My job as a critic had brought me in touch with the literary and stage folk, but I was eager to meet the painters. Alas! they were woefully few. Perhaps nature, in this part of the land, was too overwhelming; but I think it was because new countries seldom produce artists. However, besides Hill, there was almost no one but William Keith putting upon canvas the beauty of the California landscape. He was much more the traditional painter person than Frank Duveneck, and, although he really had money, he preferred to give the impression of the wild-eyed genius starving and striving to get along. I was still using my rattly old tin box, and it fascinated me to steal into his studio and watch this tousle-headed, pallid man put enormous quantities of paint upon large canvases in the most extravagant manner. An artist who expected to live by his painting had a hard row to hoe. These rich miners cared not a whit for art, and any pictures they bought were purchased through Eastern or foreign dealers who took occasion to get rid of a great number of spurious “old masters” on the unsuspecting Californian. Most of the fortunes had been made quite unawares by illiterate and uncultivated men whose taste was vulgar to the extreme. These were the days of terrific financial excitement of the silver mines of Nevada, of the almost overnight millionaires such as Flood, Mackay, O’Brien, and Fair. The Comstock Lode, purchased at about two dollars a share from the poor prospector who discovered the vein, was selling, when I was out West, at something like $3500 for one-fourth of a share and paying a twenty-five per cent dividend quarterly. Is it any wonder they sometimes lost their heads? Speculation ran riot, and the gambling instinct (which is almost a disease in California) had a chance to spread itself over an entire population who would almost sell their souls to bet upon what the deep, dark earth would yield on the morrow. In my small way I was affected; but I can remember being in only one real deal. My cousin ran into the store out of breath one day, saying: “Have you any money? Don’t ask me why, but give it to me.” I had diligently saved about sixteen dollars, and it amused me to try the gamble. In a few days he returned and spilled two or three hundred dollars in gold on the counter. My winnings! As secretary to Adolph Sutro he had got a tip before the Stock Exchange heard of it. This sort of thing was happening every few days.