Doubts have sometimes been cast upon Bret Harte’s description of the gambling element in California life, but contemporary accounts fully sustain the picture which he drew. One reason for the comparative respectability of gambling among the Pioneers was that most of the California gamblers came from the West and South, especially from States bordering upon the Mississippi River, and in those quarters the status of the gambler was far higher than in the Eastern or Middle parts of the country. Early in 1850 a whole ship-load of gamblers arrived from New Orleans. They stopped, en route, at Monterey, went ashore for a few hours, and, as a kind of first-fruits of their long journey, relieved the Spaniards and Mexicans resident there of what loose silver and gold they happened to have on hand. These citizens of Monterey, like all the native Californians, were inveterate gamblers; but an American who was there at the time relates that they were like children in the hands of the men from New Orleans; and thus we have one more proof of Anglo-Saxon superiority.

Nor does Bret Harte’s account lack direct confirmation. “The gamblers,” says a contemporary historian, “were usually from New Orleans, Louisville, Memphis, Richmond, or St. Louis. Not infrequently they were well-born and well-educated, and among them were as many good, honest, square-dealing men as could be found in any other business; and they were, as a rule, more charitable and more ready to help those in distress."

A certain William Thornton, a gambler from St. Louis, known as “Lucky Bill,” had many of the traits associated with Bret Harte’s gamblers. He was noted for his generosity, and, though finally hanged by a vigilance committee, he made a “good end,” for, on the scaffold, he exhorted his son who was among the spectators, to avoid bad company, to keep away from saloons, and to lead an industrious and honest life.

No surprise need be felt, therefore, that in California a gambler like Jack Hamlin should have the qualities and perform the deeds of a knight-errant. Bret Harte himself records the fact that it was the generous gift of a San Francisco gambler which started the Sanitary Commission in the Civil War, so far at least as California was concerned. The following incident occurred in the town of Coloma in the summer of 1849. Two ministers, a Mr. Roberts and a Mr. Dawson, preached there one Sunday to a company of miners, and one of them held forth especially against the sin of gambling. When the collection had been made, a twenty dollar and a ten dollar gold piece were found, carefully wrapped in paper, and on the paper was written: “I design the twenty dollars for Mr. Roberts because he fearlessly dealt out the truth against the gamblers. The ten dollars are for Mr. Dawson.” The paper was signed by the leading gambler in the town.

The principal building in the new city, the Parker House, a two-story, wooden affair, with a piazza in front, was erected in 1849 at a cost of thirty thousand dollars, and was rented almost immediately at fifteen hundred dollars a month for games of chance. Almost everybody played, and in ’49 and ’50 the gambling houses served as clubs for business and professional men. As Bret Harte wrote in the Introduction to the second volume of his works: “The most respectable citizens, though they might not play, are to be seen here of an evening. Old friends who, perhaps, parted at the church door in the States, meet here without fear and without reproach. Even among the players are represented all classes and conditions of men. One night at a faro table a player suddenly slipped from his seat to the floor, a dead man. Three doctors, also players, after a brief examination, pronounced it disease of the heart. The coroner, sitting at the right of the dealer, instantly impanelled the rest of the players, who, laying down their cards, briefly gave a verdict in accordance with the facts, and then went on with their game!”

A similar but much worse scene is recorded as occurring in a Sacramento gambling house. A quarrel arose in the course of which a man was shot three times, each wound being a mortal one. The victim was placed in a dying condition on one of the tables; but the orchestra continued to play, and the gambling went on as before in the greater part of the room. A notorious woman, staggering drunk, assailed the ears of the dying man with profane and obscene remarks, while another by-stander endeavored to create laughter by mimicking the contortions that appeared in his face, as he lay there gasping in his death agony upon a gambler’s table.

In San Francisco the principal gambling houses were situated in the very heart of the city, and they were kept open throughout the whole twenty-four hours. At night, the brilliantly lighted rooms, the shifting crowd of men, diverse and often picturesque in costume and appearance, the wild music which arose now and then, and which, except for the jingling of gold and silver, was almost the only sound, all this, as a youthful spectator recalled in after years, “was a rapturous and fearful thing.” The rooms were gorgeously furnished, with a superabundance of gilt frames, sparkling chandeliers, and ornaments of silver.

Behind the long bar were more mirrors, gold clocks, ornamental bottles and decanters, china vases, bouquets of flowers, and glasses of many colors and fantastic shapes.

