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THE WRITINGS OF
BRET HARTE

WITH INTRODUCTIONS, GLOSSARY, AND
INDEXES

ILLUSTRATED BY PHOTOGRAVURES
VOLUME XX

STAIOAMB MBSAMY EBITIOT

HOUGHTON MIFFL,IN COMPANY

STORIES AND POEMS

AND OTHER UNCOLLECTED
WRITINGS

BRET HARTE

COMPILED BY

CHARLES MEEKER KOZLAY

WITH AN INTRODUCTORY ACCOUNT OF HARTE'S

EARLY CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE

CALIFORNIA PRESS

BOSTON AND NEW YORK
IIOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

£l)f tttocwi&e prrfs Cambridge

BRET HARTE

The magic of his wizard pen

Still holds the world in thrall :
From lordly laurels won of men

No leaf may fade or fall.

In ways he trod, and treads no more,

His footprints linger still,
Alike on England's mother-shore,

The New World's sunset hill.

But ah! the scenes the Boy first saw,

The sea Balboa named.
The bay which stout old Portold

For sweet *St. Francis claimed,

The great Sierras piercing blue

Of sky with snowy crest,
He knew and loved them best : they knew,

They know, and love him best.

They speak of him, the forest trees,

Redwood, madrono, pine, —
The Mission Bells, — all these, and thes?

His memory's sacred shrine.

INA COOLBRITH.

Russian Hill, San Francisco,
May, 1913.

790292

PREFATORY NOTE

GRATEFUL acknowledgment is here made of the cour
tesies extended me in the compilation of this volume. To
Miss Ina I). Coolbrith, whom Bret Harte termed "the
sweetest note in California literature," I am indebted for
the Dedication Poem, "Bret Harte." This is singularly
appropriate, since Miss Coolbrith is one of the old guard of
letters of the Pacific Coast, one of the coterie of writers
which included Bret Harte, Mark Twain, Joaquin Miller,
and Charles Warren Stoddard, all of whom created literature
in those early days which will find an abiding place in the
hearts and minds of men for all time. To Robert E. Cowan,
of San Francisco, I owe the good fortune of having acquired
the rare old files of the Golden Era and some other Cali-
fornian newspapers. He has from time to time given me
valuable and helpful information relative to Bret Harte's
early work on the Pacific Coast. I am grateful for the
courtesies shown me by Mr. J. L. Gillis, of the State Li
brary of California, at Sacramento ; Mr. Frederick J. Taggart,
Curator of the Academy of Pacific Coast History, Berkeley,
California; the authorities of the Library of Congress, Wash
ington, D.C., including the Copyright Office, and Mr. Frank
P. Hill, of the Brooklyn Public Library. For permission
to republish some of the copyrighted material found in this
volume, sincere thanks and acknowledgment are due to the
following: Mr. William Heinemann and Mrs. T. Edgar
Pemberton, of England; Houghton Mifflin Company; Cen
tury Company; Harper & Bros.; Charles Scribner's Sons;
the Sun, New York ; the Critic (now Putnam* 's Magazine) ;
the Cosmopolitan Magazine ; the American Magazine ; the
Independent, New York; the Overland Monthly and the
Calif ornian (later), San Francisco, California.

C. M. K,

CONTENTS

BRKT HARTK : DEDICATION KY INA COOLBUITH v

INTRODUCTION xvii

EARLY PROSE
STORIES (1860-1865)

MY METAMORPHOSIS 3

BoGGS ON THE HORSE ........ 12

STORY OF THE REVOLUTION 23

A CHILD'S GHOST STORY 33

FACTS CONCERNING A MEERSCHAUM 37

MY OTHERSELF. A GERMAN-SILVER NOVEL ... 44

"His WIFE'S SISTER" 58

A CASE OF BLASTED AFFECTIONS 68

" RAN AWAY " 72

MADAME BRIMBORION ........ 80

THE LOST HEIRESS: A TALE OF THE OAKLAND BAR . . 83

THE COUNTESS 88

THE PETROLEUM FIEND. A STORY OF TO-DAY ... 94

STORIES FOR LITTLE GIRLS 103

MISCELLANEOUS (1860-1870)

SHIPS Ill

WANTED — A PRINTER 118

WASHINGTON . . . . . . t m . .120

THE ANGELUS ...... .12-'}

ARTEMUS WARD 126

FIXING UP AN OLD HOUSE 129

ON A PRETTY GIRL AT THE OPERA 134

OUR LAST OFFERING — (On the Assassination of Abraham

Lincoln) 140

EARLY CALIFORNIAN SUPERSTITIONS 144

POPULAR BIOGRAPHIES — SYLVESTER JAYHAWK . 150

Xll CONTENTS

CIVIL WAR POEMS (1862-1865)

A VOLUNTEER STOCKING . 345

THE CONSERVATIVE BRIDGE OF SIGHS 346

BANKS AND THE SLAVE GIRL . .... 348

THE BATTLE AUTUMN , 349

SKMMES 350

A CAVALRY SONG 352

THE WRATH OF MCDAWDLE 353

THE COPPERHEAD CONVENTION 355

SCHALK 356

THE YREKA SERPENT 357

A FABLE FOR THE TIMES 360

THOMAS CARLYLE AND PETER OF THE NORTH . . . 361
CALIFORNIA TO THE SANITARY COMMISSION .... 362

SONG OF THE "CAMANCHE" 363

A LAY OF THE LAUNCH ........ 364

THE FLAG-STAFF ON SHACKLEFORD ISLAND .... 367

OF ONE WHO FELL IN BATTLE . . . ' . . . . 369

THE HERO OF SUGAR PINE . 369

ST. VALENTINE IN CAMP 370

SCHEMMELFENNIG 372

THE VENDUE OF JEFFERSON DAVIS 373

IN MEMORIAM — JEFFERSON DAVIS 377

THE LAMENT OF THE BALLAD-WRITER 378

A THANKSGIVING RETROSPECT 379

LATER POEMS (1871-1902)

CHICAGO 383

BILL MASON'S BRIDE 383

DEACON JONES'S EXPERIENCE 385

THE MAY QUEEN 387

OF WILLIAM FRANCIS BARTLETT 388

THE WANDERINGS OF ULYSSES 390

THAT EBREVV JEW 392

THE LEGEND OF GLEN HEAD 395

"KITTY HAWK" 397

Miss EDITH HELPS THINGS ALONG 399

CONTENTS Xlll

THE DEAD POLITICIAN 401

OLD TIME AND NEW 403

UNDER THE GUNS 404

COMPENSATION 405

OUR LAUREATE 406

SCOTCH LINES TO A. S. B 406

THE ENOCH OF CALAVERAS 407

"FREE SILVER AT ANGEL'S" 409

"HASTA MANANA" 4J4

LINES TO A PORTRAIT, BY A SUPERIOR PERSON . . . 415

THE BIRDS OF CIRENCESTER 417

TRUTHFUL JAMES AND THE KLONDIKER .... 420

UNCLE JUBA 422

THE QUEEN'S DEATH 424

THE SWORD OF DON JOSE" . . . 425

INDEX OF TITLES 431

ILLUSTRATIONS

WITH MANY BLUSHES, POUTS, AND PRETTINESSES, TILL THE POOK
FELLOW WAS HALF CRAZY (see page 32) . . . Frontispiece

VIGNETTE ON ENGRAVED TITLE-PAGE (see page 286)

THE MANUFACTORY is AT WORK .... . . 98

WON'T YOU PLEASE GET OUT ? 192

LINGERING, LOOKING, WOULDST RECALL

AUGHT OF THIS GIDDY SCENE BELOW ? . . 294

From drawings by J. Henry.

INTRODUCTION

THIS volume is the outgrowth of many years' research on
a Bibliography of Bret Harte. It was while searching my
fortunately acquired files of old Californian newspapers that
the vast amount of hitherto uncollected work of Bret Harte
became apparent. The value of this material and the belief
in its interest to the public created the desire to publish
Harte's immature and unrevised poems and prose, as well
as some of his later work which so far has not found a place
in his collected writings.

It has been thought best to arrange these items in the
order of their original appearance, subdividing them into the
periods to which they naturally belong. The "Early Poems
and Prose" up to 1865, although written during Harte's
formative period, show even at this early time the same
genius which we find later in more finished form. The
"Poems of Local Interest" have been so called because
they deal solely with Californian events. The "Civil War
Poems" are Harte's expressions on the passing events of
that great struggle. "Later Poems and Prose" comprise
such of his writings after he left California as also have not
been included in his collected works. Wherever the mean
ing of the poems and prose would otherwise be obscure, the
compiler has given the place and circumstances under which
they were written. Alterations or corrections in no case,
however, have been made in the text.

Xo attempt will be made to give a biography of Bret
Harte, — that has already been ably done by Mr. Henry C.
Merwin, — but some account should be given here of Harte's

XVin INTRODUCTION

early contributions to the press of San Francisco. That so
little has been written of this part of Bret Harte's career
may have seemed strange to the casual reader, but when he
takes the following facts into consideration, the solution be
comes apparent. Harte's early literary work was done prin
cipally while he was on the staff of the Golden Era and
the Califomian. The difficulty of obtaining the data re
garding his connections with these periodicals is the reason
for the obscurity of his early literary work. Even before
the earthquake fire which destroyed the libraries of San
Francisco, no complete file of either of these periodicals
could be found. Mrs. Cumings in her Story of the Files
says, " The complete file of the old journal [the Golden
Erd\ is no longer in existence. Since the day spent by the
writer in going over the files, the columns have been riddled
and scissored mercilessly. The heart of the volumes has
been cut out piecemeal, and only the wretched skeleton is
left. A new paper was to have been started with these clip
pings from the past . . . but it came to naught." Of the
Califomian she says : "The Califomian lived to be three
years old and has never died. In tracing the history of Cali
fomian publications the memory of Charles Henry Webb's
paper of the early sixties maintains a surprising vitality. It
made a strong impression at that time, which continues
to-day. But not a word can be found in the printed page to
tell of its existence: — it is always in men's memories that
it has its abiding place."

The writer was happily able to acquire files of both these
papers, and it is due to this good fortune that Harte's early
literary work is now republished. From the pages of these
old files, and some other Califomian periodicals, we are
able to give a chronological sketch of his early writings.
His first literary effort, Harte says, " was at the mature age
of eleven," before his arrival in California. He says it was
" a bit of satirical verse entitled 'Autumn Musings,' " but

INTRODUCTION xix

so far the compiler has been unable to find any record or
copy of the poem. Apparently this is lost. It has been
generally believed that Harte's first known poem was " Do
lores " which he sent as " a California Poetical Venture "
to the editor of the Knickerbocker, or New York Monthly
Magazine. The poem appeared in that magazine in Jan
uary, 1858. This idea, however, is erroneous, for we must
go back almost a year in the files of the Golden JSra, where
on March 1, 1857, appears the poem, " The Valentine,"
which is perhaps his very first California " venture." Dur
ing this year he contributed to the Era eight other poems,
all of which, of course, precede " Dolores."

At this time, the latter part of the summer of 1857,
Harte wrote his first prose, a series of letters to the Golden
Era, entitled "A Trip up the Coast." These were long
letters descriptive of the places he visited and would be of
no particular interest to the present-day reader. The follow
ing extract is, perhaps, the most interesting portion : —

A month or two ago I resolved to leave San Francisco. I had
grown wearied of an endless repetition of dirty streets, sand hills,
bricks and mortar. The smiling but vacant serenity of the morn
ing skies, the regular annoyance of afternoon gales and evening
fogs, had become contemptuously familiar. I sought a change
of clime. . . . Uniontown, through its adolescence — a mere
yearling grazing on the country pastures — possesses a certain
stamina and stability, in this country, alas! too unfrequently met.
California towns and villages have an unsubstantial, temporary
look in keeping with their ephemeral character. But here is a
reminiscence, faint though it may be, in the white cottages and
green lawns, the neat, substantial, and well-ordered farms, of New
England propriety and Eastern homes. It is true, the Bedouin-
like, roving, vagabond disposition of our people is growing less
noticeable ; but it will be some time yet before "home" will have
any other than its usual California significance — the "States."
... I started with a pleasant party for Eel River. It was one
of those glorious, smoky, hazy days so rare to these bright, blue
skies, resembling the Indian summer of the Northern States, and
carrying me back to the fairy hills, dreamy uplands, and pleasant

XX INTRODUCTION

valleys of the Catskills. It was a Sabbath, so like those doubly-
blessed ones, years past, that in my fancy I could hear the church-
bells ringing lazily out of the soft valleys, and swelling into a
subdued and dreamy music, all in harmony with the drowsy
landscape • one of those days, when, a child, I no longer doubted
or wondered that on such had Rip Van Winkle closed his eyes
and never cared to wake. But with this rare similitude of clime
the scenery was widely different. For hours we rode through
long aisles of tall redwoods, some of their pillared shafts measur
ing twenty-five feet in diameter at their base and towering away
two and three hundred feet above us.

Brushing away the tangled salmon bushes, with their exquisitely-
tinted berries yet dripping with dew, leaping the fallen trees when
practicable, or making a longer detour in compliment to some
forest monarch which in dethroned majesty still blocked the way,
and catching glimpses of the river through the waving elders,
with the stillness broken only by the jingling spurs and trap
pings, we at length emerged upon the open beach. , . . The long-
sustained, heavy and unbroken swell, traversing an entire hemi
sphere, rose and fell at our very feet. In the track of the setting
sun, the distant shores of Japan and the far Cathay were washed
by the self-same waters. Far to the south the narrow line of sea
beach stretched away, diminishing to a silver thread in the dis
tance, till it melted into the hazy upland. Humboldt Lighthouse
stood, like the forgotten sentinel of Pompeii, in the midst of soli
tude and desolation. Low sand hills rising behind us shut out
the view, and contributed to the feeling of utter isolation which
gradually took possession of our little party. . . . We were pro
ceeding at a pleasant canter, when suddenly B. , riding a little
out from the rest, dashed into the surf in a frantic manner, exe
cuted some surprising demisaults, hung for a moment beneath
the saddle, and then returned to us, dripping like a merman, and
holding high above him some black object — the waif he had
recovered from the dashing spray. What do you think it was?
What would impel a sane individual, never suspected of reckless
ness, to such an act ? Was it a casket ? Or a plethoric pocket-
book — the rejected god cast back at its worshiper's feet! None
of these A child's shoe ! a tiny worn-out and patched morocco
gaiter — that was all ! It passed from man to man without com
ment. Of that group two were fathers, and one had passed a
long exile from a happy hearth thousands of miles away. As JIG
took up that little bit of leather and prunella, do you think he
saw only the long, white beach, and the vacant expanse of sky
and water ? Or did his fancy con j ure up a misty, tearful vision of

INTRODUCTION XXI

sunny curls, love -lit eyes, graceful figure, and fairy feet rising out
of that little shoe, as the genii rose from Solomon's sealed casket,
in the Arabian story? Was it the spray, think you, that moistened
his eves, as he gazed, and coursed down the toil-worn furrows of
his cheek ? There was no time to inquire. The episode of a
moment's duration was over, the shadow had passed, and in the
clear sunlight and fresh sea-breeze we journeyed on. .

These letters to the Golden JSra, excepting a poem "The
Bailie o' Perth," are the only work of Harte's which we
have for the time he was absent from San Francisco. He
had gone to a place called Uniontown, arid it is said that he
worked while there on the Humboldt Times. It is known
that he acted as assistant to the editor of the Northern
Californian, a weekly paper published for a short time at
Eureka, the county seat of Humboldt County. If files of
either of these papers for that period were in existence some -
good work might have been preserved. Perhaps, however,
he did very little literary work, for at this time in the office
of the Northern Californian, he learned the printer's trade
and also spent considerable time at other occupations. When,
he returned to San Francisco he worked for a time as a com
positor on the Golden Era, and in an article contributed to
that paper entitled " Wanted a Printer " he sets down his
impressions as a typesetter.

" My Metamorphosis," Harte's first story, was contributed
to the Golden Era in April, 1860, shortly after his return
to San Francisco. From this time until the establishment
of the Californian in 1864 his literary work on the Era
was almost continuous. Poems, stories, and prose followed
each other in rapid succession. One of these stories, " The
Work on Red Mountain," appeared in December, 1860.
This is Harte's well-known story of " M'liss," which was
included in his early collected works. The fact that this
story was rewritten and published again in the same peri
odical, calls for some explanation which we might make at
this time. Joseph Lawrence, the editor of the Era, was

XXii INTRODUCTION

perhaps the first of the many admirers of Melissa Smith, and
he insisted that this rough little diamond deserved a better set
ting. He wanted the story lengthened and strengthened, and
the title to be " M'liss." So with a long notice and a loud
trumpeting, and a special woodcut heading, " ' M'liss,' an
Idyl of Red Mountain, by ' Bret,' one of the best writers of
romance in America," began as a serial story in the issue of
September 20, 1863. It was to be "completed in twenty-
four numbers." In point of fact it was completed in ten
numbers, but they were at times numbers of weeks apart.
He had intended to rewrite the original story as oppor
tunity offered and furnish the copy from week to week.
Chapter eight he devotes to a humorous explanation of why
" he hesitates to go on." The rewritten version is found
in the present-day collected writings.

To the Golden Em for the years 1860 and 1861 Harte
contributed weekly a long list of papers on passing events
tinder the pen-name of " The Bohemian." His work on
that paper was so voluminous that he resorted to a num
ber of noms-de-plume : "Jefferson Brick," "J. Keyser,"
"Alexis Puffer," and other names which he had introduced
in his Bohemian papers. During 1862 and 1863 these
papers were continued in slightly different form. The
majority, however, are of such ephemeral interest, being
accounts of local events at that time, that taken out of their
place they have little meaning and we do not include them
in this volume. Some of the later Bohemian papers which
were on more general topics he included in his collected
works. The following extract may be of interest here as
showing the style of these early papers : —

That rare combination of quick perceptive faculties with great
reflective power, sometimes exhibited in a single individual,
always produces in my mind feelings of awe and astonishment.
I remember that as an infant I exhibited a disposition to " take
notice" early, and have since been called an "observing young

INTRODUCTION xxni

man," but I don't see that this faculty, unsupported, has been of
any service to me. So I have lately been cultivating a reflective
and reasoning style from my friend Puffer. Now Puffer is the
antithesis of myself, and thinks about everything and sees noth
ing. We get along very well together, and help each other like
the two gifted young men "Sharp Eyes " and "Big Head " in the
fairy tale. In combination we are enabled to follow a very respect
able train of reasoning and deduction from established fact. Let
me give you a single instance. Puffer and myself were walk
ing down Montgomery Street. I saw a dog with a stumpy tail.
Somebody threw something nice to the dog with a stumpy tail
and the (log with a stumpy tail wagged his tail violently. I then
remarked to Puffer that I had noticed that dogs with short or
stumpy tails wagged them much harder than dogs with long tails.
This remark set Puffer to thinking. The next day he handed me
the following, written on a large sheet of paper. "A dog with
a short tail will wag his tail much more rapidly than a dog with
a long tail. As with a pendulum, the same force required to de
scribe a certain cycloid if applied to a lesser one will produce a
quicker vibration of the peadulum (or tail). Dogs being igno
rant of natural philosophy, apply the same power to tails of un
equal length. Hence the velocity of a dog's tail in wagging may
be considered in inverse proportion to the length of the tail. The
ethical supposition that a dog with a short tail is more susceptible
of gratitude, is pleasing but erroneous. We have here a beauti
ful illustration of the reconcilability of sentiment and expression.
That principle which is denied the form of dignity and grandeur,
may be exhibited in vivacity and cheerfulness. — A. P." I thought
that wasn't bad for Puffer.

As early as 1862 appears in these files the first of Harte's
"Condensed Novels" : "Victor Hugo's New Gospel 'Les
Miserables ' ; Fantine Done into English from the French
of Victor Hugo — par J. Keyser." This was soon followed
by "La Femme" and others. All of those which he deemed
worthy have been republished by him.

By this time the Civil War was the dominant theme
throughout the land, and Harte's loyalty to the Union found
expression in the large number of poems contributed to the
Era in 1862-63, and later in the Daily Evening Bulle
tin and the Calif ornian. Mr. James T. Fields, the poet,

xxiv INTRODUCTION

complimented this loyalty by prefacing the reading of a
poem of Harte's some years after the war with the follow
ing words : —

"If the poet whose absence to-day we deplore,

Had struck but one note for his country's disgrace,
If his lyre had betrayed you, ye heroes of war,

I could not and would not stand here in his place.

"But his soul was responsive to all that was grand,

And his loyal young spirit leaped up in a flame ;

And he fought with the pen for his dear struggling land,

As you with your swords, sons of glory and fame.

"And so, for my friend, I will take up his song,

And give it a voice, though, alas ! not its own.
To him the quaint verse and the genius belong ;
To me but the accents of friendship alone."

The Golden Era would doubtless have published Harte's
contributions for many years longer had it not been for the
influence of one Charles Henry Webb, who left the edito
rial staff of the New York Times and went to California
in 1863, and contributed to the Era under the pen-
name of "Inigo." Webb, or John Paul, as he sometimes
termed himself, was not long in convincing himself and a
few others that there was need of another weekly periodical
in San Francisco, and so, in May, 1864, when the Call for-
nian was launched, Bret Harte unreservedly threw in his
lot with the others, and stood by the paper, even after Webb
gave up his interest in it and went back to New York.

" I was — and am — rather proud of that paper," wrote
Webb some eight or nine years later. " It represented con
siderable of my money and a good deal of my time, for all
of which I had nothing to show. To the Calif ornian un
der my management, many who have since obtained wide
spread reputations contributed, and it was called consider
able of a paper, to be published so far away from Boston.
True, the contributors never received much pay for their
work, and no nattering inducement of more was ever held

INTRODUCTION xxv

out to them ; but, on the other hand, they did not have to
pay anything for the privilege of expressing themselves
weekly, and this was a blessed immunity which never fell
to my lot while owning the paper."

In September, 1864, when Webb resigned from the paper
and Bret Harte succeeded him as editor, he said, "In say
ing good-bye, I do not intend to perpetuate a bad sell. My
position has been a very pleasant one. I had not much
salary, it is true, in fact none at all, but then I had con
stant employment, and what more could be desired ? The
journal is now in a flourishing condition, and I leave it.
It has for some time been paying its own expenses, and
they tell me that the question of its paying mine is simply
a matter of time. To me it looks like a matter of eternity.
And as life is brief, I intend to take the present opportunity
and go a-fishing. The journal passes into hands eminently
capable of conducting it. In the editor the readers will
recognize one whose graceful contributions to this and other
journals have already made his name a household word on
this coast.''"

Bret Harte from the inception of the Californian had
been contributing to almost every issue. Much of this
work, contrary to his custom, was without signature. He
had always signed his stories and poems " Bret," "H.,"
" F. B. H.," etc., or with one of his numerous noms-de-plu me.
In an editorial at that time he says : " It was. the inten
tion of the proprietors to make the paper purely impersonal,
and that any fame or credit which it might evoke from
abroad should accrue to the interests of the journal alone.
For that purpose the author was willing to merge his indi
viduality in that of THE CALIFORXIAN. But the project
failed signally. The articles were copied without credit or
belief in their originality." With the completion of the
first volume, the ownership of the paper changed hands
and Harte retired from the editorial chair. Webb returned

XXVI INTRODUCTION

from his " fishing trip " and again became the editor, a
position which he held until April, 1865. Bret Harte,
though not reassuining the editorship, assisted in the edito
rial work, and continued writing for the paper from week to
week. On April 22, 1865, the paper went into mourning
for Abraham Lincoln, and one of Harte's contributions to
that issue appears on the editorial page, entitled " Our Last
Offering."

While it is true that Bret Harte contributed at times to
other Californian papers, notably the Daily Evening Bul
letin, Alta California, the News Letter, etc., the bulk of
his work was done on the Golden Era and the Californian.
The last-named paper was really the nucleus from which
sprang the Overland Monthly, with Harte as editor from
its beginning in July, 1868, until December, 1870. Much
has been written of this periodical, containing as it did, the
contributions that first brought him to the notice of the
Eastern world and made him famous.

It is more than likely that a large number of the poems
and prose contained in this volume would have been lost
had they not been embodied in the present edition. A
popular author might sometimes wish, at an advanced period
in his career, that some of his earlier products had been
lost sight of. It is not known that this was the view held
by Bret Harte, nor the reason for their non-appearance in
his collected works. It is altogether likely that he brought
together and used such of his work as was at the time
available. He always had enough material for his constantly
appearing books and so did little searching for anything
which was not at hand.

We offer this volume to the enthusiasts and collectors
and to the casual reader and lover of Bret Harte, in the be
lief that they will derive much pleasure from the perusal
of the same, and in the hope that it may be of interest
not only for the material it contains but for the manner in

INTRODUCTION xxvii

which it shows the gradual development of the author. It
is a curious coincidence that this volume, primarily a com
pilation of unpublished work, should include so much of the
author's writings and show this development to such an as
tonishing degree. Harte's popularity has been great. This
volume, we hope, will inspire a still greater love and appre
ciation of his writings.

EARLY PROSE

STORIES
1860-1865

STORIES AND POEMS

MY METAMORPHOSIS 1

(Bret Harte's First Story)

WHEN I left the Academy of the Reverend Mr. Blather
skite, after four years' board and educational experience, it
was with a profound confidence in books and a supreme con
tempt for the world — in which cosmogony I included all
kinds of practical institutions. With a strong poetical
imagination, a memory saturated with fictitious narrative,
and a sensitive temperament full of salient angles not yet
rubbed off by contact with society, I easily glided into the
following adventure.

" The great vagabond principle peculiar to such tempera
ments led me to wander. A love for the beautiful made me
an artist. A small patrimony sufficed my wants ; and so,
one day, I found myself loitering, pencil and sketch book
in hand, in one of the pleasantest midland counties in
England.

Near the village where I tarried, a noble estate spread
over the country. All that the refined taste of a great
family — whose wealth was incalculable — had gathered in
successive generations, lay in that ancestral park. /The same
liberal spirit which had adorned it, opened ttsr gates to the
curious stranger ; and here it was that I picked up many
a woodland sketch, a study, a suggestive grouping of light
and shadow, which you may see in those two pictures num
bered in the catalogue of the Academy of Design respec
tively as Nos. 190006 and 190007, and to which the " Art
l Golden Era, April 29, 1860.

4 MY METAMORPHOSIS

Journal " so favorably alluded as " the happiest pre-Raphael-
ite effort of the gifted Van Daub."

One July afternoon, — the air had that quivering inten
sity of heat, which I think is as palpable to sight as feel
ing, — af tar a quiet stroll in the park, I reached the margin
of a silvan lake. A lawn, girdled by oaks and beeches,
sloped toward it in a semicircle for some few hundred feet,
and its margin was decorated with statuary. Here was Diana
and her hounds, Actaeon, Pan and pipe, Satyrs, Fauns, Naiads,
Dryads, and numberless deities of both elements. The spot
was rural, weird, and fascinating. I threw myself luxuri
ously on the sward beside it.

I had forgotten to mention a strong predilection of mine.
I was passionately fond of swimming. The air was op
pressive — the surface of the lake looked cool and tempting ;
there was nothing to prevent an indulgence of my propen
sity but the fear of interruption. The knowledge that the
family were absent from the mansion, that few strangers passed
that way, and the growing lateness of the hour determined me.
I divested myself of my garments on the wooded margin, arid
plunged boldly in. How deliciously the thirsty pores drank
Tip the pure element! I dived. I rolled over like a dol
phin. I swam to the opposite side, by the lawn, and among
the whispering reeds I floated idly on my back, glancing at
the statues, and thinking of the quaint legends which had
shadowed them forth. My mind enthusiastically dwelt upon
the pleasures of its sensuous life. "Happy," said I, "were
the days when Naiads sported in these waters ! Blest were
the innocent and peaceful Dryads who inhabited the boles
of yonder oaks. Beautiful was the sentiment, and exquisite
the fancy which gave to each harmonious element of nature
a living embodiment." Alas, if I had only been content
with thinking this nonsense! But then it was that the fol
lowing solemnly ridiculous idea took possession of me. A
few strokes brought me to the bank, and gathering some

MY METAMORPHOSIS 5

alder boughs, I twined their green leaves intermixed with
rushes around my loins. A few more I twisted into a
wreath around my foolish cranium. Thus crowned, I sur
veyed myself with unmixed satisfaction in the watery mir
ror. I might have been Actseon in person, or a graceful
Dryad of the masculine gender. The illusion in either case
was perfect.

I was still looking when I was startled at the sound of
voices. Conceive of my dismay on turning around and per
ceiving a crowd of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen, scat
tered in groups about the lawn. It at once rushed upon my
mind that the family had returned with company. What
was to be done ? My clothes were on the opposite shore.
An open space intervening between myself and the woods
rendered escape in that direction impossible without detec
tion. As yet I was unperceived. But a party of both
sexes were approaching by a path which led directly toward
me. I looked around in anguish. A few feet from me
arose a pyramidal pedestal of some statue; but Time, the
iconoclast, had long ago tumbled the battered monolith into
the lake. A brilliant idea struck me. I had got myself
into this horrible scrape by the foolish impersonation of my
fancy; I resolved to free myself by its aid. The pedestal
was about eight feet in height. To scale this and place
myself in attitude was but a moment's work. With a beat
ing heart, but perfectly rigid limbs, I awaited their coming.
I hoped, I prayed it might not be long.

Imagine to yourself a clean-limbed young fellow of one-
and-twenty, sans the ordinary habiliments, with no other
covering than nature's own and a sort of fig-leaf apron made
of rushes and encircling his loins and thighs, his brows bound
with an alder wreath, and the evening shadows cast over
his pale face and chilled but upright figure, and you have
me as I stood at that eventful moment.

To give effect to my acting, I closed my eyes. Footsteps

6 MY METAMORPHOSIS

approached. I heard the rustle of silks and the sound of
voices.

"Beautiful!" (full feminine chorus). "How perfectly
natural!" (sotto voce).

A cracked base voice — probably pater-familias — "Yes,
decidedly. The position is easy and graceful. The con
tour is excellent — not modern, I should think, but in good
preservation."

A drawling falsetto : " Ya-as, pretty good — vewy fair
copy ; 'ave seen lots of such fellows at Wome. They 're
vewy common there; don't think it's quite cowwect; vewy
bad legs, vewy ! "

This was too much. I had been a great pedestrian
and flattered myself that I had pretty well-developed calves.
I could bear female criticism ; but, to put up with the
indelicate comments of a creature whom I felt to be a
spindle-shanked dandy, infuriated me. I choked my rising
wrath with clenched teeth, but moved not an external
muscle.

" Well," said a sweet voice that thrilled me, "I have no
disposition to stay here all night, with heaven knows how
many woodland sprites about us. The place looks weird
and gloomy. I almost fancy that yonder gentleman has a
disposition to step down from his pedestal and carry some
of us off to his home in some hollow tree ! "

I did dare to open my eyes, though each syllable of that
musical, gurgling voice rang in my ears, and sent the blood
slowly back to my heart. But then the evening air was
damp and chill, and my limbs, by the unaccustomed expo
sure, felt benumbed and dead. I began to fear that I might
stiffen in that position, when, luckily, the party moved
slowly away.

I opened my eyes and — shut them instantly. In that
glance, rapid as lightning, I encountered a pair of full-orbed,
blue, girlish eyes gazing intently at me from beneath a co-

MY METAMORPHOSIS 7

quettish hat streaming with ribbons that rocked like some
fairy boat over a tempestuous sea of golden curls. I dared
not look again.

" Ada, Ada ! have you fallen in love with the statue ? "

" No, I 'm coming ! " — and the rustling dress and fairy
voice moved away.

I waited in fear and trembling. For the first time I felt
unnerved. Had she discovered me ? I felt myself already
ignominiously expelled from the fatal garden like the sinful
Adam — but alas, without the solace of the beautiful Eve.
Five minutes passed, I ventured to look again. All was
dark. I could hear the singing of voices high up on the
garden terrace. — To step from my uneasy elevation by the
light of the rising moon, as soon as my cramped limbs would
permit, run around to the opposite shore, hurry on my
clothes, and through thicket and brake reach the park lodge,
was the work of a moment. That night I left the village.
That week I left England.

I went to France. I went to Germany. I went to
Italy. Three years passed. My imagination and enthusi
asm were more under control. I began to think better of
society. I had painted several large pictures, allegorical
and fanciful, with prominent female figures with blue eyes
and golden hair. They were not appreciated. I had
painted some portraits for which I was remunerated hand
somely, and had amassed an independence. I lived at
Florence. I was happy.

The saloons of the Due de R were filled one evening

with a pleasant party of painters, sculptors, poets, and au
thors. I had the entree there, and was formally introduced
to a Mr. Willoughby, an English gentleman, who was trav
eling for his health in company with an only daughter.
Our acquaintance ripened into esteem, and calling one even
ing at my studio to examine the portrait of a mutual friend,
he proposed that I should make a picture of his daughter. I

8 MY METAMORPHOSIS

was introduced to Ada Willoughby, and she became my
sitter.

She was a pretty blonde, with whom three years before,
I might have fallen in love at first sight. But a restraint
seemed to be over us when together, and I vainly tried to
shake off some fanciful recollection with which her pretty
face seemed inseparably associated. She was a clever girl,
a genial companion, and our tastes assimilated. I painted
her features faithfully — the picture was admired — but
when I found that, like Raphael's Fornarina, I was apt
to introduce some of her features in all my portraits, I
came to the conclusion that I was in love with her. The
old restraint kept my heart from expression. One day
we were walking through one of the galleries when we
stopped before an exquisite picture of Pygmalion's trans
formation. I challenged her faith in the story. She replied
simply that it was a " pretty fable." " But if Pygmalion
had been a woman and the sculptured figure a man, do
you imagine her love could have warmed him to life ? "
I persisted. She replied that " any woman was a fool to fall
in love with the mere physical semblance of a man."
Disappointed, but why I did not clearly know, I did not
rejoin.

But she was to return to England. I had endeavored to
reason myself out of a feeling which was beginning to exert
an influence over my future. A party had been formed to
visit a villa on the outskirts of the city, and I was to ac
company her. The grounds were tastefully adorned ; there
were groups of statuary, and the never-failing Italian acces^
sories of rills and fountains. A gay party we were, making
the alleys ring with laughter. At length Mr. Willoughby,
Ada, a few ladies, and myself, seated ourselves by the mar
gin of an artificial lake, from whose centre a trickling foun*
tain sent its spray toward the clear blue sky. The evening
was deliciously cool and Ada lent her sweet voice to the

MY METAMORPHOSIS 9

rippling water. I had fallen into a reverie, from which
I was recalled, accused of unsoeiability, and taxed to con
tribute to the amusement of the day.

"Well," said I, " politeness forbade me to sing before
Miss Willoughby, and prudence forbids my singing after.
What shall I do? "

" A story, a story," said they.

" What shall it be ? Of love or war, or a most i lament
able comedy ' ? "

"Oh, a love story," said Ada, "full of fairies, knights,
dragons, and disconsolate damsels, — something like your
pictures — with lights and shadows — and dark gray masses,
and rather vague ! "

" With a moral," said papa.

"To hear is to obey," replied I ; "I call my story ' The
most Mournful and Pathetic Story of the Enchanted
Knights, or the Wicked Naiad.' "

An expected pause ensued, and I went on.

" In the days of Fairy dynasty there lived a knight. He
was young and adventurous. To him had been given the
art of reproducing that which caught his errant fancy, and
the true appreciation of the beautiful, without which it has
been held all happiness is naught. But from his youth he
had been a wanderer, and had fallen in love with a being
whose image he met in every lake and fountain, and whose
virtues he fully appreciated. In return for his constancy
she had bestowed upon him the gifts of unfailing health and
strength. One day, in a distant land, he traversed a fair
domain, and amid the luxuries of taste and elegance, he
found her image still. But she was loved by the great
monarch of the domain, who had kept her in secluded pri
vacy. The knight, being headstrong and adventurous,
rushed to her forbidden embrace. She received him coldly.
The chill of her touch stiffened his limbs and benumbed his
faculties. He felt himself gradually turning into stone.

10 MY METAMORPHOSIS

Alas! the waters of the lake in which she dwelt held in
solution strange minerals, and possessed a petrifying quality.
He was found by the monarch and placed on a pedestal, as
an example to warn others from a like unlawful intrusion."

" How delightfully obscure ! " said Ada.

" Mark the sequel. For a long time he remained in this
state ; motionless but not senseless, mute but not passion
less. The subjects of the monarch passed before hini with
ironical comments and jests and jeers. He was powerless
to reply. But it chanced that a good fairy passed that
way. She possessed the power of disarming wicked en
chantment and restoring all unnatural changes, for which
she repaid herself by making the subject her vassal forever.
She bent her luminous eyes on the petrified knight, and
their glances melted away the icy torpor which clung to
him. Under their genial sunshine his lids opened as a
flower, his own eyes reflected back the love that lent him
life. He moved and was again a man."

"And of course gave up hydropathy for matrimony, "
interrupted papa.

/I did not answer, for Ada claimed my attention. The
blood had climbed step by step into her cheek, and at last
the red signal of the success of my stratagem waved from
the topmost turret. She looked at me and said nothing,
but the look bade me hope./

I need not continue ; my story is done. I, of course,
managed to have a tete-k-tete with my former acquaintance
and generous friend — my new love and charming sitter —
before she left for England. What transpired the reader
may guess. The only answer I shall transcribe was given
some time after the great affirmative which made me forever
blessed.

" But, Ada, my darling, how was it that your bright
eyes alone detected in the marble statue a living impos
ture?"

MY METAMORPHOSIS 11

" Why," said Ada, looking saucily into my eyes, " I
never before saw a marble statue with a plain gold ring
upon its little finger."

So I took the treacherous ornament from my little finger
and placed it on her hand.

BOGGS ON THE HORSE1

I HATE horses. From the time I first read, " the horse
is a noble and useful animal," my youthful skepticism merged
into an unconquerable dislike for that useful and noble an
imal. I have endeavored to overcome the repugnance from
a deference to popular opinion, and have not succeeded. I
have made peaceful overtures to their indignant " manes,"
which have been scornfully rejected. Falling back on my
natural principles, I hate horses, and am confident the feel
ing — like most indefinable dislikes — is reciprocal.

I very much doubt whether horses were ever intended
for the use of mankind. The Aztecs, a highly intelligent
race of people, now unhappily extinct, held the nugatory
opinion. I believe the mythological fable of the Centaur
to be simply a figurative satire upon a barbarous custom,
and the incidents connected with the fall of Troy I have
ever looked upon as a typical judgment.

I never could ride, but have envied good riders. It was,
however, when I imagined it to be an accomplishment with
in the range of human acquirement. I arn now fully con
vinced that some men are born riders, as others are born
poets, and that a knowledge of equilibrio possessed by the
meanest member of the profession, and instinctive in monkeys,
is all that is required. If I formerly envied, I now pity
such men, and place them on an intellectual level with
Mons. Caribmari, who suspends his ridiculous anatomy from
a perpendicular pole.

Barring that silly stuff about Pegasus, I do not think
horses can be considered poetically. Byron, who sung
i Golden Era, May 20, 1860.

BOGGS ON THE HORSE 13

their praises, on the authority of Lady Blessington, was a
snob and cockney in his equine practice ; I never heard
that Shakespeare — who, you remember, extolled Adonis's
horse like a jockey — was a rider, and that absurd individ
ual who wanted but an "Arab steed," as a preliminary to
feats of great valor and renown, was, I shrewdly suspect,
some low horse-thief or highwayman.

Conscious of this, I might go down to my grave, satisfied
with myself and the world, but for a solitary incident em
bittering the past; an event that never recurs to me with
out a sigh, a flushed cheek, and accelerated pulse, and a
glance at these four white walls of my bachelor apartment
as I think how they might once have been changed for the
purple hangings of Hymen.

I loved Kate Trotter, and why ? Was it that small
classical head with little round curls clustering over her
alabaster forehead, like purple grapes over a marble wall ;
that complexion chaste and delicate as the flush of some
pink-dyed shell ; the frank, daring eye and lithe, sinuous
figure, graceful and indolent as a Spanish poem ? None of
these, though each and all might have melted the heart of
an anchorite ; but simply because she could ride ! Alas, fol
lowing the magnetic affinity of opposite poles, I loved her
for the existence of those qualities which I myself lacked.

We walked and talked together. Our tastes with this
one exception were mutual. We talked of books and poetry,
and by degrees our theme merged insensibly into the one
passionate principle from which the charm of song and min
strelsy had sprung. As a neighbor of the Trotters, my visits
were not remarkable, and recognizing, blandly, the prejudices
of the paternal Trotter, and gossiping with the maternal
Trotter, and suffering the society of the fraternal Trotter,
who, gracefully assuming the claims of relationship, bor
rowed my money and smoked my cigars — I became the ad
mirer of Kate Trotter.

14 BOGGS ON THE HORSE

They were happy, blissful days — to sit with her under
the friendly shade of the Trotter portico, her soft white
hand supporting her dimpled cheek, and straying curls made
darker and glossier by the contrast, to hear her sweet con
tralto voice melting with pathos, or swelling with every
line of the spirited page she read, was happiness too ecstatic
for duration. I felt it so, and knew that fate was prepar
ing for me a crusher.

For there were moments when my joy was tinged with
an indefinable dread. It was when I have watched her,
with girlish glee petting and bullying a little agile pony,
in my eyes a fiend incarnate, but which she persisted in
styling her " bonnie Bess." She always became her eques
trian habit, and omitting the ungraceful masculine head
piece, she wore a charming little affair, all fur and feathers,
with a grace peculiarly her own. It was a pleasant part of
a stroll to doflf my hat to her in some shady lane in return
for the graceful wave of her riding-whip, and turn and watch
the fleeting, graceful figure as she rode by.

It was shortly after meeting her on one of these occasions,
that I fixed upon a fatal resolve.

I began to practice equitation secretly. I bought me a
horse warranted kind and gentle. He was quite meek and
obliging when I bought him, but under my gentle treat
ment, the innate devil, which I firmly believe animates these
brutes to a greater or less degree in proportion to their sub
jection, gradually developed itself. By dint of hard prac
tice I managed to get up a show of confidence I was far
from feeling, and soon became habituated to the dizziness
which a mount to the saddle invariably occasioned. I then
practiced equestrian exercises at the lonely hours of twilight,
in unfrequented and sequestered byroads- My ingenious
companion at such times, being too lazy to be actively vi
cious, assumed a quiet obstinacy which never deserted him.
So I soon discovered that, with far-seeing equine penetration,

BOGGS ON THE HORSE 15

he had fathomed the character of his rider and cherished
for him a suitable contempt. An unlooked-for event inter
rupted my experience. It was just after nightfall after a
month's such practice — jogging homeward to the inflexible
trot of my noble brute — that I was startled by the rapid
clattering of hoofs along the lonely road, and bending all
my energies to guiding my horse to the roadside, I looked
up just in time to catch the happy glance of Kate's bright
eyes and felt the electrical thrill of her riding-dress as she
brushed by me.

Well, my secret was out — discerned by her, too, from
whom I most wished it concealed. In vain I met the diffi
culty boldly, and when Kate rallied me on what she called
my solitary and selfish amusement, I calmly alluded to the
necessity of a regular and limited exercise, as ordered by
my physician. Alas! a few days afterward I received a
delicately written epistle, in Kate's own dear little hand,
inviting me to join a select party of equestrians to the neigh
boring town of Pumpkinsville, on next Sunday afternoon.

I knew what that " select party" meant. It was Papa
Trotter, Mamma Trotter, and Tom Trotter, in whose sublime
creation an admirable horse jockey had been spoiled, and
a certain Captain Echellon, of the dragoons, — who was dis
agreeably friendly to Kate, I thought, and a good rider.
In the first feeling of mortification which accompanied the
perusal of this note, I thought of declining — excuses, in
disposition, etc., as I eagerly compared my own unskillful-
ness with those practiced riders.

Then I half changed my mind. I looked from my win.
dow, where my sagacious friend was cropping the tall grass,
aud reflected that after all he was not such a bad-looking
animal. That I had him (partly) under subjection. Then
I flattered myself that iny imskillfulness might be over
looked, and resolutely set myself against any unnecessary
display. Latterly, I thought of Kate. That last was a

16 ' BOGGS ON THE HORSE

fruitful subject. I looked forward to the dim future of to
morrow, and saw only myself and Kate riding side by side
down a pleasant shadowy lane. We were alone, save the
sighing winds and the whispering of leafy boughs; her
bridle hanging loosely upon her arm, my hand clasping hers.
Heaven knows how far away I might have wandered, but
I was awakened from a blissful dream in which Kate re
clined in my arms, those ravishing curls nestling in my
bosom, and that dear little hat hanging over my shoulder,
by the Trotter courier, who requested an answer. Seizing
my pen, I hurriedly indited a few irrevocable lines, accept
ing the invitation, and sealing my destiny forever.

I slept well that night ; they say that doomed culprits
usually do on the night preceding the fatal day, and I have
heard my friend Trigger aver that he has been awakened by
his second from a most blissful repose for the morning's con
flict. I ate my breakfast and mid-day meal calmly, and be
stowing a little extra care on my toilet in view of my re
flections of the preceding day (thirty years ago I did riot
call it vanity), at the appointed hour I mounted my steed
and set but for the Trotters'.

It must have been that my beast wanted exercise, for he
actually exhibited considerable animation in that short ride.
It was, therefore, with a feeling of redoubled assurance that
I entered the courtyard where the company were already
assembled. I had no eyes for aught but Kate. She looked
supremely beautiful. A light blue bodice clasped her lovely
waist (as well it might) from which a black riding-skirt fell
in graceful folds. I even cast an approving glance on " Bon
nie Bess," so had the proximity of her lovely mistress beat
ified her. We rode out; Trotter, senior and junior, taking
the lead ; the Captain, who mounted a superb black charger,
looking, as I thought, diabolically self-possessed and satis
fied, and lastly — blissful arrangement — Kate and myself.

My peri falters at the bare recollection. As we emerged

BOGGS ON THE HORSE 17

from that gate, sir, Kate by my side and the gallant Captain
before me, my infernal beast stopped. I attempted to urge
him on, but to no purpose. Crimson with shame, I fran
tically applied my whip to his insensible shoulders. He
did not move. I might as well have bestrode a whipping
post. He stood there, grim, impassive, immovable as the
nightmare, only he was a dreadful fact. I dismounted and
the cavalcade halted, my own Kate among them, and eyed
me, I felt, critically. I remounted him, and a like scene
ensued. I looked appealingly at the elder Trotter.

" He won't go?" said that venerable parent, inquiringly.

"Staky?" said Master Tom.

" Perhaps Mr. Boggs had better let Miss Trotter lead
him," said somebody. I looked at Captain Echellon — that
gentleman was busy in fixing his stirrup just then, but our
eyes met, arid we knew we were deadly rivals henceforth
and forever.

"Oh, papa! papa! I've just thought of it — it would be
a pity to lose any of our company — let Mr. Boggs have
Selim; do, pa!" And the dear girl made up an enchanting
mouth which might have softened the heart of a chancery
lawyer.

The old gentleman eyed me dubiously for a moment, and
a half-intelligent, half-suspicious glance passed from father
to son as the latter proceeded to obey the paternal command.

In the mean time I proceeded to extricate my beast from
Miss Trotter's geraniums, among which he had been im
pelled by his extraordinary voracity, which was one of his
least objectionable qualities — and had silently and sadly
removed the saddle when Master Tom reappeared leading
my intended charger.

I looked at him anxiously ; I know nothing of the points
of a horse, and detest the mention of such details as flank,
fetlock, pastern, gambrel, etc. I did not look at anything
but his face, and as I looked I made up my mind to lose a leg

18 BOGGS ON THE HOUSE

or arm for Miss Trotter. His eyes had a dim, forge-like
glow, and revolved in eccentric orbits, with occasional white
flashes of heat lightning, but with a fixed expression of
deviltry that their wanderings could not conceal. " He is
gay," said Master Tom; " feels his oats, and you have but
to hold his head up and let him slide." I mounted him
carefully, Master Tom holding his head, and he acknowl
edged the act by a sinuous, snake-like contraction of the
dorsal muscles, which at once had the effect of destroying
whatever preconception I might have had of the solidity
of the saddle. I then followed my charmer out of the gate
with the solemnity of a chief mourner. We had not pro
ceeded many rods before the exuberant gayety of Selim
manifested itself with most marked and painful distinctness.
First he proceeded up the road sideways, occasionally pre
ferring the green path to the dusty road ; then he displayed
the most charming hesitation, backing from Trotter senior
to Trotter junior; then he persisted in carrying his head up
and his tail down, and then changing his mind he surveyed
the road, backward, from between his fore legs.

It was a hot day. I at least supposed so, for the perspir
ation rolled down my cheeks as I worked away at my
cursed brute. Kate directed a few words to me, in hope,
dear girl, to change the current of my thoughts, but I had
no devotion for anything but the vicious quadruped be
neath me. She finally joined the Captain ahead. Master
Tom attended me, occasionally issuing orders, as to "hold
ing his head," and "giving him the spur," and otherwise
" putting it to him," but he soon rode forward, and I was
left alone with my four-footed devil. Whatever love I
might have had for the dear girl who had thus placed me
in this diabolical situation had vanished when I mounted
the malevolent Selim.

So I watched her retreating figure with a dogged feeling
of dislike, and saw her bending to the gallant Captain's

BOGGS ON THE HORSE 19

compliments ; then my fear grew wrath, and my wrath waxed
fierce.

I dashed my spurs into the sides of the revolting beast,
who acknowledged the act hy two or three bounds, which
brought my heart to my throat and my head between his
ears, and Kate — Oh, Kate — turning back, looked at
me and laughed! Had it been a smile, a tender smile,
such as love may wear, — had it been arch or playful, — but
a laugh at such a moment, a distinct, palpable grin, an audi
ble cachinnation, was too much for my excited nerves.

I had the remembrance of that laugh in my "mind's eye"
long after she and her companions had disappeared at the
entrance of the green lane which led to the pleasant town
of Pumpkinville. I and Selim were alone.

I checked him gently, and walked along the green sod,
my mind occupied with horrid thoughts of vengeance on the
Captain, and incomprehensible hatred for Kate. Perhaps
the stillness of the warm summer air and the absence of
embarrassing spectators caused me to make a last attempt at
gaining the mastery of my quadrupedal enemy. To go back
I could not; to go forward in my present condition, impos
sible ; and so, gathering the reins and the remnants of my
self-possession, braced myself for a final struggle.

I sunk the spur into his flank rowel-deep, at the same
moment bringing down the whip over his haunches. He
balanced himself for a single instant on his hind legs, gave
a sickening leap, and the next moment was off like a sky
rocket.

The first shock threw me forward on his neck, and grasp
ing his mane with both hands, I dropped the hollow mockery
of a whip, and clung to him as the shipwrecked mariner
clings to a tossing spar. The stones flew from the track
and the fences twinkled by us as the clattering hoofs trampled
down the road. I had no control over him, but I did not
expect to, and was prepared for the worst.

20 BOGGS ON THE HORSE

But, oh, not such a denouement! "We had already
rushed into the wooded lane with the speed of an express
train, which was momentarily increasing, for the reckless
combination of bone and sinew beneath was beginning to
"feel his oats" with a vengeance.

Not far ahead of us the Captain and Kate were riding
together. The road was narrow, scarcely permitting two to
ride abreast, and was fenced to keep out the rank underbrush.
I comprehended the danger instantly, but was powerless to
help them; my shout would not have been heard in time,
and I was too much exhausted for a protracted effort of any
kind. They did not hear me till we were upon them. I
saw the Captain hurriedly rein in his steed, and his placid,
self-satisfied expression gave way to a look of alarm. I saw
the blood depart from poor Kate's cheek and her happy smile
vanish as she urged her Bonnie Bess forward. I remember
experiencing a wicked satisfaction as Selim and I dashed
down upon the gallant Captain. The shock was terrific.
The Captain was a good rider, his steed a gallant one, but
Selim. " felt his oats," and down they went, rider and horse,
at my resistless charge, and Selim, with a neigh like a trumpet
call, sped onward. And now I was at Kate's side. Bon
nie Bess was doing her best, but I swept past them. There
was a momentary struggle ; I felt myself entangled in the
folds of Kate's riding-skirt. My heart grew sick as the
poor girl was almost dragged from the saddle as she clung
in terror to her pony's mane ; but, thank God ! strings are
fragile and hooks and eyes will break, and I shot ahead at last
with the poor thing's riding-skirt fluttering entire — a trophy
of victory — from my dangling stirrup !

I had expected a fatal termination to this day's mishaps ;
and after this last catastrophe I looked upon death, — utter
annihilation, — as a welcome relief. I was destined to another
mortal shame, however, for as Selim and I, with unabated
speed, entered the long street of Pumpkinville, I heard a

BOGGS ON THE HORSE 21

faint familiar voice imploring me to stop. I looked around
and — Oh, why didn't the earth open a terrible pitfall in
my cursed brute's track ! — there was Kate, poor Kate,
scarce a length behind me, Bonnie Bess putting her best
foot foremost and perfectly uncontrollable, with her blush
ing mistress cowering over her mane, and striving, oh ! how
vainly, to cover her pretty ankles, with her all too abbrevi
ated — well, I must say it — petticoat.

Church had just been dismissed, and the youth, beauty,
and fashion of Pumpkinville lounged down its one broad
street. The Reverend Jedediah Higgins, his wife and six
lovely daughters, were standing at the church door; the
parson engaged in post-sermonial explanation, the daughters
consoling themselves for three hours' past vacuity, by the
most violent flirtation with youthful Pumpkinvillians. I
closed my eyes as I swept by the sacred edifice, and wished
myself quietly "inurned" in one of the grassy vaults be
side it. I dared not look at Kate, but oh, they did !

The Pumpkinville hotel affords entertainment for man
and beast. There were a number of both species scattered
about its vicinity. I remember Papa and Mamma Trotter
rushing out frantically as we dashed up to the horse trough
at the door. I am not quite certain, but I think I won the
race down the Pumpkinville road about a length. I re
member nothing more until I was found the next morning
lying in my bed — drunk.

I was some time recovering. When I got able to be out,
I found a challenge from Captain Echellon lying on my
table. Unless some person connected with the establish
ment has removed it, it lies there yet.

I never saw Kate afterward.

I have not ridden since.

Ten years after, walking down Broadway, my attention
was attracted by a crowd of people standing around an om
nibus that blocked up the thoroughfare. Making my way

22 BOGGS ON THE HORSE

through the crowd, I found that one of the horses had
been vicious and uncontrollable, and had now persistently
refused to budge an inch. He was a wicked-looking brute,
standing over the omnibus pole, surveying the crowd with
a dogged look, while two men were engaged in beating him
over the head with clubs. I think some foolish persons en
deavored to interfere. Why did I suddenly dash forward,
seize the weapon from the assailant's hand, and myself fran
tically break it over the animal's devilish forehead ? In
that moment, sir, I saw only retribution and my old never-
to-be-forgotten enemy and blaster of all my happiness on
earth, the incorrigible Selim. I was avenged.

STORY OF THE REVOLUTION1

AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF MY GREAT-UNCLE

HE was a Van Doozle. As a descendant of that ancient
family. I may assert, without unbecoming pride, that to be
a Van Doozle signified, in the days of which I write, some
thing and somebody. The Van Doozles, in 1779, were a
Dutch family, residing somewhere between New York and
Albany, on the Hudson, and my great-grand-uncle was an
only son.

Great men are usually indebted to circumstances and great
events for their elevation. The French Revolution brought
forth a Napoleon ; our own Revolution a Washington and
Van Doozle. It is true that in this latter illustration, one
was commander-in-chief in the American army and the other
only a sergeant in the same; yet the subordinate, to every
reflective man, fulfilled his duty as well as his superior. I
do not wish to detract from the well-merited fame of George
Washington, but as a descendant of the hero of this tale, I
cannot allow the ashes of oblivion to be heaped upon the
memory of Yont Van Doozle, sergeant in the Continental
forces, but particularly attached to that regiment of cavalry
known as Lee's Legion.

Every American has heard of the Legion. Scouting the
eastern bank of the Hudson, they were a formidable check
upon the ravages of " cowboys " and "rangers" over that
country lying between WTiite Plains and New York City,
known as the " Neutral Ground." The insecurity of prop
erty, through the boldness of some of these predatory ex
cursions, extending into the little Dutch settlements, ren-
1 Golden Era, July 8, 1860.

24 STORY OF THE REVOLUTION

dereil the presence of an armed force particularly desirable,
and the fame of these dashing dragoons quite won over the
hearts of the honest Dutch farmers, and tended materially
to open their larders to the wants of a sympathizing ally, in
preference to the claims of an insulting foe.

My ancestor was stationed with his company in a certain
quiet, dreary, gable-ended, weather-cock-crowned village,
abutting on a swelling bay of the Hudson, which may still
be seen, but, alas ! for modern innovation, hardly recog
nized. Time has crumbled the most remarkable landmarks.
Prosperity has erected on their ruins divers shingle palaces,
and the well-known crow-stepped gables are replaced by the
introduction of cottages ornes, Greek villas, mediaeval castles,
and other fatal hallucinations of vulgar minds and an over
tasked architectural fancy.

On the principal street, the principal mansion, in the good
old days, was occupied by one Jacob Bogardus, better known
as "Yop" Bogardus. He was a man of strictly neutral
politics. When the Cowboys favored him with their atten
tions and pressed his hospitality, he was known to declaim
loudly against the ragmuffins of the Tory King ; when cav
alry scouts from above recruited themselves at his expense,
he was much incensed against the Yankees, whom he con
signed to "der tuyful," and implored the protection of St.
Nicholas against friends who lacked that all essential re
quisite, disinterestedness. But he was possessed of two
redeeming peculiarities which rendered his acquaintance
profitable to the old and desirable to the young — he was
rich and had a pretty daughter. Alas ! the riches have
since taken to themselves wings, and a certain miniature in
ivory, by a Low Dutch artist, still in the possession of my
family, is the only memento of the beauty of sixteen. I
wish my pen were pliant enough to follow the curves of that
plump little bodiced and short-petticoated figure, or paint,
in anything but black and white, her rosy face and hazel

STORY OF THE REVOLUTION 25

eyes. Ah me, it 's no wonder my uncle loved her, although
she was suspected of sympathy with the good cause in which
Yont had embarked — but I think that he thought more of
other interests than his country's in their confidential inter-
course. Young men were foolish in those days, and if it
" tried men's souls," their hearts sometimes suffered like
wise.

