, and that he has taken nearly all the Governors and Congressmen of California and Nevada, hundreds of newspaper men of the two States, and many others, including many of the finest ladies of San Francisco, between the two above-named places. This veteran. whip once said to me:

"There was a time in my life when, I believe, I knew every stone and rut between Truckee and Tahoe blindfolded, and my horses knew as much as I did. Staging in the Sierras is a great art; and the reason there is seldom or no accidents is because the drivers have been well-trained elsewhere, and are men of experience and skill, caution and sobriety. Every particle of harness and running gear has been examined before starting; the drivers have absolute control of their teams and vehicles, and a perfect knowledge of the laws of stage motion governs all their acts. One of the most reliable, patient and pleasant of all the Sierra drivers now living-and he looks ten years younger than he is-is Tom Gordon, who would be termed a little fellow if seen on Broadway, but who is as compact as a game-cock; he reminds one of General Grant in face and figure-and is quite as reserved as that illustrious person. Computing the miles and hours Tom has driven during the past twentyfive years, I make it about 40,000 hours; much of this time being in May, June, July, August and September. During these hours he has driven at least 150,000 miles, which would have given him a trip of six times around the earth."

Another splendid driver, and a great favorite with all who ride