The atmosphere was often hazy with tobacco smoke and redolent of the fumes of brandy; but perfect order prevailed, and in the pauses of the music not a sound could be heard except the subdued murmur of voices, and the ceaseless chink of gold and silver. It was the fashion for those who stood at the tables to have their hands full of coins which they shuffled backward and forward, like so many cards. The noise of a cane falling upon the marble floor would cause everybody to look up. If a voice were raised in hilarity or altercation, the by-standers would frown upon the offender with a stare of virtuous indignation. Every gambling house, even the most squalid resort on Long Wharf, had its music, which might be that of a single piano-player or fiddler, or an orchestra of five or six performers. In the large gambling halls the music was often very good. Two thousand dollars a month for a nightly performance was the sum once offered to a violin-player by a San Francisco gambler; and, to the honor of the artist be it said, the offer was declined.

All California, sooner or later, was seen in the gambling rooms of San Francisco: Mexicans wrapped in their blankets, smoking cigarettes, and watching the game intently from under their broad-brimmed hats; Frenchmen in their blouses, puffing at black pipes; countrymen fresh from the mines, wearing flannel shirts and high boots, with pistols and knives in their belts; boys of ten or twelve years, smoking big cigars, and losing hundreds of dollars at a play, with the nonchalance of veterans; low-browed, villainous-looking convicts from Australia; thin, glassy-eyed men, in the last stages of a misspent life, clad in the greasy black of a former gentility. The professional gamblers usually had a pale, careworn look, not uncommon, by the way, in California; but no danger or excitement could disturb their equanimity. In this respect the players strove hard to imitate them, though not always with success. The most popular games were monte, usually conducted by Mexicans, and faro, an American game. The French introduced rouge-et-noir, roulette, lansquenet, and vingt-et-un.

In the larger halls the custom was to rent different parts of the room to different proprietors, each of whom carried on his own game independently. Most of the proprietors were foreigners, and many of them were women. These women included some of great beauty, and they were all magnificently attired, their rustling silks, elaborately dressed hair and glittering diamonds contrasting strangely with the hairy faces, slouch hats and flannel shirts of the miners.

That gambling was looked upon at first as a legitimate industry is plain from the surprising fact that the local courts in Sacramento upheld gambling debts as valid, and authorized their collection by process of law. But these decisions almost sufficient to make Blackstone rise from his grave were reversed the following year.

Indeed, a healthy public opinion against gambling developed very soon. Even in 1850, the grand jury sitting at San Francisco condemned the practice; and in 1851 gambling on Sunday was forbidden in that city by an ordinance which the authorities enforced in so far that open gambling on that day was no longer permitted. In December, 1850, an ordinance against gaming in the streets was passed by the city council of Sacramento. By the end of 1851 there was a perceptible decrease in both gaming and drinking in all the larger towns of California. “Gambling with all the attractions of fine saloons and tastefully dressed women is on the wane in Marysville,” a local observer reported; and the same thing was noticed in San Francisco. The gambling house, as a general rendez-vous, was succeeded by the saloon, and that, in turn, by the club.

Gambling houses continued to be licensed in San Francisco until 1856, but public opinion against them steadily grew. “They are tolerated,” said the “San Francisco Herald,” “for no other reason that we know of except that they are charged heavily for licenses. Almost all of them are owned by foreigners.” By the end of the year 1855, the “Bulletin” was condemning the gamblers as among the worst elements of society; and the death of the “Bulletin’s” heroic Editor in the following year marked the close of the gambling era in San Francisco. When Bret Harte’s first stories were written the type represented by John Oakhurst and Jack Hamlin had begun to pass away, and those worthies would soon have been forgotten.

But who can forget them now! “Bret Harte,” said the “Academy,” after his death, “was the Homer of Gamblers. Gamblers there had been before, but they were of the old sullen type.” In making his gamblers good-looking, Bret Harte only followed tradition, and the tradition is founded on fact. The one essential trait of the gambler is good nerves. These are largely a matter of good health and physique, and good looks have much the same origin. It follows that gamblers having good nerves should also have good looks. It is natural, too, that they should have excellent manners. The habit of easy shooting and of being shot at is universally recognized as conducive to politeness, and, moreover, a certain persuasiveness of manner, a mingling of suavity and authority, is part of the gambler’s stock-in-trade. An American of wide experience once declared that he had met but one fellow-countryman whose manners could fairly be described as “courtly,” and he was a professional gambler of Irish birth. Good looks and good manners, the former especially, were very common among the California Pioneers, and it is but natural that Oakhurst and Hamlin should have had an unusual share of these attractions.

Mr. Oakhurst appears in only a few of the stories, but there is a certain intensity in the description of him which makes one almost certain that he, like most of Bret Harte’s characters, was drawn from life. “There was something in his carriage, something in the pose of his beautiful head, something in the strong and fine manliness of his presence, something in the perfect and utter control and discipline of his muscles, something in the high repose of his nature a repose not so much a matter of intellectual ruling as of his very nature, that go where he would and with whom, he was always a notable man in ten thousand.”