Katrina Bogardus was a horrible coquette. In all their
confidential intercourse she had never given my great-uncle
any definite encouragement, not even the tip of her rosy
finger to kiss. He caught occasional glances, very expres
sive, but not capable of perpetuation. She flirted easily
with others, and took particular pains to do so in my great-
uncle's presence. When taken to task by him she would
pout pettishly, and ask him if she had n't a right to do as
she liked — young men in such times should have something
else to do than notice what other young men said to young
women. She was sure she did n't care, however. She
had n't asked him to love her — in fact she did n't believe
that he did, — and finally when the poor fellow prostrated
himself in abject submission to the little Dutch divinity,
she would place her little foot (metaphorically) on his neck
and keep him there.

But the exquisite pleasure of torturing a lover, like all
human enjoyments, should be ruled by temperance. Ka
trina, with woman's tact, knew just how far to go, and leave
my great-uncle in the terrible perplexity of not knowing
whether his own conduct was not a sufficient justification
for hers. But she once overstepped the mark. And one
night, on the 25th of June, 1780, my great-uncle " might
have been seen," as your novelist would have it, to rush
frantically from the house, clap his hat over his eyes, give
his beard a fierce pull, mount his fiery steed, and driving in
the spur, gallop away like a madman.

don't know what happened. The house was

26 STORY OF THE REVOLUTION

lit up, and Pompey's fiddle might have been heard from the
parlor, while the frequent sound of laughter betokened a
merry-making within. But my great-uncle was excitable.
And when you take into consideration the fact that Katy
Bogardus was in the glory of her beauty and coquetry,
and looked supremely bewitching, that she had received
several proposals that evening, that a perfect tempest of
sighs raged from the pent-up bosoms of comely young farm
ers, that she flirted indiscriminately, and had been sweetly
unconscious of the presence of my great-uncle, you may pos
sibly account for his irregular proceeding. I think I should
not have acted so, nor would you; but young men in 1780
were very different from young men in 1860. You and I
would have flirted with some one else — " smiled " and
looked on with indifference. Unfortunately my ancestor
was as incapable of concealing a real passion as he was of
affecting an artificial one. Such was the sad effect of inex
perience and a country life.

A fierce gallop tends to relieve a man's mind. My great-
uncle experienced some solace in driving his spurs into his
mare's side by way of revenge for the gaping wounds in
his own. He made up his mind he would leave her —
leave his corps if he had to desert — he would join Suinter
in the South — he would forever banish all remembrance of
the fatal witchery, and would seek, yes, seek, a soldier's
grave. For my great-uncle, though fully convinced that
Katrina was unworthy of his regard, saw nothing without
her but misery and death. He looked out upon the swell
ing river that rolled placidly below him ; at the opposite
shore, with its high promontory casting a long shadow over
the sparkling water like a dark bridge that spanned the
stream — and halted. He looked at the village — and
sighed.

A sound of oars " cheeping " in row-locks caught his ear.
He was in that frame of mind that any occurrence to change

STORY OF THE REVOLUTION 27

the current of his thoughts was a reprieve, and he listened
eagerly. Then, as the sound became more sensible, he saw
a boat approaching the shore below him. He remembered
a bridle-path, somewhat circuitous and steep, that led from
the river below to where he had unconsciously halted.
There were two men seated in the stern of the boat, wrapped
in military cloaks. A third was pulling. They reached
the embankment. My ancestor looked at the flints of his
pistols, and returned them cocked to his holsters. All this
in a state of mechanical expectancy he could not account
for.

He did not wait long, for presently two figures appeared
slowly mounting the bank, which he at once recognized as
the strangers of the boat. They were conversing earnestly.
My great-uncle was not remarkably bright, but it struck
him that the two strangers had important business, to have
crossed the river at that hour ; that they were strangers,
and that it was his duty, as sergeant in Lee's Legion to in
quire their business. So spurring his mare forward, as they
reached the level of the cliff, he interposed his somewhat
athletic figure and called on them to "halt."

They did so, but more in astonishment than fear. It
gave my redoubtable ancestor a chance to examine them
keenly. Hem! A tall, dark young man, black-eyed and
aristocratic- looking — a gentleman. A middle-aged man,
with a face rather old, but massive and energetic ; a digni
fied chap — some white ruffles on his sleeve, and a semi-
military style — a gentleman also. My great-uncle felt a
strong desire to pitch into the slim young man by virtue
of his personal appearance, but was n't quite so certain about
the other.

The younger stepped promptly forward, and, with a
supercilious air, which annoyed my ancestor excessively,
demanded : —

" Who are you that stay travelers on the open road ?

28 STORY OF THE REVOLUTION

What authority have you to address strangers ? Fall back,
sir!"

My ancestral relative kept his eye on the spokesman and
replied, simply : —

" My name is Yont Van Doozle. I am a sergeant in
Colonel Lee's cavalry. Here is my authority." And he
produced the shining barrel of a pistol from his holster.

The young stranger laid his hand upon his sword and
stepped impulsively, his dark face darker grew, and his
thin cheek lay close against his clenched teeth ; but the
elder laid his ruffled hand gravely upon the young man's
arm and turned to my great-uncle : —

" Do you not know, sir, that this is neutral ground ? "

" Aye, I do," said my great-uncle, " but the times are
troublous ; it behooves all friends of the cause I profess, to
be wary. You are strangers, and your attire shows you
are not of us. You cannot pass until you have given me
your name, your rank, and your business."

This my great-uncle always thought was the neatest and
most emphatic speech he had ever made. He drew himself
up in his stirrups, after it, keeping his eye fixed on the slim
fellow, and calculating that the clasp of his military cloak
would be a good mark in case of emergency. The dark
young man placed his hand upon his sword, and played
with his fingers upon the hilt, with the air of a pianoforte
player, who knew something about the instrument. The
elder one again -interposed, arid conversed for a moment
earnestly with his companion, who once more turned to my
great-uncle : —

" We are two to your one. If we choose, your opposi
tion would be a slight barrier. If we see fit to comply
with your demand, what reason have we to believe your
rank, your name ? You may be a Ranger, a Cowboy.
Your manners," added the young man, in his disagreeable
way, "rather indicate the latter!"

STORY OF THE REVOLUTION 29

For a moment my great-uncle boiled over. For a mo*
ment he thought of pistoling the slim fellow and cleaving
down the stout one, and then — he would be wounded,
mortally wounded, of course — he would drag himself back,
covered with blood, to Bogardus's house, let her know that
he had killed two Tory officers, and saved his country, and
die in her hard-hearted, pitiless presence. But he recovered
his temper and his tongue at the same moment.

" I am rough," said he, with a voice a little tremulous,
but a steady, kindling eye; "I am rough, I know, but if I
lie at such a moment, I am the first of my family who have
disgraced their name. If I am willing to believe you, a
stranger, you should be as mindful of me, who dwell here
upon the ground you trespass on."

The elder stranger stepped forward, and holding out
his hand, said, in a stately, dignified way. " Your hand,
friend ; we have wronged you. I believe you, as does my
friend. Your curiosity shall be satisfied, and Colonel Lee
shall know the worth of his honest sergeant."

He again held converse with his young companion, who
again turned to my great-uncle : —

" You have asked our names, rank, and business. I am
Alexander Hamilton, Secretary to the Continental Con
gress." My uncle started. " Hamilton, the aide-de-camp
of—"

He could only stammer out, "And your friend ?"

" Your general — George Washington."

The excitement, and possibility of a dangerous conflict,
which my great-uncle fondly hoped would terminate fatally
for him, had kept up his courage and spirits. That last
hope gone, and the horror which the loyal fellow felt at
the sacrilege he had contemplated on the person of his be
loved leader, crushed him completely. He could only re
turn his pistol to its holster, and hang his head in very
shame.

30 STORY OF THE REVOLUTION

Colonel Hamilton resumed — " Our business must be
kept secret. The general, however, has seen fit to partly
confide its execution to you, as the lesson you have taught
us has convinced us of the indiscretion of pursuing it fur
ther in person. You will wait here for an hour. A young
lad will come to this spot by that time, and you will inform
him that you are commissioned by me to see him in safety
to the opposite shore. A boat will be in readiness. He
will return in an hour, and you will guard him in safety
back. Remember that you are to press him with no ques
tions. Keep your own counsel and you shall be suitably
rewarded. Good-night, Sergeant Van Doozle." And, with
a military salute, the young man and his leader retraced
their steps toward the river.

My uncle again revived his wonted energies. He dis
mounted, tied his horse to a neighboring tree, and seating
himself by the roadside, waited the termination of his ad
venture. He sighed sometimes deeply ; and, of course,
you know what he was thinking about. Do what he would
the past was constantly before him. The massive and
dignified features of his great leader melted away to give
place to a certain dimpled face with round chin and hazel
eyes. Poor fellow ! And when at the end of the hour he
saw some one approaching, he almost started forward with
the name of Katrina upon his lips. It was only the boy
— a chubby young fellow of about fourteen or fifteen, with
an awkward, constrained air, and a face completely muffled
in a large scarf. He briefly and almost surlily repeated his
commission, and led the way to the riverside. He was so
occupied with his previous thoughts that he did not notice
the startled gesture of the boy at the sound of his voice, or
the faint sigh that escaped him as he passively followed
my sturdy ancestor.

Once within the boat, my great-uncle seated himself at
the stern, in company with his young charge, while the

STORY OF THE REVOLUTION 31

boatman rapidly pulled across the shining expanse. Moon
light only adds sorrowful reflections to a despairing lover,
and my great-uncle looked gloomily over the side. Once
the poor lad turned with an inquiring gesture toward him,
but Sergeant Yont answered the movement by turning his
back upon him ; " I ?m no prying Yankee, they '11 find,"
said my great-uncle to himself, in response to the remem
bered injunction.

The hour passed quickly on the opposite side; on their
return, a similar silence ensued. My great-uncle conducted
the young lad up the river-bank, and for the first time during
this strange interview the silence was broken.

" You have been kind to me," said the lad, timidly, but
in a pleasant, musical voice. " You have been kind to me,
and have fulfilled your duty of guardian well. Let me
know your name, that I may know whom to remember in
my prayers."

There was a slight dash of wickedness in the speech, which
my uncle — who was conscious of having behaved like a
great brute — could not help noticing.

He colored slightly, and answered, in a desponding
tone : —

"It's no matter, no matter, we shall in all probability
never meet again. I leave here to-morrow. Farewell,
young sir; I have done but my duty. If I have done it
poorly or rudely, pardon me; I meant no harm." And the
poor fellow extended his hand.

But the lad fell back a step, and placed his hand upon
his breast, which trembled with its burthen. A slight spasm
seemed to agitate him, and when it passed, his voice
trembled as he asked: "But why, are you not in the
Legion?"

"I shall be no longer; I leave here to-morrow. Good-
night!" And he turned away.

" Stay," interrupted the lad, " one moment. You refuse

32 STORY OF THE REVOLUTION

to give me your name! I know it! I shall never forget
it ! Good-bye, Yont Van Doozle, and God bless you ! "

My great-uncle turned. As he did so, I am sure I can
not tell why, but the scarf fell from the young lad's neck
and face, and a multitude of glossy curls somehow shook
out of his cap, which fell off in the general confusion and
disarrangement of his toilet. My great-uncle jumped six
feet forward, exclaiming : —

"Katrina!"

"Yont!"

I should feel myself impertinent to describe the rest of
that interview. I should do violence to the reader's judg
ment and penetration, if I stopped to say how it was that
Katrina had been the faithful ally of the American leader,
and how, from her father's neutrality and her own popu
larity, she had gained the most valuable information from
all sources — Cowboy and Ranger; — and how, in her odd
disguise, she had faithfully kept the American chief informed
of the movements of hostile parties below ; how, in short,
she was the most charming and complete spy in petticoats
the world had ever known — and how her innocence and
purity was acknowledged by the great general, who guarded
her on these interviews with a father's care, and how she
informed my great-uncle of this with many blushes, pouts,
and prettinesses, till the poor fellow was half crazy.

And now you know, too, or can guess, how that minia
ture came into the legitimate possession of our family.

A CHILD'S GHOST STOKY1

THERE was once a child whom people thought odd and
queer. He was a puny little fellow. The only thing big
about him was his head, and that was so disproportioned to
the rest of his body, that some people laughed when they
saw him. And to complete his grotesqueness, his parents,
who were very learned people — and foolish as very learned
people sometimes are — gave him a strange, queer name,
"Poeta," which meant a great deal, so they said; but his
old nurse and his little sister called him "Etty," which
meant only that they loved him, and which I think was a
great deal more pleasant, if not as sensible.

Not but that his parents were very proud of his peculiari
ties and queer ways. But they were very severe and strict
with him. He deserved it, for he was fretful, peevish,
and impatient. He imagined continually that people did n't
love him as he would like them to, which was partly the
case; and he was moody and querulous sometimes; and in
stead of trying to find out why, and what could be done to
help it, he would lie down in his little crib and hate every
body. And then his big head, which was always bothering
him, would ache dreadfully.

But when he strayed into the green fields with his little
sister, who could tell better than " Etty " what the birds
said to each other, what the leaves of the big elms were
always whispering, and the strange stories that the brook
babbled to the stones as it ran away to the distant sea?
And although he was not strong enough to play like larger
hoys with these things, he was fond of lying under the big
1 Golden Era, August 12, 1860.

34 A CHILD'S GHOST STORY

elm, with his little sister supporting his head on her lap,
watching all this, and telling her about it and many other
wonderful things.

But I am sorry to say that he would sometimes tell very
queer and strange stories; he would tell of goblins as high
as the elm, and of ghosts that haunted the little churchyard
where their grandmother slept; and he would continue to
repeat them, getting more and more terrifying in intensity,
until his little "Gracie" would open her big blue eyes in
pretty terror, and catch his gesticulating hand.

"There now, Etty, dear," she once said, "I don't believe
there are any ghosts."

u Is n't there," said Etty, in deep scorn.

" No ! Did you ever see any, Etty ? "

(This was another sort of thing, you know, and poor
Etty could n't say that he had, but he was confident that-
other people had seen them.)

"Well," said Gracie, "I don't believe there are any. I
know that dead people lie in their graves and make the
grass grow ; but if I die, I '11 come back to you and be a
ghost."

And so to these little children, the seasons were told
over in flowers and fruits and different games ; and it was
kite time, and the lilacs were in blossom, when a great hush
and quiet fell upon their home. People walked about
whispering to each other, and Etty was kept alone in a room
until he was frightened and his head ached. But then
Gracie did not come to him to console him. And when he
could not stand it any longer he crept into a little bedroom,
from which an awe seemed to spread over the whole house,
and there was a smell of mignonette, and something white
lying on the bed, and on top of that again a pinched little
white face that he knew. And Etty cried.

His sister had died in early spring, and now it was the
season when the rosy-cheeked apples are piled away in tha

A CHILD'S GHOST STORY 35

barn, and the red leaves in the corners of the lane, and the
nights were getting chilly, and Etty, whose health was poor,
was lying in his crib watching the bright fire, thinking of
the flowers that had passed away, when something soft and
cool stole over his face and rested upon his forehead. It
was a little hand — Gracie's, and Grade stood beside him.

He remembered what she had told him, and knew it was
Gracie's ghost and he was not frightened. But he whis
pered to her, and she soothed his aching head, and told him
that when he was weary, and his head ached, she would
come to him again, and that she was permitted to visit him
only that she might soothe him when in trouble and keep
him from harm. This and much more she whispered to
him in the quiet little nursery, and at last holding her hand
in his, he fell asleep.

He did not dare to tell his father or mother, or the people
about him, of Gracie's ghost. He knew they would look
upon it as one of his peculiarities and he dreaded their dis
belief. He did not dare to tell it to the Keverend Calvin
Choakumchild, who gave him a great many very nice tracts,
and talked to him a good deal about the " Holy Ghost."
He did not dare to tell it to Betsy, his nurse, who had
frightened him often with hobgoblins and spectres. So he
laid away his little secret in a quiet shelf in his memory,
just as her toys had been put away in a corner of the great
cupboard.

But Etty grew up a man and strong and well proportioned.
His head no longer seemed to him so large, and people did
not laugh at him. His old name gave place to Mr. So-and-
So. But when he would get weary, his head would ache
as it did when he was a boy, and the doctors, many of
whom had D.D. written to their name, could do him no
good. How welcome, then, was Gracie's ghost, and her
cool, soft touch, and her whispered words.

But he fell into wicked courses and among wicked men.

36 A CHILD'S GHOST STORY

And when his head would ache, as it often did from dissi
pation and excesses, he did not dare to invoke in such com
pany Gracie's ghost. So he fell sick and grew worse, and
at last the doctors gave him up.

At the close of a bright spring day when he lay tossing
tipon his bed, she came and placed her hand upon his
head ; the dull throbbing and feverish heat passed away. He
heard the whispering of the leaves of the old elm again,
and the birds talking to each other, and even the foolish
talk of the brook. It wras saying, "He is coming." And
then with his hand holding one of Gracie's, and her other
upon his forehead, he floated out with the brook toward the
distant, distant sea.

Children, have you ever seen " Gracie's ghost"?

TACTS CONCERNING A MEERSCHAUM1

I FIRST saw it in possession of ray bosom friend Puffer,
on his return from the Continent.

I was a hard-reading lawyer's clerk then on a small, and
— as I thought — inadequate, salary. I had quite a talent
in the legal way — having debated successfully at old Be-
devillem's Institute, where I gained my astute knowledge of
the world, since a classical budding of the young idea en
ables it to shoot much more perfectly. It was my parents'
intention to fit me for the bar — for which purpose I de
voted a greater part of my time to hard reading. I read
Story and Scott, Coke and Cooper, Blackstone and Bulwer,
and a great many other eminent jurists and novelists. It
will be perceived that I endeavored to combine the practical
and imaginative, and I would recommend that plan to other
young men about to take up a profession. It has its faults,
however, owing to perversity of the youthful student to dis
play the lightest on the surface, and although he may yet
hold the law of those revered jurists fixed in his memory,
he is apt to apply the argument of the novelist thereon —
which, though ingenious and entertaining, is, I believe, not
considered authority.

As this is a moral episode, I may be pardoned one more
egotistical confession. At this, and in fact at an earlier
period, I was troubled with a besetting sin of imitation. I
was continually assuming other people's habits, and adopt
ing other people's peculiarities. As another of my proclivi
ties was not to imitate anything good, it is some consolation
to reflect that most of my faults were other people's.

Is it any wonder, then, that finding Puffer a metaphy-
i Golden Era, September 9, 1860.

38 FACTS CONCERNING A MEERSCHAUM

sician, I became a transcendentalist ; or that, seeing his
meerschaum, I became convinced that cigars were but
half-measures and that the meerschaum was the true source
of inspiration for a student ? Of course not. I coveted
Puffer's meerschaum ; and when one day Puffer said to me :
"B., friend of my soul, that meerschaum's yours," I was
happy. In imitation of his impulsive foreign style, I fell
upon his neck and kissed both his cheeks.

It was a most delectable instrument, large and exqui
sitely formed — for some German student had expended
upon it, between the intervals of hard study, his artistic
skill in carving. The bowl was small and goblet-shaped,
supported by a round-limbed caryatid — it might have been
an Indian girl or some Cleopatrashy female — tinct with
the dusky juices of the herb. I did not remark it then —
but it was none of your new, highly polished, waxen-sur
faced affairs, with a superficial parvenu glitter ; but old and
respectable, stained through and through with the collected
juices of half a century. For such a pipe a man might re
nounce his religion — his mistress; to have created such, he
might have willingly entailed upon his children shattered
nerves, lustreless eyes, and clouded intellects.

When I took the green shagreen case home, I met Dolly,
my landlady's daughter, at the foot of the stairs. Between
Dolly and myself some acquaintance existed. I looked upon
Dolly with that disinterested feeling which metaphysical
young men with vivid imaginations usually bestow upon
young and pretty women. I had no doubt that Dolly, who
was practical and red-lipped, looked up at me from her every
day level with the profound respect that my transcendental
turn of mind, superior attainments, and indefinable longings
demanded. But I did not want Dolly to see the pipe. I
knew that in her practical way she would regard it simply
in the sense of tobacco, and possibly object to it. So when
I saw her small gaiters occupying the centre of a periphery

FACTS CONCERNING A MEERSCHAUM 39

of lace edging, on a level with my eyes, I concealed the
coveted treasure in my bosom, and reaching my room locked
the door, and prepared to give myself up to metaphysics
and Puffer's meerschaum.

The filling and lighting of a pipe is an operation whicL
should exclude all indecorous haste. A moment's careless
ness or trifling on the part of the smoker — a hurried or
reckless packing of the weed at the insertion of the cherry
stem — produces asthmatic laboring, phthisis, and not un-
frequently asphyxia and extinction of the vital spark. The
would-be smoker protracts a lingering, wheezing existence,
and his pipe at last goes out. I filled Puffer's meerschaum
with the genuine Latakia (manufactured in Connecticut)
carefully and deliberately, lit it, and applied my lips to the
amber mouthpiece. You, 0 tobacco-loving reader, know
the rapture of that first draught — the strange, indefinable
thrill which pervades your very being; the delicious ab
sorption of that infinitesimal drop of nicotina, following your
veins from your fingers' ends to the toes of your boots.
Talk of an infant at the breast ; the shipwrecked mariner
squeezing the wet canvas in his mouth; the Arabia Petraean
traveler transported to Arabia Felix at a well — anything in
the way of a first draught, and they 're but weak compari
sons. I drew a rocking-chair toward the window, threw
myself in it at the national position, contemplated the toes
of my slippers, and smoked Puffer's meerschaum.

It wanted but a few moments of twilight. From my win
dows I could see the round red sun modestly pulling a fleecy
blanket over him as he sank to rest. The noises of the city
came to me hushed and mellowed. I noticed that irregular
rhythmical beat — so often spoken of — of that vast human
sea which welled through the angular channels of the great
metropolis below my eyrie on Russian Hill. But the fog
was steadily pulling through the clefts and passes of the
sand hills, encompassing the city like the Assyrian hosts, and

40 FACTS CONCERNING A MEERSCHAUM

nestling its white face in the green marshes. So it crept
in and around, until it fell softly upon the house-top and
drifted like long pennons across the street, and through my
open window it stole quietly, filling the atmosphere with its
moist presence, and shutting out the material and real in
its thin and unsubstantial vapidity. Its moist salt breath
fanned my cheek and forehead like the wing of some great
sea-bird. It flowed through my chamber and shut out the
distant objects already indistinct, and sat upon my heart like
some huge incubus. I smoked steadily but laboriously, and
the rising smoke-wreaths seemed to glide and mingle with
the fog until the only discernible object was the bowl of my
pipe, rendered a luminous lurid spot, like the setting sun in
the bank of fog. Then a great quiet fell upon me.

With my eyes fixed upon the red light I thought of the
strange arid fabulous origin of the " meerschaum." I pic
tured to myself bleak cliffs, whereon the North Sea lashed
in fury, sending its spume in viscid flakes on the clayey
bank, to be collected by mermaids and sirens, and fashioned
into fantastic bowls. I thought of the Narcotic Vegetable
in the home it loved best, and a vision of tropical beauty
glimmered through the fog — of black and oily figures toil
ing beneath a vertical sun, and carefully loosening the soil
about the roots of the broad-leaved plant, letting them ab
sorb the intoxicating influence of the dreamy but luxurious
atmosphere. And thus thinking, I heard a rustle and It
stood before me !

What, even now, in the calmness and quiet of this little
room, I cannot — dare not say ! What it was that rose up
out of that straw-colored vapor, floated mistily before me,
and gradually resolved itself from cloudy chaos to palpable
and awful outline, I never knew. Whence It came, witl"
those large scarlet lips and rounded limbs, what man can
tell! Beautiful It was — but with a beauty not of this
world or age — a beauty that might have come to the lotus-

FACTS CONCERNING A MEERSCHAUM 41

intoxicated fancy of an Egyptian sculptor, and grown into
eternal marble with all its undulating lines, its voluptuous
curves, its heaving bosom, its braided black hair, and pout
ing lips. An awful and suggestive magnificence, that might
have entered the hasheesh dreams of Mahommedan devotee

— but not the heaven-sent vision of Christian neophyte.
Not even that classical beauty, modeled by Cytherea and
baptized in the ^Egean — low-browed and perpendicular-
nosed. Not even like Dolly — amber-eyed, scarlet-dyed,
with electrical hair like thin-spun glass. None of these —
but yet glorious — entrancing — magnificent and awful!

It crept toward me and coiled up at my feet. Half-
veiled, in some strange, fleecy garment that shifted and
waved as It moved, and, stirred by invisible air currents,
seemed to wreathe and writhe about It, even as smoke —
through which the polished mahogany of Its inner surface
seemed to glisten and glide duskily like a serpent's skin —
always graceful and charming, even in its ophimorpheoua
outline — I saw It lean Its head upon Its hand and turn
Its awful glittering eyes on mine. I tried to rise, but could
not. I tried to turn my eyes away, but was fascinated like
a bird in the serpent's toils. But it was not the relentless,
unwinking glitter of the rattlesnake, although I felt all
the dreaded entrancement of its gaze. Its eyes were softened
and humid as It looked at mine, and bright with ineffable
longing. Again I tried to move, but my limbs were torpid.
I tried to speak, my lips were powerless. I could only look

— my faculties found expression in that one sense, until
the weary lids sank over and veiled the other lustrous orbs
from my benumbing consciousness, and slowly, quietly, I fell
asleep.

When I awoke it was bright moonlight. There were the
long parallelograms of lights below my window, and above
the twinkling city, the firmament, starred and resplendent.
I rubbed my eyes. I was cold, nervous, and trembling.

42 FACTS CONCERNING A MEERSCHAUM

There was a bitter taste in my mouth — the room seemed
close — the air heavy with tobacco smoke. Puffer's meer
schaum lay beside me on the floor. I picked it up and
was about to return it to its case, when my eye caught and
became riveted to the carved bowl. It was the odd brown-
tinged caryatid which seemed to possess this fascination and
which recalled something of my past experience.

You, 0 reader, who have trespassed upon some forbid
den ground, who have indulged in some prohibited vice —
you can recall how much easier becomes the descent, after the
first downward step, than to retrace your footfalls to the
dreadful verge. Let me then hurry over the feverish impa
tience with which I reviewed my impressions of that awful
night and the gradual absorption of my faculties in the repeti
tion of that first excess. How often, after a visit from that
awful presence, restless and tossing upon my couch, feverish,
with parched tongue and that bitter burning taste yet linger
ing on my palate, have I prayed to be delivered from Its
awful fascinations. How often has this been, only to rise
again and invoke Its soothing, tranquillizing, stupefying
presence from out of Its misty habitation. How this record
has been told over in shattered nerves and trembling limbs,
clouded intellect and vision, and remorseful consciousness,
perhaps none but myself can know. One other perhaps —
Dolly!

She eyed me narrowly. She often spoke of my failing
health and jaded looks. I sometimes fancied she had
detected the secret, with the insight peculiar to practical
young women. Who discovers the skeleton in your friend's
closet, gentle reader ? Always a Dolly ! You go about,
stumbling hither and thither, in your masculine knowledge
of men and things, opening musty bookcases, and conning
over black letter, and looking into street corners for the
old skeleton. Dolly, long ago, has gone into your friend's
room, and looked into the closet at his bedside — which was

FACTS CONCERNING A MEERSCHAUM 43

always open — and — seen it. I began to fear that Dolly
knew It — and had seen It, too.

I had retired one night wearily to my room, and took
from my closet the green shagreen case. I once more
filled its bowl, but in my feverish anxiety to invoke Its
now familiar presence, I omitted the precautionary rule
I laid down at the beginning of these pages, of clearing
its concave alembic. It answered but feebly to my in
spiring breath. It seemed clogged and sullen. I applied
my pen-knife and again resumed my seat. Then slowly, as
befitted Its awful advent — out of the ascending smoke-
wreaths It grew in all Its dim, mysterious glory. Again
It crawled toward me with Its burning eyes. Again It
coiled up at my feet and leaned Its braided musky locks
upon Its hand and took my palm within Its own. Again
I felt the strange, indefinable thrill possess me as I gazed
into Its lambent eyes. But I strove to shake off the familiar
torpor, when, as if divining my intent, It seemed to raise —
great heaven ! — to a level with my breast. It approached
me with liquid, loving eyes, and big, pouting, scarlet lips —
Its mephitic breath was upon my cheek, Its dewy and vel
vety lips touched my forehead. I was fainting, when —
fizz — bang ! —

There had been a tremendous explosion somewhere. I
picked myself from the floor amid the scattered fragments of
Puffer's Meerschaum. The room was filled with smoke to
suffocation — but it was not tobacco. It smelt of gun
powder. The door was open and somebody was giggling in
the hall. It was that practical young woman — Dolly ! —
and she had packed half an ounce of Dupont's in the con^
cavity of Puffer's meerschaum.

In consideration that I gained ten pounds one month
afterward, I forgave Dolly.

My health improved to such an extent that I afterward
married her.

MY OTHEKSELF1

A GERMAN-SILVER NOVEL

THE exercise of apperception gives a distinctiveness to
idiocracy, which is, however, subjective to the limits of ME.
Thus : If I consider myself individually as an individual, I
segregate my personality from humanity, which being ob
jective to my individuality as an individual, is necessarily
idiosyncratic.

I consider the above as a very neat exposition of my con
dition. I can't say that it is entirely original. I stole
some of the ideas from Puffer (he that gave me the meer
schaum I told you about the other day). The lucid style
he acquired by reading Leibnitz and other dreamy Teutons.
Puffer — although I say it who am his friend — is in point
of fact immense.

When he told me that horrid story about the German
student who saw a duplicate of himself walk home one
night, and never dared to enter his house a fortnight after
ward, — which I dare say you have heard before, — I was
sorely troubled. The fact of it is, Puffer has such an
agreeable way of telling such dreadful things, in a muffled
voice as he goes away at night after a visit to my room, that
he leaves a large stock of material on hand for nightmares,
horrid dreams, and such things. And then, I had some ex
perience of my own on the subject I speak of that I did
not want to tell him.

So I thought of telling you, and to give it due solemnity
I constructed that paragraph I called your attention to. If
1 Golden Era, September 30, 1860.

MY OTHERSELF 45

you have no taste for metaphysics and would n't mind a
little sentiment instead, we '11 drop Leibnitz and Puffer for
a while.

My acquaintances, generally, look upon me as a mild
dyspeptic, governed according to the philosophy of Henry
Buckle by bodily sympathies ; and rather a quiet, ladylike
young man. Just so. But I have another self they know
nothing about — a brilliant healthy fellow, with huge lungs ;
a little given to romance and enthusiasm, who requires all
my care and attention to keep him out of mischief. It was
my otherself, who, when I received castigation at an early
age, ran away from home and immediately found a Desert
Island where he lived afterward very happily with his man
Friday. / remained with my aunt Jemima and got more
lickings. It was O. S. who half killed the tyrannical old
schoolmaster, while / sat quietly by and conjugated the
verbs, to be, to do, and to suffer. It was 0. S. who bearded
old Fantadling and ran away with Mary Fantadling, while 7,
years afterward, saw her married to some old inuff and
danced at her wedding. Do you think that such a brilliant
high-souled fellow as my otherself would have stood by
and allowed such a heinous sacrifice of Mary, whom I loved ?
No, sir. Never ! 0. S. was self-sacrificing, too, on occasion.
When I had oranges sent to me at school my otherself
crept up to the dormitory and gave them to poor Dick who
was ill with the fever. I did n't. Greedy little glutton that
I was, I gorged myself with them. I remember somebody
was sick afterward. It must have been me. It was my
otherself who made that cutting and witty retort when J. B.
expressed his opinion that I was a Muggins. I only said,
" You 're another," or words to that effect. In short, it was
my otherself who was always witty, grand, noble, chival
rous, self-sacrificing, magnanimous, and successful. Not me.

If a fellow had another self, ought he to be contented
with one wife ? Don't flatter yourself that your question

46 MY OTHERSELF

is new or funny. That 's been said before. But you will
find it partly answered in these pages.

Some years ago, in the Atlantic States, my chronic weak
ness became intensified at the climatrical period, and obliged
me to seek pure oxygen, and gather raw iodine at the sea
side. The physician who percussed my chest and felt my
pulse, looking at me with grave, quiet eyes but a pleasant,
assuring smile, told me to forget myself as much as possi
ble for the next four weeks, and parted from me with a
quiet shake of the hand.

I went to the seaside. Where ? Oh, I 'm not going to
tell you. You have been there very likely or may go, and
then you may find out that the circumstances I tell you are
exaggerated. Enough for you to know that it had the
usual great house, with the smell of thousands of dead and
gone dinners flavoring the wide walls and passages. With
piazzas and colonnade, with the white paint so cold and
ghastly in the moonlight, and so hot in the sunlight, and
on the windward side beginning to grow sere and yellow,
and fretted of mornings with little saline crystals from the
sharp salt air. There were the half-dozen pretty girls and
numberless nice young women, whose white skirts filled the
piazzas and the parlor ; who sang and flirted and danced
the " German," and charged as a Light Brigade of " Lan
cers" and fluttered away with their colored pennons to
carry havoc and destruction elsewhere. There was the
usual little routine of daily enjoyments, entered into with
business regularity ; the bath, the ride, the walk, the bowl
ing-alley, dinner, hop. How dost thou like the picture ?

I set about trying to forget myself. I tried not to think
that I was a weak invalid, and forgot to feel my pulse the
next morning, after arrival. I interested myself secretly in
people. Having a nice little skeleton of my own tucked
away in room No. 1199, I cultivated a taste for other peo
ple's. I knew why the lovely Miss M did not take

MY OTHERSELF 47

her accustomed ride with Washington Jinks the other day
after that sun-burned and queer-looking customer arrived.
I knew why young Whipper-Snapper came up post-haste
from the city, and why poor Miss Whipper-Snapper's eyes
were red the next morning, and her cruel " pa " bundled
her off to the city. I knew why the fascinating Miss

J was so brilliant and light-hearted ; and what she was

trying to drown and blot out forever in the gay whirl of
excitement. And that wicked thing that young Rattler
told me about Miss Fanny, — ah, my dear madam, your
sex are not the only beings who cauterize reputation, — but
I 'm not going to tell you that, although it 's infinitely better
than anything in this story. Let us go back to our sheep,
which are not all black, thank goodness !

Well, I was sitting upon the piazza with one foot upon,
one of the columns, and my other leg over the balusters
(bannisters is the pronunciation of that region), when the
hotel stage drew up with some additional visitors. A num
ber got down, but one of them alighted. I use the latter
expression as imperfectly conveying the manner in which
she fluttered out of the stage as you have seen a canary
come out of the door of a cage. She might have had wings,
but they were flattened down under a gray traveling-cloak.
I did not see them, but as she passed me, her brown veil
lifted, and I saw her young face. There ! — I'm not going
to describe her. If you should ever see her album, you '11
find it done very prettily. There are some verses in the
September number of the Young Woman's Magazine of
the year 185-, illustrative of her perfections, signed "B."
And perhaps you might not think her pretty. There 's my

young friend D , whose taste is good, differs from me,

but every one knows that he raves altogether about golden
hair since that unfortunate affair he had with the youngest
Miss Midas.

Most people would have gone to the office register and

48 MY OTHERSELF

picked out her name, and that of her aunt, who was with
her. That was altogether too practical ; besides, it would
have involved me in the necessity of giving it in full in
these pages. I preferred to follow her upstairs after a de
cent interval, and lounge carelessly along the passages.
Presently I saw the gray traveling-dress kneeling before a
large trunk in front of an open door. The trunk was almost
big enough to hold the darling herself. As I passed by she
looked up. There have been one or two pairs of eyes that
I have seen in my life that have magnetized me — I don't
know whether hers did — but I '11 tell you what I did do.
I walked downstairs and out of the hotel, and so down to the
beach, and found myself half an hour afterward, poking my
stick into the sand, making little round holes for the water
to fill up, without knowing what I was doing. To this
day, I never knew why I went there. "When I returned
to the hotel, it was dinner-time. I passed through the long
passage. The door was shut, but there was the trunk ; it
was marked " A. D."

What could " A. D." stand for ? A Darling, a Dear, a
Duck ? It certainly was pleasant to have something to be
curious about ; somebody to think of beside one's self. I
reflected as I stood at the glass in the desperate attempt to
torture my hair after the fashion of young Wobbles, whose
hirsute ensemble was at once the envy and ridicule of our
artless sex — who, among all their faults, are not amenable
to vanity. Oh, no! And when the gong sent its swelling
reverberations along the passage, I slammed the door on my
old skeleton and strode away to dinner.

I sat nearly opposite to her. I caught her eyes as I sat
down, and upset my glass. Consequently I did n't dare to
look at her during the meal but twice; once at soup, and
once at coffee. I thought she looked conscious and embar
rassed. She might if she had known that I seasoned my
food immediately afterward to such an extent that the first

MY OTHERSELF 49

mouthful produced poignant anguish and tears. But I
crucified my flesh for her dear sake. I wonder does she
think of it now ?

The next day, I obtained the cooperation of young
Wobbles, who knew everybody, and was introduced to her
on the piazza, at sunset. I had my little weaknesses then

— and read Byron, Moore, and Bulwer's early works, and
had some slight acquaintance with Alfred Tennyson. I
called her attention to celestial appearances, keeping my
glance fixed on her large, hazel eyes. There was a wistful
yearning expression in them, as if she was looking for some
body or something, or trying to clothe the person she ad
dressed with some familiar habit. I entered into verbal
discourse, still looking in her eyes, and carrying on a con
versation in their supereloquent language — somewhat after
this style : —

"What a magnificent sky." (What beautiful eyes you
have.)

" Lovely/' (Do you really think so ?)
"That rosy flush is unapproachable." (So are your
cheeks.)

" Is n't it ! " (You make me blush.)
" May I offer you my arm? " (She is lovely.)
"Thank you ; it is so pleasant." (He is nice.)
We turn and pass the other promenaders one by one,
and make our way toward the beach. We look out on the
flashing sea. She speaks : —

" I like the sea. It is about the only genuine thing
here, although it resembles our little world in yonder car
avansary. The waves come rolling in and dash themselves
upon the sand, leaving a faint trace, as we do, year after
year, only to be obliterated by those that follow."

" Yes," I say, with deep sarcasm, " and those great ones,
that rush in periodically, are the ' heavy swells,' and these"

— I pick up a water-worn pebble — " are the hearts that
are left behind."

50 MY OTHERSELF

(Do I suppose that you imagine this conversation gen
uine ? Of course not. You know it 's only a clever way
we romancists have of ringing-in a pet idea by putting it
in the mouth of irresponsible parties. Did you ever hear
girls talk as they do in books ? What would conversation
be if carried on in that correct, bloodless way ? Where
would be the anxious interrogating eye, the eloquent ges
ture, even the dear little misplaced adjectives and bad
punctuation which make their disjointed chat, and their
" ands," the soul of prattle and gossip ?)

We were out about an hour that evening, and it was with

^ great difficulty that I choked back a premature avowal of

\ love, fidelity, etc., etc. I was remarkably eloquent and

brilliant — at least, I thought I saw that much reflected in

lier eyes. It would be pleasant, I thought, to ramble that

way, for a lifetime ; oblivious of bread and butter and small

children, in a country where the sun was perpetually setting

and never getting up upon a world of labor and reality, and

I grew quite silent, and was beginning to think of my old

L^skeleton, when I looked up and saw her looking at me. It

was an expression of distrust and disappointment, that sent

an odd fear flashing over me. " It is getting chill," said

she, "let us go back." I thought the air had changed

marvelously, for I felt cold, too.

The next morning when I saw her, I fancied that she
blushed as our eyes met. I thought, too, that her aunt
eyed me sharply over her spectacles for a moment. But
that day I sedulously cultivated the old lady, and interested
myself in her in my old-fashioned, ladylike way, so differ
ent from last evening, that we were in a very gossipy con
versation in the parlor when A. D. entered from the morn
ing bath. She looked astonished, as well she might ; she
looked lovely, she could n't help that either. Aunt Viney
requested me to repeat that amusing little anecdote about
Mrs. M. M. , and added : " My dear, this gentleman knows

MY OTHERSELF 51

all about those stuck-up Pigswells, and says their father was
only a carpenter. You know what I told you about such peo
ple. Put a beggar on horseback " — and the dear old thing
absolutely rolled the sweet morsel under her tongue as she
left the room. I thought another shade was coming over A.
D. 's face, but I mounted my hippogriff, and taking her up
behind me, soon soared out of the atmosphere of the thou
sand and one dinners, into the realms of poetry and fancy.

And so days passed ; but why should I repeat any of those
variations of the old duet of Love and Youth ? From un
disguised pleasure at meeting each other, we at last merged
into that hopeless stage when every moment out of each
other's society was a blank of years ; when chance meetings
and even slight formalities seemed to have a guilty con
sciousness. And yet I never spoke of love. I knew that
she was rich and an orphan, and that she was talked of as
the heiress of her aunt, whom, Wobbles told me, adored her
next to the thousands which rumor said she would leave her
when she died. I never thought of marriage. I was con
tent with the blissful and artificial present. And I dreaded
the old lady's resentment had she imagined my thought.
So I regularly humored her, and she, recognizing my easy,
meretricious qualities, was civil and social.

I had been thinking of this in conjunction with the old
skeleton I carried up there, and had taken my seat upon the
piazza as I did once before, when the afternoon stage drew
up at the door. There was a figure that lightly leaped
down and tripped up the steps, as somebody did I told you
of. But what a resemblance in figure, in height, in looks,
in action, to — to — to — myself! There was the outline
of my thin, colorless face, but rounder, and lit with the flush
of youth and vigor. The listless, lounging way I had ac
quired, and I must confess, cultivated, in the stranger was
changed to the active buoyancy of youth and energy. A
fellow to do, and dare ; to live in earnest — I thought as

52 MY OTHERSELF

I looked at him in undisguised admiration. Why did n't
the thought that months afterward slowly shaped itself
in my brain, and at last sprang forth like the Athenian
Pallas, full grown and armed against me, — oh, why didn't
it strike me then ? Why did n't I know, blind fool that
I was, that this was the companion of my bygone life ;
the child, the boy, the man — my otherself ? Why ? — •
well, because it would have spoiled my story, you see !

I called young Wobbles's attention to him, and I think
Wobbles objected to him as being too " intense." But I
think no one but myself noticed the strange resemblance
that he bore to me. When I went upstairs he was standing
on the piazza, where we stood, you remember, his quick eye
turned toward the sea, and his fresh, sun-burned face a little
thrown back, his lips partly open, chest dilated, and shoulders
squared as if recognizing a familiar presence in the rushing
breath of the mighty sea. What was the cause of that
miserable sinking of the heart that came over me then?
Why did I get myself up, for the regular " feed " that after
noon, listlessly and carelessly ? Looking in the glass I saw
the grinning head of that old skeleton peeping over my
shoulder.

A. D. looked beautiful that day at dinner. In the full
ness of her young life, and the unconscious eloquence of her
girlish nature, she gave me a look that made my pulse jump
and the bones of the old skeleton upstairs rattle. I was
yet watching her face, when I noticed the color drop out of
her cheek and her eyes assume a fixed and concentrated
look, and something swell and rise in her fair young throat.
I looked around and saw — my otherself. He had sat
down near me, and was looking and evidently admiring
her. I saw her eyes turn from his face to mine with that
curious, wistful look I had before noticed. Then they sank
in maidenly confusion on her plate and she became absorbed
m chicken. I picked, little by little, like that young worna/i

MY OTHERSELF 53

in the Arabian Nights, who did n't like to spoil her appetite
for dead bodies, and thought of my skeleton. My otherself
had a vulgar, healthy appetite. You think that I have got
jealous of the stranger who fancied my girl, — oh, astute
reader? Not a bit of it. Jealousy is too active a passion
for my temperament. But that night, as I gloomily walked
on the beach, I think that if Wobbles had rushed up to me
and told me that somebody had been carried out in the un
dertow, I should have composed a handsome obituary or
elegiac verses on that somebody for the country paper, or
done something almost as heartless and gentlemanly.

To show that I had no ill will — I found out from Wobbles
that my otherself's name was Reginald de Courcy Altamont,
and solicited and obtained an introduction, and overpow
ered him with civility. I even procured him an introduc
tion to my A. D., whom he frankly confessed he admired.
Would you believe that that same ridiculous scene on the
piazza was repeated, only by a different and much more nat
ural performer, who took the part of the lover, vice myself.
I don't know that it did, but I preferred to think so ; and
have reasons to believe it now. But let me, as I draw
nearer the climax, give you an episode.

It was a warm morning. People drooped about in white
linen and Marseilles. The sands had a dreadful, unwinking
glare, and the sea beyond was quite calm and glittered like
green glass. There was no rustle of the tasselated corn,
filing away inland to the distant hills; it bent lower in the
yellow heat. The trees were dusty and parched. There
was one quiet, cool nook that I remembered ; thither I bent
my steps. I entered the principal passage and followed it
until it ended near the eastern gable and was crossed by a
reentering angle, flanked by a sash-door opening upon the
balcony. There sat A. D. reading. Her little slippered
feet were upon an embroidered worsted "cricket," which
she pushed toward me with a look and a smile. I sat down

54 MY OTHERSELF

at her feet and took up the book which she had laid down
carelessly, and opened it. It was selections from Tennyson.
Could it be mine ? I look at the fly-leaf. In bold char
acters I behold, " E. de Courcy Altamont." Oh, I see. I
look at her — she meets my gaze fearlessly. "Mr. Alta
mont lent it to me. I believe you have a copy. You said
you admired Tennyson — and I thought " — the artful little
minx drops her eyes. Oh, the delicious and exquisite un
certainty of that moment! I opened the book carelessly
and read aloud : —

" Go not, happy day,

From the shining fields,
Go not, happy day,

Till the maiden yields."

The book drops. She is looking out of the sash-door, to
ward the distant sea. I wonder whether she is looking for
anybody's ship !

" How very warm it is ! "

" Very ! »

A long pause — I watch a fly buzzing on the piazza and
a grim old spider waiting inside of an extempore web which
he has just built at the cornice. He knows the fly will
come. It 's only a question of time. She taps her little
foot and turns an emerald ring upside down on her little
finger. I break silence, still watching the fly.

" This life is so very artificial. I should like to have an
island somewhere in the tropics — say where Paul and Vir
ginia lived — and forget the frivolities of society, and live
alone with her whom I should choose to make my life ear
nest and happy ? " You perceive I end this highly original
remark with a note of interrogation, although there was
literally no question asked — that was my artful tone of
voice !

She turns her head and looks down at me.

" I don't think you would do anything of the kind! "

MY OTHERSELF 55

In real astonishment I ask, " Why ? "

" It would be too much trouble, and — don't get angry
now — you don't mean what you say. People who have
hearts that are so simple and artless, are not always running
to desert islands to enjoy their own immaculate purity un
tainted. I don't know, but I think it is much pleasanter
to try and make ourselves happy here and to familiarize,
and accept one another from our own standard, than to wish
to be much worthier, wiser, or better than they. If I had a
h-h— husband " — the word seemed to stick in her dear little
throat — "I should want him to believe well of other people,
or I hardly think he could always think well of me. I
think an earnest, simple believer like — ah, Mr. Altamont !
I have been reading your favorite author " (the false, fickle
thing ! ) " I do so admire Tennyson."

Yes, there stood my otherself, bowing pleasantly to me
and seating himself on a camp-stool he had brought with
him ! You see the whole thing had been evidently ar
ranged! — they had met before.

I bowed and retired — I did n't feel well and thought a
walk would do me good. I looked at the cornice as I went
out — the poor fly was struggling in the meshes of the web
and the spider was sidling down toward him. I smiled in
grim sarcasm. But I felt rather cut for all that.

The time of my return to the city was rapidly approach
ing. I had received letters from my employers, informing
me that they would expect me to return to my duties about
the first prox., and that they hoped I was better. I re
ceived another from my Aunt Jemima, stating that she
heard that my health was improving, and that I looked like
another man. I knew the dear old lady was too straight
forward for sarcasm, but you may guess that my cheeks
flushed at the simple sentence. I informed A. D. carelessly
of my intention, and of course looked in her face acci
dentally as I did so. She looked at me curiously, as if

56 MY OTHERSELF

she wanted to say something. But I did n't give her a
chance.

With the intention of doing the magnanimous, I called
at Altamont's room. The young man was pleasant and
hearty — but I think I inclined to Wobbler's opinion that
he was " intense." He held me by the hand and pressed
it warmly, and told me that he had taken a great fancy
to me ever since he had first seen me. "There is something
about you, old boy," said he, " that reminds me of some
body that I once knew." I inquired if it was the friend
of Toodles that he had reference to. " You 're as wicked
as ever," said he, " but I like you for all that — what '11
you take?" I took brandy. We resolved to make a night
of it. We accordingly made a night of it that lasted till
late the next day. He informed me of all his past history,
his present, and his plans for the future, and —

I 've been thinking how I should tell it — I want to make
the climax effective without making myself ridiculous — •
but I may as well tell the truth in plain words. Well, —
would you believe it, — this chivalrous, earnest, romantic,
healthy young man — my otherself , actually asked me to
assist him in running off with A. D. Told me that she
was willing (the deceitful, bold thing !) — that she loved
him, that it was a case of love at first sight, and a great deal
more nonsense that was perfectly sickening and driveling.
(What fools people do make of themselves on such occa
sions.) I was disgusted and so left him.

Of course I took things philosophically. When I left

the House, I did n't take a walk around the piazza,

nor loiter along the passage near the door of a certain room.
I got into the stage and took Tennyson from rny pocket arid
read, —

"Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me."

MY OTHERSELF 57

That was positively all I did in the sentimental way. When
I reached the city I met my kind physician: "You have
got a little more iron in your blood, my boy [my heart he
might have said], and your flesh is firmer [he grasps my
hand] — what have you been doing for the last four
weeks?"

"I took your advice, Doctor, and ' forgot myself. ' "
It was not my only contact with this otherself, although
I have endeavored to relate in these pages an episode of my
summer life ; this otherself has come to me in bleaker autumn
days with the dead leaves and sighing winds. I know that
my otherself is happy ; that he is known and loved and his
name "spoken of men" and reverenced. I am looking for
ward to a time when myself and this otherself shall be one"
and inseparable. I do not deem it an idiosyncracy ; for you,
oh, indulgent reader, looking upon these pages with the
sympathies of apperception, may have felt one touch of
companionship with me. I see and recognize your other-
selves — as I did that of a dear young friend I lately lost.
I knew but his objective self, seamed, scarred, worried, and
furrowed in the battle of life. But bending over his cold
white face a year ago, I saw, in the relaxed lineaments and
pleasant air, the older face of his otherself looking out to
mine, and upward !

"HIS WIFE'S SISTER"1

A STORY OF A SACRIFICE

AN elegant and philosophical writer says : " Man's life
is only a journey from one fond woman's breast to another."
It was probably the object of the author to refer particu
larly to the mother and wife. As the number of stopping-
places is not limited, however, I choose to accept the most
catholic interpretation. I believe that what the world usually
calls "inconstancy" is only the effort of nature to progress
toward perfect affinities. If man in his journey of life stops
at a good many ports, it stands to reason that he will acquire
a much better knowledge of the world, and will eventually
" lay up " in the best haven. Let me give you a modified
illustration of my idea. I have a friend who has been sub
jected to a theory of purely physical progression. His first
and earliest affection was for Curls. He became acquainted
at the age of ten years with a set of twelve, — large ones at
that. This capillary attraction, if I may so term it, was not
lasting. A Voice, belonging to another and otherwise plain
young woman, next occupied the reverberating chambers of
his heart. It was not a fine voice, but it was a positive one
and his was a negative. Now you see Curls had a negative
voice, and of course two negatives had n't any attraction.
Hence his deflection. Then a Bust attracted his undivided
attention. It was followed by Eyes and Mouth, which by
an unusual phenomenon occurred in the same individual ;
they were both positive and my friend's own eyes and
mouth were negatives. Hence his new variation. He came
very near proposing to them, but was providentially saved
i Golden Era, October 14, 18GO.

HIS WIFE'S SISTER 59

by the interposition of an Ankle. He flirted with the Ankle
for some time, but an ankle not being a regular feature, of
course it was n't lasting. Need I inform the reader that had
he met the positive and negative peculiarities combined in
one person, he would have fallen in love at once and recog
nized his affinity ? That 's what he was looking for. Hence
his hesitation, and what the world foolishly calls his —
" inconstancy."

I merely instance this " physical " illustration as being the
most forcible and common. Mental and moral peculiarities
are met in the same way and are much more difficult to
combine. Of course there are some exceptions to the above
theory. Indistinctive people are an exception. You may
take a stick of wood and saw it into a number of small pieces
and you shall find no difficulty in fitting any of the pieces
together. But take another stick and break it several times,
and you must find the particular adjunct if you wish to
join two in one. Now indistinctive people are the sawn
blocks: they come naturally together. The broken pieces
are men and women of strongly marked opposite characters,
with negative and positive dispositions, fitting each other
and showing that in the normal state they were one distinct
creation. Not unfrequently there is some unnatural match
ing. A worthy friend of mine, with a smooth, indistinctive
surface, married one of the broken pieces'; the consequence
was obvious ; attrition has worn off her salient features and
she has become like him. But when two broken surfaces
meet, that don't fit — there 's trouble and business for the
lawyers at once.

I would like to give you an illustration of another ex
ception, just for its moral. Every story should have a moral
or develop some peculiar idea, — but how often do we ac
cept the moral. When our surgical friend strips the walls
of this once living temple, and lays bare its wonderful in
ternal structure, however irreverent the act, we pardon it

60 HIS WIFE'S SISTER

for the good that shall accrue to man thereby. But when
the novelist with his little scalpel cuts into the character of
his opposite neighbor, or his dear friend, and exhibits their
internal organism, or shows up his own idiosyncracies, we
never recognize ourselves therein. That's quite another
affair, of course.

When my friend Dick was about thirty years of age, he
had amassed a little fortune. He had flirted a good deal in
his time, and was rather a wild young fellow. But under
his superficial qualities and manly exterior, there was a large,
honest, boy's heart. Whether it had ever been trampled
upon, or had the impression of some woman's small foot
sunk in it, is of little consequence. But I do not think his
heart was that kind of primitive formation, that holds the
relics of bygone days in its cold fossiliferous stratum. If
Dick had ever had an " affair de coeur," he had forgotten it.
He was what we term blase ; we — who know nothing
about it. Dick did not object to the epithet — he rather
liked it, as we all do — and I think he cultivated an en-
nuied air. If he had had any previous erotic experience, it
was in the progressive stages I told you of.

At his boarding-house he chanced occasionally to meet a
young girl who seemed to possess many of the attributes he
had admired consecutively in others. She was simple and
unsophisticated, and supported herself by giving music les
sons. With his wholesale admiration of the sex, Dick be
came interested in her after a fashion. She did not object
to his attentions — Miss Mary was flattered and pleased with
Dick. And Dick did not exactly love her, for he had doubted
the existence of the passion. But he felt it was time to get
married. He was getting old. Here was a good chance for
him to test his skeptical theory in regard to love. If he
really believed there was no such thing, he might as well
marry her as any one. She would undoubtedly make him
a good wife. And she was poor, and that was the strong

HIS WIFE'S SISTER 61

lever that stirred the romantic foundation of Dick's heart.
He could give her a position. She must love him — he
could give her happiness ! He could, in short, make a —
a — yes, that was it, a — sacrifice !

They were married quietly. There were some friends of
Dick's present, but the bride was an orphan, and her only
relative, a younger sister, lived in a distant State. He took
her to a rich and luxurious home. He felt that he had done
the correct and gentlemanly thing in every respect, and when
he led her into the softly carpeted parlor of their fashion
able bower, it was with a feeling of placid self-congratula
tion. The foolish, simple bride threw her arms about her
husband's neck, and said to him, —

"Oh, Dick! how can I thank you?"

Dick was touched and felt an imaginary halo suspend
itself over his Olympian brow !

There were no transports with Dick. The honeymoon
passed quietly and evenly. He had not expected to be ex
travagantly blissful — his dream, if one had ever fashioned
and shaped his inner man — was deceitful and he knew it.
His wife was all to him that he had sought, it seemed —
but yet the possession of her love did not seem fraught with
the strange fascination that he had often conceived in his
early days. There was something wanting. He would
never let her know it ; oh, no, it would spoil his perfect
sacrifice. But perhaps it was this consciousness that placed
a deeper chasm betwixt his wife's affections and his own.
He felt he had another's happiness in his keeping and he
resolved to guard it as preciously as his own. This state
of affairs, as you may readily imagine, though very romantic,
put him upon a forced and unnatural behavior, which added
another million of miles to that awful chasm. And Dick
sometimes found himself sitting opposite to her, in their
comfortable parlor, and wondering if that strange woman
was his wife. There was the contour of the face that had

62 HIS WIFE'S SISTER

haunted his boyish visions; there was the same soft voice
and winning accent — and yet why was n't he happier ? why
was n't he grateful ? what was the meaning of that awful
barrier that lay between them ? Why was he doing the
Spartan business, and all that sort of thing ? He would
get up at such times and go over to the neat womanly figure,
and gaze into her eyes and kiss her red lips and say, " Are
you happy, my dear?" and then she would look back an
answer, and would say, "Are you not, Dick?" Dick
would say emphatically, " Certainly, my dear ! " with a
great deal of unnecessary decision.

A time came when Dick's wife was not able to visit much,
and kept her room a great deal; and Dick learned that this
young sister of hers would visit her, and that for certain,
reasons, the visit would be very opportune ; and it was with
that strange flutter which the consciousness of a coming
event occasions in the breast of the expectant parent, that
Dick was sitting by himself in the little library, before the
fire. Her chair — for she was wTont to bring her work in
and sit with her husband while he read — was standing op
posite and her work-basket was still upon the table. He
was trying to analyze the strange sensations that were throng
ing upon him, and looking forward to a happier state of
being, when it occurred to him that he might assist his re
flections by smoking. He drew out his cigar-case, bit off
the end of a fragrant Havana, and looked around for a bit
of paper to light it. His eye fell on his wife's basket.
There was a white paper sticking out of a chaotic scramble
of various colored fragments. He took it up. It seemed
to be a letter. He was about replacing it when his eye
caught a passage containing his own name.

I have told you that Dick was the soul of honor. If he
had known that his wife did n't want him to read that letter,
he would n't have read it. If he had imagined for a moment
that it contained anything he should n't read, or any secret

HIS WIFE'S SISTER 63

of his wife's, he would have sat and blinked at it all day,
or perhaps have walked upstairs with it and handed it to
her, saying, " My dear, you have left a letter below. I
don't know what it is, or who it's from," and would have
departed dramatically. But not knowing what it was, you
see, he coolly read on, commencing at the paragraph con
taining his name, as I do : —

" I am sorry to hear that Dick is not all that you fondly
imagined. Don't ask me, dear, for advice; it is better you
should leave all to time and your own tact and judgment. I
think that no one is capable of mediating between a wife's
affections and her husband's — even a sister. I would say
that you ought to have weighed all this before you bound
yourself to one whom you think is not worthy of your
affections ; but we cannot recall what is past. No ! indeed.
You say that your Dick has a generous heart, and in this
world, dear! you know that this ought to make up for other
defects, even if he be dull and stupid! [Oh! you should
have seen Dick's face at this moment!] Your sacrifice, I J
know, was a great one, but men cannot appreciate the sacri
fices we make. No, never! But I will soon be with you,
my dearest sister, and perhaps I may be able to do something
for you, with this queer being whom you have taken for
a husband. Don't think I am hardhearted or unsisterly
either if I can't understand your feelings. I never saw the
man yet that I could whimper over or feel bad about.
1 Good-bye,' dear, till I see you, which will be soon!

" Your affectionate sister,

« ' TIP.' »

"Dull and stupid!" He "dull and stupid !"— he,
pick — the delight of select circles ! — the witty, fascinat
ing, agreeable, gossipy Dick! "Dull and stupid!" and
her sacrifice — her "great sacrifice"! What sacrifice?

64 HIS WIFE'S SISTER

When ? How ? Where ? And this was the return —
this was the result of his noble, Roman-like conduct ; this
was eventuating from his deeply delicate, poetical, gentle
manlike treatment. This was her opinion of him — the
opinion of the wife of his bosom, the partner of his joys,
the sharer of his wealth, his property — the woman he —
no ! not loved ! " Dull and stupid ! " Why, the woman
was a fool; they were both fools! they were hypocrites!
they were ingrates ! they were — women !

He sank back in his chair. Then he started up and
threw the letter in the grate, and carefully replaced his cigar
in the basket. Then he burnt his fingers recovering the
letter. Then he put his hands upon his head, his elbows
upon his knees, and in that position reflected.

He thought he had better not say anything about it.
He was in for a sacrifice and the bigger the better. " Ho,
there ! Bring in some fagots and lay 'em round the stake !
Pour on the oil and wine and give the brands another poke !
Here's the spectacle of a Christian young husband immolated
on the hymeneal altar. Hurrah! Fetch on your fagots!"

"Dull and stupid!" He liked that! Well, he'd let
them see his dullness and stupidity, hereafter, with a ven
geance. And that young sister, indeed! A snub-nosed,
freckled faced, hoydenish thing, with braids and mincing
ways, and — daring to talk about him — Dick ! — the man
of the world ! the blase man, — as dull and stupid ! Well,
he'd like to have his friend Wobbles hear that; how he'd
laugh! At them? Of course. Certainly at them. But
then he 'd better not say anything about it — on his wife's
account.

When he went upstairs to his wife's chamber he made
some light, trifling, jocular remark which I regret has not
reached me, but which had the effect of making his Mary
open her eyes in meek astonishment. " Dull and stupid,"
thought Dick ; « indeed ! »

HIS WIFE'S SISTER 65

There was some little preparation a week afterward ; and
one day Dick, coming home, saw some boxes in the hall and
several mysterious-looking bundles lying about, and other
signs which seemed to indicate that his wife's sister had
arrived. Of course, the recollection of that letter did not
tend to awaken lively anticipations of a meeting with the
disagreeable " Tip." He thought at first that he would try
the dignified and stately, and otherwise impress the young
woman with a sense of her previous irreverence. But then
he wished to establish a character the opposite of those adject
ives which yet swam before his eyes. " Dull and stupid " and
" dignified and stately " seemed only a hopeless alliteration.
He had sent the servant upstairs to inform his Mary of his
coming, by way of preparing the repentant and humbled
« Tip" for his awful retributive presence. Then he changed
his mind and thought of rushing upstairs boisterously. He
made a step toward the library door when it was thrown
open; two white arms were flung about his neck, two big
blue eyes looked into his, while a pair of scarlet lips articu
lated in rapid accents: " My dear! dear brother ! "

Dick was taken aback. He looked down at the beauti
ful and girlish figure and felt — he, the "blase" man —
awkward and embarrassed. His lips syllabled a few com
monplaces, but the breath of life seemed to have left him.
He could only lead her to a sofa and stand and gaze at her.
She was certainly very pretty — so like his wife, and yet
so unlike.

" Oh, dear ! I did so long to see you. Why did n't you
come upstairs ? I was afraid you were angry at something.
You are not at all like Mary's husband. I know I shall
like you. You 're my brother, you know, and I never had
a brother; and I'm sure I shall love you so much. You
don't say anything ! Why, what 's the matter ? Why,
you look pale! You 're sick! Mary! Good gracious! "

Poor Dick ! Poor, poor Dick ! It was over. He was

66 HIS WIFE'S SISTER

better now. Yes, he was calm, too — he saw it all. She
was sitting before him, on the very seat his wife had occu
pied ; the same contour of features ; the same outline, the
same figure — but oh ! that indefinable expression and this
strange feeling and thrilling. The vision of his past life, the
dreams of his youth were looking out of the anxious pretty
glance that met his own. Oh, rash, hasty, inconsiderate fool !
He had stopped one step short of perfect affinity. This was
his wife's sister! wife's sister? Oh Heavens, he had mar
ried h-is wife's sister ! This was his wife ! The sacrifice
was complete.

No, not complete ! It remained for him to smother the
fires of his new passion in the dead ashes of his past life.
It was at once his torture and his crown to minister to the
invalid wants of the real wife of his manhood, in company
with the fair young ideal wife of his youth. It was his
great glory to feel the touch of her warm, soft hand on his
brow, when he sometimes sat alone distractedly, groping
blindly in the darkness for some clue to lead him away
from the pitfalls that beset his path. He could not help
seeing that he had awakened a sympathetic interest in
" Tip's " young heart — a feeling as yet undefined and holy
in its nameless orphan purity. But the sacrifice was not
complete.

They were sitting alone in the little library, and she sat
opposite to him in his wife's chair. He raised his eyes and
she drew her chair nearer to him, and in her simple, artless
way asked his forgiveness !

"For what, Tip?"

"Well, never mind; say you'll forgive me. I once
thought worse of you than you deserved and I may have
said something to Mary ; did she tell you anything ? "

Dick could conscientiously wave a negative.

"I've changed my mind since, brother! You're so
different. I 'm sure I know of no one who could make

HIS WIFE'S SISTER 67

Mary happier than you. I judge so by what I have seen
of you and by my own feelings, for you know, Mary and I
are all that are left of our family. Do you think we are
alike ? I think that I shall never marry, for I could not
find another like Mary's husband."

The artless simplicity and genuine sincerity of poor Tip
extorted a groan from Dick.

Instantly she was at his side. " Don't worry, brother,
about Mary, she will be better soon. I know how you feel,
dear, and it must be a comfort to Mary to know your sym
pathy.'7

How shall I end my story, reader ? Shall I say that
Tip was again wrong; that Mary did not get better ? That
she lingered for a while and, striving to bring a feeble, im
mortal soul into this earthly light, laid down her own dear
woman's life, a willing sacrifice upon the altar ? Shall I
say that Tip and Dick stood by holding her hands, when
the first cry of the struggling immortal heralded her way to
the home it just had quitted ? How that the poor mother-
less child found a guardian angel in Tip ?

How else can I marry Dick to his wife's sister ?

A CASE OF BLASTED AFFECTIONS1

I NEVER had any astonishing adventure in an omnibus.
I never had the privilege of paying the fare of any beautiful
young lady who had lost her porte-monnaie. I never pro
tected any lady passenger from the advances of a Fiend in
Human Shape. I never got out to give my seat to a fair un
known, who thanked me with a deep blush, and handed me
her card — being the only daughter of a stern but well-known
citizen with a palatial residence at South Park, etc., etc.
On the contrary, I have held frantic children and taken
care of dyspeptic lap-dogs. I have been entrusted with
bundles which became vitalized in my hands, and would
undo themselves, and cover me with hooks and eyes, and
spools of cotton. I have gone down from the light of day
under a cloud of crinoline on either side. I am the un
fortunate "gentleman" who always makes "room for a
lady," and have been poked with a parasol for my pains. I
can't see that putting people like pills in a box and shaking
them tends to make them social — but like the pills they
are apt as perfect spheres to round off from each other
whenever they come in contact.

Yet, because an apple never dropped on my head I have
no reason to doubt the theory of gravitation ; and I have no
cause to be skeptical regarding my young friend Puffer's
blasted affections, just because I never was elected to ro
mance and adventure.

It was a bright May day in San Francisco, and spring
bonnets were just coming out, when Alexis Puffer hailed a
1 Golden Era, October 21, 1860.

A CASE OF BLASTED AFFECTIONS 69

South Park arid North Beach omnibus on the corner of
Stockton and Pacific Streets. He was attired in the height
of the prevailing fashion and his boots were glossy as the
raven's wing. (You may have met that idea of the " ra
ven's wing " as applied to the hair of the human head. I
only claim the merit of Boucicaulting it in another situa
tion.) Entering the stage, with that graceful listlessness
which betokens the perfect gentleman, but exasperates the
waiting passengers and drives the driver nearly to the verge
of madness, he seated himself by the door, and applying the
ivory leg with which the top of his cane was appropriately
ornamented, he sucked it thoughtfully for five minutes. Not
deriving the comfort therefrom which might be expected, he
turned his eyes for the first time on his fellow-passengers.
The people who were looking at him immediately looked
out of the door and windows with that affected carelessness
which is always fatal. Only one sat unmoved. It was a
young girl on the opposite side, close to the driver's box,
with her veil partially covering her face, but with one eye
unmasked in the Turkish fashion and still gazing intently
at him. She was very pretty — not perhaps a Greek out
line, you know, for since the days of Phidias, energy and
books have wrought over the old model. The brow has
been lifted, the curve of the upper lip shortened, and action
has taken the place of repose. Electric telegraphs and
steam engines have opened Juno's half-shut eyes. The
glance that was turned on poor Puffer was thrilling, and
bright and pitiless. It was the eye of the beauty of A.D.
1860!

Puffer was not a man to be abashed by a pretty woman's
glance, but he felt not altogether, exactly comfortable. He
looked back at her admiringly and she met his eyes with
unflinching coolness. He smiled affably. Her pretty lip
scarcely quivered, but she did not avert her gaze. Suddenly
Mr. Alexis Puffer felt a strange moisture come over his

70 A CASE OF BLASTED AFFECTIONS

eyes and he was fain to turn feebly to the window. He-
covering himself, he looked back at her again. The big blue
eye met his as before, and he fancied a gleam of pitiless
triumph. But the water coming into his own again made
him drop his lids and take out his handkerchief, in a weak,
foolish way. The contest was unequal, and Puffer wilted.

As the omnibus jolted along, Puffer became aware of
three things. First: That he was in love with the fair
unknown. Second: That she must be his wife. Third:
It wouldn't do to have a wife that one couldn't ogle. He
again slowly turned his head toward the mysterious female,
but with the same result ; she had not apparently once
averted her gaze since he had entered. One by one the
passengers were dropped along the route, but Puffer re
solved to stay until she had departed or until they were left
alone together. There was no doubt in his mind that
this strange glance was the result of an unconscious soul
seeking its affinity. A few moments would explain all.
At last the portly stranger opposite got out and they were
alone.

Puffer had resolved upon some trivial remark by the way
of opening conversation, and on looking up was relieved to
see that the clear eye of the fair unknown was turned to
the opposite window. He was about to speak, but at this
moment the following singular circumstance intervened.

To it, Puffer frequently avers, he owes his eternal happi
ness.

A mosquito was buzzing in the vicinity of the lovely
young woman. Once or twice she raised a neatly gloved
hand to keep off the rash intruder who seemed bent upon
feasting upon that round, rosy cheek. The winged guerilla,
however, yet hovered about and approached the unconscious
young female who was still absorbed in pensive contempla
tion of the opposite window. It neared her brow ; and again
retired ; it again approached, and oh gracious ! it lit upon the

A CASE OF BLASTED AFFECTIONS 71

open pupil of the big blue eye. It was feasting there upon
her eye, and she sat unwinking.

In an instant the impetuous Puffer was at her side and
had dashed his fist in her lovely optic. She screamed, and
covering her face with her hands murmured piteously, " My
eye."

Puffer sank at her feet.

" For God's sake, Miss ; it is not injured fatally, I trust !
I saw the insect ! — perhaps I was rude — nay, rough ; but
I trust I have saved your eyesight. Forgive me, dearest j
forgive me ! " said Puffer, with heart-rending accents.

" Brute ! monster! you 've knocked my eye out! "

"Loveliest creature, say you jest! How could such a
slight touch — "

" Oh, dear! don't talk ! but find it — it 's here somewhere,"
and she sank on her knees and fumbled among the straw.

Something was glistening there. Puffer picked it up. It
was her eye. A glass one!

Puffer sank senseless in the straw. He was removed at
the terminus.

"RAN AWAY"1

AT an early and sensitive age I was subjected to an act
of grievous injustice. I have no remembrance of what it
was, except a general impression that it must have been of
an appalling and irremediable character. Whether remotely
connected with the quality of the pudding made by my
maternal aunt, or whether a long sustained deficiency of
butter and sugar on my daily bread swelled my youthful
bosom almost to bursting — I cannot remember. I only
know that it was of that crushing, desolate, and irretrieva
ble nature, that even the hopeful imagination of youth,
looking into the glowing vista of futurity, saw but one
avenue of escape. It was a dreadful and sacrificial alter
native. I took it and — ran away.

Ran Away ! Let me recall the figures which would
arise before me at that tender age in conjunction with those
awful words. I see a small but thick-set young man, in his
shirt-sleeves, rather blurred and indistinct, with a stick on
his shoulder with a bag hanging on it, and his leg raised in
* singular manner. I know that he is an "Indented
Apprentice," and an indented apprentice I feel must be
worse than any other kind of apprentice. I connect him
with a dreadful bond which I believe to be signed with
ais blood, making him body and soul the property of his
naster. He is always running away from the "subscriber."
I have got him mixed up with that dreadful " Tom Idle,"
but he always retains his bundle and stick, and that raised
leg is as distinctive a feature of my childish memory as
Johnny Homer's thumb. I have often lain awake in my
little crib and pictured him rushing through the streets in
1 Golden Era, Novem6er 4, 1860.

RAN AWAY 73

his favorite attitude, pursued by that relentless and cruel
" subscriber." I have tracked him in fancy on stormy
nights, wandering over cold and desolate fields — facing the
beating of the pitiless blast ; or stopping in a wayside inn
and picking up the newspaper containing that advertise
ment, and starting off again horror-struck at that dreadful
picture of himself which he surely must recognize. I have
seen that dreadful phrase applied to horses and dogs. 1
have stood on the corners of streets, and waited patiently
for the coming of that horse sixteen hands high with a star
on his forehead and spot on his off foreleg, which I should
instantly recognize, and go up to him with a piece of salt
in my hand (which in anticipation I always carried in my
pocket) and would take him home to that " subscriber,"
and receive a large amount of gold money which would
keep me comfortably in marbles and taffy for the rest of
my existence. I have brought home numberless curs of low
degree and compared them with the description of the white
and liver-colored pointer belonging to another " subscriber."
These were the associations with which that strange and
fascinating phrase at that age surrounded me, and which I
was destined to realize when I ran away.

I gave myself five minutes for preparation. My outfit,
I flattered myself, was complete. It consisted of an in
valuable Protean knife which professed to do everything
that boy could ask — be everything that boy could require
— that commenced as a saw and ended as a corkscrew; a
roll of twine and a button ; two pieces of colored glass ;
the top of a gold pencil ; a peculiar kind of cake — resem
bling in shape the almanac cuts of the sun — called a Boli
var ; two fish-hooks deeply embedded in the lining of my
pocket; the round brass runner from the leg of an easy-
chair, which I carried, as boys always carry some one par-
ticular article, for no earthly object — but with a strong
faith in its utility. I had two cents accessible. I say

74 RAN AWAY

accessible, having once lost a sixpence which I firmly be
lieved to be in the lining of my jacket, and which in cases
of emergency I always felt sure I could be able to produce
by the aid of my knife. My attire was a gray jacket with
the epidemic eruption of button, Scotch plaid* trousers, drab
gaiters buttoning halfway up my calf, and a straw hat.
My physical peculiarities were a large head, round stomach,
atii short legs. My household appellative — derived from
the foregoing description, I imagine — was " Tubbs."

When I crept down the stairs and out of the front door
and thence down the steps, there was a choking in my
throat and a quivering of the upper lip which only the
memory of that Awful Wrong could restrain. I had a faint
idea of walking toward the country, where I had no doubt
there was field for adventure for all small boys who ran away.
This preference was opposed to another in regard to Desert
Islands, which I knew to be only accessible by ship. But
there was one consideration paramount to all. Freed from
restraint and having — I felt — cut society, I resolved to
do two things which I had been especially forbidden. I
went down on the wharf and with gloomy satisfaction
walked on the string-piece of the pier. I never have been
able to recollect why I did so, except that I knew my par
ents would have been frantic if they had known it. Then
there was a certain disreputable porter house where I had
once been found after school hours, gazing with evident
admiration at two greasy, red-faced men playing cards, and
keeping count for them on my slate. Having been threat
ened with punishment if the offense was ever repeated, in
my present state of lawlessness and freedom I felt that I
ought to go there. But haply for my morals, on entering
the sanded room, a red-faced, masculine woman, who was
killing flies with a towel, rushed up to me, exclaiming,
" Home wid yez," and whisked me out of the house. I
was terribly frightened: but more than that, my confidence

RAN AWAY 75

and inviolability as a runaway was bruised and shaken.
The dreadful words, "Home wid yez," rang in my ears.
Home ? Did she not recognize in me a bold adventurer
who scorned such a thing as home ?

Let me recall for the sake of those few grown-up child
ren who may read these pages — turning back to the leaves
of their childish memories to compare my experience with
theirs — let me recall a few nicidents of that eventful occa
sion. Behold me, when with strong courage and deter
mined purpose, I have penetrated to the great throbbing
artery of the mighty city. I have become subdued, hushed,
and awe-stricken. Everything looks so large. Though
familiar with this broad avenue, never do I find it as long,
as interminable, as choked with human life as then. I feel
myself lost in the moving crowd — a purposeless, helpless
little being, drifting on the downward current. I fancy
that people notice my vagueness of purpose, and I take out
my handkerchief and tie up the colored glass and the broken
runner, and make a point of carrying the bundle thus
formed ostentatiously in my hand. Suddenly all the bells
ring throughout the city. I think of Bow Bells and
Richard Whittington, but my fancy refuses a favorable
interpretation. The bell of St. John's is calling out :
" Ran-a-way, ran-a-way ! " St. Paul's takes up the burden,
adding : " Lit-tle-boy, lit-tle-boy " ; while Trinity, away up
in its smoky elevation, calls out for them to " Send-him-
back, send-him-back," until the hand on the dial passes
noon, and I sink upon a doorstep in poignant anguish.

I shake out another coil of my memory, and see myself,
as the shadows lengthen, staggering along toward the region
of green fields — my ultima Thule. I have become pos
sessed in some mysterious way of half a watermelon, and a
miserable cur with whom I have shared my cake has appar
ently made up his mind to run away in company with me.
But when the cake is gone his attention becomes distracted

76 RAN AWAY

by bones and old boots, and at last he openly deserts. I meet
a boy two or three years my senior, who promises to become
my man Friday, who informs me that his name is " Patsey,"
and who whistles in a peculiarly shrill and charming man
ner with his fingers between his teeth. After imparting
my plans to him, I make a formal division of my property.
I give him my knife, the colored glass, and the runner.
He stipulates to erect a suitable stockade dwelling by the
aid of the magical knife ; and the colored glass he is to give
in barter to the Indians which I inform him we shall meet
in great numbers in the country. The transfer of these
articles, however, seems to excite a singular influence over
Patsey. He once or twice sidles up against me, with one
side of his body in a very rigid state and the other swaying
loosely about. He turns up the sleeves of his jacket sus
piciously. Suddenly he stops, and walks me up against
the fence, his rigid side toward me, and puts the following
denunciatory query : —

"Ain't you a Crosby Streeter?"

I reply that I am not.

" Nor an Ellum Streeter ? "

I disavow any knowledge of Elm Street.

" Why, blank your blank blank soul, you blank little
blank ! Who in blank are you lying to ? Blank you ! "

In great tribulation at this unexpected change of manner,
I proceed to inform him that my last place of residence be
ing Abingdon Square, I must of necessity be an Abingdon
Squarer. To my increasing terror, his democratic bosom
rebelled at the aristocratic title, causing him to suddenly
knock my hat off, square off, and dance backward on one
leg in the most appalling manner, shrieking out: —

"Here's a go — my eye! Oh, you blank stiffy! Blank
you, I '11 go with you ? Oh, won't I ! Hello, Carrots, Svvip-
sey, here 's a stiffy ! Blank him ! Oh, Blank ! Blank ! "

In this manner he retreats, vehemently calling upon Car-

KAN AWAY 77

rots and Swipsey to annihilate me, and forgetting in his dis
gust to return my knife, my colored glass, and my runner.
A doleful and sickening sense of loneliness comes over me
with his defection. I begin to think there are cruelties
and wrongs in this world as bad as that Awful Wrong I ran
away from.

Another flash along the back track. It is twilight of the
long summer day, and having given up the idea of pastoral life
I am walking toward the water with the intention of shipping
as cabin boy. I wonder if there are any vessels up for the
Isle of France. I should like to go to the island where
Captain Cook was killed, but I have forgotten the name.
I shall find out probably when I get down to the ships. I
shall make a three years' voyage, at which time I shall
have grown up beyond recognition. I shall come back with
a great deal of gold money which I shall carry in little bags
marked $20,000, $30,000, etc. I will find Patsey and lick
him and send him to sea, and give a large sum of money to
the Elm and Crosby Streeters. I shall drive down home
in a carriage just as my Uncle Ned did when he came back
from Europe, and create a great sensation and have my aunt
bring out the pie which she only gives to company. I shall
then say, "Behold, your long lost nephew!" or words to
that effect and get into my carriage, and immediately drive
away, leaving them petrified in astonishment. But I won
der what they will do with my old clothes, and whether
they will put anybody in my little bed, and if they will
get anybody to repeat " The boy stood on the burning
deck " for them, when there is company, as I did. And it
was real mean in them to treat me as they did — and be
hold, I am crying !

I look back again, and lo! I am standing before a great
building with glistening lights and people passing into a
large hall, and a great bill, in letters as large as myself,
announcing the tragedy of " King John " ! I am looking

78 RAN AWAY

wistfully at the handbill, when a young man with a pleas
ant face takes me by the shoulder and asks me if I think
I '11 honor the house with my distinguished presence. I
shrink back bashfully, but am not frightened at the expres
sion of his comely features. He repeats the question, when
I tell him that I have no money. He holds out his hand.
I look at him, with that quick perception of physiognomy
which I believe God gives peculiarly to children and wo
men, and take it, and before I know well where I go I am
in a blaze of gaslight and excitement. I u do " the play of
"King John" completely as I have never done it since — •
with a painful conception of that Hubert and the hot irons.
I come out with the funny young man, and he offers to see
me safe home. I dread to tell him that I have run away,
as I think he will only laugh when I talk about that Awful
Wrong, and so I tell him I live in Fourteenth Street, re
solving to leave him at the corner of Broadway and pursue
the even tenor of my way toward the ships and the Isle of
France. But I distinctly remember, as we walk along, he
points to a large house in one of the cross-streets and tells
me incidentally that he " hangs out " there. There is such
a strange fascination in the expression that I do not won
der that many years after I had been Found, I always re
verently passed that spot and looked up at the windows,
not without a vague hope of seeing my quondam friend sus
pended from the roof and smiling pleasantly at me. But I
left him at the corner of the street and never saw him
again.

One more reflect and the last. I have given up all idea
of going to the Isle of France that night, for sooth to say
my head is giddy and aching and I am very weary and
sleepy. I doubt very much if I could find the ships.
And I have forgotten in the excitement of the play that I
had no supper. And I should like to go to bed. I walk
along, but I do not find any tree to lie under, and doubt

KAN AWAY 79

very much if I did that the robins would come down at
that time of night to cover me with leaves. I keep shy of
policemen in my memory of the Indented Apprentice, and
shrink in the shadow of an area when I see a stranger.
But I find suddenly that the houses seem to be getting in
my way and the lamp-posts occur so frequently. I must
be very sleepy. And I think I am a little sick. I know
I have a pain. My last act of volition is to crawl up a
flight of steps where there is a rug and lie down upon it.
I believe that I am dreadfully injured and that the people
who drove me to this will never go to the Heaven that I
see above me and the stars that twinkle as if they were
sleepy, too. I fall asleep. It is only to become Arthur
and know that Patsey is putting out my eyes. I am em
barked on a watermelon for the Isle of France, but I slip
off and am drowning. I am very sick and rny head aches.
I am an indented apprentice running away from my master.
I see them putting bills up on the theatre, and when I go
to read them I see " Ran Away " in dreadfully big letters,
and the bells suddenly begin to ring and say " Send-him-
back." And then, there is the noise of a carnage and a
sweet woman's voice, and somebody is saying, "Poor little
fellow ! " And the sweet woman's voice seems to come
from somebody dressed in a ball dress, and there are gentle
men with white kids on their hands and a strong smell of
pcrf ume, and then lights, and then somebody is rubbing
me and pouring something down my throat and washing
my face. And then I go to sleep for several weeks, as it
seems, and somebody rushes up to me and kisses me frantic
ally and cries and sobs, which surely cannot be my aunt,
and I am taken away in a carriage, and I am a hero and
the envy of my brother who used to bully me, and allowed
to do as I please, everybody believing that if thwarted in
any way I will surely revenge myself again, and — Run
Away.

MADAME BKIMBORION1

MADAME BRIMBORION left New York quite suddenly.
She made up her mind one morning while making up her
long black hair at the glass in her neat little back bedroom.
She did n't tell her bosom friends and relations — for she
had n't any. But she made some few business arrangements,
and that day week put up the shutters in front of the three
straw bonnets that hung in the bow window of her shop.
Before the neighbors had fairly commenced wondering what
had become of the pretty French Milliner, the pretty French
Milliner had embarked on a long journey.

It was said that some susceptible masculine hearts were
crushed by this singular freak of Madame's. I don't think
it was Madame's fault, for although prompt of tongue, and
ever ready with the flash of black eyes and white teeth, she
had given no encouragement. A majority of her sex found
fault with her for being " forward " — of course, altogether
from her desire, and not her ability, to please. The exhi
bition of these genial fascinations had the usual effect upon
the stronger and wiser of my species. Young men winked
at each other when Madame Brimborion's name was men
tioned. Indeed, one or two of the most sagacious, who had
taken large and liberal views of society from the shilling
side of Broadway, and indulged in like exhausting dissipa
tions, felt called upon to express their opinions that she had
gone off with some " buck " or other, just as they expected.

But even the knowledge of the world gathered under such
favorable auspices was in this instance incorrect. The
black-eyed gazelle, Madame B., was accompanied by no
l Golden Era, February 3, 1861.

MADAME BRIMBORION 81

male of her kind. She made the long journey alone.
Female companionship she had none, except that afforded
her by two of my fair countrywomen who shared her state
room. The association was unharmonious. Madame B.
committed grave faults. She preferred the deck to her
stateroom, masculine to feminine society, and was unfailing
in cheerfulness and vivacity. If Madame was seasick she
kept it to herself. Such dissimulation and deceit, of course,
met with the proper degree of coldness and contempt from
the rest of her sex.

The long journey had the usual effect upon this floating
microcosm of character. There was the common experience
of little vulgarities and petty selfishness. Gentle hearts
boiled over with rage against each other, and even peaceful
doves learned to peck. But Madame B. floated quite calm
ly on the top of this seething, boiling cauldron. The lady pas
sengers conferred with each other. A jury retired, and the
verdict rendered was short but decisive. Impropriety in
the first degree. Sentence — transportation to Coventry.

Meanwhile the steamer rolled and plunged — until a low
latitude was reached and the green flash of a tropical sea.
When the heat grew intense and the smell of oil and bed
ding and victuals seemed more oppressive, a fatal epidemic
broke out among the steerage passengers, and occasionally a
body was committed to the deep.

If Madame B. 's popularity with the sterner sex had been
waning, it would have been suddenly revived by her conduct
on the present occasion. She moved like an angel of mercy
among the sick. In the foul gloom and dampness of a
crowded steerage, she stood by the little ready-made biers
whereon the men stretched themselves out to die, in the
midst of corruption. It was the flash of Madame's eyes
and teeth that lit up this pestiferous gloom — it was the
soft touch of Madame' s fingers that seemed to have gone
over the old wrinkles and lines of trouble and passion in

82 MADAME BRIMBORION

the dying face, and to have brought out the underlying of
a better self.

It was a pleasant moonlight night and the passengers
were lazily grouped about the steamer's deck. The regular
beat of paddles broke the monotonous silence with quite as
monotonous an expression. The ship's bell had just struck,
when a terrible scream thrilled the crowded ship from stem
to stern. For a moment after, the noise of the paddles
seemed hushed. Then there was a confused murmur of the
passengers and a rushing to and fro. Presently all was ex
plained. Madame Brimborion had tripped in the darkness
of the lower deck and had almost fallen through the hatch
way. But to all the gallant inquiries of the gentlemen,
Madame replied that she was very foolish and frightened,
and that she was better — with the old promptness of smile
and glance. But the ladies thought that Madame looked
pale. And the ladies were right.

There was another burial next day ; a foreigner with a
queer name — a steerage passenger. His effects were taken
charge of by the purser of the ship, who was a quiet young
man with a good deal of experience in his duties. In one
of his listless walks that day about the deck, he stopped in
front of Madame's stateroom. Madame was quite languid,
but pleasant as ever. Purser was glad to see that Madame
looked so well, and had something to give her. He drew
a small, old-fashioned ivory miniature from his pocket and
handed it to Madame. It was the likeness of a young
woman with bright black eyes and an expressive mouth.
" I took it from his neck myself, Madame, and I think
none else saw it," was the only explanation of this discreet
young officer, as he departed.

Madame Brimborion's name has long been changed. She
married very well, I have heard, and makes an exemplary
ornament to society, with her strong social qualities.

THE LOST HEIEESS1

A TALE OF THE OAKLAND BAB

One of Bret Harte's early burlesques, a forerunner of his " Condensed
Novels." J. Keyser, whose inimitable limnings of high-life form the
standing topic of conversation in the polished circles of metropolitan so
ciety, asserts another claim to the admiration of the lovers of refined family
literature, by his remarkably elegant tale of " The Lost Heiress." — Press
Notice from the Golden Era.

\OT a hundred miles from the luxurious and glittering
metropolis of this State breaks upon the enraptured view
the fair city of Oakland. Its inhabitants are chiefly com
posed of pure and exalted beings whom it is a pleasure to
visit and an honor to know. They are generally affluent
and genteel.

It has majestic groves and massy parks and costly country-
seats. Property is, indeed, valuable in Oakland. One of
the largest country-seats I have ever beheld is in the centre
of Oakland.* It is, indeed, an elegant place of luxury and
leisure and respectable refinement.

Wearied by the duties of fashionable life and nearly con
sumed by ennui, one magnificent Sunday morning I visited
there. I proceeded instantly to the residence of one of the
first families, and was treated to a sumptuous entertainment.
The table was furnished with all that the market could
afford, and I was privately informed by my generous host
that the wine of which I partook was worth $5 a bottle. I
merely quote this circumstance to give an instance of the
real nature of genteel and aristocratic society with which
I am familiar.

* The talented author has committed an error — the building alluded to
was the Agricultural Pavilion.

l Golden Era. February 24, 1861.

84 THE LOST HEIRESS

After dinner a gilded covpe was brought to the house,
and when my host and I were seated therein, we drove
through the magnificent suburbs. As we passed a large
mansion he pointed to it silently, and suddenly burst into
tears. " Why this sudden emotion ? " I inquired, with
sympathetic condolence, proffering at the same moment my
embroidered mouchoir. " Leave me," he only said in a
choking voice. I immediately got out and left him, assum
ing the character of a pedestrian.

Two weeks after, when he had sufficiently recovered
he told me the following affecting story. Respect to
his affluent circumstances and our mutual intimacy is a
sufficient reason why I should retain his own beautiful
language : —

" Some years ago in yonder stately mansion dwelt an
angelic being. She had all the accomplishments, and per
formed with equal ease upon the piano and accordeon. Ac
customed from her earliest infancy to gymnastics, in the
Indian Club and Parallel Bar exercise she stood unrivaled.
Sent to a fashionable boarding-school at a tender age, she
received a diploma for ' manners.' It became evident to
her doting parents that she was too pure for this world —
an earthly exotic, transplanted into one of the fairest gar
dens in Oakland. Such was the gentle Sophonisba. It
was on one of the floating palaces which ply between San
Francisco and this elegant suburb, that Sophonisba first met
Algeron Montfalcon. He was in the disguise of a lowly
deck hand, occasionally alternating his duties with that of
a fireman.

"One of those sudden reverses of fortune peculiar to Cal
ifornia, resulting chiefly from the young-gentlemanly habits
of gaming, had reduced him to this lonely position of tend
ing fires. -If we may be permitted to enliven our painful
narrative by a play of vivid fancy, we would say that the

THE LOST HEIRESS 85

transition from ' poker ' to the furnace was natural. But we
refrain from mirth. Enough that he was hurled from his
high estate.

" Their meeting was singularly romantic. On one occa
sion he handed her on board the boat and she was struck
with his intense and noble bearing. In the bashful timid
ity of blushing maidenhood she forgot that she had left a
magnificent reticule upon the wharf. The boat had already
proceeded twenty feet. Fired by her distress the noble Al-
geron instantly sprang overboard, regained the treasure, and
laid it dripping at her feet. The passengers who witnessed
this self-sacrificing act instantly burst into tears. ' Unex
ceptional creature ! ' cried Algeron, kneeling distractedly at
her feet, ' behold me here without an introduction. Eti
quette was made for slaves ! ' ' You do me proud, fair youth/
said Sophonisba with an effort recalling her 'manners/ then
relapsing into gushing girlish playfulness, she struck him
over the head with her parasol. This characteristic act
proved that from thence their hearts were one. Such is in
consistent girlhood.

'* They kept company for some time. But the strange
guardian of the peerless young girl was adamantine. Con
scious of the immense wealth in which^he daily rolled, could
it be expectedshe could look upon the gay and bold yet hon
est Algeron with sentiments of 'affection and esteem ? No !
Society forbids it. Tearing her from the soft seclusion of
Oakland, he announced his intention to proceed with her
forthwith to San Francisco. Plunged in the giddy whirl of
fashion and aristocracy she would forget the past. Eash
thought ! Could she even in the delights of a Fireman's
Ball, the refined melodrama of Maguire's or the epicurean
sensations of Peter Job's forget the past ? Ah, no !

" They embarked on the last boat for San Francisco. The
night was appropriately dark and the heavens seemed to frown

86 THE LOST HEIRESS

on the rash father. The fog came in heavily. A group of
anxious passengers gathered around the captain, hut the bold
and fearless man — recognizing only the stern calls of duty
— pushed boldly forth in the stream, himself guiding the
helm. He would make San Francisco or perish in the
attempt. A sentiment of awe and admiration thrilled the
passengers. The gentlemanly clerk was cool. The bar
keeper remained at his post. Such was the influence of
discipline.

" The boat neared the channel. She struck on the Bar !

" There was the wildest excitement; many of the passen
gers rushed frantically to the barkeeper, and ordered mixed
drinks and fancy liquors in the unendurable agony of the
moment. The young barkeeper, for an instant placed in the
most responsible position, never shrank from his duty. But
two counterfeit halves were taken in that unguarded rush.

" On the dock were two figures clasped in each other's
arms — Algeron and Sophonisba. His face was turned
toward the distant lights of San Francisco. He quoted
Byron with ease and elegance, as the storm rose about
them. She sang in low tones the maddening and popular
air, ' Ever of Thee ! ' Suddenly the fog obscured them from
view.

" The affluent father of the peerless Sophonisba had been
one of the first to participate in the rush to the bar. The
excitement passed, he thought of his daughter. Well may-
est thou think of her now — purse-proud aristocrat ! He
rushed through the magnificent ladies' saloon. She was
not there.

" In frantic agony he again rushed on deck. What did his
eyes behold — and what riveted the gaze of the awe-stricken
passengers generally !

" A boat was drifting out in the bay. In the stern sheets
were two figures — Algeron, holding the American Flag in
one hand, and Sophonisba leaning upon his arm in the

THE LOST HEIRESS 87

favorite attitude of the Goddess of Liberty. A blue light was
burning in the bow and stern. They drifted gradually from
the view. The purse-proud aristocrat sank senseless on the
deck!

ts They were never seen afterward ! Whether they drifted
ashore on the wild promontory of Gibbon's Point and were
instantly sacrificed by the natives of that locality ; whether
they were cast away upon the rocky fastnesses of Goat Is
land ; whether they were sucked in the eddies of Mission
Creek, or whether they were fired into by some chivalrous
Custom-House officer, exasperated at the sight of that glo
rious flag and its noble defender, has never been known. It
is said, however, that the youth and beauty of San Fran
cisco, walking down the elegant and enchanting promenade
of Meigg's Wharf, sometimes hear the delicious strains of
' Ever of Thee ! ' borne upon the night wind."

THE COUNTESS1

I BLUSHED just then as I wrote that word.

I glanced furtively over my desk toward that one dear
woman whom it was my privileged happiness to feed and
clothe, .and turned abashed from the reproachful spectacle
of the little stockings and shoes upon the hearth. Heed
me not, wife ! Spin and weave, O thou pensive Arachne,
while I still unravel this tangled web of my past life and
count its lost and useless stitches. Sleep on, 0 Adolphus,
my latest born, nor move restlessly in thy slumbers. Better
the pangs of colic than the stings of remorse. Happily mayst
thou never know the day when Godfrey's Cordial shall no
longer bring balm to thy spirit, and paragoric cease to soothe
thy repose.

It was twenty years ago this night. I was returning
from boarding-school. I was sixteen, and shy. I had that
usual tendency of young bipeds to run to legs and neck and
bill. My form was gotten up with distinct reference to my
retiring disposition — so economic were its principles that
I slipped almost noiselessly through the crowded cars of the
H. R. K. Road and slid into a seat beside a portly man with
whiskers. There was a lady in the seat opposite to me.
There is one in this story. They are identical.

I drew a book from the pocket of my sack and abandoned
myself to intellectual delights. I do not remember the
name of the work. I had bought it from a book peddler,
chiefly, I think, on account of the picture of a Countess
which adorned, while it explained, the title-page. The story
referred to a Countess. I believe that her husband, not-
1 Golden Era, March 24, 1861.

THE COUNTESS 89

withstanding his high social position, was addicted to high
way robbery and murder. A young man only eighteen
years of age had been enticed into his den. He was re
leased by the Countess, who fell passionately in love with
him. As she knocked off the fetters from his graceful
limbs (having previously removed three obstacles, occasion
ally alluded to throughout the work as " minions," with her
" trusty steel "), she gazed on his ingenuous features with
an expression of tender admiration and regard, and suddenly
shrieked aloud : " Away, womanish timidity and shame !
Know, then, 0 Kudolph, 't is thee I love ! thee for whom
I live and die." And immediately sank fainting upon his
breast !

When I had reached this thrilling climax, I sighed
deeply and closed my eyes to allow my soul to dwell freely
on the passionate picture, and to permit my lips to murmur
again and again the touching and elevated sentiments of the
Countess. When I had opened my eyes again, I perceived
the sigh had attracted the attention of my companion, who
turned her face toward me, and our glances met.

I had a dreadful trick then, which I have not yet gotten
over, of staring at people. It may have been an affecting
relic of that touching, childish reliance in physiognomy
which we so speedily outgrow. It came naturally to me —
but it may have been annoying to others. How long I sub
jected the lady to this mild impertinence I cannot say. But
I suddenly became aware that she was smiling encouragingly,
at which I blushed violently. In the hope of doing some
thing natural, and half mechanically, I extended my book
with a bow. As her thin, dexterous fingers received the
courtesy, and turned carelessly over the leaves, I finished the
rest of my stare. She was quite pretty and young. Her lips,
perhaps, were rather thin, so thin that when she laughed
they drew up over her white teeth, and showed another red
lip above them. This peculiarity, with her black eyes and

90 THE COUNTESS

white face a little squared at the lower angles, made her
look mysterious and foreign. Her voice was low and musi
cally soft.

She handed me the book in return, with another smile.
I accepted both timidly. As I reopened the pages of my
interesting romance I discovered, immediately below the
thrilling prison scene, a few words in pencil. Again the
blood rushed to my cheeks as I read the following : —

" I am an unhappy woman, flying from a brutal husband.
I read sympathy in your thrilling glances. You are noble
as you are handsome. Can you not sit beside me ? "

What young man, oppressed with a doubt of his looks,
could resist that latter adjective ? — Glowingly I raised
my eyes to hers. Her lashes were cast down ; she raised
them suddenly with a glance, and again settled the fringed
lids demurely. My brain swam round and round. I found
myself repeating the beautiful expressions of the robber's
wife. I looked over to her companion. He was gazing out
of the window. I shuddered as if with cold, and closed
the window. As I expected, he looked at me with a wrath
ful expression. I apologized, but " draughts — bronchial
affections, — would change seats," etc. The black-bearded
man smiled and arose. Unutterable bliss ! I slid beside
the lady.

We drifted into conversation. She was oppressed by
bashfulness ; what would I think of her ? What could I
think of her — Ah, Madam !

In proportion as she appeared reserved, I grew bold. I
ventured to cross my legs, and even reknotted the black
ribbon of my Byron collar with greater ease and graceful
ness. Overcome by my subdued, yet gallant, manner, she
related her painful history.

I cannot remember it all. In the long retrospect of
the past I fear it is somewhat mixed with the fiction of the
Countess and Rudolph. I knew only that she was flying

THE COUNTESS 91

from one whom she did not love ; that she feared her late
companion was a spy in the service of her husband. That
she was unhappy and lone, until she saw a face that she —

Oh, dear me !

We dashed under a long bridge, and its darkness favored
a bold design, which I had been framing for the last five
minutes. I possessed myself of her small hand. I pressed
it. The pressure was returned. I raised her glove respect
fully to my lips. When we dashed out into the world
again, I felt distraught and changed. It was like closing
the pages of that thrilling romance.

By degrees day changed to twilight and twilight to
darkness. In the partial gloom, her beautiful head sank on
my shoulder. I whispered something to her, in an agitated
voice. Her reply was, "Anywhere with thee — 'tis thee
alone I love ! " — or words to that effect. I started, the
words were so like the Countess.

The conductor approached to collect the fare. I fumbled
in my pocket nervously. I had but enough to pay my own
fare — all that was left of my scanty pittance. How could
I be her moneyless protector ! With feminine delicacy
she slipped a purse into my hand, and smiled sweetly. I
blushed as I opened the purse. It was filled with bank
bills — they were all large denominations. I paid the fare.
She accepted the change, but begged I would take charge
of the purse during the rest of the journey. I appreciated
her ladylike delicacy, I gazed fondly upon her. She was a
real Countess!

The train still sped on, and station after station was
passed. We were to proceed as fast as steam could carry us
— to Philadelphia and thence to St. Louis. I had settled
in my mind that I would dispatch a letter, at New York, to
my expectant parents, bidding them farewell — stating
vaguely that I was in the hands of Love and Destiny. In
the mean time, at each station, I procured little luxuries

92 THE COUNTESS

for her, recklessly, with her own money, encouraged by her
gratefulness at these attentions, and giving her regularly the
change. At Poughkeepsie a singular event took place.

Weave and spin, O Arachne ! Sleep on, O Adolphus !

She wanted a railway rug, to keep her small feet warm.
I would have preferred, of course, that they should have
nestled near my own, as they had done for the last half-
hour. But her wishes were paramount, and — it was her
own money. I ran to a store near the station. I procured
the rug and handed the clerk a $50 bill, the smallest de
nomination in the purse. It was on the Poughkeepsie
Bank. I rolled up the rug and was reentering the car,
when a hand was laid upon my shoulder. I turned. It
was the clerk, breathless with running.

" If you please, sir, will you step back with me a moment
to the store ? "

" Yes, but make haste, we have but five minutes before
the train starts."

We reached the store ; the proprietor was at the door. A
silence ensued, during which he closed the door, and care
fully reproduced the $50 bill and handed it to me. " That 's
a counterfeit bill, sir ! "

I looked at him with one of my long, honest stares,
which made him look aside a moment and blush as I
thought, and then took out my purse. I handed him an
other bill, amid a profound silence, while I looked haughtily
around.

" That is like the other, and counterfeit, too ! " he re
plied after a moment's survey.

I hastily unrolled the bills on the counter. They were
all on the Poughkeepsie Bank !

" They are not mine — that is," I said hurriedly — " I
can explain all in a few moments," and I started toward the
door. He anticipated me in a moment, and stood before me.

I felt alarmed. I could not as a gentleman mention the

THE COUNTESS 93

name of the lady, — in fact I did n't know it ; but I begged
that one of the gentlemen would accompany me to the sta
tion, and —

" The cars are gone already," said the clerk, " and here

is Mr. , Cashier, and Mr. , of the Town police

force."

I had a long conversation with Mr. , Cashier of the

Poughkeepsie Bank, — to whom as a gentleman and man
of gallantry I secretly confided my troubles. In company

with Mr. , of the Town police force, I sat down and

wrote that letter to my parents, but altered the names of
the parties in whose hands I had fallen. The next day my
paternal guardian arrived from New York in company with
the gentleman with black whiskers who had been the com
panion of the lady, and probable spy of her husband. The
gentleman with black whiskers identified me at once, and
corroborated my statement to the Cashier. I found out

afterwards that he was Detective ; the lady was — not

a Countess.

THE PETROLEUM FIEND1

A STORY OF TO-DAY
PART ONE

IT was a clear night in midsummer. The streets of San
Francisco were deserted, and wore that aspect of wind-swept
loneliness peculiar to a climate which a local press wildly
imagined to be Italian. A few dissipated losels were devi
ously making their way home by the light of the gas-lamps
that flickered tremulously, and of the stars that high up in
the breezy heavens winked incessantly, as though they
were inclined to shut their eyes on this and a good many
other naughty exhibitions of the wickeo^ metropolis. In
fact, it was such a night as the devil might 15e popularly
supposed to be abroad ; though why he, more than we,
should prefer such exposure to an easy-chair and a sparkling
fire has, I believe, never been clearly demonstrated.

From the window of a brilliantly lighted apartment in
one of the fashionable thoroughfares, Mr. and Mrs. Spar-
rowhawk looked upon the night. They had been married
but a twelve-month. Each being poor and obviously un
fitted for the responsibilities of wedlock, their courtship had
met with such strenuous opposition from their respective
friends as to result, as usual, in a speedy marriage. Mr.
Sparrowhawk met the difficulties of his new condition with
characteristic philosophy. "Returning from the bridal trip,
as he handed his last half-dollar to the porter, the loving
bride ventured to ask the momentous question : —
P " On what are we to live ? "

1 California^ April 19, May 6, 1865.

THE PETROLEUM FIEND 95

" On others," was the quiet response.

Hiding her white crape bonnet in his bosom the blush
ing girl expressed herself satisfied. Through all the finan
cial troubles of the honeymoon she proved herself a worthy
helpmeet. Her husband's old creditors looked with dis
play as they found the delicate tact and firm instincts of
the subtle sex added to the masculine audacity of the male
Sparrowhawk. Nor was this all. Her jewelry, purchased
on credit, she freely sacrificed. " These trinkets are not
mine," reasoned that affectionate creature, " but his " ; and
she saw them pawned without a struggle.

The sagacious reader will readily imagine from the fore
going that Mr. and Mrs. S. were not engaged in sentimental
contemplation of the heavens. The necessity of evading
the claims of an impending creditor was just then under
discussion, and a natural impulse had brought them both to
the window, as if to find some solution of the financial
question outside.

" It does seem," said Mr. Sparrowhawk deliberately, " as
if the very devil — "

A little scream from his wife arrested him here, and the
rest of his profane reflection was lost. And well might
Mrs. S. scream. As she turned away from the window
with a slight contraction of her pretty brows she suddenly
came upon a stranger standing upright in the middle of the
floor.

" I beg your pardon," said the intruder, blandly, " but
you seem to have been so pleasantly occupied as not to
hear my knock. May I hope that I have also spared you
the trouble of opening the door for me ? n

He was a nice little bald-headed old gentleman, in an
evening dress of black, neatly gloved and booted. Perhaps
his instep was somewhat too high, and he moved gingerly
as if his boots hurt him. But otherwise he was evidently
such a parti as we are in the habit of meeting every even-

96 THE PETROLEUM FIEND

ing in the lobby of the opera or at social gatherings. Mrs.
S. recovered herself first — with the readiness of her sex —
and begged him to be seated.

" My intrusion will seem the more pardonable, or unpar
donable, rather let me say," he added, with an apologetic
wave of the hand toward Mrs. S., " when I state that this
interruption of a conjugal tete-a-tete is occasioned by busi
ness. Business with Mr. Sparrowhawk."

Mrs. S., a little mollified, rose as if to depart, but the
old gentleman skipped forward with a deprecating gesture :
"Pray, don't go — oblige me. Whatever the ungallant
opinion of the rest of mankind, permit me to say that I
always found your lovely sex of invaluable service in all
my business arrangements. Besides," he added a little
hastily, as if to cover up an inadvertence, " what concerns
your husband's welfare concerns you."

Still more mollified, and, I grieve to say, even swallow
ing this little bit of moral chaff with the rest, Mrs. S. re
sumed her seat gracefully. Where is the woman who could
doubt the sincerity of such a compliment ? She may doubt
the tribute to her beauty ; the sonnet to her amiability ;
but her business qualifications, never !

" Between men of business," continued the old gentle
man, turning to the husband, " a few words suffice. You
are a mining secretary ? "

" Yes."

Sparrowhawk had an office downtown, the door whereof
was ingeniously decorated with the titles of some twenty or
thirty companies which had no other existence. Here he
regularly read the papers, and published lists, selected at
random from the directory, of delinquent stockholders. It
certainly was not necessary for the old gentleman to twit
him with that.

X" And write for the papers ? "
A

A slight glow suffused the cheek of Sparrowhawk ! We

THE PETROLEUM FIEND 97

all have our weaknesses. Here was a young man, of fine
predatory instincts and financial abilities, actually pleased
with the accusation of literary effort. He answered quickly
in the affirmative, and asked the stranger if he had ever
read his articles signed " Brutus."

" Or his ' Monody on the Death of an Infant ' ? " chimed
in Mrs. S.

" No — no," replied the stranger, with a sudden display
of nervous energy; "that is — yes; but I shall require
your talents in both capacities. Now attend to me for a
few moments. Observe this, if you please," and he drew
from his breast-pocket a phial of amber-colored liquid and
handed it to Mr. Sparrowhawk.

Mr. S. looked at the phial dubiously. Mrs. S., true to
her sex's instinct, admired the color.

"Smell it."

Sparrowhawk removed the cork and sniffed at the fluid.
Spite of its delicate color it had an abominable sulphurous
stench. " Petroleum ! " he ejaculated.

"Exactly so. That 's my business. I make it. Say the
word and you shall be my agent. You shall puff it and
sell it. Salary, twenty thousand for the first year and
commissions. Agreement for three years."

Mr. and Mrs. Sparrowhawk gasped for breath. " I beg
your pardon," stammered Mr. Sparrowhawk, " but did I
understand you to say you made it ? I thought it was
found — that is, discovered in wells — you know — holes ! "
And the poor fellow glanced uneasily at the stranger and
back again to his wife.

But that noble young woman did not lose her self-pos
session. " Of course the gentleman said he made it," she
replied somewhat pettishly ; " and what if he does ? There's
no great harm in that. What if he keeps a quantity on
hand — more than he wants for use ? — "

" For use," said the stranger, bowing delightedly.

98 THE PETROLEUM FIEND

" Or Fuel ! " said Mrs. S.

" Or Fuel," repeated the little old gentleman, smiling
and rubbing his hands, as he gazed at the bright eyes and
excited color of the pretty Mrs. Sparrowhawk.

" Or, what if he should want a smart young man to de
vote himself to his interests at a large salary ; there *s no
harm in that," continued Mrs. S.

" No harm in that," repeated the overjoyed old gentle
man.

" Or, if he wanted him to sign an agreement ? "

"An agreement!" repeated that venerable echo.

"Why, he 'd be a fool if he didn't," was Mrs. Sparrow-
hawk's somewhat ungrammatical climax.

Poor Sparrowhawk gazed with open mouth at the mys
terious visitor and his ally. Before he could find breath
to speak, the old gentleman had drawn a document from
his pocket and laid it before him. His own wife brought
him a pen already dipped in ink.

" Sign ! " said the old gentleman.

"Sign!" repeated Mrs. S.

Sparrowhawk took up the pen irresolutely, and hesitated.
A struggle took place in his bosom and his better genius
prevailed. He laid down the pen. "Give me a half-year's
salary in advance," he asked firmly.

" Done," said the old gentleman.

Sparrowhawk signed. At the same moment an earth
quake rattled the shelves and jarred the whole house.

" The manufactory is at work," quietly remarked the old
gentleman.

Another shock, stronger than before, caused Mr. and Mrs.
Sparrowhawk to rush wildly to the door. When their
alarm had subsided they turned to their mysterious visitor,
but he had disappeared.

THE PETROLEUM FIEND 99

PART TWO

Nearly three years of unexampled prosperity had flown
over the head of Mr. Sparrowhawk, duly authorized agent
of the " Original Petroleum Co." The company was in a
flourishing condition. It was true that the superintendent
and agent had not met since the mysterious interview we
have recorded, but this circumstance did not seem to inter
rupt business. There were certain unfailing wells belong
ing to the company, one or two manufactories in full blast,
and a central office over which Mr. Sparrowhawk presided.
How he kept his books, or to whom he was responsible, was
nobody's business. None of the stock was in market, and
the stockholders were unknown. Sharp people whispered,
"foreign capital"; Mr. Sparrowhawk smiled significantly,
but did not deny it.

In fact, he had grown exceedingly opulent and respect
able. His name stood foremost on all subscription lists ;
he was director of half a dozen charitable institutions ; and
Mrs. S. was the President of a Ladies' Christian Commis
sion for providing wounded soldiers in hospital with Fox's
" Martyrs " and Edwards's " Sermons." Mr. S. had a pew
in a fashionable church. He rarely wrote poetry now, and
only of an inferior quality. But if riches enervated his
muse there was compensation in the truth that criticism is
always lenient to prosperity. That a man with thirty thou
sand a year should write any poetry at all was enough for
society to be thankful for.

But Mr. Sparrowhawk had of late been subject to fits of
gloomy despondency and abstraction, and as the third year
drew near its close he grew quite haggard and wan. He
would shut himself up for days together studying his agree
ment, which, like most documents of a similar nature, can
be made, by continued perusal, to exhibit any meaning you
choose to give it. Often in the midst of gay company he

100 THE PETROLEUM FIEND

would lapse into a sullen silence, and once, at a dinner-party,
given at his palatial residence, the conversation turning
upon the late petroleum conflagration in one of the Eastern
cities, an unlucky guest, who was giving a graphic account
of the burning alive of some unhappy wretches in the
streets, was shocked by Mr. Sparrowhawk fainting dead
away in his chair. Like Lady Macbeth on a similar occa
sion, Mrs. Sparrowhawk undertook the disagreeable duty of
apologizing to the guests. Unlike that somewhat overrated
Scotchwoman, she did it gracefully, and did not commit the
egregious blunder of sending the guests away before they
had finished their dinner and thus giving them the oppor
tunity of indulging in mischievous remarks. It was ob
served after this that Mr. Sparrowhawk avoided fires, even
on the coldest evenings, and seemed to shun lights and
matches as if he had been tinder.

Besides his town residence, he had a magnificent country-
house erected on the oil lands of the company, and located
over one of the deepest wells in that region. The house
was warmed by petroleum fires and lighted by its vapor.
Here Mr. Sparrowhawk had invited a number of guests on
the occasion of his retiring from the agency — an event
which was to be duly celebrated. A select and brilliant
circle of admirers and friends of all classes and conditions
— clergymen, bankers, brokers, editors, and doctors — all
of them more or less interested in petroleum — gathered on
that day. A remarkable and peculiar gayety held possession
of the host and hostess. Mr. Sparrowhawk had never
talked more ably. Mrs. S. had never shone more brilliantly
at the head of her festive board. An editor, who was
seated on her left, took that occasion to whisper in her ear
something about the "Isles of Greece" and "Burning
Sappho," but was chagrined that his fair companion did not
blush, but only turned pale and shuddered. As these
physiological effects were not inconsequent to so atrocious a

THE PETROLEUM FIEND 101

pun, the other guests took no further notice of them. The
seat of honor on the right of Mr. Sparrowhawk was occu
pied by a nice little bald-headed old gentleman, who, by the
power of his conversation, had fascinated the whole assem
bly, and who, as an apparently old friend of the host and
hostess, assisted in dispensing the honors of the'licuee. It
was the little old gentleman who proposed a visit to the
lower regions, and undertook to conduct a imrnV-r of se
lected guests through one of the oil shafts and brought them
back afterward, smelling strongly of benzoine. It was the
little old gentleman who also proposed charades in the pri
vate theatre attached to the country-seat, and under whose
artistic management a number of surprising and astonish
ing effects were produced. " Benzine," "Coal Oil," and
" Kerosene " were successively spelled out by the company.
But the final charade, as the old gentleman remarked, would
require some preparation, and would include some new
effects which would astonish them. Selecting his actors
from the assembled company, he retired behind the cur
tain. An interval, long enough to enable the audience to
indulge in exciting speculation, followed, and then the
curtain rose.