In this description one cannot help perceiving the Author’s effort, not quite successful perhaps, to lay his finger upon the essential trait of a real and striking personality.

In two stories only does he play the part of hero, these being A Passage in the Life of Mr. John Oakhurst, and the immortal Outcasts of Poker Flat. The former story closes with a characteristic remark. Two weeks after the duel in which his right arm was disabled, Mr. Oakhurst “walked into his rooms at Sacramento, and in his old manner took his seat at the faro table. ‘How’s your arm, Jack?’ asked an incautious player. There was a smile following the question, which, however, ceased as Jack looked up quietly at the speaker. ’It bothers my dealing a little, but I can shoot as well with my left.’ The game was continued in that decorous silence which usually distinguished the table at which Mr. John Oakhurst presided.”

It has been objected by one critic that Oakhurst and Jack Hamlin are too much alike; but if we imagine one of these characters as placed in the situation of the other, we cannot help seeing how very different they are. Jack Hamlin could never have been infatuated, as Oakhurst was, by Mrs. Decker, or indeed by any woman. Oakhurst was too simple, too solid, too grave a person to understand women. He lacked the humor, the sympathy, the cynicism, and the acute perceptive powers of Hamlin.

One of the best scenes in all Bret Harte is that in which Oakhurst bursts in upon Mrs. Decker, recounts her guilt and treachery, and declares his intention to kill her and then himself. She did not faint, she did not cry out. She sat quietly down again, folded her hands in her lap, and said calmly,

“‘And why should you not?’

“Had she recoiled, had she shown any fear or contrition, had she essayed an explanation or apology, Mr. Oakhurst would have looked upon it as an evidence of guilt. But there is no quality that courage recognizes so quickly as courage, there is no condition that desperation bows before but desperation; and Mr. Oakhurst’s power of analysis was not so keen as to prevent him from confounding her courage with a moral quality. Even in his fury he could not help admiring this dauntless invalid."

Jack Hamlin’s power of analysis was far more keen; and Mrs. Decker would never have deceived him.

The two men were equally brave, equally desperate, but perhaps Oakhurst was the more heroic. The simplicity of his nature was more akin to heroism than was the dashing, mercurial, laughter-loving temperament of Jack Hamlin. Hamlin is almost always represented with companions, male or female, but Oakhurst was a solitary man in life as in death. His dignity, his reserve, even his want of humor tended to isolate him. Bret Harte, it will be noticed, almost always speaks of him as “Mr.” Oakhurst. Though he was numbered among the outcasts of Poker Flat, he was far from being one of them.

There is a classic simplicity, not only in Bret Harte’s account of Oakhurst, but in the whole telling of the story, and a depth of feeling which is more than classic. Every line of that marvellous tale seems to thrill with anticipation of the tragedy in which it closes; and every incident is described in the tense language of real emotion. “Mr. Oakhurst was a light sleeper. Toward morning he awoke benumbed and cold. As he stirred the dying fire, the wind, which was now blowing strongly, brought to his cheek that which caused the blood to leave it, snow!”

Then comes the catastrophe of the snow-storm. We may condemn Oakhurst, on this or that ground, for his act of self-destruction, but we cannot regard it as weak or cowardly. To be capable of real despair is the mark of a strong character. A weaker man will shuffle, disguise the truth in his own mind, and hope not only against hope but against reason. Oakhurst, when he saw that the cards were absolutely against him, having done all that he could do for his helpless companions, decorously withdrew, and, in the awful solitude of the forest and the storm, forever renounced that game of life which he had played with so much courage and skill, and yet with so little success.

Jack Hamlin figures much more extensively than Oakhurst in the stories, and he would probably be regarded by most readers of Bret Harte as the Author’s best creation, surpassing even Colonel Starbottle; and, as Mr. Chesterton exclaims, “How terrible it is to speak of any character as surpassing Colonel Starbottle!” His traits are now almost as familiar as those of George Washington; but the type was a new one, and it completely revolutionized the ideal of the gambler which had long obtained both in fiction and on the stage. As a London critic very neatly said, “With this dainty and delicate California desperado, Bret Harte vanquished forever the turgid villains of Ainsworth and Lytton.”

In his Bohemian Days in San Francisco Bret Harte gives an account of the real person who was undoubtedly Jack Hamlin’s prototype. He speaks of his handsome face, his pale Southern look, his slight figure, the scrupulous elegance and neatness of his dress, his genial manner, and the nonchalance with which he set out for the duel that ended in his death.