As the little old gentleman had truly prophesied, the
effect was wonderful and intensely dramatic. The scene
before them represented a vast temple brilliantly illumi
nated. This was singularly effected by a circling row of
statues placed on short pedestals at equal distances around
the temple — each statue gleaming with incandescent bril
liancy. A closer inspection revealed the fact that each fig
ure was represented by some well-known guest, Mr. and
Mrs. Sparrowhawk occupying a prominent central position
and gleaming with almost insupportable lustre. The bland
features of a well-known clergyman beamed gloriously from
a conspicuous plinth on the right, while a prosperous
banker glittered and scintillated on the left. A tremend-

102 THE PETROLEUM FIEND

ous round of applause burst from the audience. Suddenly
attention was directed to the little old gentleman, who en
tered upon the scene carrying several large covers like ex
tinguishers. Striding up to each of these animated burners
he, one by one, gravely covered them with an extinguisher,
beginning M'ith- the host and hostess, until the stage, lately
so brilliant, was left in total darkness. A slight snuffy
smell, iu spite of this precaution, pervaded the theatre.

The spokesman consulted a moment with the audience,
and then announced the word : —

" Extinguisher."

No answer came from the stage.

The word was repeated.

Still no answer. A little alarmed he leaped upon the
stage and lifted the extinguisher which covered Mr. Spar-
rowhawk. A heap of discolored ashes with a strong pe
troleum odor was all that lay underneath. He repeated
the experiment with Mrs. Sparrowhawk and the remaining
statues, but with the same result. Diligent inquiry was
made for the little old gentleman, but he was nowhere to
be found.

As may be expected, the guests were somewhat embar
rassed. But good breeding prevailed, and they quietly re
turned to town without confusion. A little justifiable
indignation was felt toward the host and hostess, but even
that was tempered by philosophy, and the most ill-tempered
confessed that but little better could be expected from the
parties.

So perished Mr. and Mrs. Sparrowhawk. I am aware
that this story has no moral. Whatever interest it may
have is based entirely upon its merit as a statement of
facts.

STORIES FOR LITTLE GIRLS1

I HAVE noticed with some indignation a tendency, in the
popular stories of childhood, to give all the heroic enter
prises to boys, and to utterly ignore girls as adventurous
heroines. As daughters predominate in my own family, 1
humbly protest against their being put off with such feeble
notoriety as "Cinderella" affords them, or such doubtful
fame as belongs to " Little Red Riding Hood." Firmly be
lieving in the superior energy, tact, and invention of the sex,
I consider the latter story, of a wolf deceiving a little girl
by personating her grandmother, as the puerile invention of
some envious old bachelor, and have felt a consciousness of
imbecility in reading it aloud to young ladies, any one of
whom I am satisfied would have detected Mr. Wolf in his
first hypocritical sentence. As to Cinderella, we all know
she had no interest except that conferred on her by the
Prince. In point of fact, "Contrary Mary " seems to have
been the only young lady in childish fiction who is recorded
to have had any independence of character ; but even here
the masculine chronicler, by simply stating the fact of
" contrariness " without explanation, unfairly leaves us
to suppose that it was of a purposeless and ineffective
quality.

Not content with merely lifting my voice against this in
justice, I am convinced that if I have any particular mis
sion, it is to fill this void in the literature of children. The
ages have waited for this event, and childish fingers, among
which the thumb of Jack Homer appears preeminent, point
1 Californian, May 20, 1865.

104 STORIES FOR LITTLE GIRLS

to me as the man. I shall not shrink from the appointed
task. A shrill chorus of infantile voices applaud my reso
lution, and with fingers trembling with excitement, I dash
into my first effort which is

THE STORY OF MISS MARY CRUSOE

At the age of fifteen, Miss Mary Crusoe undertook a
voyage to the South Pacific to visit her desolate aunt, whose
husband, a worthy missionary, had lately furnished, in his
own person, food and raiment for the benighted islanders.
As he did not survive this Christian act, Miss Crusoe's
aunt sent for her niece to relieve her increasing loneliness.
The voyage had been quite prosperous, but one day a terrific
storm came on, and the vessel struck on a rock. Miss Crusoe
was the only one that escaped. Buoyed up by her crinoline
on a monstrous wave, she was washed on a desert island
where she lay for a few moments insensible.

When she recovered her senses, she rose and carefully
removed her stockings and spread them on a rock to dry.
For a moment she regretted not having brought a change with
her from the ship — but a sense of gratitude to Providence
for her deliverance checked the foolish thought. She then
made a tour of the island, meeting only a few crabs on the
beach, who turned quite red at the spectacle of her bare
little ankles, and walked away holding their claws before
their eyes. But Miss Crusoe did not despair. Finding
one of the ship's sails on the beach, she drew a housewife
from her bosom, and taking a needle and scissors therefrom,
in a very short time made and fitted to her pretty figure a
coarse but neat morning wrapper, which she fastened around
her waist with the bolt ropes. Having lost her comb in
the surf, her back hair came down. A rusty spike which
she picked from a portion of the wreck served her for a hair
pin, and the seaweed which still clung to it added ornament
to the coiffure. As Miss Mary glanced at her reflection in

STORIES FOR LITTLE GIRLS 105

a pool of water beside her, a pleasurable blush mantled her
cheek at the becoming effect of her costume. But she sighed
at the thought that there was no other human eye to be
hold it.

With a broom made of dried boughs and leaves fastened
to a piece of bamboo, Miss Mary swept away the sand from
the leeward side of a large rock so as to form a comfortable
couch. This she draped with fragments of the old sail, and
saying her prayers like a good girl, laid down her fair head
on a sandy pillow, and presently fell asleep. The moon
came up, and touching the little island here and there with
silver radiance, out of respect to Miss Mary's modesty,
left her sleeping place in shadow. The waves talked in
whispers so as not to disturb her, and the sea-breeze
sang a pleasant lullaby. So passed the first day on the
island.

The next morning, after a careful toilette and a breakfast
of wild grapes, which grew plentifully on the rocks beside
her, Miss Mary hastened to the beach. Here she found the
sea had providentially washed ashore from the wreck the
following articles : A tea-kettle and canister of tea, a bottle
of Eau de Cologne, a set of crochet-needles, a few pounds
of worsted, some tape, a guitar, an assortment of hairpins,
and a box of matches. (If any objection be made to this
list as improbable, I point to the masculine inventory of
Robinson Crusoe's spoils as a precedent.) After making a
cup of tea, Miss Mary confessed she felt better, and at once
began the construction of that bower which for years after
ward formed her residence on the island. In this she was
assisted only by her needle, thread, and scissors. The cli
mate was miraculously mild, and admitted of the lightest
material for building purposes. A wild kid which Miss
Mary caught during this week was of some service to her
as a household pet; this family was afterward increased by
two canaries, a pet field-mouse, and a jarboe. Not having

106 STORIES FOR LITTLE GIRLS

the slightest idea what this latter animal may be, I am
unahle to describe it. It is peculiar to desert islands I am
told.

But even these companions failed to give Miss Mary suit
able society. Her domestic duties were growing exceedingly
onerous. She was in despair, and her young cheek grew
pale and thin. One day, while walking on the beach at the
extremity of the island, she perceived a footprint in the
sand. It was of a female gaiter of a large size, evidently a
No. 10, while Miss Mary wore a 2j, narrow. There could
be no mistake; some other woman had trodden the lonely
shore. When Miss Mary had recovered from the shock of
her surprise, she deliberated calmly. With feminine quick
ness she reasoned that it would be impossible for two women
to live on equal terms together on a desert island. Some
one must dominate. Miss Mary, with a determined shake
of her pretty head, made up her mind who that one should
be. The next day the beach was strewn with fragments of
a wreck, and she discovered that an emigrant ship from
Ireland to Australia had gone ashore upon the fatal rocks.
Providence again smiled kindly on Mary Crusoe. She en
countered the mysterious castaway, who proved to be a stout
woman with a North-Country accent. The astonished Celt
instinctively saluted Miss Crusoe as "Missus." This set
tled the matter. Miss Crusoe engaged her on board-wages,
and called her " Biddy," which is the feminine for "Man
Friday."

The history of Miss Mary Crusoe from this point to her
final deliverance from the island, becomes somewhat unin
teresting. As she married the young sailor who rescued
her, the merit of the story as a narrative of purely feminine
adventure, of course, is lost. She brought her pets with her
to New York, and, as her female acquaintances declare, a
good many foreign airs also. She stuck up her nose at the
best hotels of that city, and talked somewhat ostentatiously

STORIES FOR LITTLE GIRLS 107

about " her island." For this reason I deem it prudent to
end her history here.

The above is merely a specimen of what I expect to do
in the way of filling the void I have spoken of. I propose
hereafter to give a short sketch of " Susan the Giant Killer,"
and " Jane and her Kose Tree." Until then, I wait the
recognition of a grateful juvenile public.

MISCELLANEOUS
1860-1870

SHIPS i

IN the mind of every naturally developed boy, there is a
distinct impression that fortune is intimately associated
with the sea, and a strong leaning toward ships ! To every
grown-up masculine member of my species there must at
times occur recollections of days when he cut oblong billets
of wood into ravishing models of ships, which, when
launched, had a common propensity to keel over, and con
tinue the rest of the voyage, bottom up. Without men
tioning anything about that one unparalleled ship which
every boy has loved and lost — I pass to a few general asso
ciations connected with this subject, of course altogether un
professional, which comprise the experience of a landsman.

The child's ships : The ships furtively read about under
the desks at school, and by the firelight at dark before can
dles came. The ship that was wrecked so opportunely for
Robinson Crusoe, and the ship he constructed. Noah's Ark.
The ship of Philip Quarles. The ship in which Bernardin
de St. Pierre cruelly wrecked poor Virginia (when she might
just as well have been saved) for the sake of displaying
that sickly French sentiment which, thank God, few chil
dren understand. The dreadful ship in which Captain Kidd
sailed and sailed. The ships in which Sinbad made his
wonderful voyages. The Phantom Ship.

The boy's ships and the ships of schools : Argo, Theseus,
and his black sails. Old Roman galleys with their many
banks of oars. The Viking's ditto. High-pooped semi-lunar
barques of Columbus and Amerigo Vespucci. The many
galleries and stubby masts of the illustrations in Froissart's
1 Golden Era, November 25, 1860.

112 SHIPS

"Chronicles." Brave old bully Van Tromp's kettle-bot
tomed galliots with Dutch brooms at their royal mast-heads.
The "Fighting Temeraire." The Greek caiques and the
triangular lateen sails of the Mediterranean. Chinese junks
with matting sheets. The wicked, rakish-looking crescent-
topped ship of the Algerine corsair, and all the rest of that
wonderful fleet which pass over the sea of reading, exchang
ing signals with the weary schoolboy.

In my character as landsman, having a liking — albeit it
is a distrustful fascination — for the deceitful and " feline "
element, no alloy enters into my affection for the dear old
ships. Even now I recognize their burly cheerful presence
as I did when a boy, and have a strong inclination to go up
to them and pat their big sides as they lie tied down by
their noses to the wharves, even as I did then. For I have
not entirely gotten over the idea that a ship is endowed with
sentient life — a strong and willing beast of burden — good-
natured and lovable in its very strength. An incident
which I once witnessed, which would in many have materi
alized the whole idea, only seemed to strengthen that fancy —
a shipwreck! The ship lay over a little bight, and her old
vassal had her at a wicked vantage. Every time the cruel
sea lifted its merciless white arm to smite, it seemed to me
that the ship recoiled in affright, and again bounded toward
the shore as if for succor. Every curve that the sweeping
mast described in the heavens was the writhing of agony
and distress ; the wild tossing of the hanging yards were the
outstretched hands of an expiring swimmer ; and when at
last the wreck was complete, and you could see only the
breakers that fought and wrangled over the spot, a year
afterward, passing there at low tide, the bleached ribs arid
battered skeleton, seemed things to be put away arid buried
from the sight of man forever.

But there are two other incidents, which, impressing me
at an early age, may have formed the mould to shape this

SHIPS 113

odd fancy. As they may be new to some of my readers
I give them more in detail : —

The first was a strange story in connection with a sea
side village where I had been sent at a sickly, callow age
to be preserved in brine. There had been a port of entry
there once, and a good harbor still existed, but the ships
perhaps for certain reasons had taken a dislike to it, and
persistently went somewhere else. For, fifty years ago, one
pleasant summer evening, the inhabitants walking on the
little break-water, saw a goodly ship in the offing, standing
on and off, till night fell. The news of the ship spread
from lip to lip, and great was the expectation and surmise
created. At daybreak the next day the village was astir,
and then everybody saw the ship with all sail set standing
in to the harbor. She crossed the bar easily at about eight
o'clock and entered the stream. The harbor-master in his
boat hailed her, but received no reply. She kept her course
with all sail set directly for the wharf. Then the harbor
master and some few others pulled alongside, and, clamber
ing over the bulwarks, jumped on deck. To their surprise
it was vacant. The wheel was lashed amidships, the run
ning-gear carefully belayed, and everything taut and sea-
manlike. They went below, but found no evidence of life.
A fire was burning in the galley and a pot of coffee remain
ing on the stove. In the tenantless cabin the table was
set apparently for breakfast. Still more singular, books
and papers, and all that might lead to identification, were
likewise gone. Clothing, bedding, stores, etc., were still
there. There were no evidences of violence ; the decks
were spotless, the brass stanchions polished, and everything
neat and orderly as though the usual routine of careful dis
cipline had been only interrupted at the moment of board
ing. Messages were dispatched to the nearest shipping
point, and in the mean time she was moored in the stream
and a watch placed on board. That night one of those

114 SHIPS

terrible thunderstorms peculiar to New England swept over
the little village. Above the whistling wind and the crash
of thunder, people living near the water's edge declared
they heard the rattling of ropes and creaking of a windlass.
An old weather-beaten tar who lived at the point saw, by
the aid of a night-glass and the flashing of lightning, a large
ship, with all sail set, crossing the bar at the flood of the
tide. When morning dawned, the ship was gone. Of
course there were not wanting those who believed that the
ship-keepers ran away with the mysterious vessel — as nei
ther ship nor watch were ever heard of since ; but my child
ish fancy always inclined to the more popular belief that
the ship ran away with them. I remember that often at
sunset I would watch the horizon when the tide was flood
ing on the bar to meet that other flood of outgoing crimson
glory ; waiting in the half-fearful, half-adventurous hope of
seeing a mysterious ship standing off and on, as in the olden
time.

The other is a waif from some book of travels. It was
an adventure of some French Voyager. It might have been
told by Dampierre, but I have forgotten. My gallant French
captain is a gentleman born, and they call him M. le Comte,
and he has estates in Brittany, and has a commission in the
breast-pocket of his laced coat, signed by Louis XIV. He
has a fine ship, and a jolly, rollicking crew, and his officers
are young men of family and honor. He has gotten up in
pretty high latitudes for a Frenchman, and has traced a line
along the 75th parallel to be followed years after by Parry,
Scoresby, Franklin, and Kane. Here they are beset in the
pack, and there they all stay for six months. M. le Comte
frets and fumes. The crew all fret and fume. One or
two mutinies break out, and the young officers have an
occasional " affair " with each other on the ice behind the
hummocks. Polar hibernation don't agree with fiery young
Frenchmen, and when one or two are on the point of com-

SHIPS 115

mitting suicide through sheer ennui, a sail is discovered in
an open sea to the southward. There is great speculation
made ; she is signaled, but does not answer. They can't
get to her, though she apparently hovers near them for
many days. At last the ice breaks up, and out fly the
lively Gauls like peas from a pod. M. le Comte steers to the
southward with his impetuous brethren. Then the strange
ship is seen, and a boat is dispatched by M. le Comte, in
charge of a fiery young Gascon — a Lieutenant. The
strange ship is a vessel of six hundred tons burthen, and
when they hail her she does not respond. Then the ire of
the young Gascon is aroused, and he orders his men to lay
him alongside. This the men do reluctantly, and at last the
bow-oar throws his blade apeak, and declares that the Devil
is in the strange ship, and that he won't pull another stroke.
Then a great fear seizes the rest of the boat's crew, and
they all begin to pull about.

" Oh, ho ! What is this, my children ? " says the young
Gascon.

" Parbleu, M. Lieutenant ! We are going back, and not
to the Devil's ship."

" Do you think so, my pretty ones ? Excuse me, my
darlings, not now."

And so M. Lieutenant draws from his belt a heavy trum
pet-mouthed pistol, such as Drake and Frobisher carried in
their arm-chests, and looks at the priming, then at the bow-
oar. So the bow-oar can do nothing but pull about again,
and they all give way together until the boat grazes the
sides of the strange ship. Then the fiery young Lieutenant
mounts the deck alone, and sees the sails hanging loosely,
and everything in confusion. There is a man standing at
the wheel, and the gay young Lieutenant calls him "Bro
ther," and asks him if this is the way he receives company,
and slaps him on the back, but immediately recoils in hor
ror. For the man at the wheel is simply a frozen corpse

116 SHIPS

holding the spokes. Then the fiery young Lieutenant takes
off his hat and he and one of his boldest men, quite awe-
stricken and subdued, walk forward and encounter the body
of a man frozen in the act of making a fire. Near by a
woman is sitting ; pulseless, lifeless, and statue-like. They
go down in the cabin and a man is sitting by a table making
entries in an open log-book. They go up to him and speak,
but he does not answer. A green mould covers his face
and hands, and he is rigid and cold. They see the last
entries in the log-book, and the Lieutenant, who under
stands a little English, makes out that they have been frozen
in the ice for three months, that provision has given out,
and that scurvy has taken down the crew. " My wife died
yesterday," says the Captain in the log-book — and " God
help us all, for we can do nothing ! " Then the young
Gascon takes the log-book and reembarks silently, and the
men make the ashen blades smoke in the row-locks in their
hurry to get away, and the Lieutenant shows the book to
M. le Comte, who at once bears away for La Belle France.
Then inquiries are made and the fate of a missing English
ship is accidentally discovered.

These were the two prominent incidents which were
wont to invest my boyish superstition with a strange faith
in the personal and sensitive qualities of ships. Since then
I have known them more intimately in connection with the
sea, but never as pleasantly as in the old, old time. I have
sailed in them, but have lost their identity in that of the
captain and crew who bullied them, and carried away their
spars by crowding on sail. Then I have seen them in con
nection with that horrible hybrid — the steamship; and
now I never go down to the docks to see the old Sky
scraper when she conies in, without a fear of seeing a smoke-
funnel sticking out from her decks, or finding her graceful
contour destroyed by paddle-boxes. But for all that it is
pleasant to view them from the land — whether nestling at

SHIPS 117

the wharves or trying their pinions for another flight to
distant lands.

Connecting in their long voyages the East and the West
of a weary life, I know they bring to my fainting sense —
even as the Indian ships — balm from those warm, sunny
islands of my youth, now past to me forever. I know they
bring messages of peace and good will ; and I have some
times looked forward, not regretfully, to the time when one
shall wait for me down the stream of Time, with braced
yards and anchor atrip for my last long voyage. For my
earliest, dearest, and holiest remembrance I can trace back
to the ship. Not alone the ship — but the luminous track
over the black waters of Galilee, the timid disciples, and
the One lonely central figure who walked nightly on the
quiet sea where I sailed in childish dreams, saying to them
— to me ! — " Be of good cheer, be not afraid — it is I."

WANTED — A PRINTER1

(Suggested to Bret Harte by His Employment as a Compositor on the
" Goldeu Era"")

" WANTED — a printer," says a contemporary. Wanted,
a mechanical curiosity, with brain and fingers — a thing
that will set so many type in a day — a machine that will
think and act, but still a machine — a being who under
takes the most systematic and monotonous drudgery, yet
one the ingenuity of man has never supplanted mechanically
• — that 's a printer.

A printer — yet for all his sometimes dissipated and reck
less habits — a worker. At all times and hours, day and
night ; sitting up in a close, unhealthy office, when gay
crowds are hurrying to the theatre — later still, when the
street revelers are gone and the city sleeps — in the fresh
air of the morning — in the broad and gushing sunlight —
some printing machine is at the case, with its eternal un
varying click ! elicit !

Click ! click ! the polished type fall into the stick ; the
mute integers of expression are marshaled into line, and
march forth as immortal print. Click! and the latest in
telligence becomes old — the thought a principle — the
simple idea a living sentiment. Click ! click ! from grave to
gay, item after item — a robbery, a murder, a bit of scandal, a
graceful, a glowing thought — are in turn clothed by the
impassive fingers of the machine, and set adrift in the sea
of thought. He must not think of the future, nor recall
the past — must not think of home, of kindred, of wife or
1 Golden Era, January 27, 1861.

WANTED — A PRINTER 119

of babe — his work lies before him, and thought is chained
to his copy.

Ye who know him by his works, who read the papers and
are quick at typographical errors — whose eye may rest on
these mute evidences of ceaseless toil : correspondents, ed
itors, and authors, who scorn the simple medium of youi
fame, think not that the printer is altogether a machine —
think not that he is indifferent to the gem to which he is but
the setter — but think a subtle ray may penetrate the recesses
of his brain, or the flowers that he gathers may not leave
some of their fragrance on his toil-worn fingers.

WASHINGTON1

THE resemblance of a face long dead, with clear, blue eyes
and massive, slumbering features, has been to me a familiar
presence. Out of the past that serene face has been lifted
with sublime suggestion, as to my boyish fancy the mighty
Sphinx lifted its passionless eyes and immovable lips from
the century dust that hid its awful shoulders. When, as a
child, I read hesitatingly from the book upon my knee of this
wonderful man, whose face I knew, I could only look upon
him as the conception of a principle, which like the myth
ological creation had taken the form and figure of humanity.
I could not expect to see him or know him but as some
thing vague and past.

But chiefly because I had had enough of Hector and
Achilles, and more of Agamemnon; and a great deal too
much of that glittering staff of general officers and brave
men since the Grecian general, I did not turn to him as a
mighty warrior. But I knew of him — patient and strong
in the winter camp at Valley Forge. Again and again,
looking down that dreary valley I have seen the snow fall
ing, and, in mercy to the general's prayer, blotting out the
crying eloquence of the blood-stained tracks of frost-bitten
and weary feet. I have seen this struggling poverty and suf
fering with that quick appreciation known best, I think,
to the Northern boy. I have pictured the crossing of the
Delaware in a way that made the painter's canvas a feeble
show, and so from the fear that I might make a sectional
man out of this Washington, I went to hear of him from one
who was a seer and a magician, and who knew the truth and
dared to show it.2

l Golden Era, February 24, 1861.

a Rev. T. Starr King, Pastor of the Unitarian Church, San Francisco,
California.

WASHINGTON 121

Then, wrought upon by the magic of an eloquent tongue
and eye and hand, the dead Washington again arose. The
stone was rolled away from the sepulchre, and the waiting
goddess with wings trailing in the dust again welcomed the
Hero. He beamed luminously through that crowded and
awe-hushed chamber — not the Washington of history, but
the living man, sympathetic and human, with every chord
of his great soul thrilling responsive with that audience,
whose every pulse kept time with the perfect movement of
his own.

And when the silence fell with the hushed magic of that
orator's wonderful voice, the sea below him broke again in
great reacting waves of applause against the walls of the
chamber. Then the spellbound audience arose from their
cramped positions and went wonderingly away as in a dream.

But the echo of that voice and the spell of that Presence
had not died away in their hearts. For some time after,
when the noise of wheels broke the stillness of quiet streets,
and footfalls echoed from the walls of darkened houses,
people were constrained to speak as they walked along of
that resurrected Presence of which they had known so much
and yet so little. And they talked it over at breakfast-
tables the next morning, nor dreamed that this was the
magician's art. I wonder if it were ?

And so the anniversary of the birth of George Washing
ton passed quietly away. When night came, the moon rid
ing high in the heavens seemed to Look down upon the
resurrected face of the dead hero, as on that night above the
crags of Latmos she touched and strove to wake the sleeping
Endymion. When the fog veiled her face at last, there was
a clear blue heaven at the north, and the pole star glittered
above the crest of the distant hill.

And with the stars and night, a fierce west wind arose
from the sea, and moving landward swept over the city.
It caught the bunting of the shipping, and drifted it steadily

122 WASHINGTON

toward the east. It straightened and stiffened the red bars
of the national flag in its sturdy breath, and then swept
away on its mission.

Oh, if the day of omens be not passed, would it have been
wrong to have whispered it " God speed'7 on that mission?
That it might meet and greet our Eastern brothers as the
grateful land wind met the first discoverer of our ever-
blessed country, even in the midst of mutiny and despair ?
That it might steal into the hearts of the rebellious crew
of that laboring ship of State, as the west wind, fragrant
with the spiced breath of the welcoming land, stole into
the senses of the distracted mutineers and drew them gently
to the land ?

THE ANGELUS1

As I sit by my window in the sharp shadows of this
flinty twilight, the faint far tolling of a bell comes to me
with a peculiar significance. I have been looking over the
Mission Valley along a prospective, shut in by the lonely
mountain and its shining cross. In the middle distance a
few incisive looking roofs oppose their hard outlines to the
sky. The steeple of St. John's in the wilderness has a
bigoted way of pointing its uncompromising pinnacles
upward — but that 9s owing to the atmosphere, and it's easy to
look beyond to the sincere lonely mountain and its crowning
cross.

I can fancy also a strange sympathy with the Angelus,
from the hills capped and cowled with fog like gray friars,
to the sun, prematurely and mistily going down with a red
disk like the descending Host. I am conscious, too, of
feeling something like the Captive Knight who looked
"from the Paynim tower," and am half convinced that
telling beads, playing upon a lute, and tracing my name with
a rusty nail upon the window ledge would be a very natural
and appropriate expression. But a shriek from the Mis
sion locomotive brings back the Nineteenth Century — and
lo, the Angelus is dead. A motherly cow walks up and
down the street as if she were hired to give a rural effect to
the locality. A mild fragrance of tea, bread, and butter
rises from the area railings. The long sidewalks have a
dreary and wind-swept loneliness — the Angelus has only
rung home a few married men, belated, who have lost their
dinners, and who taste a bitter premonition of their wel
come in the shrewish air.

l Golden Era, October 19, 1862.

124 THE ANGELUS

With this formal symbol of Faith still ringing in my
ears, a few unbeliefs of my childhood oddly recur to me. I
think that children are much more skeptical on religious
subjects than most people imagine ; I know that my first
hypocrisy was on such topics.

Why do I recall with a tingling of the cheeks my infant
knowledge of the Heathen ? Why does the blush of shame
mantle my brow as I look back to the systematic deceit I
practiced in reading a certain book entitled " Conversation
between a Converted Heathen and a Missionary " ? Did I
dislike that Heathen in his unconverted state ? No ! Did I
not rather rejoice in his tuft of plumes, his martial carriage,
his oiled and painted skin ? Was not his conduct creditable
and romantic compared with that dreadful Missionary who
resembled the Sunday-School Teacher, who systematically
froze my young blood ? What did they offer me instead ?
Had I any respect for an imbecile black being who groveled
continually, crying " Me so happy — bress de lor ! send down
him salvation berry quick," in uncouth English ? Believed
I in his conversion ? Did I not rather know, miserable little
deceiver that I was, that during this conversation his eyes
were resting on the calves of that Missionary's legs with
anthropophagous lust and longing ?

The Angelus brings likewise the " Children's Hour " —
mentioned by Mr. Longfellow. But the " blue-eyed ban
ditti " of this vicinity do not confine their raids to demon
strative embraces in the library, but congregate on the side
walks and demand each other's gingerbread with a more
sincere conception of the character. Nursery-maids occa
sionally air their young charges, and compare bonnet-strings
on the steps. There is a very round little boy who makes
a point of falling down at the top of the hilly street, and be
gins to roll to the bottom with the most alarming rapidity.
But some one is sure to stop him on the way. From his
peculiar conformation, it is terrible to think of an omission

THE ANGELUS 125

of this customary check, which he seems to confidently look
for on every occasion.

So with the pleasant voices of children, the Angelus, the
fragrance of bread and butter, and the abiding influence of
old memories, the day fades into night. As the darkness
slips from the Contra Costa hills a light comes out brightly
and hopefully. It is pleasant to know that all hours of the
night it may be seen there, undimmed and unquenched.
Looking off from this lonely tower I am strengthened, and
am inclined to so far imitate the lonely captive as to write
with a diamond upon the pane the line that flashes with
that light upon my memory. It was written above Dr.
Kane's Journal in the longer Arctic night : ' ' Keeping our
trust, in darkness."

ABTEMUS WAED1

ARTEMUS WARD has gone. The Showman has folded
his exhibition tent like the Arab and silently stolen away.
But like the Arab, Artemus has been accused of certain
Bedouin-like qualities, and has been viewed by some in
terior critics as a literary raider — scouring the face of the
land and skimming the fatness thereof. Others have
thought themselves humbugged at his lectures and openly
assert that his " Babes " are stuffed with sawdust — the
sawdust of old circus arenas at that.

Of course this sort of thing is new to Californians. They
are by nature excessively cautious. They never invest
money in doubtful speculations. They are never carried
away by excitements, and it is clear that if Artemus has
issued stock at a dollar a share and people consider it don't
pay, the imposition is altogether unprecedented and worthy
of reprehension.

But has it been an imposition ? Did Artemus by impli
cation or reputation profess more than he has accomplished ?

He came to us as the author of an admirable series of
sketches which exhibit a special type of humor. It is not
exactly the highest nor the most ennobling type. Artemus
is not the greatest American humorist, nor does he himself
profess to be, but he deserves the credit of combining cer
tain qualities which make him the representative of a kind
of humor that has more of a national characteristic than the
higher and more artistic standard. His strength does not
lie simply in grotesque spelling — that is a mechanical trick
suggested by his education as a printer — and those who
* Golden Era, December 27, 18G3.

ARTEMUS WARD 127

have gone to hear him in this expectation have been prop
erly punished — but it is the humor of audacious exaggera
tion — of perfect lawlessness ; a humor that belongs to the
country of boundless prairies, limitless rivers, and stupendous
cataracts. In this respect Mr. Ward is the American hu
morist, par excellence, and " his book " is the essence of
that fun which overlies the surface of our national life, which
is met in the stage, rail- car, canal and flat boat, which bursts
out over camp-fires and around bar-room stoves — a humor
that has more or less local coloring, that takes kindly to,
and half elevates, slang, that is of to-day and full of present
application. The Showman has no purpose to subserve be
yond the present laugh. He has no wrongs to redress in
particular, no especial abuse to attack with ridicule, no
moral to point. He does not portray the Yankee side of
our national character as did Sam Slick, partly because there
is a practical gravity and shrewdness below the clockmaker's
fun — but chiefly because it is local rather than national.
He has not the satirical power of Orpheus C. Kerr.

Of such quality was Artemus Ward's literary reputation
as received by us. And yet some people are surprised and
indignant that his late lectures exhibited this lawless con
struction — that he gave us fun without application. This
is a pretty hard criticism from people who are content to go
night after night to the Minstrels and listen to the pointless
repetition of an inferior quality of this humor. But it af
fords a key to their criticism. Let the Minstrel wash his
face — and remove his exaggerated shirt-collar — and how
long will they stand his nonsense ? When a keen-looking,
fashionably -dressed young fellow mounts the stage and be
gins to joke with us in this fashion without the accessories
of paint or costume, we feel uneasy. Had Artemus ap
peared habited as the Showman, surrounded by a few wax
figures, even the most captious critic would have been satis
fied.

128 ARTEMUS WARD

Artemus Ward's career in California has been a pecuniary
success. The people have paid liberally to see the Show
man, and he has reaped a benefit greater than he might have
made from the sale of his works. It was a testimonial to
the man's talent, which is not objectionable perse — though
better judgment might have kept the subscription paper out
of his own hand. It is a success that will enable him for
some time to live independent of mere popularity — to in
dulge his good taste and prepare something more enduring
for the future. In the mean time no one enjoying the
pleasure of a personal acquaintance with his frank, genial
nature ; none who have observed his modest and appreciative
disposition, or the perfect health and vigor that pervades his
talent, will grudge him that success.

FIXING UP AN OLD HOUSE1

WHEN I had secured the possession of my new home,
and stood in its doorway, thoughtfully twirling the key in
my hand, the words of the retiring tenant struck me with
renewed intensity and vigor. " It's a snug little cottage,"
he had said, confidentially, " and a cheap rent — but it
wants to be painted and papered bad." As I looked around
it, I could not help thinking that one of these requirements
had already been met — that it had been " papered bad,"
and that its present ragged, torn, and dirty walls looked
better now than they must have looked in the primal horrors
of their original paper. There was something peculiarly
provoking about the old pattern, which bore marks of having
been picked at here and there as if by exasperated and
vicious fingers.' But the rent was cheap, and Mr. Chase had
said, " Economy was the lesson of the times " ; and as an
humble employee of that officer and a recipient of his
notes, I could not do better than take the advice and the
house, which I did at once.

" Why could n't you paper it yourself ? " asked my wife
suddenly, with a gleam of inspiration. " You know that
you're — " But she did not proceed any further in this
feminine attempt to associate my literary habits with this
branch of upholstering, and only said : " You might do it
after office hours instead of writing, and you 'd save money
by it."

The house was not large, and as I could look forward to
finishing it within a reasonable time during my leisure hours,
I rashly consented to put aside my pen and take up the
1 California, July 16, 1864.

130 FIXING UP AN OLD HOUSE

paint- and paste-brush. The choice of paper next occupied
and perplexed me for some days ; it was odd how critical
and fastidious my taste in regard to patterns developed with
this first opportunity I ever had to indulge it. After some
hesitation I finally selected two kinds, but I had not pro
ceeded far before I discovered that the most charming pat
tern was extremely difficult to match and involved a waste
of material that was as ruinous to my pocket as it was
knowingly profitable to the losel knave who sold it to me.
This was my first intimation of difficulties. I would will
ingly pass over the rest. I would like to forget the sin
gular propensity which that paper displayed to entwine
itself lovingly in damp curves around my legs, and how I
vainly endeavored to evade its chaste and cold embrace as I
was putting it on. It is not pleasant to think how I papered
one side of the room before I discovered that the pattern
was upside down, and how during this time I felt generally
of the paste, pasty, and could n't rid myself of the un
comfortable impression that I was a loaf of bread not quite
done. Let me hurry over these things to that day when
I found myself standing in abject humility before a paper-
hanger whom I had finally been obliged to call in. He was
a serious man of about forty, with a becoming pride in his
profession. After casting a rapid and supercilious glance
around the walls, he approached my paste-bucket, and taking
a little of the mixture on his finger, smelt of it, and tasted
of it. As he turned away with a pained yet forgiving smile
on his fine features, I ventured to humbly ask his opinion
of my work. " As a amatoor I ?ve looked at wuss walls nor
that," he replied, somewhat vaguely. At any other time
I would have been tickled with the idea of an amateur
paper-hanger, but I am ashamed to say that my failures had
brought me to such a low state of moral dejection that I
eagerly seized this miserable straw, and subsequently gave
him to understand, in rather general terms, that I was

FIXING UP AN OLD HOUSE 131

possessed of a singular monomania for paper-hanging; that
it was not economy, but love of a noble profession which
had incited my work, and that, in the language of William
Birch, " my parents were wealthy."

I should state here that my labors during that time had
been materially assisted by the presence of several white-
headed but youthful denizens of the neighborhood, who,
having at first watched my progress by flattening their snub
noses against the window, finally grew bolder and came in
and out of the house and assisted me in removing the old
paper, scattering it far and wide through the streets, and
also otherwise proffered their assistance and learned to ad
dress me by name, and to whom I offered a kind of provi
dential excitement in the reaction which followed the fierce
festivities of the Fourth.

My ill success in papering did not, however, deter me
from my original resolution of painting the house. Accord
ingly, I procured what seemed to me to be an extraordinary
quantity of white lead, and, armed with two brushes, seri
ously set myself to work. Here my progress was marked
with complete success. It was evidently a more scientific
and higher profession than my previous one, and I reflected
with satisfaction that it was next to frescoing — and what
was Michael Angelo but a fresco painter ? Yet I could
not help noticing that, although the paint looked white when
it was first applied, it gradually faded out and permitted
primal stains to appear — " damned spots" that would not
"out" — and that singular drops — pearly tears — broke
out along the joints and panels of the doors. Finally, when
the whole wood-work had taken to weeping, I was forced —
I write it with shame — to call in a painter — a remarkably
polite man — who praised my mechanical dexterity, but in
formed me courteously that in mixing the color I had omitted
some important ingredient. This I had remedied somewhat
by the extra quantity of paint I had used. " It 's nothing

132 FIXING UP AN OLD HOUSE

— nothing — a mere trifle ; an accident that frequently
occurs," he remarked, with genuine good breeding. "It will
take a week or two longer to dry, that 's all ; and then you
can give it another coat " ; and bowed himself out of my
presence. I may support his assertion by stating that it
still exhibits a wonderful humidity and stickiness, sufficient
to retain incautious visitors in the position they often assume
in leaning against it, and that I keep a small sponge and
turpentine constantly on hand against accidents. In the
mean time there is a mild suggestion of its presence in the
odor that fills the house — an odor that is not unhealthy,
as my polite painter assures me he has worked in it for
fifteen years and never found it even disagreeable.

The usual effect of partial renovation gradually developed
itself in my new house. Each improvement threw into
new and unexpected relief some defect which otherwise
might have passed unnoticed. Thus, new paper rendered
fresh paint an imperative necessity. .Presently I discovered
that the doors wanted fixing and the windows new weights,
and that a carpenter was required. As a friend had recom
mended to me a workman whom he described as a "good
fellow and the very man I wanted," I engaged him at once.

He certainly was a good fellow. Our terms of agreement
were that he should superintend the work, and I should
render him such assistance as lay in my power. Having
entered heartily into all my plans and the difficulties of my
situation, he began his arduous duties by an animated and
desultory conversation in which he delivered an account of his
past life and history. Digressing easily and gracefully into
the present topics, he gave me his opinion of the war and
described the situation before Richmond by a diagram drawn
on a board with a piece of chalk. Before we had definitely
settled the success of Grant, it was high noon, and declin
ing his invitation to drink with him, I took the opportunity,
while he was absent at lunch, to drive a few nails and plane

FIXING UP AN OLD HOUSE 133

off the top of a door. When he returned we continued our
conversation by the aid of more diagrams, until nightfall
when we had put up two shelves, driven half a dozen nails,
and used up all our chalk. The assistance I rendered him
was not clearly definite. I think it amounted to handing
him nails when required, and bringing him tools out of his
chest. But he was a very good fellow. When we parted
at night he assured me that he liked to work for a gentle
man that was quiet and sociable-like, and promised to bring
me a newspaper containing some lines written on the death
of his cousin's child by scarlet fever. He charged me, I
think, five dollars, but he was a clever fellow, and we got
along together very well ; and I am now seriously consider
ing whether I shall not employ him in fitting up my next
new house.

ON A PKETTY GIKL AT THE OPERA1

BEING at the Opera the other night, I chanced to be
seated near an exceedingly pretty girl. For various reasons,
I shall not attempt to describe her here. I might as well
try to convey the effect of that particular passage of Doni
zetti which seemed an accompaniment of her loveliness, by
introducing the musical score at this point, as to describe
the bright beauty of her face in those formal epithets and
somewhat serious and decorous sentences which my thoughts
are apt to assume in the process of composition. Had I
the glowing pen of a Cobb, a Braddon, or a Southworth, or
could I borrow for a moment the graceful style of that
ingenious young person who writes the love-stories for
" Harper's Magazine," I think I could fire each masculine
bosom with an inventory of her charms. I say masculine,
as women do not always sympathize with our delineation
of their sex's loveliness, and are apt, when we allude to
flowing ringlets or a beautiful complexion, to question the
genuineness of the one and the ownership of the other. I
leave the task to more competent hands. Even as Falstaff
spoiled his voice by the too early " singing of anthems," so
perhaps I have been unduly impressed in my youth by those
short-hand axioms which were the text of my copy-book,
and caught not only the outline and letter, but much of the
formal seriousness of the original. Perhaps the young beauty
detected traces of this quality of mind in my lugubrious
visage and the sad civility of my demeanor, for she allowed
her lorgnette to rest upon me with a frank and fearless sim
plicity which a few years ago I might have foolishly misin-
l Californian, November 5, 1864.

ON A PRETTY GIRL AT THE OPERA 135

terpreted. Ah me ! I knew only too well why she did so, now,
and why she slyly glanced but once at the brisk young fellows
who lined the walls, and pensively sucked the handles of
their canes. She saw that I was harmless. Her quick
feminine instincts told her that I had already fallen in the
toils of her strategic sex — perhaps something about my
hair betokened the frequent presence of infant fingers, and
even the careless movement of my right foot thrown over
my left leg betrayed the habit of figurative journeys to Ban-
bury Cross in quest of that apochryphal old horse-woman.
O my brother Benedicks, we may assume the youthfulness
and habiliments of twenty-one, we may jest and wear our
chains with a wild and hysterical freedom ; somewhere about
us we carry the private mark of the one woman who con
trols our destinies — a mark invisible to ourselves, but one
by which the rest of her sex know and weigh us. We de
tect it not in others — the knowledge is peculiar to them —
a terrible freemasonry which obtains among these guileless
creatures to an extent which I sometimes shudder to think
of. And yet — and it is another reason why my fair young
friend dropped that mask of coquetry which is woman's
natural weapon of defense — she knew that by virtue of my
very condition I held her at a disadvantage. I knew how
much artifice went to make up the ensemble of that charm
ing figure. I knew the disenchanting processes which ended
in such an enchanting result. I had peeped into the
veiled mysteries which surround the feminine toilette, and
knew —

But the music changed, and my thoughts, changing with
it as the curtain rose, spared me the unmanly disclosure.
How pretty she looked as she leaned slightly forward, her
•white cloak dropping from her bare little shoulder as the
mists might have slipped down Mount Ida and disclosed the
sacred summits to the dazzled shepherd. Then it was that
Capricornicus, father of half a dozen grown-up daughters,

136 ON A PRETTY GIRL AT THE OPERA

.leaned forward, too, and applied his opera-glass to eyes
whose wickedness even that fashionable media could not
make respectable. Then it was that, seeking to escape his
scrutiny, she raised her glass to the opposite wall where
seventeen young gentlemen, splendidly attired, and having
a general atmosphere of kid gloves about them, were de
cently ranged. Poor girl! Instantly seventeen opera-
glasses were leveled, and seventeen hands went up to an
equal number of neckties to arrange them as she gazed.
There was one exception. One young man modestly dropped
his eyes and affected deep concern, just then, with the busi
ness of the stage, while a deep flush mounted his cheeks.
He was evidently thinking of the girl, while the others
were thinking of themselves. However, she did not seem
to notice it, and the sincerer compliment, as usual, passed
unheeded. Her mission that evening was to be observed
— not to observe. The object of her existence was fulfilled
in looking pretty.

Perhaps there is no gift of nature that requires as little
exertion on the part of the owner as personal beauty. I
am not certain but that it is this very absence of effort which
excites our admiration ; for it is one of the cruel paradoxes
of life that the very attempt to please often militates against
the desired result. A few yards from my fair friend sat a
plainer young girl, who by amiability of manner was evi
dently seeking to impress the gentleman at her side ; on the
next bench an intelligent-looking little brunette was as
evidently exerting her talents of conversation to tlie same
end. Yet there sat my pretty girl, unconsciously absorbing
even the wandering attention of those gallants ; there she
was, enchanting, bewitching — what you will — with no
exertion on her part, nay, without even tickling the mascu
line vanity by giving them the least reason to suppose that
any scintillation of her dark eyes was induced by them.
Still more : there was an artful suggestion of the very quail-

ON A PRETTY GIRL AT THE OPERA 137

ties which belonged to her neighbors in her beauty. There
was amiability nestling in the curves of her dimpled cheeks,
brightness and intelligence in the quick turn of her eye,
love in its liquid depths, piety in its upward glance, mod
esty in the downward sweep of its maiden fringes. Yet if
her performance of these virtues kept well in the rear of her
promises, who was to blame ? A burst from the orchestra
obviated any answer to that last question, and I turned to
ward the stage.

I have forgotten the exact plot of the opera ; suffice that
it was the old duet of Love and Youth ; the pleasing fic
tion, which we always accept, that genuine passion finds its
best interpreter in the tenor and soprano voices ; that all
vice is of a baritone quality ; that disappointed love or jeal
ousy seeks an exponent in the contralto : and that, whatever
may be our trials, we have a number of sympathizing friends
always handy in the chorus. As the handsome tenor, glit
tering with gold-lace, velvet, and spangles, gallantly leads
the black-eyed soprano, equally resplendent and unreal, in
satin and jewels, down to the footlights, and pours forth his
simulated passion in most unnatural yet romantic song, I
cannot help a slight stirring at my breast and turn toward
my beauty, as if she were in some way a part of the perform
ance. I can't help thinking how pleasant it would be were
I a few years younger, and she would permit me to ramble
with her, hand in hand, under the canvas trees beside the
pasteboard rocks ; to sit at her feet as she reclined on the
bank at the R. U. E., and so tell her of my passion in B
natural. I would promise, and we should mutually agree,
that our engagement should not go beyond the clasping of
hands, amidst the voices of a joyful chorus, as the curtain
descends before the winking footlights. I have my doubts
about the romance extending further. In the absence of
any opera which goes beyond the simple act of espousal, I
should hesitate. I have sometimes been tormented with

138 ON A PRETTY GIRL AT THE OPERA

vague surmises as to what became of the heroines I have so
often seen happily disposed of at the fall of the curtain. I
fear that within a month after the marriage of the Daughter
of the Regiment, Toneo addressed his wife somewhat after
this fashion : " Now, my dear, considering your aunt's pre
judices and the circles in which we move, you really must
try to get over that infernal barrack-room slang " ; or, sar
castically, " Oh ! I suppose that was when you were in the
army " ; or, vindictively, when Sulpice came to see her,

"D me, madam, if a regiment of fathers-in-law ain't

drawing it a little too heavy." I have no doubt that Amina
often had that circumstance of being found in the Count's
bedroom thrown in her face by her credulous spouse ; and
if Miss Linda of Chamounix succeeded in explaining the
circumstances of that little Parisian episode in her life, sat
isfactorily to her husband, it 's more than she has done to
me.

I would not have the thoughtless reader suppose that this
terrible picture of matrimonial experience is at all biased.
Can any one doubt from Madelaine's character that she did
not lead the poor Postillion of Lonjumeau a devil of a life
after she finally captured him ? or that she did not occasion
ally make him feel who had the money, and talk hypocriti
cally of her dear deceased aunt in the Isle of France, when
he had a fellow-actor down to dinner ? I fear, too, that
there is no musical accompaniment which can lend an air
of romance to the bringing-up of a small family, and that
Mozart himself couldn't invest whooping-cough with har
mony, or express croup, even with the air of a bassoon, in
a manner that would be entertaining. And the more that
I look at my young beauty as she laughs and chats away
at her companion, I fear that I should not choose her for
any of the emergencies I have just suggested, were I one of
those who are standing against the wall, pensively sucking
their canes. Why I should not is a question that as I am

ON A PRETTY GIRL AT THE OPERA 139

about to answer the curtain falls, and with the sudden ex
tinguishing of the bright but unreal world beyond, as if she
were a part of it, rises my beauty, draws her cloak about her
polished shoulders, and mixing with the crowd passes away
from these pages forever.

OUR LAST OFFERING1

ON THE ASSASSINATION OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN

IF I had not heard the terrible news, and were inclined
to write upon some other topic, I fancy that I should be
dimly conscious of a something in the air — a moral miasma
tainting the free atmosphere and benumbing the play of
brain and fingers. As it is, there is an indefinable magnet
ism in the grief of twenty millions of people ; a strange and
new sense of insecurity in those things which we have hith
erto looked upon as most secure, which disturbs that mental
equipoise most conducive to composition. My pen, accus
tomed to deal glibly enough with fiction and abstract char
acter, moves feebly, and finally stops still before the terrible
reality of this crime which has put a Nation in mourning,
and leaves my poor tribute an uninterpreted symbol upon
the altar-tomb of a man whose honesty, integrity, and sim
ple faith I most reverenced and respected. It is the cruel
fate of the imaginative scribbler, that finding a tongue for
fanciful griefs, or the remoter afflictions of others, he is too
often denied expression to those real sorrows which touch
him more closely.

Abler pens than mine have demonstrated how the rhetoric
of chivalry, which expressed itself in the attack on Charles
Sumner, found a fitting climax in the assassination of Abra
ham Lincoln, but as yet I have not seen recorded that which
seems to me to be a better illustration of their peculiar
logic. Four years ago the Slave Power accepted the usual
arbitrament of the ballot-box with seeming faith and sin-
l Californian, April 22, 1865.

OUR LAST OFFERING 141

cerity. Their principles were fairly defeated, and they
made war on the Nation. Four years later and the rem
nants of the same power in the North again submitted their
principle to a like arbitrament. They were again defeated
— and they assassinated the President !

No other public man seems to me to have impressed his
originality so strongly upon the people as did Abraham Lin
coln. His person and peculiar characteristics were the
familiar and common property of the Nation. In his char
acter and physique the broad elements of a Western civil
ization and topography seem to have been roughly thrown
together. The continuity of endless rivers and boundless
prairies appeared to be oddly typified in his tall form and
large and loosely-jointed limbs, and that uncouth kindliness
of exterior which in nature and man sometimes atones for
the lack of cultivation. His eloquence and humor partook
of the like local and material influences, mixed with that
familiar knowledge of men and character which the easy
intercourse of the pioneer had fostered, and the whole sea
soned with those anecdotes which, like the legendary ballads
of early European civilization, constituted the sole literature
of the Western settlements. Let me go further and say
that, in my humble opinion, he was, as a representative
Western man, the representative American. That correct
and sometimes narrow New England civilization and its
corresponding crisp and dapper style of thought, which for
years represented the North in the councils of the Nation,
has always seemed to me to be at best an English graft,
which, if it has not dwarfed the growth or spoiled the vitality
of the original stock, has at least retarded the formation of
national character. Nor do I say this with any the less
reverence for that Puritan element, and its deep reliance on
the familiar presence of God, which I believe has to-day
saved this Nation. Yet there has always seemed to me to
be a certain grim, poetic justice and symbolic meaning in

142 OUR LAST OFFERING

the providential selection of this simple-minded, uncouth,
and honest man, in preference, perhaps, to one of our more
elevated and elegant philosophers and thinkers, as the in-
strum'ent to humble white-handed and elegantly dressed
arrogance — this cheap chivalry of the circus-rider which
has imposed on so many good people — the sophistries of
truth and position, and the last expiring remnants of feudal
ism and barbarism. I know of no more touching illustra
tion of the instinctive appreciation of this fact in the Nation
than that spectacle which the advertising columns of the
newspapers offer in the many resolutions of condolence and
sympathy from all organizations of trades and workingmen,
and the sorrowing faces of the mechanics who walked in
last Wednesday's procession.

Even as the martyrdom of this great and good man
brought him down to the level of the humblest soldier who
died upon the battle-field for his country, so the common
sympathy of our loss has drawn us all closer together.
Nor has the great law of compensation failed us now ; already
we can fancy our national atmosphere is cleared by a peo
ple's tears, and the soil beneath quickened to a more
spontaneous yielding. Leaving out the peculiar circum
stances of our great sorrow, it has seemed to me that any
event which could bring thirty millions of people in solemn
and closer relations to their God is not altogether profitless.
Perhaps it was necessary that we of the North, engaged in
peaceful avocations, who had never really appreciated the
magnitude of our soldiers' sacrifice, should be thus brought
to a nearer contemplation of violent death ; that we who
read of the slaughter of twenty and thirty thousand men
with scarcely a tremor of the voice or quickened pulse,
should be stricken into speechless tears and sorrow by the
death of a single man. Knowing this, I believe that our
Nation stands to-day nobler and purer in faith and principle
than ever before since the April sunshine glanced brightly

OUR LAST OFFERING 143

on the bloody dews and green sward of Lexington, and be
lieving thus, can echo the poet's tribute to one who passed
away but a short year before, and perhaps stood first to
welcome the martyred hero : —

"Mingle, 0 bells, along the western slope,
With A'our deep toll a sound of faith and hope!
Droop cheerily, O banners, halfway down,
From thousand-masted bay and steepled town;
Let the deep organ, with its loftiest swell,
Lift the proud sorrow of the land and tell
That the brave sower saw his ripened grain."

EAKLY CALIFORNIA!* SUPERSTITIONS l

No one, in looking over the ancient chronicles of Cali
fornia, can fail being struck by the important part which
the Devil played in the earlier settlement of the country.
Without wishing to detract from his performances during
the American occupation, it must be admitted that he passed
out of history as an individual, and merged into an abstract
principle. In the good old days of Junipero, however, he
was distinguished by an active personality and a consistent
malevolence. He did not compromise with sanctity as in
these degenerate days. He plagued the good fathers sorely,
and kept them in hot, or rather holy, water, all the time.
His open hostility was a matter of common report. It is
true that skeptics assert that the ascetic habits, privations,
and lonely vigils of these monkish missionaries prepared
them for singular visions and trancelike experiences ; that
the bleak plains and dense forests, habited only by raven
ous beasts, might have easily been transformed into a lurk
ing-place for the Enemy of Souls, and that the misfortunes
and trials, common to the pioneer, might have seemed in
this instance of special and personal origin.

The metamorphoses of the Fiend were varied and start
ling. He had made his appearances as a bear on the rocky
fastnesses of Mount Diablo. He had assumed the figure
of a dissolute whaler seated upon a sand hill near the Mission
Dolores, who harpooned belated travelers. He had held
high revel at Point Diablo with a phantom boat's crew of
Sir Francis Drake. Although most of these transforma-
l Californian, December 2, 18G5.

EARLY CALIFORNIAN SUPERSTITIONS 145

tions were done with an eye to business, he occasionally
unbent himself in pure exuberance of mischief.

It is related that one evening, Juanita, an old woman
who dwelt beyond the present city limits, while looking
after her poultry, heard the faint chirping of little chickens
in the brush beyond the house. Following the sound, she
presently saw on the road before her a young brood, appar
ently just hatched. The old woman called to them, but
they fled from her and the grain she cast before them. She
followed. In the eagerness of the chase, she quite forgot
the lateness of the hour and the distance she was straying,
and at last came upon a black misshapen figure sitting in
the road, under whose batlike wings the brood quickly
nestled. The figure called to her, and offered her one of
a number of eggs on which it was sitting. Juanita, who
was not lacking in courage or enthusiasm as a poultry
fancier, made the sign of the cross, and accepted the present,
upon which the figure vanished. The story goes on to
say that Juanita placed the egg under a setting hen, who
in due time hatched out a fine young Shanghai. As the
newcomer waxed in size and strength, he developed extra
ordinary fighting qualities. In less than a week he killed
off the old Senora's poultry, and challenged every cock in
the neighborhood. Extending his depredations to the
neighboring hen-yards, he was finally killed and eaten by
Incarnacion Briones, a luckless Indian. The most singular
part of the story is yet to come. It is gravely stated
that a few days after eating the mysterious game-cock, In
carnacion startled the worshipers at the Mission Church by
flapping his arms and crowing like a cock during high mass,
and that, although naturally of a timid and inoffensive dis
position, he began to exhibit belligerent symptoms, and
after beating furiously one half the population, was finally
dispatched by one Dominguez Eobles, a valiant soldier at
the Presidio.

146 EARLY CALIFOKNIAN SUPERSTITIONS

Equally gratuitous but less pleasant in result was the ex
ploit of the Evil One at the Mission of San . The cir
cumstance of the event being still fresh in the memories of
many native Californians, for certain reasons proper names
are omitted from this veracious chronicle. One moonlit
evening as a few youthful Senoritas were lounging upon that
open colonnade or gallery which is a familiar appurtenance
of all Spanish adobe houses, they were startled by the tramp
ing of horses' hoofs. The elder members of the family were
visiting the home of a distant neighbor ; it was too early for
their return, the road was seldom traveled, and the unusual
sound naturally excited fear and suspicion. As they looked
across the road toward the old Mission Chapel, whose white
washed gable the moonlight brought out with vivid distinct
ness, they saw to their infinite horror a tall figure, mounted
on a white horse, issue from the heavily barred door and
gallop furiously down the road. A moment, and the horse
and rider clothed in a mysterious light, were visible; the
rushing wind which attended his furious progress fanned their
blanched cheeks as he passed, but in the next instant he had
disappeared. One of the party avers that she distinctly
saw him melt away as he crossed a little brook over which
a few planks were laid, and that he never reached the other
side, but when or how he disappeared has never been dis
tinctly settled. The popular belief that evil spirits cannot
pass over a stream of running water might seem to obtain
in this instance, but as the spirit is alleged to have been
that of a former ranchero who was a hard drinker, it has
been argued with some show of reason that the only stream
he could not pass would have been one of whiskey, and that
the theory is untenable.

It is said that in opposition to the extension of the do
main of the Holy Church, the Devil figured in some of the
earlier land grants, but as it is doubtful to what extent su
perstition has become blended with contemporary history,

EARLY CALIFORNIAN SUPERSTITIONS 147

I am compelled to pass over certain wild legends connected
\vith the prices paid by some landowners for their property,
and the peculiar construction of their title-deeds, to come
to a story which, although of comparatively recent origin,
seems to possess all the features of the early California
legend. The names are, of course, fictitious.

For some time after the American occupation, the lower
country was infested with strolling desperadoes, who had
hung on the skirts of the war, sustaining themselves by in
discriminate pillage, and who, in the chaotic state of society
which followed peace, availed themselves of the fears and
weaknesses of the country people. The sparsely settled
districts, where the ranches were leagues apart, the lonely
roads over which the expressman passed but once a week,
afforded these ruffians ample opportunity for lawless out
rage.

The rancho of Pedro Feliz was situated in one of those
lonely localities; it was a low, one-story adobe, with pro
jecting eaves and galleries. Its occupants at the time of this
story consisted of the family, seven in number, and Pachita
Gomez, a young Sefiorita, who was a visitor. Pachita was
a good girl and a devout Catholic. She went to mass regu
larly, to matins and prime, and never forgot her saint's day.
Perhaps it was owing to her conscientious fulfillment of her
religious duties that her patron saint watched over her with
such care — but I anticipate my story. One night Pachita
retired early to her bedroom ; lighting a consecrated taper be
fore a little crucifix, she opened her missal and began her even
ing prayer. She had scarcely reached the middle of her first
supplicatory sentence before she felt a breath of warm air
upon her cheek, and her candle went out. She lighted it
again and recommenced her prayer, when the same warm
current swept by her cheek and — puff — the candle was
blown out a second time. Pachita rose, a little pettishly,
from her knees, carefully examined the door and the win-

148 EARLY CALIFORNIAN SUPERSTITIONS

dow, which was covered with a strip of cotton cloth that
served as curtains by night, and, moving her candle and
crucifix to another part of the apartment, once more began
her devotions. The candle was blown out a third time !
Pachita now became alarmed, but, with an inward prayer to
her patron saint, she took a vase of holy water, and after
sprinkling and purifying the apartment relit her votive taper
and again addressed herself to her orisons. Alas for the
efficacy of the blessed fluid ! a rush of warm air by her cheek,
and — puff! — the candle was, for the fourth time, extin
guished. There is a limit, however, to human confidence,
even in holy water and prayer. Pachita dropped her smok
ing taper, and hastily wrapping a shawl around her head,
rushed from the house. She did not stop to take leave of
its inmates. Perhaps she felt that a tenement in which the
Devil was so much at home was no place for a virtuous
young woman. The night was dark and windy, but still
Pachita fled onward. Buoyed up by faith, which seemed
to return to her proportionately as she increased her distance
from the house, she actually reached, otherwise unassisted,
her own house, at least ten miles away. Pachita did not
disclose her diabolical experience, but assigned as a reason
for her sudden departure the presence of two rough-looking
and mysterious strangers, who had claimed her friend's hos
pitality for the night. A few days passed, and the return
ing courier from San Luis Obispo brought fearful news. A
traveler, passing by on the morning after Pachita's midnight
flight, found the door of the house open, and entering, dis
covered the lifeless bodies of the murdered family. The
house had been pillaged and stripped, and the mysterious
strangers had fled.

What connection there was between the evil spirit who
blew out Pachita's taper and the material villains who
achieved the massacre, cannot be distinctly ascertained.
There are skeptics who, in the face of these notorious facts,

EARLY CALIFORNIAN SUPERSTITIONS 149

sneer at the experience of the young girl as illusive ant
fabulous. But as these heretical losels go even so far as tc
disbelieve in the existence of the Devil altogether, their opin
ions can weigh but little in comparison to the convictions of
consistent Catholics.

POPULAR BIOGRAPHIES1

SELF-MADE MEN OF OUR DAY
NO. 1. SYLVESTER JAYHAWK

THE birth and parentage of the subject of our sketch is
involved in some obscurity. If we may ask for Homer
some credit, from the fact that five cities claimed the honor
of his birthplace, a decent respect is due to our hero, whose
parentage is alleged to have been divided among as many
individuals. The name of " Jayhawk " cannot be traced
beyond the present possessor, but, as the peculiar and ardu
ous nature of his putative father's pursuit often rendered an
alias necessary, this fact should not militate against the
antiquity of the family. It is believed that, in conformity
with an aboriginal custom, the title of "Jayhawk" might
have been bestowed on our hero in recognition of certain
accipitrine qualities which he possessed in common with
that energetic but ingenious fowl.

Of his early boyhood we know but little. That it was
entirely devoid of interest, or of a prophetic nature, we have
every reason to believe. "I disremember," said Mr. Jay-
hawk, in conversation with a high county official a few days
previous to his decease, — "I disremember much before I
shot a nigger. It was in Missouri, when I was about four
teen. I had no call to kill him in partikler," he repeated,
thoughtfully ; " he was worth more 'n three hundred dollars,
and the old man kinder fancied him." The tender and regret
ful manner in which Mr. Jayhawk was accustomed to allude

1 Californian, May 12, 1866.

POPULAR BIOGRAPHIES 151

to this act of boyish folly furnishes us a convincing proof
of that cautious judgment and economical application of
power which distinguished him in after years. He had
"no call" to kill this helpless African; his older and more
critical judgment, looking back upon an active and not
altogether useless life, saw much to regret in this gratui
tous and reckless waste of destructive energy. How many
of us have been guilty of committing some indiscretion for
which we had "no call"; how few of us have had the sin
cerity to regret it as frankly and openly as the truthful
Jay hawk.

We follow young Sylvester from his paternal home to the
State of Kansas. With no other property than a knife and
pistol, he early faced the cold world and began his career.
Even the horse he rode was not his own, but borrowed per
manently from a neighbor. An incident of his departure,
which he was fond of relating, beautifully illustrates the
depths of maternal affection, and the prophetic promptings
of a mother's heart. "As I rode away, the old woman heaved
arter me what I reckoned was a rock. I picked it up and
found it was a paper parsil. That 'ere parsil I have kept
to this day." On being interrogated as to its contents,
Mr. Jayhawk, with that quaint humor which was peculiar
to him, would reply, " It war n't a Bible. It was an old
deck of the old man's — the identical deck of keerds with
which he won Sam Handy's colt and niggers." Some com
mentators have looked upon this act of the maternal Jay-
hawk as ill-advised and perhaps indiscreet. But who shall
fathom the mysterious logic of a mother's heart ? Perhaps
some instinctive premonition of his future occupation — per
haps the mere desire to gratify a beloved son — determined
this gift. It is certain that Sylvester never forgot it, and
when, returning a few years later in his professional capa
city, he burned up the family homestead and both of his
parents, he seems to have experienced some regret on gazing

152 POPULAR BIOGRAPHIES

at the remains of Mrs. Jayhawk. " She was always good
to me,'7 he remarked to a reverend gentleman with whom
he conversed some days before his death, "and we found
no money on her. I could n't help thinking about her giv
ing me them keerds, and how foolish it was in me to have
forgotten that she kept her money in an old stocking."

In Kansas, our hero seems to have taken a partner in
the prosecution of his profession, and to have connected
himself with the celebrated Colonel McSnaffle. But the
self-reliant disposition and independent character of Jayhawk
could not long brook the alliance. In an address to a com
mittee of the citizens of Lawrence, who waited upon him
beyond the confines of the town, Sylvester alluded to the
circumstances of his separation from Colonel McSnaffle.
" When we found we could n't get along together, we agreed
to divide our money and separate. I counted out three
hundred dollars apiece, and divided the weapons. McSnaffle
wanted to give me five hundred, and take the weapons him
self. But," says Mr. Jayhawk, with playful irony, "I
did n't see it. We then shook hands and parted like men,
each man a-walking backwards until he was out of rifle"
shot. Being in a hurry, I kinder forgot myself and
turned my back too soon, and when I faced round again,
he had me covered ! He was a mighty smart man," he
added, in a tone not entirely free from emotion ; " and
when I see that, I kinder felt sorry we had separated."
Mr. Jayhawk seldom spoke of McSnaffle save in the
highest terms, and cheerfully bore evidence — on behalf
of the State — in regard to McSnaffle's professional zeal
and character.

But it was in California that Sylvester found a fitting
theatre for the exercise of his talent, and his career may be
said to have begun with his entry into this State. His advent
was modest, and free from display or ostentation. The re
moval of several employees of the Overland Mail Company

POPULAR BIOGRAPHIES 15.3

along the line, the quiet absorption of valuable mail-matter,
the permanent withdrawal of stock from the different stations
alone marked his progress. Talent of this high order at
once commanded respect; he was retained by the Overland
Company as one of their chief overseers ; the unnecessary
and irregular shedding of blood was in a measure checked,
and an authoritative and systematized rule of slaughter sub
stituted for wild and sporadic bloodshed. " It is n't as
lively as it used to be," Mr. Jay hawk remarked to an in
telligent traveler. " I killed ten men the first year I came
to the Rocky Ridge station ; but there 's a kind o' falling
off in sport." "l^ater, during a temporary sojourn in Virginia
City, he was enabled to prosecute his profession with less
restraint. Here he fell a victim to an exalted but mis
guided ambition. " I had killed twenty-nine men up to
the fall of 1860," he writes; "I wanted to, finish the year
with an even number. So I killed a man keerlessly and
without forethought." This thoughtless act cost Mr. Jay-
hawk his life. A brilliant future was destroyed in a mo
ment of unguarded enthusiasm.

From a portrait in the possession of a distinguished offi
cial of Nevada, Mr. Jayhawk seems to have been of middle
height. His presence would have been more imposing had
his person exhibited the usual quantity of organs and mem
bers which the conventionalities of society seem to require.
His one eye, in its depth and lustre, seemed to rebuke the
popular prejudice which leaned in favor of two. / Another
portrait in the possession of the Chief of Police of San Fran
cisco, though taken anterior to the Nevada picture, exhibits
a much older man, and one whose hair is of entirely differ
ent color. It is a singular instance of the difficulty with
which facts in regard to prominent men are obtained, that
the same number of fingers do not exist in any two portraits
of Mr. Jayhawk. In one we find the nose entirely absent.
The expression of our hero's face, though not intelligent,

154 POPULAR BIOGRAPHIES

was mild and pleasing ; the loss of his upper lip in a prize
fight on the banks of the Carson led to the frequent and
cheerful exhibition of his front teeth, and produced an open
and not unpleasant breadth of feature. Mr. Jayhawk,
though he never married, left a large family to mourn his
loss.

STAGE-COACH CONVERSATIONS *

SCENE — a stage-coach en route to a California watering-
place. Driver, expressman, passengers, etc. A gloomy
silence has prevailed for ten minutes, during which time a
palpable dust pours into the windows. Passengers perspire.

Agricultural Passenger (looking at view, and addressing
nobody in particular). " Them '& fine oats."

His next neighbor (finding the other passengers glancing
toward him, and feeling painfully conscious that his position
makes him in some way responsible for reprehensible con
duct of A. P., but knowing nothing about grain), feebly,
" Yes."

A gloomy silence, broken by Agricultural Passenger (who
has been encouraged to rashness by this attention). "Too
much baird [beard] on that barley, though."

His Next Neighbor (wishes he had said nothing, but find
ing the other passengers looking at him for an answer, puts
on a critical expression). "I should say so — rather!"

Elderly Rustic Female (with round basket containing a
suspicious napkin), vivaciously, to His Next Neighbor,
" Ranchin' out this way ? "

His Next Neighbor (who is really a dry-goods clerk, but
feels that he has somehow lost caste with the other passen
gers by being identified with Agricultural Man), sharply,
"No, ma'am!"

Interval of five minutes. Passengers stare hard out of
the windows, and affect to be intensely interested in nothing.
Dust silently pours in and powders them. Perspiration.

Elderly Female (who has been revolving His Next Neigh-
l Caiifornian, May 26, 1866.

156 STAGE-COACH CONVERSATIONS

bor's answer, and is dimly conscious of having made some
mistake), soothingly, " Daguerreotypin ' ? "

Passenger in linen duster and passenger in straw hat both
smile, but, detecting each other, repudiate the sympathy,
and frown out of their respective windows. Stage crosses
a bridge.

Father of Family (confidentially to two grown-up daugh
ters). " Did you notice the peculiarly hollow sound of the
horses' hoofs on that bridge ? "

Agricultural Passenger (seeing a chance to put in his oar),
" Rotton timbers ; cave in some day ! "

Father of Family (sternly oblivious of A. P.). " It re
minds me of a line in the classics."

Daughters (together). " Yes ? "

Father of Family (begins amid a general silence).
" Quaduedante putrem — no — petrum — no — bless my
soul " (finds he 's forgotten it, but makes a wild dash to a
conclusion) — " quatit ungula campum."

Passengers endeavor to look as if they understood it.
Gent in corner smiles, and pulls his hat over his eyes. Gent
in white choker audibly repeats the quotation correctly.
Father of Family resolves never to quote again in mixed
company. Agricultural Passenger sets him down as a for
eigner.

Pretty Girl (to her young man). " What 's that he 's
saying?"

Young Man (not wishing to commit himself). "Some
thing from Homer."

Sharp Young Lady (confidant of Pretty Girl, and a little
vexed at somebody's want of attention). " But Homer was
a Greek Poet, and I've seen that line in the Latin grammar."

The other passengers try to look as if they had seen it in
the Latin grammar, too, and glance superciliously at Father
of Family. F. of F. wishes he hadn't said anything. Stage
reaches top of hill and comes in view of ocean.

STAGE-COACH CONVERSATIONS 157

Bride (to Bridegroom in back seat, on wedding trip).
"How lovely the ocean looks! "

Bridegroom (who wishes to show that he can quote also,
murmurs in an undertone as if to himself). "Break —
break [stage commences to go downhill, and careens fright
fully]— Break."

Elderly Rustic Female (who doesn't recognize Tennyson,
but is " timersom "). " You don't think there is any danger
of breakin' down, do you ? "

Bridegroom : —

" On thy dark gray crags, O sea."

Stage clatters so frightfully that Bridegroom is obliged to
raise his voice : —

" And I would that my soul could utter
The thoughts that arise in me."

Bridegroom (to himself, finding that the stage has sud
denly come to level ground, and that he has delivered the
concluding lines in a stentorian voice which has attracted
every eye to him). "D n it."

Outside Passenger (confidentially, to expressman).
"Drunk!"

Dead silence. Several passengers (to each other). "How
far is it yet ? "

General depression.

Agricultural Passenger (deliberately to His Next Neigh
bor, settling himself in a comfortable position). "In the
fall of '49 — "

His Next Neighbor (to expressman, nervously). " How
far did you say ? "

Driver (suddenly). " Mugginsville ! Change Horses ! "

THE PIONEERS OF " FORT Y-NINE » *

I AM not familiar with the details of the Roman occupa
tion of Britain — my memory being under obligations to the
opera of Norma for freshening on that point — but I doubt
not that a society of British Pioneers was early formed by
the invaders. That they knocked down a few of the old
Druid temples and glorified themselves ; that the morning
paper alluded to the breaking-up of a rotten old galley as
" another landmark gone," no one familiar with high Roman
civilization and the manners of that imperious race can for
a moment doubt. That they made a distinction between
the different dates of their galleys' arrival, awarding a higher
honor to the Ninth Legion than the Tenth seems equally
probable. No doubt the immediate descendants of Adams,
the original mutineer, regard themselves as better than the
other Pitcairn's Islanders. The thrilling question, there
fore, whether the California Pioneers, who came in the fall
of 1849 shall admit to equal privileges the people who came
in the spring of 1850, is no new one. For my part, I —
albeit not a Pioneer — incline to the views of the aristocrats
of "Forty-nine." If we have not the distinction of pri
ority, what have we ? The mere fact of one's coming to
California, although doubtless commendable, is still too com
mon for extra distinction. As the Pioneers, unlike the
Puritans of New England, the Huguenots of South Carolina,
the Cavaliers of Virginia, or even the Mormons of Salt Lake,
did not emigrate for conscience' sake, but purely from pecu
niary motives, what claim have they for distinction if that
of priority be left out ? If we are to have an aristocracy,
1 Overland Monthly, August, 1868.

THE PIONEERS OF " FORTY-NINE " 159

this seems to have about as sensible a foundation as most of
those found in a Heralds' College. To be proud of one's
ancestor because he arrived in San Francisco on the last day
of December, 1849, is not a bit more ridiculous than to
honor him because he came to England after the battle of
Hastings. The passenger list of the steamer California, as
a passport to celebrity, is only a trifle more snobbish than
the roll of Battle Abbey. The origin of some of the oldest
families of England, and what will be some of the oldest of
California, are equally ignoble. Let us by all means cling
to the distinction of " Forty -nine." It is true that it may
not have been a poetical era ; it is true that it may not have
been a heroic era ; it may have been a hard, ugly, unwashed,
vulgar, and lawless era; but of such are heroes and aris
tocracies born. Three hundred years, and what a glamour
shall hang about it ! How the painters shall limn and the
poets sing these picturesque vagabonds of " Forty -nine " ;
how romantic shall become the red shirts, how heroic the
high boots of the Pioneers ! What fancy-dress balls shall
be given then, and how the morning journals shall tell of
Mr. F.'s distinguished appearance as a " Pioneer of ' Forty-
nine.' " A thousand years, and a new Virgil sings the
American ^Eneid with the episode of Jason and the Cali
fornia golden fleece, and the historians tell us it is a myth !
Laugh, my Pioneer friends, but your great-great-great-great
grandchildren shall weep reverential tears. History, as was
said of martyrdom, is " mean in the making," but how heroic
it becomes in the perspective of five centuries ! How we
once loved Sir John Holland and Sir Reginald De Rove.
And yet we know now that they were unpleasant company
at table. Did the suspicion ever cross our minds that the
Knights Templar seldom changed their linen, and that the
knights-errant must have smelt of the horse, horsey ?

Though there may not be much that is picturesque or
heroic in the Pioneers of " Forty-nine," still I am far from

160 THE PIONEERS OF " FORTY-NINE "

discouraging anything that in our too skeptical and material
civilization points to reverence of the past. Perhaps it would
be well if the bones of those old Pioneers who have been
dust these fifteen years were collected from Yerba Buena
Park and not disseminated gratuitously over the city. And
I cannot help thinking that there are some traditions of the
soil — some few guideboards to older history — that are
worthy of respect. Besides the Spanish archives of Cali
fornia — consulted only for gain and too often interpreted
by fraud — we have the old Missions — those quaintly
illuminated Missals of the Holy Church. Here, too, are
those rude combinations of the bucolic and warlike expres
sion of a past age — the Presidios. One — a few miles from
the plaza of San Francisco — was the scene of as sweet and
as sad a love-story as ever brought the tear of sensibility to
the eye of beauty. Is it possible you do not remember it ?

Dona Concepcion Arguello was the commandante's daugh
ter. She was young, and the century was young, when Von
Resanoff, the Russian diplomat, came to the Presidio to treat
with the commander in amity and alliance. But the sensitive
diplomat began by falling in love with Dona Concepcidn
and this complicated affairs, and Von Resanoff, being of the
Greek Church, found that his master the Czar must ratify
both alliances. So he bade adieu to the weeping Concep
cidn, and sailed away to Russia to get his master's permis
sion to be happy. He broke his neck, and did not return!

What do young ladies do in such circumstances ? In
novels they pine away and die ; sometimes they take that
last desperate revenge of womanhood — marry somebody
else and make him unpleasantly conscious of their sacrifice.
In poetry they follow the missing lover, like that beautiful
but all too ghostlike Evangeline. But here was a young lady
of flesh and blood, if you please, who had read little romance
and certainly had no model. She did not become delirious,
and beat the wall, like Haidec, "with thin, wan fingers."

THE PIONEERS OF "FORTY-NINE" 161

She did not dress herself in male attire and wander
she did not walk the shore at unseemly hours, decollete and
with hair flying. She waited. She had that sublime virtue,
patience, which the gods give to these feeble creatures —
despite all that your romancers say. She did not refuse her
victuals. Her little white teeth were not unfamiliar with
the tortilla, and she still dressed becomingly and looked
after the charms that Von Resanoff admired. Sir George
Simson saw her in '42, and she was still fine-looking. " She
took," says the chronicle, " the habit but not the vows of a
nun, and ministered to the sick." Poor Concepcion ! that
one exception was the piteous evidence of a lifelong faith.

Did she suffer ? I think she did, in a quiet way, as
most women suffer. Your true heroine goes about her round
of household duties, outwardly calm. I think this brave
little heart trembled of nights when the wind moaned around
the white walls of the Presidio, and the rain splashed drea
rily in the courtyard. I think those honest eyes dilated
when the solitary trader swept into the gate, and filled with
moisture when she found it brought him not. There are
nights and days, too, in this blissful climate that are as irri
tating to old heart-sores as they are to mucous membranes.
In that chill hour of twilight when the Angelus rings, one
may shudder to think of Concepcidn.

It is said she did not fairly know her lover's fate until
Sir George Simson told her. I doubt it. Whether revealed
to her inner consciousness or gathered from the lips of some
dying sailor at whose side she ministered, she knew it, and
kept it to herself as part of the burden. And now she has
followed her lover, and the treaty of alliance she was to grace
has been made by other hands. But are not these things
told in the chronicles of De Nofras and Simson, and in the
pages of Randolph and Tuthill ?

LESSONS FROM THE EARTHQUAKE

On the morning of October 21, 1868, a destructive earthquake shook the
city of San Francisco. A select committee of bankers, merchants, and
"leading citizens" visited the various newspaper offices and requested
that the " trembler " be treated as lightly as possible for fear that it would
work injury to California, and that Eastern people might be frightened
away by exaggerated reports. Bret Harte's amusement, in consequence,
found vent in the following editorial which appeared in the JS'ovember
issue of the Overland Monthly.

MUCH has been written about the lesson of this earth
quake. Judging from the daily journals, it seems to have
been complimentary to San Francisco. In fact, it has been
suggested that, with a little more care and preparation on
our part, the earthquake would have been very badly dam
aged in the encounter. It is well, perhaps, that Nature
should know the limitation of her strength on this coast, and
it is equally well that we should put a cheerful face on our
troubles. But the truth is sometimes even more politic.
Very demonstrative courage is apt to be suggestive of in
ward concern, and logic is necessary even in averting panics.
It makes little matter how much we assure our friends that
we have lost nothing by this convulsion, if our method of
doing so strongly suggests that we have not yet recovered
our reasoning faculties.

Yet, while there remains a tendency in the ink to leap
from the inkstand, and the blood to drop from the cheeks,
at the slightest provocation, the conditions are hardly favor
able for calm retrospect or philosophical writing. Theories
that the next second of time may explode, speculations that
no man may be able to test, are at such moments out of
place. Enough that we know that for the space of forty
seconds — some say more — two or three hundred thousand
people, dwelling on the Pacific slope, stood in momentary fear

LESSONS FROM THE EARTHQUAKE 163

of sudden and mysterious death. As we are not studying
our commercial " lesson/' we shall not discuss now whether
their fears were or were not justified by the facts. That
they were for the moment thrilled by this sympathy of ter
ror, is enough for the pregnant text of this sermon. In
that one touch — or rather grip — of Nature, all men were
made kin. What matters, 0 Cleon ! thy thousand acres
and thy palace that overshadows this humble cot ? Thy
hand — 0 wretched mendicant on my doorstep — we are as
one on this trembling footstool ! The habitations we have
built unto ourselves and our gods are ours no longer — this
blue canopy must we occupy together. How spacious it is
— how superior to those fretted roofs we called our home !
Free of those walls which we have built up between us, let
us here join hands once and ever more !

Did we utter such nonsense as this 1 Not if we remem
ber ourselves rightly. We ran like cowards — as the best
of us are before the presence of the unseen power — in the
garments that were most convenient, and laughed each other
derisively to scorn. We ran, thinking of our wives, our
children, our precious things and chattels. Did we not ex
perience a secret satisfaction when we thought that Jones's
house — much larger and finer than ours — would be a ruin,
too ? Did we not think that we should be saved before
Jones? We did. We had learned the commercial "lesson"
thoroughly. How much of an earthquake will it take to
shake out of us these conventionalities of our life ?

But it seems to have been settled, by the commercial in
stinct, that the maximum strength of an earthquake has
been reached. The shock, it is true, was heavier at Hay-
wards and San Leandro; but it has also been settled, in
some vague, mysterious way, that San Francisco will never
be the focus of any great disturbance. It is also stated,
that the heaviest shocks and the ones that do the greatest
damage are alwavs the first — the only record we have of

164 LESSONS FROM THE EARTHQUAKE

severe Californiaii earthquakes to the contrary notwith*
standing. This is satisfying to the commercial mind, which,
of course, deprecates panic. But if the commercial mind,
consistent with its statements, still continue to occupy badly
built structures on " made ground," commerce will sutler.
It is only a question of time. The commercial statement is
useful in keeping up our credit abroad ; but one of the cheap
photographs of the ruins in San Francisco and San Leandro,
taken by the sun who looked, if possible, even more calmly
on the whole disaster than the entire Chamber of Com
merce — one of these photographs in an Eastern city will,
it is to be feared, outweigh the commercial circular, although
signed by the most influential men.

The earthquake had no lesson that has not been taught
before. It is one of the feeble egotisms of pur nature —
from which Calif ornians are not exempt — to look upon this
class of phenomena as freighted with a peculiar mission for
our benefit — it may be the price of flour, the importance of
piling, the necessity of a new religion. It is surprising how
little we know of the earth we inhabit. Perhaps hereafter
we in California will be more respectful of the calm men of
science who studied the physique of our country without
immediate reference to its mineralogical value. We may
yet regret that we snubbed the State Geological Survey
because it was impractical. There was something intensely
practical in the awful presence in which we stood that
morning — the presence, whose record, written in scar and
cliff, these men had patiently transcribed. We know little
else. It need not frighten us to accept the truth fairly.
We are not relieved of the responsibilities of duty, because
our lot is cast in an earthquake country, nor shall we lose
the rare advantages it offers us, in obedience to the great
laws of Compensation. We pay for our rare immunities in
some such currency. But it will not help us if we franti
cally deny the Law, and challenge its power.

CHAKLES DICKENS

The following editorial was hurriedly written by Bret Harte on the day
that the news of the death of Dickens reached him. He was, at this time,
camping out in the California foothills. The last sheets of the issue of
the Overland Monthly, for July, 1870, already edited by him, were going
to press. He telegraphed to San Francisco to delay the publication, and
the next morning this editorial, accompanied by his well-knowu poem,
" Dickens in Camp," was forwarded.

OF one who dealt so simply and directly with his read
er's feelings as Charles Dickens, it is perhaps fit that little
should be said that is not simple and direct. In that sense
of personal bereavement which the English -reading world
feels at his death, there is not so much the thought of what
we should say of him, as what he has said of us ; not how
we should describe his Art, but how he has depicted our
Nature. And it is to be feared that the world is so con
stituted that it will turn from finely written eulogies to
"David Copperfield," or the "Old Curiosity Shop," to in
dulge its pathos and renew its love. The best that the best
of us could say of him could not give this real man the
immortality conferred by his own pen upon some of his
humblest creations.

Indeed, it may be said of his power that no other writer,
living or dead, ever transfused fiction with so much vitality.
In the late cartoon by Mr. Eytinge, where " Mr. Pickwick "
reviews the characters of which he was the illustrious pre
decessor, — a cartoon which held a pathetic prophecy be
neath its original design, — there is no finer compliment
can be made to the greater artist than that the lesser one
could reproduce them with the fidelity of living portraits.
"Dick Swiveler," "Captain Cuttle," "Mr. Dombey,"
" Micawber " — surely these are not puppets, pulled by a

166 CHARLES DICKENS

hand that has lost its cunning in death, but living acquaint
ances, who have merely survived their introducer.

Of his humor, it may be said that for thirty years the
world has accepted it as its own — as the articulate voicing
of some sense of fun that was not so much Mr. Dickens's
as common property. A humor so large that it was not
restricted to the eccentricity of animate being, but found
fun in inanimate objects — in drawers "that had to be
opened with a knife, like an oyster," indoor-handles that
" looked as if they wanted to be wound up," in well-like
parlors " where the visitor represented the bucket " ; a hu
mor that was a delightful and innocent pantheism, and, as
in "Martin Chuzzlewit," invested even the wind with jocu
lar sympathies. The reader has but to look back to the
limitations of the humorists of a preceding age to appreciate
what the world gained thirty years ago in the wonderful
spontaneity of Mr. Dickens, and has not entirely lost now.
For its influence has been since then steadily felt in litera
ture — not entirely in the way of imitation, but in the recog
nition that humor is nearly akin to human sympathy and love.

Of his poetry perhaps the best that can be said is that
he taught us by his prose how wre could do without it : not
only through the delicate beauty of his conceptions, but in
the adaptation of his style to his thought, and the musical
procession of his sentences. Not only is the character of
" Paul Dombey " purely poetical, but the relations of sur-»
rounding objects become so, in the clock that talks to him,
the sea that whispers to him, the golden water that dances
on the wall. And so strongly is this indicated in the death
of " Little Nell," that not only are the surroundings brought
into actual sympathy with her fate, but at the last the very
diction falters, and trembles on the verge of blank verse. This
may not be poetry of the highest order, so much as it is
perhaps the highest order of prose — but it is well to re-
inember that it began with Charles Dickens.

CHARLES DICKENS 167

Of his humanity, it is pleasant now to think. He was
an optimist, without the disadvantage of being also a phil
osopher. So tender were his judgments and so poetic his
experience that the villains of his art were his weakest cre
ations. Not only in the more obvious philanthropic con
secration of his stories, — the exposition of some public
abuse, or the portrayal of some social wrong, — but in his
tender and human pictures of classes on whom the world
hitherto had bestowed but scant sentiment, was he truly
great. He brought the poor nearer to our hearts. He had
an English fondness for the Hearth — making it the theme
of one of his sweetest idyls — and the simple joys of the
domestic fireside found no finer poet. No one before him
wrote so tenderly of childhood, for no one before him carried
into the wisdom of maturity an enthusiasm so youthful — a
faith so boy-like. In his practical relations with the public
life around him, he was a reformer without fanaticism, a
philanthropist without cant. Himself an offspring of the
public press, he stood nearer in sympathy with its best ex
pression than any other literary man.

And all that is mortal of him, of whom this may be fairly
said, lies in Westminster Abbey. Around him presses the
precious dust of the good and wise — men who were great
in great things, who conferred fame upon their island and
large benefits upon mankind — but none who, in their day
and time, were mourned more widely than he. For his
grave is in every heart, and his epitaph on every hearth
stone.

LATER PROSE
STORIES

AN AMERICAN HAROUN AL-RASCHID

IT was night at the Soldiers' Home. Mr. President was
tired, Mr. President was weary, Mr. President was bewil
dered and bored. As he tossed upon his bed, a thousand
tangled recollections of that day's Executive business — of
office-giving, of proclamations, of suggestions, of advice, of
policy — knotted themselves in his brain. " If Civil Ser
vice Reform," he murmured vaguely, " were carried out at
Martinsburg, and Resumption introduced in the National
Republican Convention, so that no office-holder could pur
sue Mexican raiders into their own territory except upon
the recognition of Chief Joseph by the Diaz Government,
why — " here he fell into an uneasy slumber. All was
quiet in the mansion and the surrounding umbrage, save for
the occasional amatory howl of some old soldier, and the
coy, yet playful, " Who dat dar, now ? Leff me go, dar,"
of a passing female Ethiop.

The noise awoke Mr. President. " Old soldiers — ah,
my veteran friends ! " — he mused for a moment ; " and yet
I mind me now that in my boyhood days the term was used
to define a wad of the Nicotian leaf from which the juice
had been expressed. Strange that the epithet should have
been borrowed from the just and honored appellation given
to aged and retired defenders of the Republic. But, bless
me ! how much that sentence sounds like Evarts ! I really

am catching his style. Why, d n it all ! Ah, that

oath, too, comes from an unhallowed intimacy with John
Sherman. I must stop this and go to sleep."

He would have turned over and gone to sleep, but his
attention was at this moment arrested by a singular light in

172 AN AMERICAN HAROUN AL-RASCHID

the corner of his bedchamber, which kept increasing in bril
liancy, while the air was filled with a strange perfume of
Oriental spices and attar of rose. Gradually a figure was out
lined darkly below this brilliancy, which Mr. President now
perceived came from an enormous diamond aigrette in its
turban. The stranger was clothed in Oriental garb, and his
deep dark eyes and glossy black beard betrayed his Persian
origin. He made a profound salaam to the President, and
in a low but musical voice said : —

"I am Haroun al-Raschid."

" From Ohio ? " asked the President, with some anima
tion. " I knew an H. L. Richards of Warren."

" From Persia," responded the stranger.

" Then I must refer you to the State Department. Mr.
Evarts takes care — "

" My business is with you" replied the stranger quietly.

" But, my dear sir, there are no vacancies now, and by
the rules of Civil Service Reform the appointment clerk
must refer — "

" Son of a Giaour ! I seek no office ! "

The President rose on his elbow. " May I trouble yon
to repeat that epithet ? "

" Son of a Giaour ! "

" Well, that will do. Go on ! " And the President, as
he lay down again, said, " I thought you said something
else."

" I am here to do thee a service, infidel though thou art !
Thou dost not remember me, and yet I once sat the wise
yet despotic ruler of a throne that upheld the gorgeous East.
Look at me ! I was l Commander of the Faithful.' ''

11 1 regret to say," said the President, "that any Repub
lican Political Organization, under whatever name, renders
its chairman unfit to hold office."

" Son of Shitan, hear me ! "

« Which ? " said the President.

AN AMERICAN HAROUN AL-RASCHID 173

"Son of Shitan, listen! Marshalla! Thou shall hear
me ! To-morrow thou goest with thy prime minister to
visit thy people, to observe and note the conduct of thy ser
vants in office, to repair abuses, to punish fraud, to right the
oppressed."

" That is my little game — Excuse me," added the
President, hastily, as he muttered to himself, "I really
must drop Devens ; his slang will ruin me yet."

" Yes, but how goest thou, 0 Rutherford, the Mighty?
Why, with caravans and attendants, with Lightning, the
swift-footed, before thee, to announce thy coming ; with
drums and cymbals, with shoutings and banquets."

" If the loyalty and affection of a free people chooses to
express itself in this manner," said the President, hiding his
blushing face beneath the coverlid, "it were discourteous to
rebuke — "

" But what seest thou of thy people ? What knowest
thou of thy slaves and servants who do thy bidding ? Is
not the house made ready against thy coming ? Are not
the crippled and the maimed put out of thy sight ? Is not
the wine-jar hidden, and the bag of dates refilled ? What
knowest thou of thy meanest slave, save through the report
of his master, who haply is but fit to take his place ? Does
corruption invite thee to view its black deformity ? Do the
jackasses that defile the graves of the just caper and dance
in thy presence ? Bismillah ! "

" Go slow, old man ; go slow ! " The President again
checked himself, and muttered that he really must cut Mc-
Crary.

"I was once, 0 Frank — "

" Rutherford ! Rutherford B.," suggestingly interrupted
the President.

" I was once, 0 Frank, like unto thee. I was once ruler
of an empire that I knew not — of a people that I saw not.
I was as a dog in the hands of my slaves, doing but their

174 AN AMERICAN HAROUN AL-RASCHID

bidding, seeing with their eyes, hearing with their ears.
One night I bethought me to walk the streets of my capi
tal, disguised as a simple merchant, accompanied only by
my faithful Mesrour. Thou knowest the story. Thou re-
memberest the iniquities I discovered, the wrongs I re
dressed."

" Seems to me I do remember hearing the boys say some
thing about it. Well, that was your policy — I mean your
idea of things."

" It was my custom ; it became my glory. I was a
mighty Caliph."

"Well, I'll speak of it in Cabinet meeting to-morrow."

" Thou wilt not. Thou wilt not go alone. Unfortu
nate man, thou hast not even a Mesrour thou canst trust ! "

" I might take Fred Douglass with me," pondered the
President; "he'd do as to color, and his functions are
pretty much the same."

" Thou wilt go alone ! Thou wilt shave thy head, — thy
beard, I mean, — and in the disguise of a Western trader
thou wilt visit thy officers and cadis, thy slaves and thy
people. Thou wilt hearken to their speech, observe their
acts, and wisdom and a second term may descend on thee.
Farewell. May the Prophet console thee ! "

The light of his diamond aigrette began to fade, and
he himself to resolve into thin air.

" Oh, I say ! See here, Richards, — one question more."
But he had gone.

"I wonder if it could have been the seltzer," muttered
the President, as he turned over and went to sleep.

The sun was shining brightly when he awoke the next
morning. But the Executive face was set with a certain
resolution, and, in putting on the Executive shirt, an occa
sional muttered reference to the condition of Executive
buttons escaped his tightly drawn lips. Then he proceeded
to his dressing-table, and, with a firm hand, shaved off that

AN AMERICAN HAROUN AL-RASCHID 175

blond beard, which had been one of his most distinguish
ing characteristics. Then from a secluded closet in the at
tic he procured a pair of trousers left by the ex-President, a
waistcoat belonging to the lamented Lincoln, and a blue
coat with brass buttons, originally the property of the late
James Buchanan. The natural wear and tear of these
articles had been repaired by the sartorial art of the late
Andrew Johnson. A straw hat, inadvertently left by the
Secretary of State, completed his disguise. " Four dynasties
look down upon me," said the President with a smile, as
he surveyed himself in the glass ; but he reflected, " I
must keep that, and say it to Evarts. At present he mono
polizes all the mots."

After inditing a few lines to his wife and private secre
tary, saying that profound affairs of State took him for a
while beyond the reach of newspaper reporters, he de
scended the back stairs and speedily found himself free and
unnoticed. He took the nearest horse-car to the Executive
Mansion and stopped to look up at the great white edifice
he had occupied, and thought it was strange that it had
never seemed so imposing before. Suddenly a voice rang
in his ears : —

" Get off them flower-beds, you d d old buckeye,

afore I bust your head."

For an instant the President forgot his incognito. " Do
you know whom you address ? " he said stiffly.

" Do I ? I reckon ! You 's one of them Ohio chaps,
snoopin' around for an app'intment. Your father 's second
cousin to Mr. Hayes's grandfather, ain't he ? You waz
the first man that nominated Hayes for Guv'ner, ain't
ye ? Do I know yer ? Do I know that rig ? Look at
that hat ! — them pants ! 0 git, will you ! "

" Perhaps," thought the President, as he moved slowly
away, "my garments are, to some degree, unpopular. Let
me see, the lesson Richards would draw from this is the

176 AN AMERICAN HAROUN AL-RASCHID

promulgation of an order requiring all Government em
ployees to wear the clothes of their predecessors. Good !
I '11 sound Schurz regarding it. It will promote economy
and render him and Evarts less remarkable ! Let me see,"
he added, as he reached Pennsylvania Avenue and turned
toward the huge derricks on the State Department. " It
can't be too early for Evarts. I guess I '11 go there first."

A colored messenger doubtfully received the card ten
dered by the President, on which he had written the name
of Joshua Snively, of Ashtabula. " I think the Secretary 's
engaged all day," he said, examining the person and the
card of the Executive. " He left word he can see nobody
but princes and kings, and members of Congress to-day."

" I '11 wait," replied the Executive.

He waited four hours in the anteroom. He could n't
say that the hours were wasted, for during that time he
heard himself and his policy discussed in whispers by people
who had eaten of his bread, received his favor, and solicited
his support. Perhaps it was his quiet manner, perhaps it
was some kindliness in the heart of the messenger that
caused him to suggest to the President that he might if he
wished have an interview with the First Assistant Secretary.

" Certainly," thought the President. " He is right, I
should begin with Seward."

As he opened the door a bright, affable, middle-aged
man sprang to his feet and grasped the hand of the Presi
dent warmly. " My dear Mr. Snively, pray be seated.
You will find that chair more comfortable."

"Really," said the President to himself, as he sank into
a luxuriant armchair, " this is civil service reform. My
business," began the President aloud, " with you is
simply — "

"One moment," interrupted the Assistant Secretary,
with a cautious but deprecatory uplifting of his hand ; " be
lieve me, dear sir, you have no business with the Depart-

AN AMERICAN HAROUN AL-RASCHID 177

ment. You only think you have. In the course of my
long connection with this Department I have found many
gentlemen of culture and ability who had believed or con
ceived that they had business with us. They had not. Dear
sir, I assure you they had not. In the course of four or five
years, at least, they were convinced they had not. It is to
save you this unnecessary annoyance that I speak thus
frankly."

He smiled so affably and genially, looked so sympatheti
cally and kindly, that the President was dumb. At last
he ventured to say : —

" But I think, Mr. Seward — "

" Pardon me. You only think you think. Nobody, as
a rule, thinks in this Department. We talk, it is true.
You talk, I talk, they talk. He, she, and it talks. But I
do not think, thou dost not think, they do not think."

"Believe me, my dear sir," said the Assistant Secretary,
rising suddenly and grasping both hands of the Executive
with an excess of courtesy, " you will return in the course of
a few months to your pleasant home in Ashtabula County
satisfied, nay convinced, that you never had any business
with the State Department. Nay, sir," as the President
struggled to speak, " do not thank me, it is simply my
duty. God bless you. Farewell ! "

And before the President could catch his breath he was
ushered into the corridor. For an instant the hot Ohio
blood mantled his cheek, and then a thought struck him.
He slipped back into the anteroom and in his own well-
known chirography wrote over the Snively card the man
date : " Give him an audience. R. B. Hayes."

The messenger took the card, glanced at the writing,
rushed frantically into the office of the Secretary, returned,
knocked over two Congressmen and a Senator in his haste,
and half-led, half-dragged the President into the presence
of the Secretary.

178 AN AMERICAN HAROUN AL-RASCHID

In the dim light of the room all the President could see
was the familiar Ciceronian profile of his prime minister.
The rest of his body was draped in shadow.

The President sat down in the chair indicated by the
finger of the Secretary. The Secretary looked thoughtfully
out of the window, and after a first half-glance at the Presi
dent took no further personal notice of him.

In the excitement of his entrance the President had
forgotten his alleged business. He was obliged hastily to
invent something.

"Some years ago, Mr. Secretary," he began, "I lost an
aged but endeared relative in the island of Formosa. My
business with you is to procure an order for the removal of
her bones to the lonely graveyard of her relatives."

" What island ? " said Mr. Evarts, apparently addressing
the unfinished shaft of the Washington Monument.

" Formosa."

"I see — in the North Atlantic," said the Secretary nod
ding his. head.

" Pardon me — in the South Pacific," corrected the Presi
dent, who was proud of his geography.

"In the Atlantic and Pacific," said Mr. Evarts gravely.
" Formosa is from the Latin form.es, an Ant, so called from
the ravages of that insect. Hence the term Ant-illes applied
to the West Indian group — being evidently a corruption
of Ant-Hillys."

"But I suppose there is no objection to my getting such
an order ? " asked the President hastily.

" That remains to be seen. How do you know — hou
could you identify the bones of your aged relative ? Are you
prepared, " said the Secretary, rising to his feet with sudden
severity, and turning upon the Executive as if he were a
recalcitrant witness, "are you prepared to put your finger
on this bone and say it is the tibia of my relative ; can you
swear to her spinal processes ; can you, lifting her fleshless

AN AMERICAN HAKOUN AL-KASCHID 179

hand, say, ' These are the metacarpal hones I have so often
pressed ? ' You were familiar with her only in the flesh.
Non constat that these bones are hers originally. No. I
should require an attested certificate of that fact."

" But if I get the certificate, will you promise to give
me the order ? "

" I am not prepared to say yes or no. I might, and I
might not. A delicate legal question arises here, which it
is my duty to consider. Your grand-aunt probably fell a
victim to the peculiar tastes of the Anthropophagi who swarm
those islands. At least, for the sake of argument we will
admit that at one time your family was edible, and that your
relative was — in plain language — eaten. Now a nation,
at peace with the United States, having, according to their
local laws, become seized and possessed of the flesh of your
aunt, I am not certain but the entire skeleton may also
belong to them. When you get a piece of meat from your
butcher you do not part with your rights to the bone. In
deed, I am not certain but an action would lie against the
United States in the event of the forcible removal of your
relative."

" Then nothing can be done," said the President blankly.

"At present, no! In the course of a few years — in
which I need not say no particular loss of property will be
entailed upon you — I will look into it. You will file your
papers with my clerk."

" But I might appeal to the President."

" I am, for these purposes, the President. Good-morn
ing, sir." And the Secretary took up another card.

"I don't see," said the President to himself, as he
heavily descended the stairs, " that I 'm doing much in the
Persian way of business. I can't bow-string Seward and
Evarts, and I don't know that I ought to if I could. I
wish I could get hold of some real wrong and injustice."

As he passed a large building on Pennsylvania Avenue

180 AN AMERICAN HAROUN AL-RASCHID

he saw an old man, in shabby attire, sitting patiently on its
steps. He remembered to have seen this man every morn
ing as he drove into town, and thought the present a good
opportunity to discover his business. "May I ask the name
of this building ? " said the President kindly.

" It is called the Department of Justice," said the man
bitterly. " I suppose because it is built up on the ruins of
a fraud — the Freedman's Bank."

" You speak bitterly, my friend. Have you a complaint
against it?" said the President encouragingly.

" I 've sat here five-and-twenty years waiting to know
whether the Government would protect me from thieves
that stole my land. I am poor ; my antagonists are rich.
I can get no opinion. The case never comes up."

" Have you spoken to the President ? " said the Execu
tive softly. " They say he is a kind, just man," he added,
with a slight blush.

"What, Hayes, that d d old fraud? No, sir-ree!

Why, he 's in the ring, ag'in' me, too."

" But give me the particulars of your case. I know the
President well, and may help you."

The old man rose to his feet, trembling with rage. " You
infernal old brass-buttoned lobbyist; you dare to speak to
me when I Jve spent thousands of dollars on your kind !
Git!"

"I wonder," thought the President, as he dodged to avoid
the cane of the old man, "if that old Persian ever was
knocked over by a cripple in the streets of Bagdad?"

He looked at his watch, and found he had spent six hours
at the State Department. He was beginning to be faint
from hunger, and he turned into the first restaurant that in
vited. As he passed the bar he heard his name spoken, and
remembering the advice of Haroun, ordered a glass of seltzer,
and mingled with the crowd before the counter. Some of
the gentlemen were tipsy ; all were loquacious.

AN AMERICAN IIAROUN AL-RASCHID 181

"I tell you what, gentlemen, what that Hayes oughter
do. He oughter order out 200,000 men and take possession
of all them railroads," said one.

"And then he oughter just run them railroads with
reg'lar tariff of freights and fares himself, and employ them
men at fair wages."

" Yes, but that ain't the kind o' man Hayes is. Why,
if he had the sabe o' you and me, he 'd jist hev sent enough
troops over into Mexico and jist gobbled enough o' that
kentry to pay the national debt."

"I tell you, gentlemen, there ain't no statesmanship in
the country. Look at the chance we had to get Cuby the
other day, along o' that frigate firing into American colors.
That Evarts ain't worth shucks."

" I suppose," thought the President wearily, "it's the
proper Persian thing to make a memorandum of these opin
ions of the people and present them to the Cabinet. But
I don't see that I am gaining much."

A little refreshed by his dinner, he made his way to the
Interior Department. As he ascended the steps a man
passed him hurriedly, as if seeking to enter without obser
vation. Forgetting his incognito for a moment, the Presi
dent called out, " 0 Schurz ? "

The man leaped wildly into the air, shuddered, grimaced,
and shouting "No vacancies," disappeared madly down the
corridor.

" Poor Carl ! " said the President. " Well, I won't dis
turb him. But why, after all, is he so incensed at office-
seekers — he who has sought office all his life ? "

Communing thus, the President went from office to office,
from bureau to bureau, but always with the same result.
There was no complaint, no approbation ; the cold indiffer
ence of a vast piece of complicated machinery seemed to con
trol the entire building, until an unlooked-for event gave
the President an opportunity to exercise his generous, just,

182 AX AMERICAN IIAROUN AL-RASCHID

and chivalrous Persian instincts. Passing through the ante
room, he saw a very pretty girl drying her wet eyes in the
corner. Struck by her grief and her heauty, the President
approached her with a mingled fatherly kindness and magis
terial condescension, and begged to know* the reason of her
distress.

"I have just been dismissed from the service/' she said,
with a heart-broken sob.

" And why, my dear ? "

" Because my second cousin is carpenter in the navy yard
at Mare Island."

"Have you spoken to the President?"

" The President ! " she exclaimed, with a sudden straight
ening of her pretty brow. " The President — why, it is to
give one of his friends from Ohio a place that the Secretary
hunted up this relationship ! Don't talk to me about
Hayes!"

The President pondered. He did remember his applica
tion. But here was a chance to be generous and just —
and a man could as well be discharged as a woman. And
then he could do it romantically, and after the Persian fash
ion. He could make an appointment to meet her, have her
driven to the White House, and then reveal himself in all
his power as a wise and humane ruler.

" Listen, I will speak to the President for you," he said,
taking her little hand.

" Oh, thank you ; you are too kind," she said gratefully,
yet looking at him a little curiously.

" Hear me, my dear. To-night at eight o'clock, be at
the corner of Ninth and F Streets. A close carriage will
be in waiting, and the driver will take you — no matter
where, but where possibly your wish may be obtained."

To the President's intense terror, the young woman in
stantly set up an appalling scream, fell backward in her
chair, and began to violently kick her heels against the floor.

AN AMERICAN HAROUN AL-RASCHID 183

In an instant the room was filled with clerks of 1st, 2d, 3d,
4th and 16th class, armed with erasers and headed by the
tall form of the Secretary himself, brandishing a huge beet
from the Agricultural Department.

"There he stands," screamed the indignant girl; "look
at him, the old reprobate, the hoary-headed villain ! "

" What has he done ? " said the Secretary.

" Proposed to me an infamous elopement if he could re
instate me in my place. Wanted to meet me in a carriage
after dark, and before all these people, too ! Oh, the shame-
lass rascal ! "

There was an indignant outcry from the masculine clerks,
a titter from the females. Schurz advanced flourishing his
dreadful vegetable. The President looked wildly round —
there was but one mode of escape, the window ! It was
desperate, but he took it, and — landed in the middle of his
bed.

" The party are waiting for you, Mr. President," said
the voice of his secretary at his side.

" Oh," said the President, rubbing his eyes, "I'm coin
ing. I see now. It must have been the seltzer."

THE FIKST MAN

SOME repairs were needed to the engine when the train
reached Reno, and while most of the passengers were taking
a philosophical view of the delay and making themselves as
comfortable as possible in the depot, in walked a native.
He was n't a native Indian nor a native grizzly, but a native
Nevadian, and he was rigged out in imperial style. He
wore a bearskin coat and cap, buckskin leggings and mocca
sins, and in his belt was a big knife and two revolvers.
There was lightning in his eye, destruction in his walk, and
as he sauntered up to the red-hot stove and scattered to
bacco juice over it, a dozen passengers looked pale with
iear. Among the travelers was a car painter from Jersey
City, and after surveying the native for a moment, he
coolly inquired : —

" Are n't you afraid you '11 fall down and hurt yourself
with those weapons ? "

" W — what ! " gasped the native in astonishment.

" I suppose they sell such outfits as you 've got on at
Auction out here, don't they ? " continued the painter.

"W — what d'ye mean — who are ye?77 whispered the
Dative, as he walked around the stove arid put on a terrible
look.

"My name is Logwood," was the calm reply; "and I
mean that if I were you 1 'd crawl out of those old duds and
put on some decent clothes ! "

" Don't talk to me that way, or you won't live a minit ! "
exclaimed the native as he hopped around. " Why, you
homesick coyote. I am Grizzly Dan, the heaviest Indian
<ighter in the world. I was the first white man to scout for

THE FIUST MAN 185

General Crook ! I was the first white man in the Black
Hills ! I was the first white man among the Modocs ! "

" I don't helieve it," flatly replied the painter. " You
look more like the first man down to the dinner table ! "

The native drew his knife, put it back again, looked
around, and then softly said : —

" Stranger, will ye come over behind the ridge, and shoot
and slash until this thing is settled ? "

" You bet I will ! " replied the man from Jersey, as he
rose to his feet. "Just pace right out and I'll follow
you ! "

Every man in the room jumped to his feet in wild ex
citement. The native started for the back door, but when
he found the car painter at his heels with a six-barreled Colt
in his hands, he halted and said: —

" Friend, come to think about it, I don't want to kill you,
and have your widow come on me for damages ! "

" Go right ahead — I'm not a married man," replied
the painter.

" But you 've got relatives, and I don't want no lawsuits
to bother me just as spring is coming."1

"I'm an orphan, without a relative in the world!"
shouted the Jerseyite.

" Well, the law would make me bury you, and it would
be a week's work to dig a grave at this season of the year.
I think I '11 break a rib or two for you, smash your nose,
gouge out your left eye, and let you go at that ! "

" That suits me to a dot," said the painter. " Gentle
men, please stand back, and some of you shut the door to
the ladies' room."

" I was the first man to attack a grizzly bear with a
bowie-knife," remarked the native as he looked around. " I
was the first man to discover silver in Nevada. I made
the first scout up Powder River. I was the first man to
make hunting-shirts out of the skin of Pawnee Indians. I

186 THE FIRST MAN

don't want to hurt this man, as he looks kinder sad and
down-hearted, but he must apologize to me."

"I won't do it," cried the painter.

11 Gentlemen, I never fight without taking off my coat,
and I don't see any man here to hang it on," said the
native.

"I'll hold it," shouted a dozen voices in chorus.

"And another thing," softly continued the native, "I
never fight in a hot room. I used to do it years ago, hut
I found it was running me into consumption. I always do
my fighting out of doors now."

"I '11 go out with you, you old rabbit-killer ! " exclaimed
the painter, who had his coat off.

" That 's another deadly insult, to be wiped out in blood,
and I see I must finish you. I never fight around a depot,
though. I go out on a prairie, where there is a chance to
throw myself."

" Where 's your prairie ? — lead the way ! " howled the
crowd.

" It would n't do any good," replied the native, as he
leaned against the wall. " I always hold a $10 gold-piece
in rny mouth when I fight, and I have n't got one to-day —
in fact, I'm dead broke."

" Here 's a gold-piece ! " called a tall man, holding up the
metal.

" I 'm a thousand times obleeged," mournfully replied the
native, shaking his head. " I never go into a fight without
putting red paint on my left ear for luck; and I haven't
any red paint by me, and there isn't a bit in Reno."

" Are — you — going — to — fight ? " demanded the car
painter, reaching out for the bearskin cap.

" I took a solemn oath when a boy never to fight without
painting my left ear," protested the Indian killer. " You
would n't want me to go back on my solemn oath, would
you?"

THE FIRST MAX 187

" You 're a cabbage, a squash, a pumpkin, dressed up in
leggings ! " contemptuously remarked the car painter, as he
put on his coat.

" Yes, he 's a great coward," remarked several others as
they turned away.

"I'll give $10,000 for ten drops of red paint," shrieked
the native. " Oh ! Why is it that I have no red paint for
my ear when there is such a chance to get in and kill ? "

A big blacksmith from Illinois took him by the neck and
ran him out, and he was seen no more for an hour. Just before
the train started, and after all the passengers had taken
seats, the " first man " was seen on the platform. He had
another bowie knife, and had also put a tomahawk in his
belt. There was red paint on his left ear, his eyes rolled,
and in a terrible voice he called out : —

" Where is that man Logwood ? Let him come out here
and meet his doom ! "

" Is that you ? Count me in ! " replied the car painter,
as he opened a window. He rushed for the door, leaped
down, and was pulling off his overcoat again, when the
native began to retreat, calling out : —

" I '11 get my hair cut and be back in seventeen seconds.
I never fight with long hair. I promised my dying mother
not to."

When the train rolled away, he was seen flourishing his
tomahawk around his head in the wildest manner.

RETIRING FROM BUSINESS

WHAT the Colonel's business was nobody knew, nor did
anybody care, particularly. He purchased for cash only,
and he never grumbled at the price of anything he wanted;
who could ask more than that?

Curious people occasionally wondered how, when it had
been fully two years since the Colonel, with every one else,
had abandoned Dutch Creek to the Chinese, he managed to
spend money freely and to lose considerable at cards and
horse races. In fact, the keeper of that one of the two
Challenge Hill saloons which the Colonel did not patronize,
was once heard to absent-mindedly wonder whether the
Colonel had n't a money-mill somewhere where he turned
out double eagles and " slugs" (the Coast name for fifty-
dollar gold-pieces).

When so important a personage as a barkeeper indulged
publicly in an idea, the inhabitants of Challenge Hill, like
good Californians everywhere, considered themselves in duty
bound to give it grave consideration ; so for a few days cer
tain industrious professional gentlemen, who won money of
the Colonel, carefully weighed some of the brightest pieces,
and tried them with acids, and tested them, and sawed them
up, and had the lumps assayed. The result was a complete
vindication of the Colonel, and a loss of considerable cus
tom to the indiscreet barkeeper.

The Colonel was as good-natured a man as had ever been
know at Challenge Hill, but, being mortal, the Colonel had
his occasional times of despondency, and one of them oc
curred after a series of races in which he had staked his all
on his own bay mare Tipsie, and had lost.

RETIRING FROM BUSINESS 189

Looking reproachfully at his beloved animal, he failed to
heed the aching void of his pockets ; and drinking deeply,
swearing eloquently, and glaring defiantly at all mankind
were equally unproductive of coin.

The boys at the saloon sympathized most feelingly with the
Colonel ; they were unceasing in their invitations to drink,
and they even exhibited considerable Christian forbearance
when the Colonel savagely dissented with every one who
advanced any proposition, no matter how incontrovertible.

But unappreciated sympathy grows decidedly tiresome to
the giver, and it was with a feeling of relief that the boys
saw the Colonel stride out of the saloon, mount Tipsie, and
gallop furiously away.

Riding on horseback has always been considered an ex
cellent sort of exercise, and fast riding is universally ad
mitted to be one of the most healthful and delightful means
of exhilaration in the world.

But when a man is so absorbed in his exercise that he
•will not stop to speak to a friend, and when his exhilaration
is so complete that he turns his eyes from well-meaning
thumbs pointing significantly into doorways through which
a man has often passed while seeking bracing influences, it
is but natural that people should express some wonder.

The Colonel was well known at Toddy Flat, Lone Hand,
Blazers, Murderer's Bar, and several other villages through
which he passed. As no one had been seen to precede him,
betting men were soon offering odds that the Colonel was
running away from somebody.

Strictly speaking, they were wrong ; but they won all the
money that had been staked against them, for, within half
an hour's time, there passed over the same road an anxious-
looking individual, who reined up in front of the principal
saloon of each place, and asked if the Colonel had passed.

Had the gallant Colonel known that he was followed, and
by whom, there would have been an extra election held at

190 RETIRING FROM BUSINESS

the latter place very shortly after, for the pursuer was the
constable of Challenge Hill ; and for constables and all offi
cers of the law the Colonel possessed hatred of unspeakable
intensity.

On galloped the Colonel, following the stage road, which
threaded the old mining-camps on Duck Creek ; but sud
denly he turned abruptly out of the road and urged his
horse through the young pines and bushes, which grew
thickly by the road, while the constable galloped rapidly on
to the next camp.

There seemed to be no path through the thicket into
which the Colonel had turned, but Tipsie waled between
the trees and shrubs as if they were the familiar objects of
her own stable-yard. Suddenly a voice from the bushes
shouted : —

"What 'sup?"