In the representation of Jack Hamlin there are some seeming discrepancies. Such, for instance, is Hamlin’s arrogant treatment of the ostler in Brown of Calaveras, and still more his conduct toward Jenkinson, the tavern-keeper, whom Don Jose Sepulvida, with contrasting Spanish courtesy, described as “our good Jenkinson, our host, our father.” The barkeeper in A Sappho of Green Springs fares no better at his hands; and in Gabriel Conroy, Bret Harte, falling into the manner of Dickens at his very worst, represents Jack Hamlin as concluding a tirade against a servant by “intimating that he would forcibly dislodge certain vital and necessary organs from the porter’s body.” Even less excusable is his retort to the country youth in The Convalescence of Jack Hamlin; and in one story he is actually guilty of rudeness to a woman, the unfortunate Heiress of Red Dog.

In these passages Bret Harte might be accused of admiring Jack Hamlin in the wrong place. But was he not rather consciously depicting the bad points of what would seem to have been his favorite character? Hamlin had several imperfections. Bret Harte does not even represent him as a gentleman, but only as an approach to one. In the story which first brings us face to face with him, the gambler is described as lounging up and down “with that listless and grave indifference of his class which was perhaps the next thing to good breeding.”

That there should be any doubt as to the author’s attitude upon this point shows how carefully Bret Harte keeps his own personality in the background. He does not sit in judgment upon his characters; he seldom says even a word of praise or blame in regard to them. All that he leaves to the reader. Moreover, he has a rare power of perceiving the defects of his own heroes and heroines. Occasionally, in fact, the reader of Bret Harte is a little shocked by his admission of some moral or intellectual blemish in the person whom he is sketching; and yet, after a moment’s reflection, one is always forced to agree that the blemish is really there, and that without it the portrait would be incomplete and misleading.

A fine example of this subtlety of art is found in Maruja, where the author frankly declares that his heroine could not quite appreciate the delicacy shown by Captain Carroll when he abstained from any display of affection, lest he should presume upon the fact that he had just undertaken a difficult service at her request. “Maruja stretched out her hand. The young man bent over it respectfully, and moved toward the door. She had expected him to make some protestation perhaps even to claim some reward. But the instinct which made him forbear even in thought to take advantage of the duty laid upon him, which dominated even his miserable passion for her, and made it subservient to his exaltation of honor, ... all this, I grieve to say, was partly unintelligible to Maruja, and not entirely satisfactory.... He might have kissed her! He did not.”

Bret Harte did not describe perfect characters or mere types, destitute of individual peculiarities, but real men and women. Let us, therefore, be thankful for Maruja’s lack of delicacy and for Jack Hamlin’s petulance and arrogance. His failings in this respect were a part of the piquancy of his character, and in part, also, they resulted from his discontent with himself.

This discontent is hidden by his more obvious traits, his love of music and of children, the facile manner in which he charmed and subdued horses, dogs, servants, women, and all the other inferior animals, as Bret Harte somewhere puts it; his scorn of all meanness, his chivalrous defence of all weakness; his iron nerve; his self-confidence and easy, graceful assurance; his appreciation of the refinements and niceties of existence. These are his obvious qualities; but behind them all was something more important and more original, namely, an undertone of self-condemnation which ran through his life, and gave the last touch of recklessness and abandon to his character. We never quite realize what Jack Hamlin was until we come to that scene in the story of his protegee where, grasping by the shoulders the two blackguards who had discovered his secret and were attempting to take advantage of it, he forced them beyond the rail, above the grinding paddle-wheel of the flying steamer, and threatened to throw himself and them beneath it.

“‘No,’ said the gambler, slipping into the open space with a white and rigid face in which nothing seemed living but the eyes, ’No; but it’s telling you how two d d fools who didn’t know when to shut their mouths might get them shut once and forever. It’s telling you what might happen to two men who tried to “play” a man who didn’t care to be “played,” a man who didn’t care much what he did, when he did it, or how he did it, but would do what he’d set out to do even if in doing it he went to hell with the men he sent there.’ He had stepped out on the guards, beside the two men, closing the rail behind him. He had placed his hands on their shoulders; they had both gripped his arms; yet, viewed from the deck above, they seemed at that moment an amicable, even fraternal group, albeit the faces of the three men were dead white in the moonlight.”

One might draw a parallel, not altogether fanciful, between those three figures standing in apparent quietude on the verge of what was worse than a precipice, and those other three that compose the immortal group of the Laocooen.

The tragedy of Jack Hamlin’s life, that which formed a dark background to his gay and adventurous career, was his own deep dissatisfaction with his lawless and predatory manner of existence. In this respect, his experience was the universal experience intensified; and that is why one can find in Hamlin something of that representative character which readers of many different races and kinds have found in Hamlet. Who that has passed the first flush of youth, and has ever taken a single glance at his own heart will fail to sympathize with Jack Hamlin’s self-disgust! It is this feeling that goes as far as anything can go to reconcile a man to death, for death ends the struggle. There is no remorse in the grave.