"Business — that's what," replied the Colonel.

"It 's time,'' replied the voice ; and its owner — a bearded
six-footer — emerged from the bushes, and stroked Tipsie's
nose with the freedom of an old acquaintance. " We ain't
had a nip since last night, and thar ain't a cracker or a
handful of flour in the shanty. The old gal go back on yer?"

" Yes, " replied the Colonel ruefully ; " lost every blarsted
race. 'T was n't her fault — bless her — she done her level
best. Ev'rybody to home ? "

" You bet," said the man. " All been a-prayin' for yer
to turn up with the rocks, an' somethin' with more color
than spring water. Come on."

The man led the way, and Tipsie and the Colonel fol
lowed, and the trio suddenly found themselves before a
small log hut, but in front of which sat three solemn, dis
consolate individuals, who looked appealingly to the Colo
nel

" Mac '11 tell yer how 't was, fellers," said the Colonel
meekly, " while I picket the mare."

RETIRING FROM BUSINESS 191

The Colonel was absent but a very few moments, but
when he returned each of the four was attired in pistols
and knife, while Mac was distributing some dominos, made
from a rather dirty flour-bag.

"'T ain't so late ez all that, is it?'7 inquired the Colo
nel.

" Better be an hour ahead than miss it this 'ere night,"
said one of the four. " I ain't been so thirsty since I
come round the Horn in '50, an' we run short of water.
Somebody '11 get hurt if ther ain't any bitters on the old
concern — they will, or my name ain't Perkins."

" Don't count on your chickens 'fore they 're hatched,
Perky," said one of the party, as he adjusted the domino
under the rim of his hat. " S'posin, there shud be too
many for us ? "

" Stiddy, stiddy, Cranks," remonstrated the Colonel.
" Nobody ever gets along ef they 'low 'emselves to be
skeered."

" Fact," chimed in the smallest and thinnest man in the
party. " The Bible says somethin' mighty hot 'bout that:
I disremember adzackly how it goes ; but I 've heerd Parson
Buzzy, down in Maine, preach a rippin' old sermon many
a time. The old man never thort what a comfort them ser
mons wuz a-goin' to be to a road agent, though. That time
we stopped Slim Mike's stage, and he did n't hev no more
manners than to draw on me, them sermons wuz a perfect
blessing to me — the thought of 'em cleared my head as
quick as a cocktail. An' — "

" I don't want to dispute Logroller's pious strain," inter
rupted the Colonel ; " but ez it 's Old Black that 's drivin*
to-day instead of Slim Mike, an' ez Old Black allers makes
his time, had n't we better vamoose ? "

The door of the shanty was hastily closed, and the men
filed through the thicket until near the road, when they
marched rapidly on in parallel lines with it. After about

192 RETIRING FROM BUSINESS

half an hour, Perkins, who was leading, halted and wiped
his perspiring brow with his shirt-sleeve.

" Fur enough from home now," said he. " 'T aint no
use bein' a gentleman ef yer have to work too hard."

" Safe enough, I reckon," replied the Colonel. " We '11
do the usual ; I '11 halt 'em, Logroller 'tends to the driver,
Cranks takes the boot, an' Mac an' Perk takes right an' left.
An' — I know it 's tough — but considerin' how everlastin'
eternally hard-up we are, I reckon we '11 have to ask contribu
tions from the ladies, too, ef thar 's any aboard — eh, boys? "

" Reckon so," replied Logroller, with a chuckle that
seemed to inspire even his black domino with a merry
wrinkle or two. '''What's the use of woman's rights ef
they don't ever have a chance of exercisin' 'em? Hevin'
their purses borrowed 'ud show 'em the hull doctrine in a
bran-new light."

" Come, come, old boys," interposed the Colonel, " that 's
the crack of Old Black's whip ! Pick yer bushes — quick!
All jump when I whistle ! "

Each man secreted himself near the roadside. The stage
came swinging along handsomely ; the insides were laugh
ing heartily about something ; and Old Black was just giv
ing a delicate touch to the flank of the off leader, when the
Colonel gave a shrill, quick whistle, and five men sprang
into the road.

The horses stopped as suddenly as if it were a matter of
common occurrence. Old Black dropped the reins, crossed
his legs, and stared into the sky, and the passengers all put
out their heads with a rapidity equaled only by that with
which they withdrew them as they saw the dominos and
revolvers of the road agents.

" Seems to be something the matter, gentlemen," said
the Colonel blandly, as he opened the door. " Won't you
please get out? Don't you trouble yourself to draw, 'cos
my friend here 's got his weapon cocked, an' his fingers is

RETIRING FROM BUSINESS 193

rather nervous. Ain't got a handkerchief, hev yer ? " asked
he of the first passenger who descended from the stage.
" Hev ? Well, now, that 's lucky. Just put yer hands
behind you, please, — so, — that's it." And the unfortu
nate man was securely bound in an instant.

The remaining passengers were treated with similar cour
tesy, and the Colonel and his friends examined the pockets
of the captives. Old Black remained unmolested, for who
ever heard of a stage-driver having money ?

" Boys," said the Colonel, calling his brother agents aside,
and comparing receipts, " 't aint much of a haul ; but there ?s
only one woman, an' she 's old enough to be a feller's grand
mother. Better let her alone, eh ? "

" Like enough she '11 pan out more 'n all the rest of the
stage put together," growled Cranks, carefully testing the
thickness of the case of a gold watch. "Just like the low
lived deceitfulness of some folks to hire an old woman to
carry their money, so it 'd go safer. Maybe what she 's got
ain't nothin' to some folks that 's got bosses that kin win
money at races, but — "

The Colonel abruptly ended the conversation and ap
proached the stage. He was very chivalrous, but Cranks's
sarcastic reference to Tipsie needed avenging, and as he could
not, consistently with business arrangements, put an end to
Cranks, the old lady would have to suffer.

" I beg your pardin, ma'am," said the Colonel, raising his
hat politely with one hand while he opened the coach door
with the other, " but we 're takin' up a collection for some
deservin' object. We wuz a-goin' to make the gentlemen
fork over the full amount, but ez they ain't got enough,
we will hev to bother you."

The old lady trembled, felt for her pocketbook, raised
her veil. The Colonel looked into her face, slammed the
stage door, and sitting on the hub of one of the wheels,
stared vacantly into space.

194 RETIRING FROM BUSINESS

" Nothin' ? " queried Perkins in a whisper, and with a
face full of genuine sympathy.

" No — yes," said the Colonel dreamily. " That is, untie
'em and let the stage go ahead," he continued, springing
to his feet. " I '11 hurry back to the cabin." And the
Colonel dashed into the bushes and left his followers so
paralyzed that Old Black afterward remarked that "ef
there 'd been anybody to the bosses he could hev cleaned
the hull crowd with his whip."

The passengers, now relieved of their weapons, were
unbound, allowed to enter the stage, and the door was
slammed, upon which Old Black picked up his reins as
coolly as if he had laid them down at a station while the
horses were being changed ; then he cracked his whip and
the stage rolled off, while the Colonel's party hastened back
to their hut, fondly inspecting as they went certain flasks
they had obtained while transacting their business with the
occupants of the stage.

Great was the surprise of the road agents as they entered
their hut, for there stood the Colonel in a clean white shirt,
and in a suit of clothing made from the limited, spare ward
robes of the other members of the gang.

But the suspicious Cranks speedily subordinated his won
der to his prudence, as, laying on the table a watch, two
pistols, a pocketbook, and a heavy purse, he exclaimed : —

"Come, Colonel, business before pleasure; let's divide
an' scatter. Ef anybody should hear about this robbery, an'
find our trail, an' ketch the traps in our possession, they
might — "

"Divide yerselves," said the Colonel, with abruptness
and a great oath ; " I don't want none of it."

" Colonel," said Perkins, removing his own domino and
looking anxiously into the leader's face, " be you sick ?
Here 's some bully brandy which I found in one of the pas
sengers' pockets."

RETIRING FROM BUSINESS . 195

" I hain't nothin'," replied the Colonel, with averted
eyes. " I 'm a-goin', and I 'm a-retirin' from this business,
forever."

" Ain't a-goin' to turn evidence ? " cried Cranks, grasp
ing the pistol on the table.

" I 'in a-goin' to make a lead mine of you ef you don't
take that back ! " roared the Colonel, with a bound which
caused Cranks to drop the pistol and retire precipitately,
apologizing as he went. " I 'm a-goin' to 'tend to my own
business, an' that's enough to keep any man bizzy. Some
body lend me fifty dollars till I see him ag'in."

Perkins pressed the money into the Colonel's hand, and
within two minutes the Colonel was on Tipsie's back and
had galloped off in the direction the stage had taken.

He overtook it, he passed it, and still he galloped on.

The people at Mud Gulch, knew the Colonel well, and
made a rule never to be astonished at anything he did ; but
they made an exception to the rule when the Colonel can
vassed the principal barrooms for men who wished to pur
chase a horse; and when a gambler who was flush obtained
Tipsie for twenty slugs, — only a thousand dollars, when the
Colonel had always said that there was n't gold enough on
top of ground to buy her, — Mud Gulch experienced a de
cided sensation.

One or two enterprising persons soon discovered that the
Colonel was not in a communicative mood ; so every one
retired to his favorite saloon to bet according to his own
opinion of the Colonel's motives and actions.

But when the Colonel, after remaining in a barber shop
for half an hour, emerged with his face clean-shaved and hair
neatly trimmed and parted, betting was so wild that a cool-
headed sporting man speedily made a fortune by betting
against every theory that was advanced.

Then the Colonel made a tour of the stores and fitted him
self with a new suit of clothes, carefully eschewing all of the

196 RETIRING FROM BUSINESS

generous patterns and pronounced colors so dear to the aver
age miner. He bought a new hat, and put on a pair of
boots, and pruned his finger nails, and, stranger than all, he
mildly declined all invitations to drink.

As the Colonel stood in the door of the principal saloon
where the stage always stopped, the Challenge Hill constable
was seen to approach the Colonel and tap him on the
shoulder, upon which all men who bet that the Colonel was
dodging somebody claimed the stakes. But those who
stood near the Colonel heard the constable say : —

" Colonel, I take it all back. When I seed you get out
of Challenge Hill it come to me that you might be in the
road-agent business, so I follered you — duty, you know.
But when I seed you sell Tipsie I knew I was on the wrong
trail. I would n't suspect you now if all the stages in the
State wuz robbed ; and I '11 give you satisfaction any way
you want it."

"It's all right," said the Colonel, with a smile.

The constable afterward said that nobody had any idea
of how curiously the Colonel smiled when his beard was off.

Suddenly the stage pulled up at the door with a crash,
and the male passengers hurried into the saloon in a state
of utter indignation and impecuniosity.

The story of the robbery attracted everybody, and during
the excitement the Colonel quietly slipped out and opened
the door of the stage. The old lady started, and cried : —

" George ! "

And the Colonel jumped into the stage and put his arms
tenderly around the trembling form of the old lady, exclaim
ing : —

" Mother ! "

A GENTLEMAN OF LA POKTE

HE was also a Pioneer. A party who broke through the
snows of the winter of ' 51, and came upon the triangular
little valley afterwards known as La Porte, found him the
sole inhabitant. He had subsisted for three months on two
biscuits a day and a few inches of bacon, in a hut made of
bark and brushwood. Yet, when the explorers found him,
he was quite alert, hopeful, and gentlemanly. But I cheer
fully make way here for the terser narrative of Captain
Henry Symes, commanding the prospecting party: —

" We kern upon him, gentlemen, suddent-like, jest abreast
.of a rock like this" — demonstrating the distance — "ez
near ez you be. He sees us, and he dives into his cabin
and comes out ag'in with a tall hat, — a stovepipe, gentle
men, — and, blank me ! gloves ! He was a tall, thin feller,
holler in the cheek, — ez might be, — and off color in his
face, ez was nat'ral, takin' in account his starvation grub.
But he lifts his hat to us, so, and sez he, ' Happy to make
your acquaintance, gentlemen ! I 'm afraid you ex-per-
ienced some difficulty in getting here. Take a cigyar.'
And he pulls out a fancy cigar-case with two real Havanas
in it. ' I wish there was more,' sez he.

" ' Ye don 't smoke yourself ? ' sez I.

" 'Seldom,' sez he ; which was a lie, for that very arter-
noon I seed him hangin' ontu a short pipe like a suckin'
baby ontu a bottle. ' I kept these cigyars for any gentle
man that might drop in.'

" ' I reckon ye see a great deal o' the best society yer,'
sez Bill Parker, starin' at the hat and gloves and winkin*
at the boys.

198 A GENTLEMAN OF LA PORTE

" *A few Ind-i-ans occasionally,' sez he.

" * Injins! ' sez we.

" * Yes. Very quiet good fellows in their way. They
have once or twice brought me game, which I refused, as
the poor fellows have had a pretty hard time of it them
selves.'

" Now, gentlemen, we was, ez you know, rather quiet
men — rather peaceable men ; but — hevin' been shot at
three times by these yar * good ' Injins, and Parker hisself
bavin' a matter o' three inches of his own skelp lying loose
in their hands and he walkin' round wearin' green leaves
on his head like a Roman statoo — it did kinder seem ez
if this yer stranger was playin' it rather low down on the
boys. Bill Parker gets up and takes a survey o' him, and
sez he, peaceful-like —

"'Ye say these yer Injins — these yer quiet Injins —
offered yer game ? '

" ' They did ! ' sez he.

" ' And you refoosed ? '

'« I did,' sez he.

" ' Must hev made 'em feel kinder bad — sorter tortered
> their sensitiv' naters ? ' sez Bill.

" ( They really seemed quite disappointed.'

" ' In course,' sez Bill. ' And now mout I ask who you be ? '

" 'Excuse me,' says the stranger; and. darn my skin ! if
he does n't hist out a keerd-case, and, handin' it over to
Bill, sez, 'Here's my kyard.'

"Bill took it and read out aloud, 'jJ^TroU^J^entucky. '

" 'It's a pooty keerd,' sez Bill.

" 'I'm glad you like it,' says the stranger.

" ' I reckon the other fifty-one of the deck ez as pooty —
all of 'em Jacks and left bowers,' sez Bill.

" The stranger sez nothin ', but kinder draws back from
Bill ; but Bill ups and sez —

" ' Wot is your little game, Mister J. Trott, of Kentucky ?'

A GENTLEMAN OF LA PORTE 199

" ' I don 't think I quite understand you,' sez the stranger,
a holler fire comin ' intu his cheeks like ez if they was the
bowl of a pipe.

" l Wot 's this yer kid-glove business ? — this yer tall hat
paradin'? — this yer circus foolin' ? Wot's it all about?
Who are ye, anyway ? '

" The stranger stands up, and sez he, ' Ez I don't quarrel
with guests on my own land,' sez he, * I think you '11 allow
I 'm — a gentleman ! ' sez he.

" With that he takes off his tall hat and makes a low
bow, so, and turns away — like this; but Bill lites out of a
suddent with his right foot and drives his No. 10 boot clean
through the crown of that tall hat like one o' them circus
hoops.

"That's about ez fur ez I remember. Gentlemen ! thar
wa'n't but one man o' that hull crowd ez could actooally
swear what happened next, and that man never told. For
a kind o' whirlwind jest then took place in that valley. I
disremember any thin' but dust and bustlin'. Thar wasn't
no yellin', thar wasn't no shootin'. It was one o' them
suddent things that left even a six-shooter out in the cold.
When I kem to in the chapparel — bein' oncomfortable like
from hevin ' only half a shirt on — I found nigh on three
pounds o' gravel and stones in my pockets and a stiffness
in my ha'r. I looks up and sees Bill hangin' in the forks
of a hickory saplin' twenty feet above me.

" ' Cap,' sez he, in an inquirin' way, ' hez the tornado

" < Which ? ' sez I.

" ' This yer elemental disturbance — is it over ? '

" < I reckon,' sez I.

" ' Because,' sez he, 'afore this yer electrical phenomenon
took place I bed a slight misunderstanding with a stranger,
and I'd like to apologize ! '

"And with that he climbs down, peaceful-like, and goes into

200 A GENTLEMAN OF LA PORTE

the shanty, and comes out, hand in hand with that stranger,
smilin' like an infant. And that 's the first time, I reckon,
we know'd anythin' about the gentleman of La Porte."

It is by no means improbable that the above incidents
are slightly exaggerated in narration, and the cautious reader
will do well to accept with some reservation the particular
phenomenon alluded to by the Captain. But the fact re
mains that the Gentleman of La Porte was allowed an eccen
tricity and enjoyed an immunity from contemporaneous
criticism only to be attributed to his personal prowess. In
deed, this was once publicly expressed. " It 'pears to me,"
said a meek newcomer, — who, on the strength of his hav
ing received news of the death of a distant relative in the
" States," had mounted an exceedingly large crape mourn
ing-band on his white felt hat, and was consequently obliged
to " treat " the crowd in the barroom of Parker's Hotel, —
" it 'pears to me, gentlemen, that this yer taxin' the nat'ral
expression of grief, and allowin' such festive exhibitions as
yaller kid gloves, on the gentleman on my right, is sorter
inconsistent. I don't mind treatin' the crowd, gentlemen,
but this yer platform and resolutions don't seem to keep
step."

This appeal to the Demos of every American crowd, of
course, precluded any reply from the Gentleman of La Porte,
but left it to the palpable chairman — the barkeeper, Mr.
William Parker.

" Young man," he replied severely, " when ye can wear
yaller kids like that man and make 'em hover in the air
like summer lightnin', and strike in four places to onct ! —
then ye kin talk^ Then ye kin wear your shirt half-masted
if ye like ! " A sentiment to which the crowd assenting,
the meek man paid for the drinks, and would have, in ad
dition, taken off his mourning-band, but was courteously
stopped by the Gentleman of La Porte.

A GENTLEMAN OF LA PORTE 201

And yet, I protest, there was little suggestive of this
baleful prowess in his face and figure. He was loose-jointed
and long-limbed, yet with a certain mechanical, slow rigidity
of movement that seemed incompatible with alacrity and
dexterity. His arms were unusually long, and his hands
hung with their palms forward. In walking his feet "toed
in," suggesting an aboriginal ancestry. His face, as I re
member it, was equally inoffensive. Thin and melancholy,
the rare smile that lit it up was only a courteous reception
of some attribute of humor in another which he was unable
himself to appreciate. His straight black hair and high
cheek-bones would have heightened his Indian resemblance ;
but these were offset by two most extraordinary eyes that
were utterly at variance with this, or, indeed, any other,
suggestion of his features. They were yellowish-blue, glo
bular, and placidly staring. They expressed nothing that
the Gentleman of La Porte thought — nothing that he did —
nothing that he might reasonably be expected to do. They
were at variance with his speech, his carriage, even his re
markable attire. More than one irreverent critic had sug
gested that he had probably lost his own eyes in some fron
tier difficulty, and had hurriedly replaced them with those
of his antagonist.

Had this ingenious hypothesis reached the ears of the
Gentleman, he would probably have contented himself with
a simple denial of the fact, overlooking any humorous in
congruity of statement. For, as has been already intimated,
among his other privileges he enjoyed an absolute immunity
from any embarrassing sense of the ludicrous. His deficient
sense of humor and habitual gravity, in a community whose
severest dramatic episodes were mitigated by some humorous
detail, and whose customary relaxation was the playing of
practical jokes, was marked with a certain frankness that
was discomposing. " I think," he remarked to a well-known
citizen of La Porte, "that, in alluding to the argumentative

202 A GENTLEMAN OF LA PORTE

character of Mr. William Peghammer, you said you had
iound him lying awake at night contradicting the ' Katydids.'
This he himself assures me is not true, and I may add that
I passed the night with him in the woods without any such
thing occurring. You seem to have lied." The severity
of this reception checked further humorous exhibitions in
his presence. Indeed, I am not certain but it invested him
with a certain aristocratic isolation.

Thus identified with the earliest history of the Camp, Mr.
Trott participated in its fortunes and shared its prosperity.
As one of the original locators of the " Eagle Mine" he en
joyed a certain income which enabled him to live without
labor and to freely indulge his few and inexpensive tastes.
After his own personal adornment — which consisted chiefly
in the daily wearing of spotless linen — he was fond of giv
ing presents. These possessed, perhaps, a sentimental rather
than intrinsic value. To an intimate friend he had once
given a cane, the stick whereof was cut from a wild grape
vine which grew above the spot where the famous "Eagle
lead " was first discovered in La Porte ; the head originally
belonged to a cane presented to Mr. Trott's father, and the
ferrule was made of the last silver half-dollar which he had
brought to California. "And yet, do you know," said the
indignant recipient of this touching gift, " I offered to put
it down for a five-dollar ante last night over at Robinson's,
and the boys would n't see it, and allowed I 'd better leave
the board. Thar 's no appreciation of sacred things in this
yer Camp."

It was in this lush growth and springtime of La Porte
that the Gentleman was chosen Justice of the Peace by the
unanimous voice of his fellow-citizens. That he should
have exercised his functions with dignity was natural; that
he should have shown a singular lenity in the levyings of
fines and the infliction of penalties was, however, an unex
pected and discomposing discovery to the settlement.

A GENTLEMAN OF LA PORTE 203

" The law requires me, sir," he would say to some un
mistakable culprit, " to give you the option of ten days'
imprisonment or the fine of ten dollars. If you have not
the morrey with you, the clerk will doubtless advance it for
you." It is needless to add that the clerk invariably
advanced the money, or that when the Court adjourned the
Judge instantly reimbursed him. In one instance only did
the sturdy culprit — either from " pure cussedness " or a
weaker desire to spare the Judge the expense of his convic
tion — refuse to borrow the amount of the fine from the
clerk. He was accordingly remanded to the County Jail.
It is related — on tolerably good authority — that when
the Court had adjourned the Court was seen, in spotless
linen and yellow gloves, making in the direction of the
County Jail — a small adobe building, which also served as a
Hall of Records ; that, after ostentatiously consulting certain
records, the Court entered the Jail as if in casual official
inspection ; that, later in the evening, the Deputy Sheriff
having charge of the prisoner was dispatched for a bottle of
whisky and a pack of cards. But as the story here alleges
that the Deputy, that evening, lost the amount of his month's
stipend and the Court its entire yearly salary to the prisoner,
in a friendly game of "cut-throat euchre," to relieve the
tedium of the prisoner's confinement, the whole story has
been denied, as incompatible with Judge Trott's dignity,
though not inconsistent with his kindliness of nature.

It is certain, however, that his lenity would have brought
him into disfavor but for a redeeming exhibition of his unoffi
cial strength. A young and talented lawyer from Sacra
mento had been retained in some civil case before Judge
Trott, but, confident of his success on appeal from this primi
tive tribunal, he had scarcely concealed his contempt for
it in his closing argument. Judge Trott, when he had
finished, sat unmoved save for a slight coloring of his high
cheek-bones. But here I must again borrow the graphic

204 A GENTLEMAN OF LA PORTE

language of a spectator: "When the Judge had hung out
them air red danger signals he sez, quite peaceful-like, to
that yer Sacramento Shrimp, sez he, < Young gentleman,'
sez he, 'do you know that I could fine ye fifty dollars for
contempt o' Court?' 'And if ye could,' sez the shrimp,
*7eart and sassy as a hossfly, ' I reckon 1 could pay it.'
* But I ought to add,' sez the Gentleman, sad-like, ' that I
don't purpose to do it. I believe in freedom of speech
and — action! ' He then rises up, onlimbers hisself, so to
speak, stretches out that yer Hand o' Providence o' his, lites
into that yer shrimp, lifts him up and scoots him through
the window twenty feet into the ditch. ' Call the next case,'
sez he, sittin' down again, with them big white eyes o' his
looking peaceful-like ez if nothin' partikler had happened."

Happy would it have been for the Gentleman had these
gentle eccentricities produced no greater result. But a fatal
and hitherto unexpected weakness manifested itself in the
very court in which he had triumphed, and for a time im
periled his popularity. A lady of dangerous antecedents
and great freedom of manner, who was the presiding god
dess of the " Wheel of Fortune " in the principal gambling-
saloon of La Porte, brought an action against several of its
able-bodied citizens for entering the saloon with " force and
arms " and destroying the peculiar machinery of her game.
She was ably supported by counsel, and warmly sympathized
with by a gentleman who was not her husband. Yet in
spite of this valuable cooperation she was not successful.
The offense was clearly proved ; but the jury gave a verdict
In favor of the defendants, without leaving their seats.

Judge Trott turned his mild, inoffensive eyes upon them.

" Do I understand you to say that this is your final ver
dict ? "

" You kin bet your boots, your Honor," responded the
foreman with cheerful but well-meaning irreverence, " that
that's about the way the thing points."

A GENTLEMAN OF LA PORTE 205

" Mr. Clerk," said Judge Trott, " record the verdict, and
then enter my resignation as Judge of this court."

He rose and left the bench. In vain did various influ
ential citizens follow him with expostulations ; in vain did
they point out the worthlessness of the plaintiff and the
worthlessness of her cause — in which he had sacrificed
himself. In vain did the jury intimate that his resignation
was an insult to them. Judge Trott turned abruptly upon
the foreman, with the old ominous glow in his high cheek
bones.

" I did n't understand you," said he.

" I was saying," said the foreman hastily, " that it was
useless to argue the case any longer." And withdrew
slightly in advance of the rest of the jury, as became his
official position. But Judge Trott never again ascended
the bench.

It was quite a month after his resignation, and the
Gentleman was sitting in the twilight " under the shadow
of his own vine and fig tree," — a figure of speech locally
interpreted as a " giant redwood " and a mossy creeper,
— before the door of that cabin in which he was first intro
duced to the reader, — when he was faintly conscious of the
outlines of a female form and the tones of a female voice.

The Gentleman hesitated, and placed over his right eye
a large gold eyeglass, which had been lately accepted by the
Camp as his most recent fashionable folly. The form was
unfamiliar, but the voice the Gentleman instantly recog
nized as belonging to the plaintiff in his late momentous
judicial experience. It is proper to say here that it was
the voice of Mademoiselle Clotilde Montmorency ; it is only
just to add that, speaking no French, and being of unmis
takable Anglo-Saxon origin, her name was evidently derived
from the game over which she had presided, which was, in
the baleful estimation of the Camp, of foreign extraction.

"I wanted to know," said Miss Clotilde, sitting down

206 A G-ENTLEMAN OF LA PORTE

on a bench beside the Gentleman — " that is, me and Jake
Woods thought we 'd like to know — how much you con
sider yourself out of pocket by this yer resignation of
yours ? "

Scarcely hearing the speech, and more concerned with
the apparition itself, Judge Trott stammered vaguely, "I
have the pleasure of addressing Miss — "

"If you mean by that that you think you don't know
me, never saw me before, and don't want to see me ag'in,
•why, I reckon that 's the polite way o' putting it," said
Miss Montmorency, with enforced calmness, scraping some
dead leaves together with the tip of her parasol as if she
were covering up her emotions. "But I'm Miss Montmo
rency. I was saying that Jake and me thought that —
seein' as you stood by us when them hounds on the jury
give in their hellish lying verdict — Jake and me thought
it was n't the square thing for you to lose your situation
just for me. ' Find out from the Judge,' sez he, 'jist
what he reckons he 's lost by this yer resignation — putting
it at his own figgers.' That's what Jake said. Jake's a
square man — I kin say that of him, anyhow."

" I don't think I understand you," said Judge Trott
simply.

"That's it! That 's just it!" continued Miss Clotilde,
with only half-suppressed bitterness. " That 's what I told
Jake. I sez, 'The Judge won't understand you nor me.
He's that proud he won't have anything to say to us.
Did n't he meet me square on the street last Tuesday and
never let on that he saw me — never even nodded when I
nodded to him ? ' "

" My dear madam," said Judge Trott hurriedly, "I assure
you you are mistaken. I did not see you. Pray believe
me. The fact is — I am afraid to confess it even to my
self — but I find that, day by day, my eyesight is growing
weaker and weaker." He stopped and sighed.

A GENTLEMAN OF LA PORTE 207

Miss Montmorency, glancing upward at his face, saw it
was pale and agitated. With a woman's swift intuition,
she believed this weakness explained the otherwise gratui
tous effrontery of his incongruous eyes, and it was to her a
sufficient apology. It is only the inexplicable in a man's
ugliness that a woman never pardons.

"Then ye really don'tt recognize me?" said Miss Clo-
tilde, a little softened, and yet a little uneasy.

"I — am — afraid — not," said Trott, with an apologetic
smile.

Miss Clotilde paused. " Do you mean to say you couldn't
see me when I was in court during the trial ? "

Judge Trott blushed. "I am afraid I saw only — an
— outline."

" I had on," continued Miss Clotilde rapidly, " a straw
hat, with magenta silk lining, turned up so — magenta rib
bons tied here " — indicating her round throat — "a reg'lar
'Frisco hat — don't you remember ?"

"I — that is — I am afraid — "

" And one of them figgered silk ' Dollar Vardens, ' " con
tinued Miss Clotilde anxiously.

Judge Trott smiled politely, but vaguely. Miss Clotilde
saw that he evidently had not recognized this rare and be
coming costume. She scattered the leaves again and dug
her parasol into the ground.

" Then you never saw me at all ? "

"Never distinctly."

" Ef it 's a fair question betwixt you and me," she said
suddenly, " what made you resign ? "

"I could not remain Judge of a court that was obliged
to record a verdict so unjust as that given by the jury in
your case," replied Judge Trott warmly.

" Say that ag'in, old man," said Miss Clotilde, with an
admiration which half apologized for the irreverence of epi
thet.

208 A GENTLEMAN OF LA PORTE

Judge Trott urbanely repeated the substance of his re
mark in another form.

Miss Montmorency was silent a moment. " Then it
wasn't we?" she said finally.

"I don't think I catch your meaning," replied the Judge,
a little awkwardly.

" Why — ME. It wasn't on account of me you did it ? "

"No," said the Judge pleasantly.

There was another pause. Miss Montmorency balanced
her parasol on the tip of her toe. " Well," she said fin
ally, "this isn't getting much information for Jake."

"For whom?"

" Jake."

"Oh — your husband?"

Miss Montmorency clicked the snap of her bracelet
smartly on her wrist and said sharply, " Who said he was
1 my husband ' ? "

" Oh, I beg your pardon."

" I said Jake Woods. He 's a square man — I can say
that for him. He sez to me, ' You kin tell the Judge that
whatever he chooses to take from us — it ain't no bribery nor
corruption, nor nothin' o' that kind. It's all on the square.
The trial 's over ; he is n't Judge any longer ; he can't do
anything for us — he ain't expected to do anything for us
but one thing. And that is to give us the satisfaction of
knowing that he has n't lost anything by us — that he has n't
lost anything by being a square man and acting on the
square.' There ! that's what he said. I 've said it ! Of
course I know what you 'II say. I know you '11 get wrathy.
I know you're mad now! I know you're too proud to
touch a dollar from the like of us — if you were starving.
I know you '11 tell Jake to go to hell, and me with him !
And who the hell cares ? "

, She had worked herself up to this passion so suddenly,
so outrageously and inconsistently, that it was not strange

A GENTLEMAN OF LA 1'ORTE 209

that it ended in an hysterical burst of equally illogical
tears. She sank down again on the bench she had gradu
ally risen from, and applied the backs of her yellow-gloved
hands to her eyes, still holding the parasol at a rigid angle
with her face. To her infinite astonishment Judge Trott
laid one hand gently upon her shoulder and with the other
possessed himself of the awkward parasol, which he tact
fully laid on the bench beside her.

" You are mistaken, my dear young lady," he said, with
a respectful gravity, — "deeply mistaken, if you think I
feel anything but kindness and gratitude for your offer — an
offer so kind and unusual that even you yourself feel that I
could not accept it. No ! Let me believe that in doing
what I thought was only my duty as a Judge, I gained
your good-will, and let me feel that in doing my duty now
as a man, I shall still keep it."

Miss Clotilde had lifted her face towards his, as if deeply
and wonderingly following his earnest words. But she
only said, " Can you see me in this light ? — at this dis
tance ? Put up your glass and try."

Her face was not far from his. I have forgotten whether
I have said that she was a pretty woman. She had been
once prettier. But she retained enough of her good looks
to invest the " Wheel of Fortune," over which she had pre
sided, with a certain seductive and bewildering uncertainty,
which increased the risk of the players. It was, in fact,
this unhallowed combination of Beauty and Chance that ex
cited the ire of La Porte — who deemed it unprofessional
and not "on the square."

She had fine eyes. Possibly Judge Trott had never be
fore been so near eyes that were so fine and so — expressive.
He lifted his head with some embarrassment and a blush on
his high cheek-bones. Then, partly from instinctive cour
tesy, partly from a desire to bring in a third party to relieve
his embarrassment, he said —

210 A GENTLEMAN OF LA PORTE

" I hope you will make your friend, Mr. , under
stand that I appreciate his kindness, even if I can't accept
it."

" Oh, you mean Jake," said the lady. "Oh, lie 's gone
home to the States. I '11 make it all right with him ! "

There was another embarrassing pause — possibly over the
absence of Jake. At last it was broken by Miss Montmor-
ency. "You must take care of your eyes, for I want you
to know me the next time you see me."

So they parted. The Judge did recognize her on several
other occasions. And then La Porte wras stirred to its
depths in hillside and tunnel with a strange rumor. Judge
Trott had married Miss Jane Thomson^ alias Miss Clotilde
Montmorency — in San Francisco ! For a few hours a
storm of indignation and rage swept over the town ; it was
believed to have been a deep-laid plan and conspiracy. It
was perfectly well understood that Judge Trott's resignation
was the price of her hand — and of the small fortune she
was known to be possessed of. Of his character nothing
remained that was assailable. A factitious interest and pa
thos was imported into the character and condition of her last
lover — Jake Woods — the victim of the double treachery
of Judge Trott and Miss Clotilde. A committee was formed
to write a letter of sympathy to this man, who, a few months
before, had barely escaped lynching at their hands. The
angry discussion was at last broken by the voice of the first
speaker in this veracious narrative, Captain Henry Symes —

" Thar 's one feature in this yer case that ye don't seem
to know, and that oughter be considered. The day she
married him in San Francisco she had just come from the
doctor's, who had told her that Trott was helplessly blind!
Gentlemen, when a gal like that throws over her whole life,
her whole perfession, and a square man like Jake Woods,
to marry a blind man without a dollar — just because he
once stood up for her — on principle, damn me ef I see any

A GENTLEMAN OF LA PORTE 211

man good enough to go back on her for it! Ef the Judge
is willing to kinder overlook little bygone eccentricities o'
hers for the sake o' being cared for and looked arter by her,
that's his lookout ! And you '11 excoose me if, arter my
experience, I reckon it ain't exactly a healthy business to
interfere with the domestic concerns of the Gentleman of La
Porte."

MISCELLANEOUS

WASHINGTON IN NEW JERSEY
AN OLD HOMESTEAD

AN AUTHOR'S VISIT TO HEADQUARTERS — OLD-TIMB
REMINISCENCES AND MODERN VIEWS THE COMING OF

MER

MORRISTOWX, N. J., JUNE 24 [1873].

I HAVE been to Washington's Headquarters, at Morris-
town. The adult American who has not at some time stood
beneath the same roof that once sheltered the Father of his
Country is to be pitied and feared. The opportunities for
performing this simple, patriotic act are so ample and varied
that a studious disregard of them is, I am satisfied, consistent
only with moral turpitude. Such a person may, indeed, offer
as an excuse that he has sat in a chair once occupied by
Washington ; that he has drunk from a mug once used by
Washington ; or that he has in his extreme youth talked
with an aged person who distinctly remembered Washington;
but those are supererogatory acts which do not take the
place of this primary obligation. When we consider the
number of roofs that Washington has apparently slept under ;
when we reflect upon the infinite toil and travel which the
great and good man must have undergone to place this proud
privilege within the easy reach of every American citizen, the
omission to avail one's self of it is simply despicable. The
Valley Forge experience has always been deemed a spectacle
of noble devotion and unparalled self-sacrifice, but I have
preferred, I confess, to lie awake nights thinking of this
unselfish hero, rising ere it was yet day, hurrying away,
accompanied only by his 150 colored body-servants, each

216 WASHINGTON IN NEW JEIISEY

with longevity and garrulity depicted on his face, hurrying
away in order to reach the next town in time to make an
other roof-tree historical. I have thought of him pursuing
this noble duty with dignified haste, pausing only to pat
the heads of toddling infants, who in after years were des
tined to distinctly remember it, until the tears have risen to
my eyes.

So that when I heard that Washington's Headquarters
at Morristown was to be sold at public auction on the 25th,
I determined to go and see it. It was my first intimation
that it was still in existence ; I had perhaps often passed it
without knowing the fact, for it is a peculiarity of this kind
of property that its historic quality is always sprung upon you
like a trap ; that you are hardly safe in any old tenement ;
that you drop unconsciously into the Washington chair, or
imbibe serenely from the Washington mug, and that the fact
is brought sharply upon you like a pin in the cushion or a
fly in the milk. In the course of time this expectation nat
urally excites a morbid activity of the intellect, but only
once do I remember being mistaken in the result. It was
in a Sierran solitude, where I had encamped, and where
I was solicited to take supper in the newly-built cabin of an
Eastern immigrant. At supper I was supplied with an or
dinary-looking china mug of a pale-blue willow pattern.
"That mug," said my host, "has a little story connected
on it. It has been in our family nigh on a hundred year.
It belonged to my grandfather. At the siege of Yorktown,
he lived convenient to the battle-field, and the guns was
posted all around the house. All of a suddent — " "I
remember," I interposed hastily. "Suddenly a command
ing form darkened the little doorway, and a dignified but
courteous voice asked for a drink of water. Your grand
father rose — " "I was goin' on to say," continued my
host calmly, " that the boomin' o' them guns broke every
bit of china in the house, and that grandfather had to buy

WASHINGTON IN NEW JERSEY 217

a new set next day, and this yer one is the last of them."
I put down my cup and gazed long and earnestly at the man.
His face was calm, thoughtful, and even sad — a slight
tremulousness of the left eyelid, and a depression of the
lower angle of the mouth on the same side, easily attribu
table to historic emotion, were the only evidences of feeling.

But here was a veritable Headquarters of Washington
— based on no local tradition, but standing boldly in his
tory. There had been a temporary Headquarters at the
Freemasons' Tavern on "the village green." But the
house was gone, the Freemasons were dust these fifty years,
and on the " village green " the gray shaft that commemo
rated the Morristown dead of the last civil war obliterated
the past. How, then, remote and bloodless looked the
Jersey campaign of '77 beside the names on this obelisk.
How rusty those old blood-stains appeared beside the bright
red, still warm current of to-day. I hurried past it, and
out into the leafy road that led to the historic house.

It had been my original intention to take with me a cer
tain humorist — a man who had made some little reputation
by a habit of scoffing at certain revered objects by humor
ous analysis of their effect upon others ; a man who kept
you in high spirits, and left you vapid and uncomfortable ;
a man whose company was a dissipation that brought a
dreadful to-morrow morning after it ; a man who was al
ways to be depended upon, but never to be trusted. I
concluded, however, not to take him with me. " You '11 be
sorry you did n't," he said gloomily, as he leaned against
a fence with the settled melancholy of his profession.
" You 're not to be trusted alone. I 'd like to get a shy
at G. W. sometime. Look around his garden — not a
cherry tree to be seen. Tell me that he can get over that
habit — that he did n't sleep with a hatchet under his pil
low, arid get up in the dead of night to do it. And then
he had no sense of humor. When the staff were doing

218 WASHINGTON IN NEW JERSEY

conundrums down there one night, and Greene asked him
* Why a gooseberry was like a Hessian,' did n't he reply,
1 General Greene, I cannot tell a lie — there is absolutely
no connection in nature between the two,' and spoil the
boys of their little fun ? " And so I left him muttering,
with a look in his eye as if he were even then elaborating
a humorous account of my visit, based entirely upon specu
lation of my character, and bearing every external evidence
of greater truth than my own narrative.

But here was the house. A canny walk and a gentle as
cent under a few old trees led to the porch. On that
bright day of yellow June its hard outlines and scant decor
ation were somehow lost in the gracious atmosphere. The
door stood open, and I entered at once a spacious hall — al
most the only indication of the dignity of its former occu
pant. It divided the mansion east and west, and through a
rear door as large as the front gave a view upon a descend
ing lawn and orchard, and a shimmer of the Whippany
River in the lower distance. "In the hottest day in sum
mer," said the gentle hostess, " there is always a breeze
through the hall." Surely Nature, at least, was not for
getful. It was pleasant to think that when the fervid July
sun scorched the elaborate pink and blue tiled roofs of the
modem villas in the avenue yonder, that the mountain
breezes from those wooded heights that he had made his
toric, loved to meet and play and linger here. " During
his time the door was never shut," continues the lady, like
a pleasant Greek chorus, " but always open, as you see."
Was it the Virginian habit still strong, or a military ne
cessity ? Think of it in that memorable winter of '77,
when the thermometer stood below zero for weeks, and the
Hudson Kiver was frozen over at the Battery ! Yet I am
somehow thankful that the humorist is not with me to
comment upon this startling discovery of a new and painful
youthful habit.

WASHINGTON IN NEW JERSEY 219

Then we went into the reception room or parlor, and saw
the elaborate antique table desk, opening in the middle,
— a Washington relic indubitably, — and then into the
bedroom where he slept, the office where he wrote, the din
ing-room in which he ate, and looked in the glass at which
he shaved. As no one ever saw Washington with a beard,
and as his habits were methodical, perhaps this insignificant
bit of furniture is most characteristic and notable. There
was not, perhaps, much to see. You will find more elabor
ate old furniture in modern drawing-rooms. I have stood
in more spacious and characteristic colonial dwellings. It
is far unlike the Cambridge Headquarters in which Long
fellow is set as a precious jewel ; but in its scant decoration,
in its faded and economic gentility, in its quiet, stern un
compromising asceticism, it is full of a Past, a Past entirely its
own, the Spartan period of the Revolution. The genius of
the place descends upon you as you stand there. Even in this
gracious June sunlight you shiver and turn cold. Gaunt faces
peer at you through the windows ; there is the echo of un
easy, discontented footsteps in this hall ; and yet through all
a pathetic patience flowing from one lonely self-contained
figure subdues and saddens every complaining beam and
rafter in the ancient house.

It was at this window that the great commander stood
and saw the mutinous Connecticut troops file past and
clamor for the wages long due that he had not to bestow.
It was in this room that he, proud man, appealed to the al
ready impoverished Jersey farmers for a few weeks' more
rations for his starving men. It was at this table that
he wrote that pathetic letter to Congress. It was here
that he was " closeted closely " with Lafayette. There was
scant cheer in this little dining-room that winter. Yet
here sat that young West Indian, scarce turned of twenty,
Alexander Hamilton, whom Washington in moments of
rare tenderness called " my boy " and made recipient of his

220 WASHINGTON IN NEW JERSEY

confidence. What a pleasant staff appointment for a gay
young fellow : smallpox in the distant village and famine in
quarters. Here, too, sat the " Old Secretary," as they
call him — as methodical as Washington and conscious of
his ways ; and here the turbulent Sullivan, and Howe in
New York feasting and junketing, and only a river, dan
gerously filled with ice at times, between !

And all this to be sold on the 25th of June to the high
est bidder. You can, as you stand there in fancy, already
hear the auctioneer 's hammer. The setting sun from
without looks into the western windows, lingering fondly,
as well it may, over the old house that it knows so well
— and on whose like it never shall look again. It steals
a little higher toward the peaked gable. Going, going.
There is a glory on its roof for a moment, and it is Gone.

WHAT BRET HARTE SAW

THE FIRST GLIMPSES OF THE STRUGGLE SCENES ALONG

THE COURSE THE ART OF WAITING HOW YALE

WON THE GREAT RACE

SPRINGFIELD, July 17. [1873.]

A BROAD, still stream, swinging lazily round a curve —
that was our first glimpse from the car window of the battle
ground. Something on its smooth, glistening surface, that
moved like an undecided centipede, proved to be a shell
with its exercising crew. Then the fences got in the way,
as usual, and the distant trees waltzed down, shutting out
the view. Then there was a shriek from the engine and
we had another glimpse, this time a flash of water, tremu
lous and tinted with sunset, blending in its bosom all the
colors of to-morrow's contending crews — blue, green, red,
and magenta. It is next to impossible to keep from writ
ing finely on this subject. Indeed, some of the passengers
were so much impressed as to put up their money on the
staying color; but just then the trees waltzed up again, and
we darted into Springfield, hot and dusty.

How marvelously quiet the town, and how decorous the
beribboned crowd beyond. Even the hackmen did not shout.
There was absolutely no sign of that feverish excitement
that belongs to these occasions. Perhaps it was the
weather, or some blessed influence of the mysterious Provi
dence that refers all racing, wrestling, and trials of physical
skill to the hottest season of the year ; but there was also a
pleasing absence of that unruly element whose outward and
visible sign is hair-dye and diamonds, and whose speech is
ejaculation. There was very little of color but in the

222 WHAT BRET HAUTE SAW

badges ; there was nothing spectacular but the array of col
lege athletes. The town went to bed quietly by 10 P.M.

No less notable for its propriety was the multitude that
this afternoon thronged the river-banks, stretching along for
two miles to the "finish" and its grand stand. Over the
breadth of Long Meadow, a gentle, undulating plain, were
scattered vehicles of every kind and age, and fringing the
bank clusters of gayly dressed ladies, in all the bravery of
their favorites' colors, looking at a little distance like parti
colored shells left by the receding tide. The colors were
not always harmonious or effective ; the depth of woman's
constancy was shown by her noble self-abnegation in wear
ing the badge of fidelity, without reference to its consistency
with her complexion or toilette. Harvard put the loyalty
of the fair to its severest test — magenta. The majority
of masculine spectators grouped themselves with that noble
disregard of the picturesque which is so characteristic of
the Anglo-saxon race, and patiently waited.

Of course there was the usual delay ; it was utterly un
mitigated in this instance by any of those reckless collaterals
that are apt to distinguish a race or other great public
gathering. The people walked about, smoked, and chatted;
there were few side-shows ; there was a mark at which a
few credulous people shot with a toy rifle, but the well-
regulated collegiate mind passed it by. At the grand stand
there was thin ascetic lemonade hypocritically colored to a
suggestion of impropriety, but no more. Even the prize
package, without which no American is expected to enjoy
himself, was absent, and yet, mirabile dictu ! the people
seemed to be happy, although the fact thereof was not pro
claimed vociferously from the housetops. Nor did I dis
cover any large-hearted Springfield citizen who felt called
upon to bear witness to it by profanity, or prove it incontes
table by a blow.

Presently, the clouds, which had gathered during my ride

WHAT BRET HARTE SAW 223

to the "finish" put in an appearance with a few drops of
rain that sent everybody to the carriages. Then there were
cheers high up the river, that brought everybody to his feet
and the bank again. It was the Freshman race ; then we
knew by the peculiar yell from the bank opposite that Yale
was leading, and then there drifted across our perspective
three centipedes — one with a suggestion of blue about it,
whereby we knew Yale had won, and those of us who had
been prudent enough to carry a variety of badges instantly
displayed a blue, and looked satisfied. Yet there was but
little enthusiasm. A few Harvard men — more, I think,
because it was expected of them — said, " 'Rah, " repeatedly,
and otherwise imitated, with more or less success, as their
boat came by, the barking of a monotonous and not over-
intelligent dog. But, somehow, we all accepted the result
of the Freshman race as a logical conclusion, an effort of
pure reason, in which only the intellectual faculties were
engaged, and from which the feelings were entirely elim
inated. And then we all waited, which was, after all,
the real and abiding feature of the afternoon. We dis
cussed sandwiches and the merit of the crews, and iced
coffee, and the immortality of the soul, and, like the judge
in " Maud Muller " looked at the sky and wondered
whether the cloud in the west would bring foul weather.
Then a shout on the opposite bank, whence a band had
been playing a number of things, but nothing intelligibly,
brought us all to our feet, with more or less well-simulated
excitement. The great race was coming.

It came with a faint tumult, increasing along the oppo
site side into the roars of " 'Rah," and yells of " Yale,"
like the Bore on the Hoogly River; and then, after strain
ing our eyes to the uttermost, a chip — a toothpick —
drifted into sight on the broad surface of the river. At
this remarkable and utterly novel sight, we all went into
convulsions. We were positive it was Harvard : we would

224 WHAT BRET HARTE SAW

wager our very existence it was Yale : if there was anj
thing that we were certain of it was Amherst and thel
the toothpick changed into a shadow, and we held our
breath, and then into a centipede, and our pulses beat vio
lently ; and then into a mechanical toy, and we screamed ;
of course, it was Harvard — nearly two miles away, but we
knew it. A few other protean shapes slipped across that
shining disc, but our eyes were fastened on the first boat
hugging the opposite shore ; and yet, somehow, the great
distance, the smallness of the object, and mayhap, a linger
ing doubt of the color, abstracted all human and vital inter
est from the scene. We hurrahed because it was the pro
per thing to do. We grew excited, and carefully felt our
pulse while doing so ; and then, suddenly and without
warning, on shore and here at our very feet, dashed a boat
the very realization of the dream of to-day — light, grace
fully, beautifully handled, rapidly and palpably shooting
ahead of its competitor on the opposite side. There was
no mistake about it this time. Here was the magenta
color, and a " 'Rah " arose from our side that must have
been heard at Cambridge, and then " Yale " on the other
side, Yale, the undistinguishable, Yale, the unsuspected,
Won!

AMERICAN HUMOR1

I AM aware that the magnitude of my title may seem
somewhat ambitious for both performer and performance.
I therefore hasten to say that I will assume at the outset
that it is doubtful if there is any such thing as American
humor of a nationally distinct intellectual quality. I fear,
however, that I must borrow so much of that which has of
late years been recognized as a form of national humor
as to say that it " reminds me of a little story."

Some years ago I was riding on the box of a California
stage-coach with a friend and the driver. As my fellow-pas
senger was a man of some literary attainment our conversa
tion fell upon some of the early English humorists. After
my friend had departed, the driver, who had taken no part
in the conversation, asked me : " What were you talking
about, sir, that made you laugh so much?" I informed
him that the early English humorists had been the topic of
conversation. " Well, "said the driver, "judging by the way
you laughed, I should have thought you were talking about
some funny men." It was probable that my friend, the
driver, occupied the position of a good many American and
English writers who are inclined to accept modern extrava
gance, which is sufficiently characteristic of our people to
be called national, as the true, genuine humor.

I will try to prove that our later American humorists are
not so much purely American as they are modern ; that they

1 Lecture delivered in Farwell Hall, Chicago, Illinois, on December 10,
3874, and in Association Hall, New York, January 26, 1875. From The
Lectures of Bret ffarte, Brooklyn, 1909. Bret Harte's other lecture, " The
Argonants of '49," is now printed, with some changes, as the Introduction
to the second volume of his collected works.

226 AMERICAN HUMOR

stand in legitimate succession to their early English brethren,
and that what is called the humor of a geographical section,
is only the form or method of to-day. Sir Richard Steele,
had he been born in the United States, would have de
veloped into a "Danbury Newsman," and had Bailey been
born in London and educated at Temple Bar in the time
of Sir Richard Steele he would have described the humor
ous peculiarities of London just in the manner that that
humorist did. The fashion of true humor has never changed ;
but if there is no true American humor, there is a true ap
preciation of humor. This is an epoch of curt speech, and
magnetic telegraphs and independent thought, and wherever
these conditions exist most powerfully, humorous literature
will be found most embarrassed by them. But the humorist
remains intact; he is simply an observer. I will go further
and say that it is because the humorist is intact, because he
is old-fashioned, because even in a republican country he is
the most tremendous conservative and aristocrat — that it
is because he is all this he is an observer.

Before the birth of its characteristic humor, American
literature was even more ancient than contemporaneous lit
erature in England. Even Irving tried to reproduce the
old-fashioned style of the " Spectator " in his " Salmagundi."

I am quite ready to believe that the quick apprehension
of some of my auditors will anticipate me with the sugges
tion that the Yankee dialect and character are the earliest
expression of American humor. Unfortunately, however,
for the theory of national humor, it was not a Yankee or
American who first invented it or gave it a place in Ameri
can literature. Even as we owe the characteristic title of
Yankee to the cheap badinage of an English officer, so we
are indebted to an Englishman for the first respectable fig
ure that our Yankee cuts in American humor. It was to
Judge Haliburton, of Her Britannic Majesty's North Ameri
can Colonies, who first detected how much sagacity, dry

AMERICAN HUMOR 227

humor, and poetry were hidden under the grotesque cover
of Sam Slick of Slickville, that the world first owed the
birth of true American humor. Later on James Russell
Lowell took up the work, but, at best, he only reproduced
a type of life of a small section of the great American
Union.

It is to the South and West that we really owe the crea
tion and expression of that humor which is perhaps most
characteristic of our lives and habits as a people. It was
in the South, and among conditions of servitude and the
habits of an inferior race, that there sprang up a humor and
pathos as distinct, as original, as perfect and rare as any
that ever flowered under the most beneficent circumstances
of race and culture. It is a humor whose expression took
a most ephemeral form — oral, rather than written. It
abode with us, making us tolerant of a grievous wrong, and
it will abide with us even when these conditions have passed
away. It is singularly free from satire and unkind lines.
It was simplicity itself. It touched all classes and condi
tions of men. Its simple pathos was recognized by the
greatest English humorist that the world had known, and
yet it has no place in enduring American liteiature. Even
Topsy and Uncle Tom are .dead. They were too much ••
imbued with a political purpose to retain their place as a
humorous creation.

Yet there are a few songs that will live when ambition's
characters are dead. A few years ago there lived and died
— too obscurely I am afraid for our reputation as critics —
a young man who, more than any other American, seemed
to have caught the characteristic quality of negro pathos
and humor. Perhaps posterity will be more appreciative of
his worth, and future generations who think of " The Old
Folks at Home" will feel some touch of kindliness for the
memory of Stephen C. Foster.

Kow, as we approach our contemporary humorists, let us

228 AMERICAN HUMOR

pause for an examination of the forces which for the last
twenty years have heen shaping the humorous literature of
the land. The character of these forces has entirely changed.
The character of the press is different; all its pompous dig
nity and most of its acrimony are gone. The exigencies of
news have stopped the stilted editorials, and the sagacious
modern editor is well aware of the fact that it is a much
easier and neater thing to stiletto a man with a line of
solid minion than to knock him down with a column of
leaded long primer.

One of the strongest points of modern journalism is its
humorous local sallies. A young man, graduated, perhaps,
from the "case," writes humorous items in the local column
of his paper, which are read more and are better appreciated
than all the rest of it, and the readers wonder who the ris
ing humorist is who has appeared among them.

Brevity especially is the soul of California wit. For in
stance, the reply of "you bet," made by a San Francisco burg
lar to the "you get" of the householder who held a cocked
"six-shooter" at his head. I might also add here the story
of a notorious Californian gambler. During the funeral service
the hearse-horses became restive and started off prematurely,
with the rest of the mourners in pursuit. When the horses
had been stopped and the last sad rites were concluded, the
friends of the deceased wrote his widow a letter acquainting
her with the fact that they had given her dead husband a
good send-off, and that although the unpleasant occurrence,
which they described, somewhat marred the solemnity of
the occasion, it gave them a melancholy satisfaction to in
form her that "the corpse won." This illustrates the humor
ous but irreverent style in which California newspaper men
described events of the most serious nature.

If we are to take the criticisms of our English friends,
American humor has at last blossomed on the dry stalk of
our national life, and Artemus Ward is its perfect flower.

AMERICAN HUMOR 229

Personally, I fear there is a want of purpose in him. He
never leads and is always on a line of popular sentiment or
satire. The form of his spelling is purely mechanical. He
gives the half-humorist slang of the people, the kind of ex
pressions used in the stage-coach, the railway carriage, the
barroom, or the village tap. If he did not gather, he at least,
gave public voice to them. He contributes no single figure
to American literature but his own character of showman,
and it is very doubtful if even that figure, respectable as it
is, bears any real resemblance to any known American type.

The Civil War, which found him in the summit of his
popularity, did not help him to any better results. To his
nature the war was only an unpleasant and unnecessary
bother. In fact, during this time his genius seems to have
left him and fallen upon Qrpheus C. JKerr and Petroleum
V. Nasby, whose pictures of Southwestern life are unequaled
for force and fidelity. Artemus Ward had the good-fellow
humor of the story-teller, to whom a sympathizing audience
and an absence of any moral questioning were essential to
success. His success in England was a surprise to even his
most ardent admirers. The personality of the man as a lec
turer had much to do with his reception in England. He
captivated average Englishmen by his cool disregard of them,
his quiet audacity, and his complete ignoring of the tra
ditions of the lecture-room. He wrote to me to say that
the first night of his appearance it was a toss-up whether he
would be arrested after the lecture or invited to dinner.

It would be hardly fair to look too closely into the secret
of his popularity in England, yet if they were to settle the
question of American humor, perhaps it would be well if we
did. It was after the war. Englishmen were inclined to be
friendly, and their good feeling had taken the form which
their good feeling takes toward everything that is not British
•^-condescending patronage. Criticism was blandly waived.
Ward made many personal friends, and he was followed to

230 AMERICAN HUMOR

his grave in Kensal Green by some of the most distinguished
men in the country.

To-day, among our latest American humorists, such as
Josh Billings, the "Danbury Newsman," and Orpheus C.
Kerr, Mark Twain stands alone as the most original humor
ist that America has yet produced. He alone is inimitable.
Our line of humorists, it may be remarked, is a long one,
but we cannot spare any of them yet. We need not, how
ever, lessen our admiration for Lowell, Holmes, Irving, or
Curtis. I do not think a perusal of " Innocents Abroad"
will endanger the security of the " Sketch-Book." Perhaps,
after all, there was a little too much fun. Laughter makes
us doubly serious afterward, and \ve do not want to be
humorists always, turning up like a prize-fighter • at each
round, still smiling.

If anything, the Americans are too prone to laugh, even
over their misfortunes: they must not be serious no matter
how grave the occasion. I will relate a story which is a good
instance of this.

Some years ago, while riding alone through the Sierras,
I lost my way. Suddenly I came across a dark-browed,
heavily armed, suspicious-looking stranger, whom I would
have avoided if possible, but as that was not to be done, I
approached him and asked him the road to camp. The
heavily armed stranger guided me to the spot, and beguiled
the road with one or two very amusing stories, one of which
he had just begun when the cross-road leading to the camp
came into view. My guide accompanied me in order to
finish his story, which was extremely humorous in its nature,
to within a short distance of the camp, and then departed.
On arriving among my friends I was astonished to find a
sheriff's posse there in search of a noted desperado, whose
description furnished by them identified him undoubtedly
with the man who had, in order to finish his story, placed
himself within one hundred yards of his deadly enemies.

AMERICAN HUMOR 231

Such was the American extreme. Perhaps our true
humorist is yet to come : when he does come he will show
that a nation which laughs so easily has still a great capac
ity for deep feeling, and he will, I think, be a little more
serious than our present-day humorists.

THE IMPKOVED JESOP

FOR INTELLIGENT MODERN CHILDREN

FABLE I
THE FOX AND THE GRAPES

A THIRSTY fox one day, in passing through a vineyard,
noticed that the grapes were hanging in clusters from vines
which were trained to such a height as to be out of his reach.

"Ah," said the fox, with a supercilious smile, "I've
heard of this before. In the twelfth century an ordinary
fox of average culture would have wasted his energy and
strength in the vain attempt to reach yonder sour grapes.
Thanks to my knowledge of vine culture, however, I at
once observe that the great height and extent of the vine,
the drain upon the sap through the increased number of
tendrils and leaves must, of necessity, impoverish the grape,
and render it unworthy the consideration of an intelligent
animal. Not any for me, thank you.77 With these words
he coughed slightly, and withdrew.

MORAL — This fable teaches us that an intelligent dis
cretion and some botanical knowledge are of the greatest
importance in grape culture.

FABLE II

THE FOX AND THE STORK

A FOX one day invited a stork to dinner, but provided
for the entertainment only the first course, soup. This,
being in a shallow dish, of course, the fox lapped up readily,
but the stork, by means of his long bill, was unable to gain
a mouthful.

THE IMPROVED ^ESOP 233

" You do not seem fond of soup," said the fox, conceal
ing a smile in his napkin. "Now it is one of my greatest
weaknesses."

" You certainly seem to project yourself outside of a large
quantity," said the stork, rising with some dignity, and ex
amining his watch with considerable empress ement ; "but I
have an appointment at eight o'clock, which I had forgotten.
I must ask to be excused. Au revoir. By the way, dine
with me to-morrow."

The fox assented, arrived at the appointed time, but
found, as he had fully expected, nothing on the table but a
single long-necked bottle, containing olives, which the stork
was complacently extracting by the aid of his long bill.

" Why, you do not seem to eat anything," said the
stork, with great naivete, when he had finished the bottle.

"No," said the fox significantly ; "I am waiting for the
second course."

" What is that ? " asked the stork blandly.

"Stork, stuffed with olives," shrieked the fox in a very
pronounced manner, and instantly dispatched him.

MORAL — True hospitality obliges a host to sacrifice him
self for his guests.

FABLE III
THE WOLF AND THE LAMB

A WOLF one day, drinking from a running stream, observed
a lamb also drinking from the same stream at some distance
from him.

" I have yet to learn," said the wolf, addressing the lamb
with dignified severity, "what right you "have to muddy the
stream from which I am drinking."

"Your premises are incorrect," replied the lamb, with
bland politeness, " for if you will take the trouble to exam
ine the current critically you will observe that it flows from

234 THE IMPROVED JSSOP

you to me, and that any disturbance of sediment here would
be, so far as you are concerned, entirely local."

"Possibly you are right," returned the wolf; "but if I am
not mistaken, you are the person who, two years ago, used
some influence against me at the primaries."

"Impossible," replied the lamb; "two years ago, I was
not born."

" Ah ! well," added the wolf composedly, " I am wrong
again. But it must convince every intelligent person who
has listened to this conversation that I am altogether insane,
and consequently not responsible for my actions."

With this remark, he at once dispatched the lamb, and
was triumphantly acquitted.

MORAL — This fable teaches us how erroneous may be
the popular impression in regard to the distribution of allu
vium and the formation of river deltas.

CONFUCIUS AND THE CHINESE CLASSICS

TRANSLATED BY KT-PO TAL
CHINESE COSMOGONY

IN the beginning of the world, the world was Ktsa
Kiang, who died. His blood became rivers, his bones gran
ite, his hair trees, etc. , and finally, the insects which infested
his body became people.

CONFUCIUS — HIS HABITS

IN walking, the master usually put one foot before the
other ; when he rested, it was generally on both legs.

If, in walking, he came upon a stone, he would kick it
out of his way ; if it were too heavy, he would step over or
around it.

Happening once to kick a large stone, he changed coun
tenance.

The superior person wore his clothes in the ordinary man
ner, never putting his shoes upon his head nor his cap upon
his feet.

He always kept the skirts of his robe before and behind
evenly adjusted. He permitted not the unseemly exposure
of his undergarment of linen at any time.

When he met his visitors, he rushed toward them with
his arms open like wings.

HIS POETRY

THE following was written in his sixty-fifth year, on
leaving Loo : —

" Oh, I fain would still look toward Loo,
But this Kwei hill cuts off my view —
With an axe I will hew
This thicket all through
That obscures the clear prospect of Loo."

236 CONFUCIUS AND THE CHINESE CLASSICS

In later years the following was composed by his disciple
Shun : —

" There once was a sage called Confu-
Cius, whose remarks were not few ;

He said, ' I will hew

This blasted hill through,'
While his friends remarked quietly, 'Do.'"

HIS ETHICS

THE Master said, " One virtue goes a great way. In a jar
of chow-chow, properly flavored with ginger, even a dead
mouse is palatable."

On Wau asking him if it were proper to put dead mice in
chow-chow, he replied, "It is the custom."

When he heard that Chang had beheaded an entire pro
vince, he remarked, " This is carrying things to an excess."

On being asked his opinion of impalement, he replied
that "The end did not justify the means."

Hop Kee asked him how to tell the superior man. The
Master replied, "How, indeed!"

The Duke Skang asked him one day, " What constitutes
the State ? " Confucius replied, " The question is asinine."

HIS JOKES

One day, being handed a two-foot rule, Confucius opened
it the wrong way, whereupon it broke. The Master saidr
quietly, that, " it was a poor rule that would n't work both
ways."

Observing that Wau Sing was much addicted to opium, the
Master said, " Filial regard is always beautiful." " Why ? "
asked his disciples. " He loves his poppy," replied the
Master, changing countenance.

"Is that Nankeen ?" asked the great Mencius, as he care.
lessly examined the robe that enfolded the bosom of the
fair Yau Sing. " No," replied the Master, calmly ; " that 'a
Pekin."

THE GEE AT PATENT-OFFICE FIRE

On September 24, 1877, a disastrous fire occurred in the Patent Office at
Washington, D.C. Sixty thousand models, many valuable papers, and
part of the building were destroyed with a loss of over half a million dol
lars. Although the Government spent four hundred dollars a week for
watchmen, nobody knew just when or where the tire started, and it had
made great headway before the firemen arrived. Bret Harte was in Wash
ington at this time and sent the following humorous "report" to the New
York Sun of October 2, 1877.

" LOOK yar, stranger ! "

The speaker was a Western man of quiet, self-possessed
demeanor, and the grave, deliberate utterance of a man of
varied experiences. The person spoken to was the gentle
manly doorkeeper of the Secretary of the Interior's own,
private office.

" There are positively no vacancies ! All the Ohio posi
tions are filled," said the doorkeeper, rapidly but courteously.

" I would like to say a word to the boss of this yar shanty."

"The Secretary, sir, is engaged in Civil Service Kefonn,
and will continue to be until the next session. If you will
give me your card, in the course of the next six months I
think you will be able — "

"I was reck'nin' only to say to the boss, thet just now,
bein' in among them thar models — "

" A patentee ? Sir, certainly ! I beg your pardon ! —
this way ! this way. Here, Jo ! Gen'lemen, patents ! "
And hurling the stranger into the arms of two stalwart mes
sengers he instantly disappeared.

Hurried along violently down the passage, dragged up
three flights of stairs, dashed headlong through a series of
antechambers, the stranger, at last, gasped out to his guides:

" What >s up ? What 's all this ? "

238 THE GREAT PATENT-OFFICE FIRE

"Civil Service Reform, sir! Economy, accuracy, dis
patch ! Take him, Jim, — easy there ! " And he fiung his
gasping victim into the arms of a third messenger, who, grap
pling him, instantly bore him into the presence of a clerk
in another department.

" Patents ! " shrieked the man, and disappeared.

The clerk instantly seized the stranger as he staggered
beside the desk.

" What number ? what class ? when applied for ? "

"I was saying," gasped the stranger, that when I was
lookin' at them two models — "

" Models ? Which room, sir ? "

" On this yar west side."

"Wrong side. D.K. West Division. Simpkins, Chief
Clerk."

He was seized again, dragged downstairs, upstairs, but in
the corridor managed by a herculean effort to break away
from the guides. Seeing an open door, he entered. A
gray -haired gentleman was writing at a table.

"See yar, stranger, jist a minit ; I was downstairs, thar,
and I was goin' to say — "

"One moment, sir," said the gray-haired gentleman, po
litely. He entered another room and a whispered consulta
tion with several other clerks was distinctly audible. Re
turning and facing the stranger, he said : —

"I think you said you were about to say — "

" I was goin' to say — "

" One moment, sir. You have evidently mistaken the
department. Caesar Augustus, conduct this gentleman in a
close carriage, to the State Department."

"But, look yar, stranger, about this yar — "

Before he could speak, however, he was seized in the ro
bust arms of another messenger, and conveyed rapidly to
the State Department.

"I'm a stranger yar in Washington," he managed to ex-

THE GKEAT PATENT-OFFICE FIRE 239

plain in the carriage, " and I suppose this yar is the right
thing — though I rather calck'lated to ketch the 2.40 train
to Cincinnati to-day — "

But the arrival of the carriage at the State Department,
and the hurried exit of the messenger, after placing him in
the elevator, stopped his explanation.

Once within the chaste, calm seclusion of the expansive
building, he regained his composure, and found upon exam
ination that he had lost only three buttons from his coat,
and his watch. A decent solemnity, as of a pervading fu
neral in the halls, visible even in the voice and manner of
the respectful attendant who met him, tended to still further
increase his confidence. And when he entered the office of
the chief clerk, and that grave and polite functionary ap
proached him, apparently with a view of offering him his
own pew, and giving him a nearer observation of the de
ceased, he was quite oppressed.

" I was about to say,'7 began the Western man confusedly,
" that if the corpse — that is — "

" I see," responded the chief clerk civilly, " you refer to
the Secretary ; but I regret to say he is, at present, absent.
But permit me to show you to the First Assistant Secretary.
William Henry, show the gentleman in.'7

On the threshold he was met by the First Assistant Se
cretary with gracious warmth. " I have heard of you, my
dear sir, frequently ; but," he added, as he grasped the
hand of the stranger cordially, "I scarcely dared to hope
that I would ever see you. God bless you, sir ! Permit
me to assist you in removing your yellow duster — a grace
ful garment, sir, but still one that, may I be permitted to
say, does not entirely, so to speak, harmonize with the fur
niture in the room. This way, dear sir ! You will find
that chair comfortable. By placing your boots on this end of
the desk — pardon me, perhaps you would like to remove
them entirely ? William Henry, take the gentleman's boots

240 THE GREAT PATENT-OFFICE FIRE

and bring my own slippers. I hope your wife and familf
are well ? "

"I was only reck'nin' to say — "

"Not a word more, sir, — not a word! I understand you,
perfectly. You were referred to us as a person who ' was
about to say.' Permit me, sir, to state that if there is a
recognized function of this department, it is the function of
being < about to say.' ' What to Say,' or 'How it is to be
Said,' is, of course, another matter. As a traveled man, as
a man of the world, I see you understand me. I hope, sir,
the chair is comfortable. God bless you, sir ! "

"Well, I was reck'nin' to say that bein' in this yar
model room, over yon, in the Patent Office — "

"An interesting spot — an exceedingly interesting spot,
I am told," interrupted the Assistant Secretary courteously.
" If I remain in Washington during the next twenty-five
years, I shall endeavor — yes, I shall endeavor — to see it.
At present, I wish it well. God bless you, sir ! And your
family, you say, are in perfect health ? "

"Well, in this yar room I smelt smoke, and lookin', you
know, sorter, kinder lookin' round, why, dern my skin ef I
did n't find the whole shebang in a blaze ! "

" While your expressions undoubtedly agree with your
impressions," replied Mr. Sevvard, with a gentle smile,
"and while they have, I admit, a certain degree of strength,
perhaps inconsistent with the general theory of language in
this department, might you not have been mistaken as to
the central fact ? "

" Which ? " asked the stranger, doggedly.

" You have, my dear sir, undoubtedly mistaken the genia!
warmth of the greenhouse, perhaps the rays of the still
fervent sun, for a conflagration."

"Why, dern it all ! — the whole derned thing was a tin
der box, and I saw — "

" Permit me — a single moment ! " The Assistant Secre-

THE GREAT PATENT-OFFICE FIRE 241

tary rose and gave a few instructions to a subordinate. As
he did so the clangor of bells and the rattling of engines
over the pavement of Penns}rlvania Avenue came through
the open window. The stranger rose excitedly.

" Thar!— didn't I tell you ?"

The Assistant Secretary only smiled blandly. "Your in
ference is natural, yet, perhaps scarcely logical or diplomatic.
In an experience of some years in the affairs of State, the
tinkle of bells and the clatter of engines have not neces
sarily resulted in the destruction of the Patent Office by fire.
Let us look at the thing largely. I think I can convince
you of your mistake. I have placed myself in telegraphic
communication with the Secretary of State, now at Nash
ville, and with Mr. Simpkins, Chief Clerk of the Patent
Office models. Their several answers are already here," he
added, as a messenger entered the room. This is from Mr.
Evarts: —

" ' Sir : The mere allegation of any irresponsible party
or parties of any conflagration existing in any department of
the Government, unless first sanctioned by the President or
myself, cannot be received by you. Under the circum
stances, however, it would be well to observe the allegator
carefully ; obtain, without compromising yourself, his views
on the subject, and incidentally, on our Southern policy.
You can use this dispatch as a joke or seriously, as the tem
per of the people may warrant.

" ' EVARTS.

"'P.S. — I observe the omission of the prefix "Honor
able " in the wording of my address. Hereafter always use
it, without reference to the economy practised in the War
Department. If funds are short, dismiss one of the clerks. '

"You observe, my dear sir," resumed the Assistant Sec
retary, " that I am frank with you. You see the cruel po-

242 THE GREAT PATENT-OFFICE FIRE

sition in which I am placed. I cannot take any view —
except a social one — of any fire that may occur at the
Patent Office. Yet, perhaps, I may satisfy you as to the
facts. This dispatch is from Simpkins, of the Patent
Office :-

"'1.20 P.M. — Up to this moment I have received no
official report of any fire existing in this department. On
the contrary, a heavy rainstorm seems to be prevailing over
my office. There is an elemental disturbance outside, and the
floor is already flooded to the depth of six inches.

"< SIMPKIXS, Chief Clerk.' "

" Then thar ain't any fire," said the stranger, disgustedly,
rising to his feet.

" You may safely assure your friends," said the Assistant
Secretary blandly, "that there is, de jure, no conflagration.
God bless and protect you, sir, and give you a speedy return
to your interesting family. If you are again in Washington,
give me a call. William Henry! — the door."

"And I suppose I 'm a damned fool ! "

"The State Department," said Mr. Seward, rising with
gentle dignity, "never presumes to pass upon the mental
qualifications of those who may seek advice, assistance, or
information at its hands ! God bless you, sir. Farewell."

An hour later, the Cincinnati express bore the stranger
out of Washington. A fellow-passenger in the smoking-car
called his attention to the cloud of smoke that was rising
beyond the Capitol. "The Patent Office, they say, is on
fire." Firmly, yet quietly, the stranger drew a revolver
from his pocket: "I'm kinder new in these yar parts," he
said sadly, "and, mister, I'm nat'rally a sorter hopeful,
mindful man, easy to manage — but if ye 're trying to play-
any o' them Patent Office fires on me — Well — you hear
me?"

THE GREAT PATENT-OFFICE FIRE 243

Meanwhile the conflagration raged — quietly, unostenta
tiously ! A clerk of the second class, exhibiting a coat, from
which the tails had been slowly consumed while sitting with
his back to the wall, and a young woman of the third class,
saturated with water, and begging a permit to go home and
change her clothes, produced at last a decided impression on
the Assistant Secretary of the Interior. He proceeded,
calmly and firmly, to the office of the Secretary.

"A conflagration, irregular, incendiary, and insubordinate,
is now proceeding in the model room. It is true that there
is no spot where a conflagration could take place but there,
and it is, therefore, to some extent, consistent with the
habits of the public service. Nor is it wholly without prece
dent. In 1835 the Patent Office was destroyed by fire."

"Thank God! it is the custom," interrupted Schurz.

" Owing," continued the Assistant Secretary calmly, " to
the exertions of the Assistant Secretary who was badly
burned, a greater part of the papers — "

"I fear I am keeping you," said the Secretary gently.
"You are anxious, doubtless, to be at your post."

" — Were saved," continued the Assistant Secretary with
dignity; "but it is to be regretted that the Secretary him-
self, in attempting to recover the waistcoat of George Wash
ington from the devouring element, perished, miserably, in
the flames."

" This is no time to consider precedents," shrieked the
Secretary wildly. "We have Civil Service Reform which
abolishes it! We must do something new."

" I regret to state, however," continued the Assistant Sec
retary calmly, " that an imprudent alarm has been already
raised by outside, irresponsible parties, and that a disorderly
mob of firemen — not in any way connected with this de
partment — "

" Fatal mistake," said Schurz, clutching his hair. " I heard
them and thought it was only a Sioux delegation outside."

244 THE GREAT PATENT-OFFICE FIRE

" They have already introduced — and are now introducing
— in the department, by the means of hose and water — "

" A Civil Service Reform not indorsed by me," screamed
the Secretary, wildly dashing his eye-glasses on the floor.
" This must be stopped! Put up a notice at once referring
them to the Appointment Clerk."

" There is, I understand, already a reservoir of water,
and considerable hose in the building," said the Assistant
Secretary calmly, disregarding a stream of water from the
one and one half inch nozzle of a hose, at that moment in
troduced into the window of the Secretary's office.

" Let there be a force of departmental firemen at once
organized ! "

"They have been, sir, but under your orders, since the
fire, they have been undergoing competitive examination
in room 97."

"Good ! Thank God ! we, at least, present a clear, un-
mistaken policy to the world ! "

" Unfortunately," said the Assistant Secretary, — paus
ing only to pour the water, which now covered the marble
floor to the depth of two inches, from his shoes, — " unfort
unately two of the clerks escaped in the confusion."

" Great God ! "

" ' Mose Skinner,' who is accompanied by a confederate
named l Syksey,' is now on the roof directing the move
ments of the firemen. He is an appointee from Mr. Fish,
and is below the grade. He spells traveller with a single
' 1,' and omits the acute accent in 'depot' — in fact calls it
• 'deepot.'"

Mr. Schurz shuddered and gasped hoarsely, "We are
lost ! "

" ' Jakey Keyser,' " continued the Assistant Secretary with
perfect coolness, retreating behind a column to allow a stream
of water from a two-inch nozzle to uninterruptedly wash the
tall and commanding form of the Secretary, —

THE GREAT PATENT- OFFICE FIRE 245

" ' Jakey Keyser,' butcher, of Spring Garden, Philadel
phia, originally intended for the clerical profession, on the
first alarm dashed from the room, saved the papers of the
Land Office, went back for Washington's sword and is now
supposed to have perished in the ruins."

" Just Heaven ! I thank thee," said the Secretary.
"For only look at this record of Keyser's on the competi
tive examination. He called the Swiss ' Dutchmen,' and
believes Switzerland a seaport on the Mediterranean."

The two men pressed each other's hands in mutual dis
gust, silently. Tears came to the eyes of two firemen —
the only witnesses of this affecting interview, who happened
to be climbing outside, in the smoke.

" Something must be done," said Schurz. " Issue an
other order regarding the voting of Ohio clerks, and contra
dict something in the newspapers."

" What shall I contradict ? "

" Anything."

" We have still recourse to the telegraph."

" Good, telegraph Evarts, Key, and the President. Ask
aid of the Fire Departments of San Francisco, Chicago and
New Orleans ! See that the Secretary of the Navy places
an ironclad at Pensacola to bring up the Florida engines.
Cut down the window-awnings. They obscure that view of
the Interior Department which should, at such a crisis as
this, be open to the world. Do they observe me from the
street?"

"Yes!"

" Go, for the present. Enough ! Where shall I find
you ? "

" At my post, sir ! "

" Thank God ! This is the result of discipline. Where
is that?"

" On the corner of F and Seventh Streets. You will
notice the letters on the lamp ! "

246 THE GREAT PATENT- OFFICE FIRE

"God bless you!" They fell into each other's arm*
Strong men fainted, overcome with heat and emotion.

Meanwhile answers to the dispatches had been received.
The first from the Secretary of State : —

" A dispatch evidently indicted by an inebriated employee
of yours, and addressed to ' Bill Evarts, Champion Talkist
of the Hayes Combination Troupe,' has been handed to me
as proof of a fire alleged to be raging in the Patent Office.
I can take no other notice of this, or other similarly ad
dressed dispatches.

" EVARTS, WILLIAM, of State.''

" Dismiss that clerk instantly," shrieked the Secretary.

" But he is now carrying your private papers from the
office."

" Appoint some one to fill the vacancy."

" But he would have to go through competitive examina
tion : that would take too long, and this man already speaks
German, and knows how many moons Mars has."

The Secretary was mollified.

" Open the next dispatch."

It was from John Sherman : —

" In a public emergency like this it is always safe to dis
miss a dozen clerks, and reduce the salaries of the remainder.
The public want something, and the economy dodge always
goes down. I have placed four additional buckets in the
Treasury. They are fireproof, and will be of service in
stowing papers and other valuables. I have issued orders
that no one shall pass out until they or the building are
consumed. An additional guard has been placed around
the building outside to prevent the lowering of ropes, by
which, under the thin disguise of saving life, iron safes con
taining valuables might be concealed on the persons of the

THE GREAT PATENT-OFFICE FIRE 247

so-called escaping victims. Any fire occurring in the Treas
ury after this date will be attributed to the newspapers.

SHERMAN."

" Noble and thoughtful man," said Schurz.

The next dispatch was from the Secretary of the Navy : —

" Have ordered the ' Snickaree ' ironclad to proceed to
"Washington and cover the Patent Office with her guns.
If this don't subdue the conflagration, you can call upon the
Marine Band and their instruments.

" THOMPSON."

"Open the next dispatch." It was from Key : —

"At anytime during the late unpleasantness I would
have cheerfully shown how best to burn up the Patent Office.
I even had my eye on the Treasury also. But I 've re
formed. " KEY."

"We have not yet heard from the Department of
Justice."

" Here is the dispatch, sir " : —

" Don't be an ass! Leave the fire to the firemen. When
they have put it out, make them a speech. You know
the market price of that article.

"DEVENS."

" Order instantly everybody to report to me : form the
several divisions into line in the west corridor. Telegraph
Evarts to issue a proclamation ; promulgate an order — "

" But, sir — "

" Say that Carl Schurz expects every man to do his duty
— or her duty, if a female clerk. Reduce the salaries of

248 THE GREAT PATENT-OFFICE FIRE

the clerks of the first class. See that everything that I say is
published, and deny it afterward. Have competitive exami
nations hereafter on fires. Find out what is most combust-
ibly effective. Analyze the quality of water now being in
troduced in the building, and see if the same work could
not be effected by cheaper material. Report upon the possi
bility of the Indian delegation being employed as fire-water
men. Report that also as a joke. Say that " — But human
nature is weak, and the heroic Secretary, wearied with his
superhuman exertions, was beginning to succumb — "say
that — a — searching — invest-i-gation is soon — to — "

" But, sir — "

" Say that — "

"But, sir—"

" What ? "

"The fire is out!"

LONGFELLOW

As I write the name that stands at the head of this page
my eyes fill with a far-off memory. While I know that every
reader to whom that name was familiar felt that it recalled
to him some thought, experience, or gentle daily philosophy
which he had made his own, I fear that I, reading the brief
message that flashed his death under the sea and over a
continent, could not recall a line of his poetry, but only re
vived a picture of the past in which he had lived and
moved. But this picture seemed so much a part of him
self, and himself so much a part of his poetry, that I can
not help transferring it here. Few poets, I believe, so
strongly echoed their song in themselves, in their tastes,
their surroundings, and even in their experiences, as Henry
Wadsworth Longfellow.

I am recalling a certain early spring day in New England
twelve years ago. A stranger myself to the climate for
over seventeen years, that day seemed to me most charac
teristic of the transcendent inconsistencies of that purely
local phenomenon. There had been frost in the early morn
ing, followed by thaw; it had rained, it had hailed, there
had been snow. The latter had been imitated in breezy
moments of glittering sunshine by showers of white blos
soms that filled the air. At nightfall, earth, air, and sky
stiffened again under the rigor of a northeast wind, and
when at midnight with another lingering guest we parted
from our host under the elms at his porch, we stepped out
into the moonlight of a winter night. " God makes such
nights," one could not help thinking in the words of one of
America's most characteristic poets ; one was only kept from

250 LONGFELLOW

uttering it aloud by the fact that the host himself was that
poet.

The other guest had playfully suggested that he should
be my guide home in the midnight perils that might en
viron a stranger in Cambridge, and we dismissed the carriage,
to walk the two miles that lay between our host's house on
the river Charles and his own nearer the centre of this
American university city. Although I had met him sev
eral times before in a brief week of gayety, until that even
ing I do not think I had clearly known him. I like to re
call him at that moment, as he stood in the sharp moonlight
of the snow-covered road ; a dark mantle-like cloak hiding
his evening dress, and a slouched felt hat covering his full,
silver-like locks. The conventional gibus or chimney-pot
would have been as intolerable on that wonderful brow as
it would on a Greek statue, and I was thankful there was
nothing to interrupt the artistic harmony of the most im
pressive vignette I ever beheld. I hope that the enthusiasm
of a much younger man will be pardoned when I confess
that the dominant feeling in my mind was an echo of one
I had experienced a few weeks before, when I had pene
trated Niagara at sunrise on a Sunday morning after a heavy
snowfall and found that masterpiece unvisited, virgin to
my tread, and my own footsteps the only track to the dizzy
edge of Prospect Rock. I was to have the man I most re
vered alone with me for half an hour in the sympathetic
and confidential stillness of the night. The only excuse I
have for recording this enthusiasm is that the only man who
might have been embarrassed by it never knew it, and was
as sublimely unconscious as the waterfall.

I think I was at first moved by his voice. It was a
very deep baritone without a trace of harshness, but veiled
and reserved as if he never parted entirely from it, and
with the abstraction of a soliloquy even in his most
earnest moments. It was not melancholy, yet it suggested

LONGFELLOW 251

•Hie of his own fancies as it fell from his silver-fringed
Aips

" Like the water's flow-
Under December's snow."

tt was the voice that during our homeward walk flowed on
with kindly criticism, gentle philosophy, picturesque illus
tration, and anecdote. As I was the stranger, he half earn
estly, half jestingly kept up the role of guide, philosopher,
and friend, and began an amiable review of the company
we had just left. As it had comprised a few names, the
greatest in American literature, science, and philosophy, I
was struck with that generous contemporaneous appreciation
which distinguished this Round Table, of whom no knight
was more courtly and loving than my companion. It
should be added that there was a vein of gentle playfulness
in his comment, which scarcely could be called humor, an
unbending of attitude rather than a different phase of
thought or turn of sentiment ; a relaxation from his ordinary
philosophic earnestness and truthfulness. Readers will re
member it in his playful patronage of the schoolmaster's
sweetheart in the "Birds of Killingworth," —

" Who was, as in a sonnet he had said,
As pure as water, and as good as bread."

Yet no one had a quieter appreciation of humor, and his
wonderful skill as a raconteur, arid his opulence of memory,
justified the saying of his friends, that " no one ever heard
him tell an old story or repeat a new one."

Living always under the challenge of his own fame, and sub
ject to that easy superficial criticism which consists in en
forced comparison and rivalry, he never knew envy. Those
who understood him will readily recognize his own picture
in the felicitous praise intended for another, known as " The
Poet," in the " Tales of a Wayside Inn," who

"did not find his sleep less sweet
For music in some neighboring street."

252 LONGFELLOW

But if I was thus, most pleasantly because unostenta-
/ tiously, reminded of the poet's personality, I was equally
impressed with the local color of his poetry in the surround
ing landscape. We passed the bridge where he had once
stood at midnight, and saw, as he had seen, the moon

" Like a golden goblet falling
And sinking in the sea " ;

we saw, as Paul Revere once saw,

"the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight";

and passing a plain Puritan church, whose uncompromising
severity of style even the tender graces of the moon could
not soften, I knew that it must have been own brother to
the " meeting-house " at Lexington, where

"windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast,
At the bloody work they would look upon."

Speaking of these spiritual suggestions in material things,
I remember saying that I thought there must first be some
actual resemblance, which unimaginative people must see
before the poet could successfully use them. I instanced
the case of his own description of a camel as being " weary "
and "baring his teeth," and added that I had seen them
throw such infinite weariness into that action after a day's
journey as to set spectators yawning. He seemed surprised,
so much so that I asked him if he had seen many — fully
believing he had traveled in the desert. He replied simply,
"No," that he had "only seen one once in the Jardin des
Plantes." Yet in that brief moment he had noted a dis
tinctive fact, which the larger experience of others fully
corroborated.

We reached his house — fit goal for a brief journey
filled with historical reminiscences, for it was one of the
few old colonial mansions, relics of a bygone age, still left

LONGFELLOW 253

intact. A foreigner of great distinction had once dwelt
there ; later it had been the headquarters of General Wash
ington. Stately only in its size and the liberality of its
offices, it stood back from the street, guarded by the gaunt
arms of venerable trees. We entered the spacious central
hall, with no sound in the silent house but the ticking of
that famous clock on the staircase — the clock whose " For
ever — never! Never — forever!" has passed into poetic
immortality. The keynote of association and individuality
here given filled the house with its monotone ; scarcely a
room had not furnished a theme or a suggestion, found and
recognized somewhere in the poet's song ; where the room
whose tiled hearth still bore the marks of the grounding of
the heavy muskets of soldiery in the troublous times ; the
drawing-room still furnished as Washington had left it; the
lower stairway, in whose roofed recess the poet himself had
found a casket of love-letters which told a romance and in
trigue of the past; or the poet's study, which stood at the
right of the front door. It was here that the ghosts most
gathered, and as my guide threw aside his mantle and drew
an easy-chair to the fireside, he looked indeed the genius of
the place. He had changed his evening dress for a dark
velvet coat, against which his snowy beard and long flowing
locks were strikingly relieved. It was the costume of one
of his best photographs ; the costume of an artist who with
out vanity would carry his taste even to the details of his
dress. The firelight lit up this picturesque figure, gleamed
on the "various spoils of various climes" gathered in the
tasteful apartment, revealed the shadowy depths of the
bookshelves, where the silent company, the living children
of dead and gone poets, were ranged, and lost itself in the
gusty curtains.

As we sat together the wind began its old song in the
chimney, but with such weird compass and combination of
notes that it seemed the call of a familiar spirit. " It is a

254 LONGFELLOW

famous chimney," said the poet, leaning over the fire, " and
has long borne a local reputation for its peculiar song. Ole
Bull, sitting in your chair one night, caught it quite with
his instrument."

Under the same overpowering domination of himself and
his own personality, here as elsewhere, I could not help re
membering how he himself had caught and transfigured not
only its melody, but its message, in that most perfect of
human reveries, " The Wind over the Chimney."

"But the night wind cries, ' Despair !
Those who walk with feet of air

Leave no long-enduring marks ;
At God's forges incandescent
Mighty hammers beat incessant,

These are but the flying sparks.

" 'Dust are all the hands that wrought ;
Books are sepulchres of thought;

The dead laurels of the dead
Rustle for a moment only,
Like the withered leaves in lonely

Churchyards at some passing tread.*

" Suddenly the flame sinks down ;
Sink the rumors of renown ;

And alone the night wind drear
Clamors louder, wilder, vaguer, —
*'Tis the brand of Meleager

Dying on the hearthstone here! '

" And I answer, — ' Though it be,
Why should that discomfort me ?

No endeavor is in vain;
Its reward is in the doing,
And the rapture of pursuing

Is the prize the vanquished gain.' "

Why should not the ghosts gather here ? Into this
quaint historic house he had brought the poet's retentive
memory filled with the spoils of foreign climes. He had
built his nest with rare seeds, grasses, and often the stray
feathers of other song birds gathered in his flight. Into
it had come the great humanities of life, the bridal pro-

LONGFELLOW 255

cession, the christening, death — death in a tragedy that
wrapped those walls in flames, bore away the faithful young
mother and left a gap in the band of " blue-eyed banditti'*
who used to climb the poet's chair. The keynote of that
sublime resignation and tender philosophy which has over
flowed so many hearts with pathetic endurance was struck
here ; it was no cold abstract sermon preached from an in- ^
tellectual pulpit, but the daily lessons of experience, of
chastened trial shaped into melodious thought. How could
we help but reverence the instrument whose smitten chords
had given forth such noble " Psalms of Life " ?

Such is the picture conjured by his name. Near and
more recent contact with him never dimmed its tender out
lines. I like now to remember that I last saw him in the
same quaint house, but with the glorious mellow autumnal
setting of the New England year, and the rich, garnered
fulness of his own ripe age. There was no suggestion of
the end in his deep kind eyes, in his deep-veiled voice, or
in his calm presence ; characteristically it had been faintly
voiced in his address to his classmates of fifty years before.
He had borrowed the dying salutation of the gladiator in
the Eoman arena only to show that he expected death, but
neither longed for it nor feared it.

A FEW WOEDS ABOUT ME. LOWELL

OF the many spontaneous and critical tributes paid lately
to the admirable gifts of James Kussell Lowell, I recall
but one where allusion was made to their early and prompt
recognition by a contemporaneous public. Yet it was well
known that he had never experienced the hesitating and
probationary struggles of the literary life ; that he had under
gone none of the tentative trials of talent, and that, without
exciting any of the perturbing effects of a literary comet,
he was, nevertheless, as completely successful at the begin
ning of that brilliant career just closed as he was at its
fullest finish. This was the more singular, since the per
formances of a political satirist, a didactic poet, a thoughtful
and cultivated essayist do not usually secure that immediate
popularity accorded to the latest humorist or story-teller.
For, although Mr. Lowell had humor, it was subordinate to
his controversial purpose, and, undoubted as was his lyric
power, in his most stirring passages the moral effort was
apt to be painfully and Puritanically obvious. But he was
always popular, and I feel it is no mere loyalty to old im
pressions when I can remember that he was one of my boy
ish heroes as well as the admiration of my maturer years,
for he belonged to us all in the " School Readers" of America,
and the man who was stirred in later years by the war lyrics
of 1864 could recall how his youthful pulse had been mys
teriously thrilled by the then prophetic " When a deed is
done for Freedom." Whatever ideal Mr. Lowell may have
had in his own inner consciousness, — in spite of the play
ful portrait he has given of himself in the " Fable for
Critics," — outwardly, at least, the work of his manhood

A FEW WORDS ABOUT MK. LOWELL 257

seemed to have fulfilled the ambition, as it had the promise,
of his youth. A strong satirical singer, who at once won
the applause of a people inclined to prefer sentiment and
pathos in verse; an essayist who held his own beside such
men as Emerson, Thoreau, and Holmes ; an ironical biog
rapher in the land of the historian of the Knickerbockers ;
and an unselfish, uncalculating patriot selected to represent
a country where partisan politics and party service were too
often the only test of fitness — this was his triumphant re
cord. His death seems to have left no trust or belief of
his admirers betrayed or disappointed. The critic has not
yet risen to lament a wasted opportunity, to point out a
misdirected talent, or to tell us that he expected more or less
than Mr. Lowell gave ! wonderful and rounded finish of an
intellectual career.

Yet it has always seemed to me that his early success as
well as his strength lay in his keen instinctive insight into
the personal character of the New Englander. He had by
no means created the "Yankee" in literature, neither had
he been the first to use the Yankee dialect. Judge Hali-
bnrton, a writer of more unqualified English blood, had al
ready drawn " Sam Slick," but it was the Yankee regarded
from the " outside," — as he was wont to aggressively present
himself to the neighboring " Blue Noses " ; — and although
the picture was not without occasional graceful and poetic
touches, that poetry and grace was felt to be Judge Hali-
burton's rather than Sam Slick's. It may interest the curi
ous reader to compare the pretty prose fancy of Sam Slick's
dream with the genuine ring of " Hosea Biglow's Courtin'."
Dr. Judd's "Margaret" — a novel, I fear, unknown to
most Englishmen — was already a New England classic when
Hosea Biglow was born. It was a dialect romance — so
provincial as to be almost unintelligible to even the average
American reader, but while it was painted with a coarse
Flemish fidelity, its melodrama was conventional and im-

258 A FEW WORDS ABOUT MK. LOWELL

ported. It remained for Mr. Lowell alone to discover and
portray the real Yankee — that wonderful evolution of the
English Puritan, who had shaken off the forms and super
stitions, the bigotry and intolerance, of religion, but never
the deep consciousness of God. It was true that it was not
only an allwise God, but a God singularly perspicacious of
wily humanity; a God that you had " to get up early" to
"take in"; a God who encouraged familiarity, who did not
reveal Himself in vague thunders, nor answer out of a
whirlwind of abstraction ; who did not hold a whole race re
sponsible — but "sent the bill" directly to the individual
debtor. It was part of Mr. Lowell's art to contrast this
rude working-Christian Biglow with the older-fashioned
Puritan parson Wilbur, still wedded to his creed and his
books. The delightful pedant is no less strong and charac
teristic than his protege, though perhaps not as amusing and
original, and there is always a faint reminiscence of the
" Dominie " in literature whom we all remember in some
shape or another ! but to Mr. Lowell belongs the delightful
conceit of making him t|ie patron of the irreverent and revo
lutionary Hosea, who already usurped his functions as a
moralist. Yet clever as was the '" swaller-tailed talk " of
the parson, one is conscious that it is mere workmanship,
and that at best it is but humorous translation artistically
done. It is the rude dialect of Hosea that is alone real and
vital. For this is not the " Yankee talk " of tradition, of
the story-books and the stage, — tricks of pronunciation,
illiterate spelling, and epithet, — but the revelation of the
character, faith, work, and even scenery of a people, in
words more or less familiar, but always in startling and
novel combination and figurative phrasing. JSTew England
rises before us, with its hard social life, its scant amuse
ments, always sternly and pathetically conjoined with re
ligious, patriotic, or political duty in the " meetings, " " train
ing," or " caucus " ; with its relentless climate mitigated

A FEW WORDS ABOUT MR. LOWELL 259

by those rare outbursts of graciousness that were like His
special revelations ; with the grim economy of living, the
distrust of art which perhaps sent the people to the woods
and fields for beauty ; the human passion that asserted itself
in a homely dramatic gesture ; — these move and live again
in honest Hosea's idiom. Without multiplying examples
one may take that perfect crystallization of New England —
the white winter idyll of " The Courtin'." In the first
word the keynote of the Puritan life is struck : —

"God makes sech nights, all white an' still."

The familiar personal Deity is there — no pantheistic ab
straction, conventional muse, nor wanton classic goddess,
but the New Englander's Very God. Again and again
through the verses of that matchless pastoral the religious
chord is struck ; weak human passion and grim piety walk
hand-in-hand to its grave measure ; to look at the pretty
Huldy in her cozy kitchen was " kin7 o' kingdom-come " ;
when, on Sunday, in the choir, Zekle " made Ole Hunderd
ring, she knowed the Lord was nigher " ; with his eyes on
the cover of her " meetin'-bunnet," she blushes scarlet "right
in prayer," and the loving but discreet pastoral closes with
the assurance that

" They wuz cried
In meetin* come nex' Sunday."

Equally strong and true with the grim pathos of this
courtship, mitigated by religious observances, are the few
touches that discover the whole history of the Revolution
and its " embattled farmers" in the "ole qneen's-arm " over
the chimney ; that reveal the economic domestic life in the
picture of the hard-working mother utilizing her discreet pro
pinquity by "sprinklin' clo'es agin to-morrow's i'nin' " in
the next room, and the fair Huldy herself dividing her
blushes with " the apples she was peelin'." The hard,
realistic picture is lifted into the highest poetry by two or

260 A FEW WORDS ABOUT MR. LOWELL

three exquisite similes — conceits that carry conviction be
cause they are within the inventive capacity of the quaint
narrator, and the outcome of his observation. Take such
perfect examples as : —

" But long o' her his veins 'ould run

All crinkly like curled maple,
The side she brushed felt full o' sun
JEz a south slope in Ap'il.

All ways to once her feelins flew
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

" When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips,

Huldy sot pale ez ashes,
All kin' o' sraily roun' the lips
And teary roun' the lashes.

"For she was jes' the quiet kind

Whose naturs never vary,
Like streams that keep a summer mind
Snowhid in Jenooarv.

" Then her red come back like the tide
Down to the Bay o' Fundy."

The last simile is the only one that might be thought in
consistent with the young farmer's capacity. But then the
American schoolboy — inheritor of avast continent — was
always up in his geography — and for the matter of that in
his natural phenomena, too.

As to the origin and genius of this wonderful dialect, Mr.
Lowell has estopped criticism and inquiry with an essay
that has exhausted the subject ; it would be difficult to
glean where he has reaped, and one does not care to refute
his arguments, if one could. One is not concerned to know
that much of the so-called dialect is Old English, and that
among the other sturdy things the Puritan carried over with

A FEW WORDS ABOUT MR. LOWELL 2G1

him was the integrity of the language. Enough for us that
it was the picturesque interpretation of the New England
life and character. Critic of the New Englander as he was,
he was first and last always one of them. Like Bramah he
may have been the " Doubter and the Doubt," but he was
also " the hymn the Brahmin sings."

But Mr. Lowell was more of an Englishman than an Ameri
can — in the broadest significance of the latter term. His
English blood had been unmixed for two generations, with
the further English insulation of tradition, family, and lo
cality. In the colonial homestead the initials " G. R."
were still legible on the keystone of the chimney, and from
what he has told us of his great-grandmother, it might have
been also engraven on her heart — if a sentimental interest in
Royalty were an uncommon weakness of the American
woman. The family seem to have had none of those vicis
situdes of fortune or restless ambition which compel the
average American to " go West" or otherwise change his
habitat. He knew little of the life and character of the
West and South — it is to be feared that he never greatly
understood or sympathized with either. His splendid anti-
slavery services were the outcome of moral conviction, and not
the result of a deliberate survey of the needs and policy of a
nation. In his most powerful diatribes, there was always
this reiteration of an abstract Right and Wrong that was
quite as much the utterance of Exeter Hall as of Elmwood.
Only once does a consideration of the other side occur, and
that is a note of human compassion : —

" My eyes cloud up for rain ; my mouth

Will take to twitchin' roun' the corners;
I pity mothers too down South,

For all they sot among the scorners."

But the whole instinct is as aggressive and uncompro
mising as the ante-bellum English expression had been, and
an Englishman should find no difficulty in understand-

262 A FEW WORDS ABOUT MR. LOWELL

ing the burst of equally intense indignation which England's
abandonment of that attitude excited in Mr. Lowell and
was resented in " Jonathan to John." It was also this
consciousness of his own integrity as a transplanted English
man, who had kept the best traditions of the race, which
made him unduly sensitive to English criticism and gave a
wholesome bitterness to his manly protest to " A Certain
Condescension to Foreigners." One does not care to be
called " provincial " by one's own cousins for exhibiting the
family traits more distinctly than they do, and Mr. Lowell's
sensitiveness was English rather than American. The
dwellers of the Great West and Northwest, who had quite
as much at stake in this struggle for unity, and who had as
freely contributed their blood and substance to its defense,
were not sbaken in their mountainous immobility, or ruf
fled in their lacustrine calm. Perhaps they were accus
tomed to it in the attitude which Puritan New England
had already taken towards them.

The race that had been intolerant of Quakers and witches
in colonial days were only inclined at best to a severe patron
age or protectorate over the Gallic mixtures of the South and
Gulf, with their horse-racing, dueling, and reprehensible
recklessness of expenditure ; over the German millions of
the West and Middle States, slow arid sure in their thought
ful citizenship, but given overmuch to wicked enjoyment of
the Sabbath ; the Irishman of the great seaboard and inland
cities, developing the conservatism of wealth in his mature
years, but perplexing and perturbing in his youthful immi
gration ; the Spaniards of the Southwest and the Pacific Slope,
gentle and dignified, full of an Old World courtesy unknown
to the Atlantic States, but hopeless in their Latin super
stitions and avowed Papistry. The microcosm of New Eng
land hardly reflected these puissant elements of the greater
world of the Eepublic, and it is to be feared not always
rightly comprehended them. When the New Englander

A FEW WORDS ABOUT MR. LOWELL 263

went to Kansas it was with a sharp rifle and a dogma, very
much as his English ancestor had penetrated the wilderness.
When he traveled for information the provincial instinct was
still strong and he visited his capital — London. His liter
ature confined itself mainly to the exploitation of local
thought and character. With the exception of the Quaker
Whittier, few of the New England writers had let their
observations or fancy stray beyond its confines. Long
fellow's " Hiawatha," the AVestern man knew only as a
beautiful legend with Indian names and pictures from Cat-
lin, but not as an American romance. It seems strange
that Mr. Lowell, who has given us the following lines: —

" Brown foundlin' o' the woods, whose baby-bed
Was prowled round by the Injun's cracklin' tread,
An' who grew'st strong thru shifts an' wants an" pains,
Nussed by stern men with empires in their brains,
Who saw in vision their young Ishmel strain
With each hard hand a vassal ocean's mane, —
Thou skilled by Freedom an' by great events,
To pitch new States ez Old-World men' pitch tents," —

should have known so little of those "New States," or that
now limitless circle before which the Indian has retired.
But it was presumed that a sufficient idea of the country as
an entity could have been evolved from the New Eng-
lancler's inner consciousness itself, even as the secret of the
wilderness was supposed to have been revealed to the soul
ful observer of Boston Common. I remember being startled
by a remark of Mr. Emerson's as we were one day walking
beside Walden Pond. It will be recollected that there the
gifted Thoreau once reverted to nature, forswore civilization
and taxes, and became a savage dweller in the wilderness.
As I ventured to comment upon the singular contiguity of
the village to what might be termed the fringe of this track
less solitude, the " Sage of Concord " turned to me with a
sweet but peculiar smile. " Yes," he said, " we sometimes
rang the dinner bell at the lower end of the garden and we

264 A FEW WORDS ABOUT MR. LOWELL

were always glad when Henry heard it and came tip."
Kind philosopher and discreet seeker of nature's primal
truths! I don't mean to say that this facility of easy re
turn to the conventional should ever be in the way of great
divination, but I fancy I have since heard Mr. Emerson's
dinner bell in a good deal of New England literature — and
have felt relieved.

But if Mr. Lowell failed in a sympathetic understanding
of the whole nation, who understood him and honestly
mourn his loss, he never erred in his complete and keen
perception of the section whose virtues and vices he por
trayed. With his instincts as a true artist he knew that
his best material lay at the roots of the people, close to the
common soil, and with his instincts as a gentleman he
heeded not the cry of " vulgarity " at his choice. We can
not be sufficiently grateful to him that he did not give us
perfunctory, over-cultivated, self-conscious, epigrammatic
heroes and heroines, as he might have done, and that his
perfect critical faculty detected their unartistic quality, as
his honest heart despised their sham. His other creative
work had little local color, might have been written any
where, and belonged to the varying moods of the accom
plished singer and thinker, whether told in the delicate ten
derness of the " First Snowfall," of " Auf Wiedersehen,"
and "After the Burial," or in the gentle cynicism of "Two
Scenes from the Life of Blondel." His critical essays are
so perfect in their literary quality that one forgets that they
are or are not criticism.

It was a coincidence that, coming as we did, each from
the extreme opposite shores of our continent, our official lot
should be cast together in this country. It was a pleasant
one to us both. But I find myself to-night somehow recall
ing the first time I met him under his roof- tree at Elm wood,
when he came forward pleasantly to greet a countryman,
who I fear, however, was to him as great an alien in ex-

A FEW WORDS ABOUT MR. LOWELL 265

perience, methods, and theories of his country as any for
eigner who had enjoyed his hospitality.

I remember that near the house a gentle river sang itself
away towards the sea. In that continent of mighty streams
it was not, perhaps, as characteristic of the country as either
of those great arteries that lie close to the backbone of the
Republic, and form one vast highway for the people, for
whose undivided and equal rights in it my friend and host
lately battled with all the grace and vigor of his race ; it
was not as far-reaching as the larger rivers that ran east and
west from the Rocky Mountains, and brought prosperity to
either shore. But it ran under that marvelous bridge be
neath whose arches Longfellow saw the moon sinking like
" a golden goblet," and broadened and mirrored back the
windows where Holmes still looked upon it and sang to it
his sweetest songs. And the little " Charles " never bore
more precious freight upon its bosom than when the last
leaves of that transplanted English oak, which had grown
up so sturdily among the elms of Elmwood, drifted out
that August morning towards "the old home.'7

MY FAVORITE NOVELIST AXD HIS BEST BOOK

As I have half a dozen favorite novelists, but only one
favorite novel, I find some difficulty in adjusting this article
to the limits defined in the above somewhat arbitrary title.
And as it may be doubtful, also, if the critical dissection and
analysis of any novel is compatible with that deep affection sug
gested by the word " favorite," I hasten to confess that my
critical appreciation of my favorite novel began long after
it had first thrilled me as a story.

And here, I fear I must start with the premises — open
to some contention — that the primary function of the novel
is to interest the reader in its story — in the progress of
some well-developed plot to a well-defined climax, which
may be either expected or unexpected by him. After this
it may have a purpose or moral; may be pathetic, humorous,
or felicitous in language ; but it must first interest as a story.

The average novel reader is still a child in the desires of
the imagination; he wants to know what "happened," and
to what end. It may be doubted if the humor of Dickens,
the satire of Thackeray, or the epigrammatic brilliancy of
the French school, ever dazzled or diverted his mind from
that requisite. " Did the lovers marry ? " " Was the
murderer discovered?" "Was the mystery explained ?"
are the eternal questions for which he demands an answer.
The skill that prolongs this suspense, the art that protracts
this denouement without his perceiving it, he does not object
to. Any one who has watched him eagerly or impatiently
skipping page after page, and covertly peeping at the last
one of a new novel, will understand this. We laugh at,
but we must not underrate, the power of the weekly install-

MY FAVORITE NOVELIST AND HIS BEST BOOK 267

merit of cheap fiction which leaves the hero hanging over a
precipice in the last issue, and only rescues him on the fol
lowing Saturday. It may be a cheap "surprise," but the
humble " penny-a-liner " may be nearer to the needs of the
average reader than the more celebrated author.

A charming American writer, in an extravaganza called
"The Brick Moon," makes the solitary inhabitant of that
whirling disk, cast into space, telegraph to his fair Dulcinea
still on the earth. It was at the time when Charles Reade's
exciting novel, "Foul Play," was in serial publication.
The first question asked by the celestial voyager referred to
this mundane romance, which they both were reading at
the time of their separation.

"How did they get off the Island?" the anxious in
quirer traces on his gigantic sphere.

" Ducks," flashed back the brief but sympathetic girl,
with one eye at the telescope, and the other on the
book.

The average reader will at least respond to the feeling
that suggested so extreme an illustration. We, who write,
may possibly object. We may wish him to admire our
poetry, our humor, and our "profound knowledge of human
nature " — vide our most intelligent critic ; he will, in the
exercise of that human nature, simply observe that he is
getting "no forwarder" — and will have none of them.
We may wish him to know of what our hero is thinking —
he only cares for what he is doing; we may — more fatal
error ! — wish him to know of what we are thinking — and
he calmly skips ! We may scatter the flowers of our fancy
in his way ; like the old fox hunter in the story, he only
hates "them stinkin' vi'lets" that lead him off the scent
we have started. Action ! Movement ! He only seeks
these, until the climax is "run down."

I am premising, of course, that this action shall be con
tinuously and ably sustained. The subject may be various,

268 MY FAVORITE NOVELIST AND HIS BEST BOOK

but I think it will be admitted that its most popular form
is always based upon the prolonged struggle of man with
his particular environment and circumstance. It was an
old trick of the Greek, but the gods of his drama were im
placable ; the hero succumbed, and so we will have no more
of him. In its simplest form, it was that direct struggle
with the forces of nature which has made " Robinson
Crusoe " immortal. This has been combined, later, with
our hero's additional struggle with a preengaged and unre-
ciprocating mistress, as in " Foul Play " ; although here is
the danger of a double action, only one element of which
the reader will follow. It may run the whole gamut of
the affections, although the younger novelists — like Stan
ley Weyman — are beginning to recognize the effect of a
lover who has to overcome a preliminary aversion on the
part of his beloved in addition to his other struggles.

For the more hopeless the preliminary situation, and the
greater the obstacles to the action, the greater the interest.
The highest form of art is reached when the hero's difficul
ties are such that apparently nothing short of divine inter
position would seem to save him, and his triumph is conse
quently exalted in the mind of the reader to seem to
partake of divine retribution. It is especially reached in a
novel dealing with what might be called personal revenge —
yet a revenge for wrongs so inhuman, and a revenge carried
out under such masterful intelligence and direction, as to
seem divine justice.

And this is what I claim for my favorite novel : " The
Count of Monte Cristo," by the elder Dumas. The lovers
of that great French romancer will perhaps wonder why I
hesitated at the outset to speak of him as my "favorite
novelist" ; they will perhaps remind me of his other books,
arid of those delightful creatures, Athos, Forth os, Aramis,
and D ' Artagnan ; but I must in turn remind them that
these are only characters in a charming series of historical

MY FAVORITE NOVELIST AND HIS BEST BOOK 269

episodes ; and I prefer to restrict my claim to his one excep
tional performance — a perfect novel !

I suppose there is scarcely a reader of these pages who,
whether he accepts this dictum or not, is not familiar
with the story, and will not admit its whilom extraordinary
popularity. "The wealth of Monte Cristo " is already as
proverbial as that of Croasus. Yet I venture to briefly re
capitulate the outline of this story. A young man of obscure
origin is, by a malicious conspiracy, unexpectedly deprived
of his betrothed, his ambition, and his liberty, and con
fined in a political prison, where he is supposed by every
one but the reader to have miserably died. At the end of
fourteen years he reappears, equipped with extraordinary
yet possible power of vengeance, and mysteriously pursues
his former persecutors to the bitter end.

It is a plot simple enough, as all great works are; but
before entering upon its marvelous exposition, I would like
to call the reader's attention to that shrewd perception of
human nature which made the great romancer select a very
common instinct of humanity as the basis of his appeal to
the reader's sympathy. We have all of us, at some time,
when confronted with a particular phase of human wrong
and injustice, been seized by a desire to usurp the tardy di
vine function, and take the law into our own hands. We
have all wished to be " caliph for a day," as humanly, if
not as humbly, as the Persian porter ; we have longed for
a sudden and potential elevation from which to hold the
balance between man and man. Such a being Dumas has
created in Edmond Dantes, later Count of Monte Cristo,
and with such convincing and elaborate skill that we for
get he is only redressing his own wrongs in the tact, wis
dom, and scope of his scheme of retribution. We overlook
the relentlessness of his punitive powers in the impassive
logic with which he makes the guilty work out their own
doom.

270 MY FAVORITE NOVELIST AND HIS BEST BOOK

I do not know of a situation in romance more artistically
explicated than the opening chapters of " Monte Cristo,"
from the arrival of Edmond Dantes at Marseilles to his in
carceration in the Chateau d'If. There is nothing forced,
extravagant, or unnatural in the exposition, yet it contains
everything essential to the working-out of the plot in the
remaining three fourths of the novel, all carefully pre
arranged — even to the apparently unimportant and humble
vocation of the hero, as will be seen later. We have the
good ship Pharaon entering the harbor, anxiously expected
by the worthy owner Morrel, — a man whose generosity
and extravagant sense of mercantile honor leads him even
tually into financial straits, — and temporarily commanded
by her first mate, Dantes, owing to the death, at sea, of
her captain. We are at once introduced to the important
characters of the book : Danglars, the supercargo, jealous of
Dantes's position; Fernand, Dantes's unsuccessful rival for
Mercedes's hand; Caderousse, the weak, drunken, vacillating
friend of Dantes — a strongly drawn character ; and the
royalist magistrate, De Villefort, ambitious of promotion.
We have for an epoch the coming shadow of the Hundred
Days cast upon the Pharaon, for she also bears a letter from
the Emperor at Elba to Noirtier, the Bonapartist uncle of
De Villefort. which the innocent Dantes has received as a
sacred trust from the dying captain. It is this letter,
which would prove Dantes's innocence, yet, by compromis
ing De Villefort 's uncle, would ruin De Villefort 's own
political advancement, that the magistrate suppresses.

And here it will be seen that the conspiracy on which
so 'much depends, and upon which such tremendous punish
ment is afterwards invoked, is no mere cheap stage villainy.
The conspirators are human, and at this crisis — as in real
life — are moved only through their respective weaknesses ;
Danglars by envy, Fernand by jealousy, Caderousse through
drunken impotence. All believe in a certain legal guilt of

MY FAVORITE NOVELIST AND HIS BEST BOOK 271

Dantes — except De Villefort — and none but he is aware
that he is dooming the unfortunate sailor to more than a
few months' imprisonment. Even De Villefort 's cruel pro
longation of his incarceration arises from the increasing
danger of discovery to himself, in his rising fortunes. This
combination has, therefore, nothing extravagant, inhuman,
or unconvincing in its details. The conspiracy is success
ful, and the doors of the Chateau d'lf close on the un
fortunate man, and on the first act of the drama.

If, for a French novel, the love passages of Mercedes
and Dantes seem somewhat brief and artificial, — especially
when contrasted with the charming idyll of Maximilian
Morrel and Valentine de Villefort in the later pages, — it
is no doubt a part of the art of Dumas. He did not wish
the reader to dwell too much upon it, nor to excite too
much sympathy with Mercedes — who is destined, later, to
take up with Dantes's rival. Dantes is always the central
figure — not Dantes, a languishing lover, but Dantes, the /
victim of fate and selfish cruelty, the predestined self- *
avenger.

We now come to the second act of this drama; which is
still explicatory and preparatory, yet which exhibits in a
still higher degree the genius of the constructor. We have
the hero with a tremendous purpose before him — but j
powerless, inexperienced, and untried. More than this, he
is a common, uncultured man, while his persecutors are al- /
ready advancing to fortune and position. It would be easy
for the ordinary romancer to break prison walls, and let the
convict revenge himself in a rude, sailor-like fashion. But
Dumas is no ordinary romancer ; he makes the fourteen
years of Dantes's captivity essential to his salavation, and
the actual equipment and education of the hero for his pur
pose. The whole thrilling narrative of Dantes's prison
life, the despair verging upon suicide, the attempt to escape,
seemingly futile, yet leading to his strange acquaintance

272 MY FAVORITE NOVELIST AND HIS BEST BOOK

and intimacy with the Abbe Faria, are not the mere ingen«
ious incidents of a clever romancer, but the gradual build,
ing-up of Dantes's character, intellect, judgment, and even
knowledge of the world, to enable him to fulfill his purpose.
Restricted to the companionship of a learned and polished
ecclesiastic, for whom he feels the devotion of a simple na
ture, he becomes polished and refined. Condemned to idle
ness, he becomes a student. He is no longer the frank,
simple sailor, but the man of education, meditation, and
self-control. Out of his very wrongs and sufferings the
redresser of these wrongs and sufferings has been created.

He lacks now only freedom and fortune to begin his
work. By fortuitous but yet not improbable circumstances,
both are brought within his reach. A dangerous attack of
illness compels the Abbe* to reveal the treasure of Monte
Cristo to his companion. His sudden death not only makes
Dantes the heir to this colossal fortune, but gives him the
opportunity to escape. Even here, however, Dumas's art
is shown in the element of suspense kept up and the dra
matic surprise of the climax. The hero and the reader
both believe that by Dantes's substitution of his own living
body for that of his dead companion in the coarse funeral
sack to be conveyed outside the prison walls, he will be
able to dig himself from the careless, shallow grave accorded
a forgotten prisoner. The moment arrives ; Dantes feels the
cool breath of freedom, as he is wheeled in the sack beyond
the prison pale; but he suddenly feels also that he is lifted
up and swung in midair ! One does not talk much of Du
mas's epigrammatic force of description, but nothing can be
finer than the last line of the chapter — which tells the
whole story. " La mer est le cimetiere du Chateau dlf"
says the French romancer. "The sea is the cemetery of
the Chateau d'lf," says the literal English translator.

The reader understands, now, why the hero has been
bred a sailor. The plunge into the sea, the desperate swim

MY FAVORITE NOVELIST AND HIS BEST BOOK 273

for life, the hoarding of the Genoese vessel, the enlistment
among the crew, and the finding of the island of Monte
Ci'isto, could only have been accomplished by a thorough
seaman — and all this was preordained by the ingenuity of
the author. This is equally true of the management of the
yacht in the removal of the treasures from the Island. It
is well, also, to note, as another instance of this ingenious
prearrangement of detail, that Dantes's first successful dis
guise in his interview with his old companion, Caderousse,
is that of an abbe — which his intimacy with Faria alone
made probable.

The fairy splendors of the Grotto, and the entertainment
of Franz d'Epinay, which announce Dantes's assumption of
the title of Count of Monte Cristo, may seem somewhat ex
travagant to the reader of English romance, but they arise
from that southern exuberance of color which characterized
Dumas's fancy. It must be remembered that Monte Cristo's
apparent ostentation of wealth was assumed for the purpose
of impressing his destined victims, and carrying out his
vengeance. One does not expect the millionaire Monte
Cristo, with his mission, to act with the reticence and calm
of a Rothschild ; and the English reader may, after all, find
less to offend his taste in the conscious posing of this French
avenger than in the unconscious vulgarity of a Lothair.
Yet it is perhaps unfortunate for the reputation of the novel
that much of its Roman carnival display has become already
familiar as a cheap stage spectacle to the exclusion of its
real dramatic power.

I find only one incident in this part of the novel which
strikes me as being inconsistent with its general careful
elaboration and plausibility. It is the mysterious rehabili
tation of the lost ship Pharaon, and her dramatic entry into
Marseilles on the eve of Morrel's bankruptcy. It is an
anticlimax, for Morrel has already been saved by the myste
rious Englishman, and the catastrophe averted; it is a mere

274 MY FAVORITE NOVELIST AND HIS BEST BOOK

coup de theatre, on which the curtain of the chapter de
scends without explanation. It is so unlike the author that
one is inclined to believe it the work of Maquet, Dumas's
collaborator in his other novels.

The episode of Luigi Vampa and his brigands is merely
an entr'acte of adventure to bring closer the relation of
Monte Cristo to Albert de Moreerf, the son of Fernand, and
to prepare the way for Monte Cristo's entrance into Paris,
and his work of retribution. Here, almost at once, we have
the tremendously dramatic episode of the Auberge of Pont
du Garde told by Bertuccio, Monte Cristo's servant, in
which the diamond ring given by Monte Cristo (disguised
as an abbe, and the executor of the dead Edmond Dantes)
to Caderousse and his wife has provoked the murder of the
jeweler and the death of the wife. The details of the mur
der, witnessed by Bertuccio, himself in hiding ; the " rain
of blood " falling through the cracks of the floor above upon
the concealed man, and his own arrest for the murder,
would be thrilling enough as an episode, but it is more artisti
cally significant as the beginning of that retribution worked
out upon the old conspirators, through their own weaknesses,
by the invisible hand of the Count. The discovery of the
old intrigue of Mme. Danglars and De Villefort at Auteuil,
and the birth of the child, is equally powerful as an episode;
the Lucrezia Borgia habits of Mine, de Villefort, and the
thwarting of her designs on the paralytic Noirtier by the fact
that the powerful poisons she employs are, unknown to her,
the same medicines given to him for his malady, and are
therefore harmless to him ; the luring of the financier Dan
glars to his ruin, through his ambition, by Monte Cristo, are
thrilling incidents enough, but are one and all subservient
to the dominant idea of the novel — that the guilty should
assist in their own punishment.

Yet one of the finest touches in the story is Monte Cristo's
final recognition that, with all his tremendous power, and

MY FAVORITE NOVELIST AND HIS BEST BOOK 275

logical and impassive as is his scheme of retribution he has
not for one moment succeeded . in displacing God ! And,
despite its southern extravagance, its theatrical postures and
climaxes, its opulence of incident, — almost as bewildering
as the wealth of its hero, — as a magnificent conception of
romance magnificently carried out, the novel seems to me to
stand unsurpassed in literature.

But "Monte Cristo " is romance, and, as I am told, of
a very antiquated type. I am informed by writers (not
readers) that this is all wrong ; that the world wants to
know itself in all its sordid, material aspects, relieved only
by occasional excursions into the domain of pathology and
the contemplation of diseased and morbid types; that "the
proper study of mankind is man " as he is, and not as he
might be; and that it is v^ery reprehensible to deceive him
with fairy-tales, or to satisfy a longing that was in him when
the first bard sang to him, or, in the gloom of his cave
dwelling, when the first story-teller interested him in ac
counts of improbable beasts and men — with illustrations on
bone. But I venture to believe that when Jones comes /
home from the city and takes up a book, he does not greatly
care to read a faithful chronicle of his own doings; nor has
Mrs. Jones freshened herself for his coming by seeking a
transcript of her own uneventful day in the pages of her
favorite nov^el. But if they have been lifted temporarily
out of their commonplace surroundings and limited horizon
by some specious tale of heroism, endeavor, wrongs re
dressed, and faith rewarded, and are inclined to look a little
more hopefully to Jones's chances of promotion, or to
Mrs. Jones's aunt's prospective legacy — why blame them
or their novelist?

EARLY POEMS
1857-1865

THE VALENTINE1

(Bret Harte's first known poem)

'T WAS St. Valentine's day, and he mused in his chair,
His feet on the fender — but his heart was not there ;

Thoughts of sweet Angelina, of all girls the best,

Fill'd his mind's waking dreams, and a sigh filPd his breast.

What sound breaks the silence ? — the doorbell's loud

jingle —
The blood leaves his heart, his cheeks also tingle.

He rushed through the doorway, he jumps down the stair,
He opens the door, and the postman is there.

His ways are not pleasant — his words are but few ;

" Mr. Jones ? " " So I am ! " " Here 's a letter for you."

He seized the loved missive, and straightway he fled,
With his lips all the way pressed to Washington's head.

"Oh, my fond Angelina! — dear girl ! " thus he cried ;
"'Tis from thee, my own darling, and maybe — my bride.

" Bashful girl ! did'st thou think thy sweet hand to disguise
That no sign might reveal, and thy lover surprise ?

" But love — fancy painter — more signs doth espy
Than the casual observer would idly pass by."

l Golden Era, March 1, 1857.

280 LINES WRITTEN IN A PRAYER-BOOK

Thus spake he, then tore off the envious seal,
And impatiently read. What its contents reveal ?

" Dear Sir : — The amount that stands charged to your

name,
You 'd oblige us by calling and settling the same ! "

LINES WRITTEN IN A PRAYER-BOOK1

THE last long knell of the tolling bell

Dies out of the belfry's pile,
And the rustling skirt and the crinoline's swell

Is gone from the echoing aisle,
And on saint and on sinner a silence fell,

Unbroken by whisper or smile.

I cannot pray, for my thoughts still stray
From my book, though I seem to con it;

She 's not over there 'midst beauty's array,
For I know the style of her bonnet,

Just from Madame Chassez's, with its trimming so gay
And the loveliest roses upon it.

She comes! " She is like to the merchant ships,"
For she bringeth her silks "from afar";

She comes! She is here ! and my heart 's at my lips,
And my nerves, how they tremble and jar !

For the flounces that catch in the pews and the slips,
Her way to salvation doth bar.

Oh, let not your judgment, ye saints, be severe,
Impute not the fault to her pride,

1 Golden Era, March 22, 1857.

LOVE AND PHYSIC 281

For when angels awhile on the earth reappear,

Their limits are not circumscribed ;
And when woman extendeth the bounds of her sphere,

Her influence can't be too wide !

LOVE AND PHYSIC1

A CLEVER man was Dr. Digg ;

Misfortunes well he bore ;
He never lost his patience till

He had no patients more ;
And though his practice once was large,

It did not swell his gains ;
The pains he labored for were but

The labor for his pains.

The " art is long," his cash got short,

And well might Galen dread it,
For who will trust a name unknown

When merit gets no credit ?
To marry seemed the only way

To ease his mind of trouble ;
Misfortunes never singly come,

And misery made him double.

He had a patient, rich and fair,

That hearts by scores was breaking,
And as he once had felt her wrist,

He thought her hand of taking ;
But what the law makes strangers do,

Did strike his comprehension ;
Who live in these United States,

Do first declare intention.

i Golden Era, April 12, 1857.

282 LOVE AND PHYSIC

And so he called. His beating heart

With anxious fears was swelling,
And half in habit took her hand

And on her tongue was dwelling;
But thrice tho' he essayed to speak,

He stopp'd, and stuck, and blundered;
For say, what mortal could be cool

Whose pulse was most a hundred ?

" Madam," at last he faltered out, —

His love had grown courageous, —
" I have discerned a new complaint,

I hope to prove contagious ;
And when the symptoms I relate,

And show its diagnosis,
Ah, let me hope from those dear lips,
Some favorable prognosis.

" This done," he cries, " let 's tie those ties

Which none but death can sever ;
Since 'like cures like,' I do infer

That love cures love, forever."
He paused — she blushed ; however strange

It seems on first perusal,
Altho' there was no promise made,

She gave him a refusal.

Says she, "If well I understand

The sentiments you 're saying,
You do propose to take a hand —

A game that two are playing —
At whist ; one's partner ought to be

As silent as a mummy,
But in the game of love, I think,

I shall not take a dummy.

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH 283

" I cannot marry one who lives

By other folks' distresses ;
The man I marry, I must love,

Nor fear his fond caresses ;
For who, whatever be their sex,

However strange the case is,
Would like to have a doctor's bill

Stuck up into their faces ? "

Perhaps you think, 'twixt love and rage,

He took some deadly potion,
Or with his lancet breathed a vein

To ease his pulse's motion.
To guess the vent of his despair,

The wisest one might miss it ;
He reached his office — then and there

He charged her for the visit !

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH1

(After Longfellow)

STARING sunlight on the lawn,

Chequered shadows in the wood;
Summer's odors, idly borne,

Linger by the trickling flood.

Lingering, waiting, long delayed,

Till the pure and limpid pool
Mirrors, with night's coming shade,

Childhood tripping home from school.

Tripping down the well-worn track,

Zephyrs greet the coming girl,
Press the little bonnet back,

Nestle in the dewy curl.

i Golden Era, April 26, 1857.

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH

Robins twittering thro* the leaves,
Chirping wren 'and chattering jay

Carol 'neath the verdant eaves ;
Carols she as sweet as they.

Satchel swinging on her arm,

On her cheek health's glowing flush,
Stands, in all of girlhood's charms,

Youth beside the alder-bush.

Summers nine had o'er her fled,
Left their violets in her eyes,

On her cheeks their roses spread,
On her lips their balmy sighs.

On the grass her bonnet lies,
On the grass her satchel flung ;

Who its secrets may surmise?
Rosy fingers grope among

Remnants of her dinner there —
Dinner past, but not forgot ;

Dimpled hand with tender care
Draws the bread and butter out.

White and bare that arm and hand,
And beneath the rippling stream,

Like two pebbles on the strand,
White the little ankles gleam.

Leaning o'er the waters clear,
Looking in the limpid spring

Sees she there her cheeks appear —
Sees her blue eyes glistening ?

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH 285

Crimson clouds and skies of blue,

Morn and eve had mirror' d there ;
But those eyes and cheeks to view

With their tints, might well compare.

Breathless lie her lips apart,

Motionless her arms incline,
Wildly beats that little heart —

Ah ! the child was feminine.

Yes, the curse of Eve the mother —

Woman's vanity — the spell
On her falls, and eke another,

Down the bread and butter fell.

On the waters had she cast it:

By and by it might be found.
Foolish hand forgot to clasp it —

Let it fall upon the ground.

Such is fate; and though we mutter,
Why and wherefore? none decide.

Ever falls one's bread and butter,
Always on the buttered side?

With her sorrows let us leave her —

Great her fault, let justice own ;
Great her punishment — nor grieve her

With the chastening to come.

Learning well this moral lesson:

Though our visions still are fair,
Humblest things in our possession

Greater than illusions are.

286 THE STUDENT'S DEEAM

THE STUDENT'S DKEAM1
"KNOWLEDGE is POWER"

A STUDENT sat in his easy-chair;

Around him man}' a pond'rous tome
Of antiquarian lore was there,

And the classic wealth of Greece and Rome.
The light that swings 'twixt the oaken beams,
Around and about him fitfully gleams

In a pale prophetic shower;
And the line on which he ponders and dreams,

Is written — "Knowledge is Power."

He dreams — his vision expansive grows,
And on either side the wall recedes,

And from out that misty chaos rose
A pile of mortgages, bonds, and deeds,

And gold in glittering columns heaped.
A nation's debt might be reclaimed,
A nation's honor be sustained,

Or countries might in blood be steeped

At the pen-and-ink stroke of this mighty lord
Of Mammon, who sat by his treasured hoard.

But the vision fled as he raised his head ;
He shrugged his shoulders, and, muttering, said:
" Riches will change — they flee in an hour ;
To know, is eternal — ' Knowledge is Power.' "

He bow'd his head in his book again,
And sighed, but it was not a sigh of pain.
Was it an echo that, lingering nigh,
Caught and repeated that long-drawn sigh ?
i Golden Era, June 7, 1857.

THE STUDENT'S DREAM 287

Or was it the lady sitting by ?

Oh, she was fair ! — her presence there

Suddenly, sweetly filled the air

Like the scent of some opening flower rare,

And Heaven was in her eye ;
Or such a glimpse as might have slid
From under the tenderly guarded lid,

Had none been there to spy.
In the lap of her satin robe, she bore
Of gems and jewels a precious store,
For all that lavish wealth might spare,
At beauty's shrine but offerings were.

But the vision fled as he raised his head ;
He watched her departing, and sighing, said:
"Beauty is bought — it fades like a flower;
Who can buy knowledge ? — ' Knowledge is Power.' *

In a robe antique, and of mien profound,

Came a well-known face his own to greet,
And he knew the pale brow that the laurel bound

Was the sacred symbol of knowledge meet.
In her eyes the ray of a soul divine
Glowed like a gem in the pale moonshine

With a radiance constant, quiet, and sweet.
Her stature was slight, majestic and tall,
Yet proudly erect she towered, withal,
To homage used, for she knew that all

The world was at her feet ;
Yet a silence kept as the student slept,
And nearer she drew ; by his side she stept ;
She spoke, and as clear her accents rung
As a silver bell or an angel's tongue.
He woke with a start, for his secret heart
Felt that which bade all his dreams depart.

288 THE HOMESTEAD BARN

" Neophyte, dreamer, slumberer, fool !
Wouldst measure my power by musty rule ?
Or, say, dost thou seek what thou 'It hardly own,
The Alchemist's prize, or Philosopher's stone ?
For 't is not in sophist's or sage's thought,
Is the mighty power of knowledge wrought;

It is seen in the practiced deed,
Not of musty scrolls, but of living men ;
The hearts, the passions, the motives ye ken,
Should thy knowledge be, and its ' power ' then

Can turn them to thy need;
For money is mighty, money is power,
And beauty is strong in camp and bower ;
But money 's the proof that knowledge is power,

And beauty its slave, indeed ;
And, remember, that knowledge all alone

May still be a fatal dower,
And the strongest lever the world has known
Is where beauty 's the might that 's to be shown.
And gold's the prop that all may own,

And 'knowledge is the power/"

THE HOMESTEAD BARN1

PAST dreams of bliss our lives contain,
And slight the chords that still retain
A heart estranged to joys again,
To scenes by memory's silver chain

Close-linked, and ever yet apart,
That like the vine, whose tendrils young
Around some fostering branch have clung,
Grown with its growth, as tho' it sprung

From one united heart.

1 Golden Era, June 21, 1857.

THE HOMESTEAD BARN 289

I think of days long gone before,
When, by a spreading sycamore,
Stood, in the happy days of yore,
Low-roofed, broad-gabled, crannied door,

The homestead barn, where free from harm,
In shadowy eaves the swallow built,
In darkened loft the owlet dwelt ;
Secure lived innocence and guilt

Within its sacred charm.

By cobwebbed beams and rafters high
1 7ve sat and watched the April sky,
And saw the fleecy cirrus fly,
Sunlight and shadow hurrying by,

Chased by the glittering rain ;
Then shrunk to hear the pattering tread
Of unseen feet above my head,
Filled with a strange and wondering dread,

Till sunlight smiled again.

And, oh ! those long, those summer days,
The morning's glow, the noontide's blaze,
Or when the just declining rays,
Half shorn, mixed with the mellowing haze,
And distant hills were veiled in gray ;
From newmown hay, with odors sweet,
I've watched the lowly bending wheat
Droop lower in the yellow heat
The lazy, livelong day.

Those summer days too quickly fled,
And my youth's summers early sped ;
Yet when my " sere " of life is shed,
I would were mine such harvest spread
Within that barn of autumn born,

290 TRYSTING

That many a tale of summer told,
Where golden corn and pumpkins rolled,
And apples, that might scarcely hold
The goddess' fabled horn ;

When springtime brought each feathered pair,
When summer came with scented air,
When autumn's fruits rolled fresh and fair,
Or winter's store brought back the year,

The treasured sweets it multiplies;
And now at home, at eve appear
The homestead barn, to me so dear ;
I would I read my right as clear

" To mansions in the skies."

TEYSTING1

at the turn of the road
Wait for me, dearest, at eight ! "
Here, at the turn of the road,
I loiter, and linger, and wait.

I was here when the flickering day
Went out in a lingering flame ;

I was here in the twilight gray,

And the stars have come since I came.

From the wooded crest of the hill

Orion looks over the lea,
And Cetus is glimmering still

In a purple and crimson sea.

And the Pleiads — all but the one,
Withdrawn in her maidenly shame
1 Golden Era, June 28, 1837.

THE FOG BELL 291

For the love that a mortal won —

Are here, and you should be the same.

She comes not ! I turn to the right,
And the white road dips in the gloom ;

She comes not ! the left to rny sight
Is silent and dark as the tomb.

Those tender palms on my eyes ?

Those slender arms round me thrown ?
Cupid, you cannot disguise

Those rosy lips at my own !

Here, at the turn of the road !

" Forgive me, my love, if 1 7m late ! n
Down at the turn of the road,

Cupid, oh ! who would n't wait ?

"THE FOG BELL"1

A DEEP bell is knolling

Over the sea,
Rolling and tolling

Over the sea ;
Lazily swinging,
Steadily bringing

Tidings of terror,
Danger is bringing,

All the while solemnly,
Mournfully singing :

" Fogs on the sand-bank,"

Fogs on the deep,
1 Golden Era, September 27, 1857.

292 THE FOG BELL

Fogs round the gallant ship

Stealthily creep ;
Fogs on the forecastle,

Quarter and waist,
Fog in the binnacle,

Fog in each place ;

Fog in the country,

Fog on the moor,
On the green upland,

On the white shore ;
Fog in the marshes,

Fog in the brake,
Upon the river,

Over the lake.

Fog in the city,

In the broad street —
There want and luxury

Heedlessly meet ;
Fog in the narrow lane,

In the dark way —
There shines the light of truth

Never a ray.

Fog in the haunts of crime —

Vice and despair ;
Fog in the Justice seat

Denser than there ;
Fog in the capitol,

Where in the hall
Grave legislators meet —

Fogs over all.

Fog in the miser's heart,
Dark'ning and drear ;

JESSIE 293

Fog that, in pity's eye,

Melts to a tear ;
Things that delusively

In the fogs loom,
Men still unceasingly

Grope for in gloom.

Fog in the country,

Fog on the deep,
Fogs in the city

Stealthily creep ;
Darkness around us,

Darker, in sooth,
Were there no heavenly

Sunlight and truth.

"JESSIE"1

SHE is tripping, she is tripping

Down the green and shady lane,
And each footstep's like the dripping

Of the early April rain.
As she passes, fragrant grasses,

Blooming flowers spring up again
"Where her dainty footprint presses,

As from early April rain.

Oh, the blessed, oft caressed,

Flowing, glowing, auburn tresses,

Or the fairy shape impressed
In the gracefullest of dresses ;

To behold her, is to fold her
To your heart in puzzled bliss,
1 Golden Era, October 11, 1857.

294 DOLORES

Whether still to wish her older
Or that she were always this.

Gentle Jessie! Heaven bless ye,

From your slipper's dainty toe
To the jaunty, canty, dressy

Little flat's most killing bow !
Would kind Heaven power had given

Me the proper path to show
Those retreating footsteps, even

Guiding them the way to go.

" DOLOKES " 1

SEVILLE 's towers are worn and old ;
Seville 's towers are gray and gold :
Saffron, purple, and orange dyes,
Meet at the edge of her sunset skies :
Bright are Seville's maidens' eyes,
Gay the cavalier's guitar:
Music, laughter, low replies,
Intermingling ; and afar,
Over the hill, over the dell,
Soft and low : Adagio !
Comes the knell of the vesper-bell,
Solemnly and slow.

Hooded nun, at the convent wall,
Where the purple vines their tendrils throw,
Lingering, looking, wouldst recall
Aught of this giddy scene below ?
Turn that pensive glance on high :
Seest thou the floods in yon blessed sky,
1 The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, January, 1858.

DOLORES 295

The shores of those isles of the good and blest,

Meeting, mingling, down the west ?

E 'en as thou gazest, lo ! they fade :

So doth the world from these walls surveyed;

Fleeting, false, delusive show ;

Beauty's form, but hectic's glow.

" The convent-walls are steep and high :
DOLORES ! why are your cheeks so pale ?
Why do those lashes silent lie
Over the orbs they scarce can veil,
E'en as the storm-cloud, dim and dark,
Shrouding the faint electric spark ?
Canst thou those languid fires conceal,
Which scorched the youth of fair Castile ?
That tender half-distracted air —
Can that be faith ; or is 't despair ?
That step, now feeble, faltering, slow;
Is that the lightly tripping toe
That gayly beat the throbbing floor,
Or woke the echoing corridor,
By purple Tagus' rippling shore,
A summer month ago ? "

Sister, listen, nearer, higher!
Voices sweet in the distant choir :
" Salve ! salve / ave Maria !
VIRGIN, blest with JESUS' love,
Turn our thouhts to thee above ! "

"DOLORES ! " Mark ye that dying fall ?

(( DOLORES ! " Ho there ! within the wall :
Fly ye ! the Ladye Superior call :
A nun has fled from the convent wall !

296 THE BAILIE 0' PERTH

ELISE i

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM ; CIRCA 3858

A ROSE — thrown on the drifting tide
That laughs along the tinkling brook, —
Tho' here and there it idly glide,
Finds rest within some sheltered nook':

And thus some heart tossed on the stream
Of time — impelled by passion's breeze
And folly's breath — may find a dream
Of hope — upon thy breast, — Elise I

THE BAILIE O> PERTH2

(Bret Harte's first dialect

THE Bailie o' Perth was a blithesome mon,

And a blithesome mon was he,
And his gude wife lovrd him well and true,

And the bailie he lov'd she j
Yet mickle or muekle the cause or kind,

Whatever the pother be,
Be it simple sair or unco deep,

The twain could never agree.

Syne spake the bailie with blithesome mind,

Fair and soft spake he :
"Twal lang year hae we married been,

Yet we can never agree.
Now, my ain sweet love, let us try for aye,
Forever and aye to see

1 Overland Monthly, September, 190t.

2 Golden Era, December 12, 1858.

QUESTION 297

If for ain blest time in all our life,
You and I can ever agree.

" Now listen to me : should it chance that ye

Were paidlint in the lane,
Ye should meet a bonnie buxom lass,

And a winsome laddie, twain,
Wha wad ye kiss, good dame? " he said,

" Wha wad ye kiss ? " said he ;
" Wad ye kiss the bonnie buxom lass,
Or the winsome gay laddie ? "

" Hoot awa, mon ! are ye ganging daft ?

Are ye ganging daft ? " said she ;
" Twal lang year hae we married been,

And I have been true to ye;
Mon hae never my twa lips touched,

Nae mon hae glinted at me."
"But wha wad ye kiss, good dame ? " said he 5

" I wad kiss the lass," said she.

Out laughed the bailie with muckle glee,

For a blithesome mon was he ;
"Twal lang year hae we married been,

And now for ainst we agree ;
If ye met a lad and a buxom lass

Down in the go wans fine,
To kiss the lass wad be your choice,

And I ken it wad be mine ! "

QUESTION1

WHEN I meet her little figure,
Simple, guileless little figure,

i Golden Era, June 17, 1860.

298 QUESTION

With its graceful crest that tosses

Up and down the flowing sea,
Does she dream that all above her —
All around her — still must love her,
Just as I do ? Does she ever
Look at me ?

When the sunset's flush is on her,
Do her fancies ever wander,
Do her girlish fancies ever

Mingle with the flowing sea ?
In her tender meditation,
In her mystic speculation,
Is there any lonely figure

Just like me?

When she took the flowers I sent her —
Sent in secret — sent in longing;
And all, all, except the daisy,

Tossed them on the flowing sea;
When she placed that happy flower
On her bosom's trembling dower,
Now I wonder did she ever

Think of me ?

Hush, my heart. She's coming, coming;
Loud above the city 's humming,
I can hear her footfall's beating,

With the ever flowing sea.
Rosy red — a flush is on her,
As she passes — have I won her?
Eros ! help me — I am sinking

In the ever flowing sea.

LETHE 299

LETHE i

STANZAS FOB MUSIC

LOVE once sat by a willow shade,

That grew by a fabled river;
His bow unstrung,, by his side he laid,
And hung up his classic quiver.

Love then cried ;
" Ye who've sighed,
For passion unrequited —
In this flood
Love's young bud,
Plunged — is ever blighted!"

There came a maid to the willow shade,

Her heart with passion swelling ;
A hopeless love on her sweet cheek preyed,
In her breast a deep grief dwelling.
But, oh, think!
On the brink,

Lingered that sad daughter ;
While her fair
Graces rare,
Mirrored back the water.

From her cheeks she parts each tress,
Proudly back she threw them ;

Crimson tints her cheeks confess,
As she paused to view them.
1 Golden Era, July 1, 1860.

300 MIDAS' WOOING

"Is it meet

One so sweet,
In that gloomy river —

Plunge for love ?

Saints above !
Ugh ! It makes me shiver ! "

MIDAS' WOOING1

MIDAS woos with coach and pair,
Midas woos with princely air,
Midas sits within in state,
But another 's at the gate.

What cares Midas who waits there,
Kate 's within and Kate is fair,
Young and lively: that is well,
Has she got a heart to sell ?

Kate can sing if she but try,
She might, were another by ;
Katie sings a lover's air,
Will she find an echo there ?

Kate plays best of all the girls,
Katie plays the "Shower of Pearls,"
Some one in that witching hour,
Thinks of Jove, and Danae 's shower.

From above the hawthorn bush,
Peeps the moon and wakes the thrush,
Bird and moon and music grate,
Like the hinges on the gate.

i Golden Era, August 26, 1860.

THE WRECKER 301

Midas rises — takes his cane,
" Will be proud to call again. "
Off goes Midas. Off goes Kate ;
Two stand at the garden gate.

THE WEECKEE *

(From a Painting)

"Ho, Mark and Will! What, shirking men!

Why do ye loiter along the sand, —
Twiddling your thumbs and idling, when

So brave a cargo bestrews the land ?
Lend a hand to this bale of spice

Fragrant as breezes from India's shore,
And this oaken chest that buried lies

I warrant, with dollars a precious store.

"You tell me she was a noble ship!

And a noble cargo she cast away ;
And the Captain thought of a lucky trip —

And the crew — they all were lost, you say ?
'T is a blessed wreck, for I dreamt this night

That my daughter Nan, with her looks of grace,
She that fled from her father's sight,

Stood by my hammock, face to face.

"And I knew that I yet might hoard and save

Enough to follow her some fair day ;
It was God who sent a barque so brave —

May he shrive the souls that were cast away,
Then haste ye, men — why do ye stare ?
Why do ye turn your eyes from mine ?
Why do you gaze at the open air ?

At the land, at the beacon and flashing brine!"
l Golden Era, September 9, 1860.

302 THE WRECKER

" Master ! The waves were wild to-night

And ran like wolves on the smooth white beach,
And broke with a roar on the rocky bight,

And swept to the cliffs in their length'ning reach.
And she struck, d' ye see, upon ' Devils Back,'

And in less than the turn of a glass was gone
And I heard her spars and timbers crack

Over the sea and the whistling storm.

"And we saw, — 'twas Bill and I stood here —

A great wave come to the lab' ring ship
As she thumped and struggled as though in fear —

But it caught her up like a cooper's chip
And then there was naught but the boiling surge,

And the hissing water — but soon to view
A speck seemed borne to the glimmery verge

Of the rocky bight — and Bill saw it too.

" So we ran — Bill and I — and Bill dashed out

With a line that I held, slung around his waist,
And thrice he rolled over and bobbed about

And thrice he brought up at the selfsame place.
He'll tell you so, Master, — 'twas not his fault,

If after he struggled an hour there,
He only caught something — 't was damp and salt,

And dragged it out by its long fair hair.

" But we laid it afterward on the sand,

Take my arm, Master, I'll show you what."
They led him down on the cold white sand

And up to a quiet and sheltered spot,
And there by the billows, and beacon's light,

Again he was standing face to face,
As he stood in a dream on that stormy night,

With his daughter Nan and her look of grace.

EFFIE 303

BY THE SAD SEA WAVES1

I WAS walking down on the sands one night
With the girl of my choice — the woman I loved
And I picked up a shell on the pebbly strand,
And thought even thus shall rny love be prov'd:

"Take this, dearest girl, for 'tis like to me,"
Said I with a gesture of fond entreat ;

" 'Tis a stranger come from the changing sea
To languish and die at thy own dear feet ! "

She looked in my face in her scornful glee,
While her dainty foot beat the cold white sand,
" I will take the shell, but not you," said she j
"He offers his house, you only your hand I"

EFFIE 2

EFFIE is both young and fair,
Dewy eyes and sunny hair;
Sunny hair and dewy eyes
Are not where her beauty lies.

Effie is both fond and true,
Heart of gold and will of yew ;
Will of yew and heart of gold —
Still her charms are scarcely told.

1 Golden Era, October 7, 1860.

2 This poem originally appeared in the Golden Era. It was later pub-
lished in St. Nicholas Magazine, with the name changed to Jessie, and
afterward set to music under that title bv Leopold Damrosch, and also by
N. H. Allen.

304 SERENADE

If she yet remain unsung,
Pretty, constant, docile, young,
What remains not here compiled ?
Effie is a little child !

MY SOUL TO THINE1

A TRANSCENDENTAL VALENTINE

ANTITHESIS of Light, which is but gloom,

Myself in darkness shrouds ; I know not why
Thy glances re-illumine — yet of them, One
Is ever in my eye !

Perchance 'tis why I hold this thought most dear —
What is, may still be, what is fixed won't change :
The Future and the Past are not as clear
As things that are less strange.

Who knows what 's What, yet says not which is Which

He is reticent and precise in speech ;
The same should tune his thoughts to concert pitch
By some deep sounding beach.

But he who knoweth Which and what is Which —

He is not simple nor perchance is dull — •
Shall occupy himself a vacant niche
In some stupendous Whole.

SERENADE
(ADAPTED TO THE LATITUDE OF SAN FRANCISCO)

" O LIST, lady, list ! while thy lover outside

Pours forfch those fond accents that thrill thee ;
i Golden Era, February 17, 1861.

THE PRIZE-FIGHTER TO HIS MISTRESS 305

0 list! both thy doors and thy windows heside
For fear that some thorough draught chill thee.

The ' sweet summer morn 's ? hanging low in the sky,
And the fog 's drifting wildly around me ;

There is damp in my throat, there is sand in my eye,
And my old friend Neuralgia has found me.

0 list, lady, list ! ere this thin searching mist

Subdues all my amorous frenzy;
The Pleiads' ' soft influence ' here is, I wist,

Replaced by the harsh influenza ;
And now, lady sweet, I must bid thee ' good-night/

A night that would quench Hymen's torch, love,
For a lute by the fire is much more polite,

Than a song and catarrh in the porch, love."

THE PRIZE-FIGHTER TO HIS MISTRESS1

O, BELIEVE not the party who says love is bought,
Nor lend thy fond " lug " when his tale he 7d begin ;

But'bid him behold thy dear " mug " on this breast,
This "bunch of fives" clasping thy own lovely "fin."

Or show him the " home-brewed " that flushes thy " nob,"
When in thy "jug-handle" my love I recite,

And then if his " goggles" are not Cupid's own,
He '11 reel to his corner at that " draft at sight."

What "punishment" waits on the cove that deceives,
How " soggy" the "smasher" that gets him so prime,

When he " throws up the sponge " at the ultimate round,
And Eternity calls — and he can't "come to Time."
1 Golden Era, October 11, 1863.

306 MAEY'S ALBUM

Yet, Mary, dear Mary, such love is not mine,

But " mawley " in " mawley " together we '11 tread;

The "belt" for the cestus of Venus I'll change,

And know but one "Ring" — in the ring we are wed.

MAKY'S ALBUM1

WRITTEN IN 1863, in AN ALBUM BELONGING TO
CHARLES WARREN STODDARD

SWEET MARY, maid of San Andreas,

Upon her natal day,
Procured an album, double-gilt,

Entitled, "The Bouquet."

But what its purpose was beyond
Its name, she could not guess;

And so between its gilded leaves
The flowers he gave she 'd press.

Yet blame her not, poetic youth !

Nor deem too great the wrong ;
She knew not Hawthorne's bloom, nor loved

Macaulay-flowers of song.

Her hymn-book was the total sum

Of her poetic lore,
And, having read through Dr. Watts,

She did not ask for Moore.

But when she ope'd her book again,

How great was her surprise
To find the leaves on either side

Stained deep with crimson dyes,
i Californian, April, 1880.

THE REJECTED STOCKHOLDER 307

And in that rose — his latest gift —

A shapeless form she views;
Its fragrance sped, its beauty fled,

And vanished all its dews.

O Mary, maid of San Andreas!

Too sad was your mistake —
Yet one, methinks, that wiser folk

Are very apt to make.

Who 'twixt these leaves would fix the shapes

That love and truth assume,
Will find they keep, like Mary's rose,

The stain, and not the bloom.

THE REJECTED STOCKHOLDER1

A LOCAL MONOLOGUE

I THOUGHT that I had won her heart,

Before assessments came
To chill the fever of her blood

And check her youthful flame ;
But ah ! 't was not for me, but mine,

She spread her female snares —
I asked for one to share my love,

And not to love my shares !

I wooed her when the young May moon

And tranquil patient stars
Their lustre spread, and all the earth

Seemed strewn with silver bars;

1 Evening Bulletin (San Francisco), January 20, 1864.

308 THE REJECTED STOCKHOLDER

Her praise I whispered to the sky,
The free winds spoke her fame,

And one location — all in vain —
I took — in her sweet name !

But now another's offering lies

Before that fickle shrine ;
Another claims her hand — his claim

Is worth much more than mine;
But though he offers all I lack

To make her joy complete —
I would not stand in that man's shoes

Unless I had his feet !

O, tell me not of golden legs

That Kilmanseggs have known ;
They 're nothing to the silver feet

My fickle fair would own.
The dream is past ; but in these fond

Certificates I view —
Observe, ye credulous, what faith

And printers' ink may do.

My loving verses she returns

Though once she thought them fine —
She 's grown so critical in feet

She scans each faulty line.
And yet my fate I meekly bear

And find relief in sighs ;
For oh, no Savage rules this breast,

Nor Chollar that may rise !

Oh, youth, who seekest Fortune's smile,
Shun, if thou canst, alway,

ON A NAUGHTY LITTLE BOY, SLEEPING 309

The woman's wile, the broker's guile,

That gild but to betray.
So use this world that in the next,

When here thy days shall end,
Thy last six feet of earth shall yield

To thee a dividend !

ON A NAUGHTY LITTLE BOY, SLEEPING1

JUST now I missed from hall and stair
A joyful treble that had grown
As dear to me as that grave tone

That tells the world my older care.

And little footsteps on the floor

Were stayed. I laid aside my pen,
Forgot my theme, and listened — then

Stole softly to the library door.

No sight ! no sound ! — a moment's freak

Of fancy thrilled my pulses through :
" If — no " — and yet, that fancy drew
A father's blood from heart and cheek.

And then — I found him ! There he lay,
Surprised by sleep, caught in the act,
The rosy vandal who had sacked

His little town, and thought it play :

The shattered vase ; the broken jar ;

A match still smouldering on the floor ;

The inkstand's purple pool of gore;
The chessmen scattered near and far.

I Californian, September 17, 1864. Harper's Magazine, July, 1877.

310 AT THE SEPULCHRE

Strewn leaves of albums lightly pressed
This wicked " Baby of the Woods " ;
In fact, of half the household goods

This son and heir was seized — possessed.

Yet all in vain, for sleep had caught

The hand that reached, the feet that strayed;
And fallen in that ambuscade

The victor was himself o'erwrought.

What though torn leaves and tattered book
Still testified his deep disgrace !
I stooped and kissed the inky face,

With its demure and calm outlook.

• Then back I stole, and half beguiled

My guilt, in trust that when my sleep
Should come, there might be One who ?d keep
An equal mercy for His child.

AT THE SEPULCHKE1

(Thomas Starr King)

SUNDAY, OCTOBER 9, 1864

HERE in God's sunshine, peaceful lie,
Though not beneath yon arches' swell ;

One springing roof alone — the sky —
Can hold the flock that loved thee well.

Yon sacred gates are free to all,

Who join in Sabbath praise and prayer ;
i Calif ornian, October 15, 1864.

AT THE SEPULCHRE 311

Thy pulpit grave, beside shall call

A week-day fold from street and square.

Though o'er thy tomb no anthems rise,
The world its labor-hymn shall sing,

And sliding footsteps drown the sighs
Of small-tongued grasses, whispering.

And greener yet that spot shall grow,

For thy dear dust within it laid,
And brighter yet the sunlight glow —

And dim and grateful seem the shade.

For when the sun slopes down the west,

The shadow of yon sacred wall,
Like God's right arm across thy breast

Near and protectingly shall fall.

And all night long above thy urn

The patient stars shall pierce the gloom,

Like those eternal lamps that burn
And circle round a royal tomb.

And those who deemed they knew the best
Shall find how foolish was their claim —

And fear thy liberal bounty, lest
It clip their dividend of fame.

And some of humbler faith shall stand
Before thy tomb, and watch its door,

Expectant that some angel's hand
May roll the stone that lies before.

312 ARCADIA REVISITED

ARCADIA REVISITED*

AH, here 's the spot — the very tree
Where once I carved an L. and E.,
Symbolical of her and me

Bound in Love's rosy fetters ;
Since then five weary years are spent,
And yet I think we 're both content
That in Love's Book we never went

Beyond our simple letters.

For, looking through the rustling leaves,
I see the humble cottage eaves
Where now my Em. no longer weaves

Her mystic .maiden fancies,
But milks her cows — she called 'em kine
In the brave days when she was mine —
But now she 's dropped those phrases fine

She borrowed from romances.

But here 's the place — the very tree

Where once I fell on bended knee

And breathed my burning vows — while she

Stood by in pale pink muslin.
I kissed her hand — but why revamp
Old feelings now ? — the grass is damp,
And what with this rheumatic cramp

To kneel now would be puzzling.

She walks 110 more 'neath starlit skies,
She calls the evening mists that rise
Miasma, and the dew that lies
Is damp and cold and shocking.

1 Californian, July 22, 1865.

ARCADIA REVISITED 313

She now wears boots. Five years ago
Her skirts she gathered up below ;
'T was not from dampness, but to show
Her slippers and white stocking.

Beneath this shade we used to read
" Maud Muller," and we both agreed
The Judge was wrong — but why proceed ?

She 's married to another !
She has not pined — that form is stout
That once this arm was clasped about,
She has two girls ; they 're both, no doubt,

The image of their mother !

She said she loved not " wealth or state,"
But most adored the " wise and great,"
And gave a look to intimate

That this was my complexion ;
" Her husband should be eyed like Mars,"
That 's he, there, letting down the bars,
In cowhide boots. No doubt her Pa's,

But 0, not her selection !

And yet, am I her young love's dream :

The pensive lover that did seem

The rightful Prince who should redeem

The promise of her fancies ?
And I that same dyspeptic youth
Who rang the chimes on " sooth" and "truth/
Minus that cuspidate tooth

Whose presence kills romances ?

O Love, behind yon leafy screen !
Why can't all trees be evergreen ?

314 THE SABBATH BELLS

Why can't all girls be sweet sixteen,
All men but one-and-twenty ?

Why are the scars that hearts must wear

Deeper than those yon tree may bear ?

And why are lovers now so rare,
And married folk so plenty ?

THE SABBATH BELLS1
SUNDAY, JULY 30, 1865

KING, Sabbath bells, 0 softly ring,
And with your peaceful accents bring
To loving ears a welcome tale
Of flowing seas and gentle gale —

King !

Peal, all ye Sabbath bells — 0 peal,
And tell the few who watch and kneel
Of hidden snares and sunken rocks,
Of surges white and sudden shocks —

Peal!

Toll, 0 ye Sabbath bells, and toll
Each passing and heroic soul :
Toll for the sacrifices sweet,
For duty done and work complete —

Toll!

Chime, 0 ye Sabbath bells, O chime !
Each man has his appointed time ;
The worst is but a glad release ;
Chime, Sabbath bells, a song of Peace —

Chime !

1 Californian, August 5, 1865.

IMPORTANT MEXICAN CORRESPONDENCE 315

IMPORTANT MEXICAN CORRESPONDENCE *

AN INTERCEPTED LETTER

Dear Trem : —

From " orange groves and fields of balm"

These loving lines I send,
But first you really ought to know

The feelings of your friend.

For when it 's winter where you live,

The weather here's like June;
The " Season's Choir " Thomson sings,

In fact, is out of tune.

All day at ninety-eight degrees

The mercury has stood,
Without a figure I may say,

I'm "in a melting mood."

The fields are parched and so 's my lips —

I quaff at every spring ;
So dry a "summer," Trem, my dear,

"Two swallows" could not bring.

You know " two swallows do not make

It summer " — but methinks
The summer in this latitude

Is made of many drinks.

The politics, I grieve to say,

I find in great confusion —
For like the earth the people have

A daily revolution.

l Californian, September 23, 1865.

316 IMPORTANT MEXICAN CORRESPONDENCE

Their manners to a stranger here,

Is stranger yet to see ;
Last night in going to a ball

A ball went into me.

I Jm fond of reading, as you know,

But then it was a sin
To be obliged against my will,

To take a Bullet-in.

They cried, " DIGS Y LIBERTAD ! "
And then pitched into me ;

I hate to hear a sacred name
Used with such " liberty."

I should have said to you before,

But every method fails,
For since they have impressed the men,

Of course, they 've stopped the males.

POEMS OF LOCAL INTEREST

1857-1869

"MAD RIVER"1

WHERE the Redwood spires together
Pierce the mists in stormy weather,
Where the willow's topmost feather

Waves the limpid waters o'er ;
Where the long and sweeping surges
Sing their melancholy dirges,
There the river just emerges

On the sad Pacific's shore.

From the headland, high and hoary,
From the western promontory,
Where the sunset seas of glory

Sparkle with an emerald sheen,
You may see it slowly twining,
In the valley low reclining,
Like a fringe of silver shining —

Edging on a mantle green.

You can see its gleaming traces
In the vale — the pleasant places
Where, amidst the alder's mazes,

There the salmon berries grow,
Until faint and fainter growing,
In the upland dimly flowing,
Where the serried hills are showing,

And the shadows come and go.

In those days, long gone and over,
Ere the restless pale-faced rover
Sought the quiet Indian cover,
Many, many moons ago,
l Golden Era, July 26, 1857.

320 THE PONY EXPRESS

Warrior braves met one another,
Not as ally, friend or brother,
But the fires of hate to smother
In the placid water's flow.

All the day they fierce contended,
And the battle scarce had ended
When the bloody sun descended,

And the river bore away
All the remnants of that slaughter
In a crimson tide, the water,
And they call it PATAWATA, l

Ever since the fatal day.

THE PONY EXPRESS2

(The Pony Express was, at one time, the sole dependence of the Pacific
Coast for the latest news from the Atlantic)

IN times of adventure, of battle and song,
When the heralds of victory galloped along,
They spurred their faint steeds, lest the tidings too late
Might change a day's fortune, a throne, or a state.
Though theirs was all honor and glory — no less
Is his, the bold Knight of the Pony Express.
No corselet, no vizor, nor heimet he wears,
No war-stirring trumpet or banner he bears,
But pressing the sinewy flanks of his steed,
Behold the fond missives that bid him " God-speed."
Some ride for ambition, for glory, or less,
" Five dollars an ounce " asks the Pony Express.

1 Patawat, a tribe of North American Indians living on lower Mad River,
California.

a Golden Era, July 1, 1860.

THE ARGUMENT OF LURLINE 321

Trip lightly, trip lightly, just out of the town,
Then canter and canter, o'er upland and down,
Then trot, pony, trot, over upland and hill,
Then gallop, boy, gallop, and galloping still,
Till the ring of each horse-hoof, as forward ye press,
Is lost in the track of the Pony Express.

By marshes and meadow, by river and lake,

By upland and lowland, by forest and brake,

By dell and by canon, by bog and by fen,

By dingle and hollow, by cliff and by glen,

By prairie and desert, and vast wilderness,

At morn, noon, and evening, God speed the Express.

THE ARGUMENT OE LURLINE *

Air: "The Tall Young Oysterman "

COUNT RUDOLPH was a noble gent, as lived upon the Rhine,
Who spent his money very free in Lager Beer and Wine ;
The Baron Truenfels, likewise, was neighbor of the same,
Which had a rather uppish girl — G. Truenfels by name.

Rudolph would wed Miss Truenfels, but was n't it a go ?
Each thought that t'other had the tin (you know how lovers

blow),
But when old T. says, "Pungle down," Count Rudolph he

says, " Stuff;
I 'ye youth and rank, that 's more than gold " ; says G., " It

ain't enough.

1 Wallace's romantic opera of " Lurline " created considerable interest
upon its appearance at Maguire's Opera House in San Francisco, in No
vember, 1860. Bret Harte's night at the opera called forth the foregoing
ironical "argument" which he contributed to the Golden Era.

322 THE ARGUMENT OF LURLINE

" I wants a diamond thingamy — likewise a nice trossoo,
I wants a kerridge of me own, and so, young man, adoo " ;
The Baron also cuts up rough — but Rudolph is content,
And merely takes a stiffer horn, observing, ' * Let her went."

Now just before this jolly row, a gal they called Lurline
Was living down at Lurlineburgh, of which she was the

Queen ;

She was a Lady Dashaway — when water was on hand —
But had some spirits of her own she likewise could command.

This girl close by a whirlpool sat — this female named

Lurline —

And played with most exquisite taste upon the tamborine ;
The way the sailors steered into them whirlpools was a

sin —
Young men, beware of sich sirens who thus take fellers in.

Now Count Rudolph was wide awake, beyond the power of
suction ;

Which caused Lurline to fall in love and seek an introduc
tion.

And when he 's tight, one day, she slips a ring upon his
finger ;

And thus Count Rudolph is bewitched by that bewitching
singer.

Then straightway in his boat he jumps, which soon begins

to sink,

While all his brave com-pan-i-ons are yelling on the brink,
"You're half-seas-over now, you fool, — come back, you'll

surely drown " ;
Down goes the gallant German gent, a whistling "Derry

Down."

THE ARGUMENT OF LURLINE 323

Down, down among the oyster-beds, he finds the sweet

Lurline,

A cutting such a heavy swell — a gorgeous submarine ;
Her father Rhineberg 's very rich, and fellers said, who

punned,
"He took deposits from the tars and kept a sinking fund."

Count Rudolph did consent to stay at Rhineberg's flash hotel,
And half-made up his mind that with Lurline he 'd ever

dwell ;

" I 'm partial to the water-cure and fond of clams," says he,
" But such as you, Miss Rhineberg, are a subject quite per

But suddenly he hears a noise, which made him weaken

some
The howling of his friends above — says he, " I must go

home,
Good-bye, Miss R." " Hold up ! " says she, we '11 do the

handsome thing,
Pa gives this massy chunk of gold. You keep my magic

ring."

So Rudolph takes the ring and gold, and comes home with

a rush,

And very glad his neighbors was to see him come so flush.
And even old Miss Truenfels to welcome him began,
And says, "I always thought you was a very nice young

Likewise she says, " My eye," and makes believe to faint

away,
And sich-like gammon. But the Count says, " Come, now,

that won't pay !

324 THE ARGUMENT OF LURLINE

I loves another ! " " Cruel man ! That ring I now dis-

kiver —
Say whose ? " "My gal's! " She snatches it and chucks

it in the river,

Now one of Lurline's father's help had caught the ring and

ran
To her and says, "You see what comes of loving that young

man."
Poor Lurline feels somewhat cut up — and to assuage her

pain
She takes her father's oyster sjoop and comes ashore again.

;T was lucky that she did come up, for Rudolph's friends
were bent

On sharing Eudolph's golden store, without Rudolph's con
sent ;

And him they would assassinate, but Lurline she says,
" Hold ! "

And waves a wand until they stand like statoos, stiff and
cold.

They stood like statoos on the bridge — it was a bridge of
sighs ;

For straightway most unpleasantly the tide began to rise ;

It rose, but when the river swept away the bridge at last,

They found, although the tide was flood, their chances ebb
ing fast.

It rose until the wicked all had found a watery grave —
And then it sank and left Rudolph and neighbors in a cave.
Rudolph then marries Miss Lurline j is happy, rich, and

able
To take the lowest bid to lay the next Atlantic Cable.

THE YERBA BUEXA 325

THE YEKBA BUENA *

WHEN from the distant lands, and burning South,
Came Junipero — through the plains of drouth,—-
Bringing God's promise by the word of mouth,

With blistered feet and fever-stricken brain,
He sank one night upon the arid plain, —
If God so willed it — not to rise again ;

A heathen convert stood in wonder by ;
" If God is God — the Father shall not die,"
He said. The dying priest made no reply.

" This in His name ! " the savage cried, and drew
From the parched brook an herb that thereby grew,
And rubbed its leaves his dusky fingers through ;

Then with the bruised stalks he bound straightway
The Padre's feet and temples where he lay,
And sat him down in faith, to wait till day ;

When rose the Padre — as the dead may rise —
Heading the story in the convert's eyes,
"A miracle! God's herb" — the savage cries.

'* Not so," replies the ever humble priest ;
" God's loving goodness showeth in the least,
Not God's but good be known the herb thou seest ! "

Then rising up he wandered forth alone ;
And ever since, where'er its seed be sown,
As Yerba Buena is the good herb known,
l Golden Era, April 5, 1863.

326 TREASURER A — Y

TREASURER A Y1

Air: "A Frog He would A-wooing Go"

OUR A y would a-brokering go,

Heigh ho, for A y !

"Whether the people would let him or no,
Whether they fancied his practices low,
Or the economical-comical show

Of their State Treasurer A y.

The Federal tax he collected in gold,

Heigh ho, for A y,

But straightway the coin and the taxpayers sold,
By buying up Treasury notes, so we 're told,
At a nice little discount — 0, that was a bold

Speculation of Treasurer A y's.

L/et poor Uncle Samuel do what he may,

Heigh ho, for A y.

What does he care what the newspapers say ?
Let Volunteers starve upon half of their pay,
Lord bless us — it 's the economical way

Of great State Treasurer A y.

What shall we do with our great financier ?

Heigh ho, for A y.

He 's rather expensive to keep by the year,
As a business transaction 't is certainly clear
To get ourselves rid of him no discount 's dear,

That exchanges State Treasurer A y.

1 State Treasurer Ashley, of California, in 1863 paid the State's tax to
the Government in legal tender notes. Gold, of course, at this time was
at a premium, and Ashley had received this Federal tax in gold. The
press severely criticized him for the transaction, and upon an attempt to
repeat the offense the notes were refused by the United States Treasurer.

COLENSO RHYMES FOR ORTHODOX CHILDREN 327

COLENSO RHYMES FOR ORTHODOX CHILDREN1

A SMART man was Bishop Colenso —

7T were better he never had been so —

He said, " A queer book

Is that same Pentateuch ! "

Said the clergy, " You musn't tell men so."

There once was a Bishop of Natal

Who made this admission most fatal ;

He said : " Between us

I fear Exodus

Is a pretty tough yarn for Port Natal."

Shall I believe that Noah's Ark

Rode on the waters blue ?
Or must I, with Colenso, say

The story is untrue ?

What then becomes of all my joys —

That ark I loved so well —
Those tigers — dear to little boys —

Shall they this error swell ?

There once was a Bishop, and what do you think !
He talked with a Zulu, who says with a wink,
" Folks say that the Pentateuch 's true. — I deny it."
And never since then has this Bishop been quiet.

1 Golden Era, June 14, 1863.

328 POEM

POEM1

DELIVERED AT THE PATRIOTIC EXERCISES IN THE METRO
POLITAN THEATRE, SAN FRANCISCO, JULY 4, 1863.

(Written for the event by the poet of the day, Bret Harte, and read by
the Reverend Thomas Starr King.)

IT 's hard, on Independence Day, to find, with Thomas

Moore,
Your " Minstrel boy," his harp and song has taken to the

war —

To ask some sober citizen to seize the passing time
And turn from scanning lt silver feet " to cesuras of rhyme !

But then we need no poet's aid to lift our eyes and look
Beyond our Ledger's narrow rim, and post the nation's

book —
To strike our country's balance-sheet, nor shrink in foolish

pride
Because the ink is black that brings a balance to our side !

We've names enough of rhythmic swell our halting verse
to fill,

There 's Bennington, and Concord Bridge, and Breed's or
Bunker's Hill ;

There 's Lexington and Valley Forge — whose anvils' ring
ing peal,

Beat out on dreary winter nights the Continental steel !

There 's Yorktown, Trenton, Stony Point, King's Mill and

Brandywine

To end — in lieu of rebel's necks — some patriotic line ;
i Golden Era, July 5, 1863.

POEM 329

There 's Saratoga — Monmouth too — who can our limit fix ?
Enough — the total added up is known as Seventy-Six !

With themes like these to flush the cheek, and bid the

pulses play

Amidst the glories of the Past, we gather here to-day —
The twig our Fathers planted then has grown a spreading

tree,
Whose branches sift their blossoms white, to-day, on either

sea !
We 've grown too large, some people think — our neighbor,

'cross the way —
Suggests Division, though — just now — substraction 's more

his way —

(But he 's a Diplomatic friend we neither seek nor fear,
Who gives the North his public voice — the South his

privateer !)

No, no, we stand alone to-day, as when, one fierce July,
The sinking lion saw new stars flash from the western sky —
To-day, old vows our hearts renew — these throes that shake

the Earth
Are but the pangs that usher in the Nation's newer birth !

God keep us all — defend the right — draw nearer while we

sing
The song our country asks to-day, till hills and valleys

ring;

(But first we '11 draw our metre's rein e'er we again begin,
As soldiers from their battle front when ranks are closing in.)

(The Sony)

0, God of our country — if silent we come,
With wreaths that are old to thy altar to-day ;

330 POEM

>T is but that elsewhere, to the beat of thy drum,
Our love pours its roses far redder than they !

If the ring of our silver and gold be untrue,

And chimes no accord to the clash of thy steel ;

It changes, dissolving, to fall like the dew,
In silence to strengthen — in mercy to heal !

Shall the ties that we love by false hands be unbound ?

Shall we turn away when our brothers appeal
To the youngest of all — who, like Benjamin, found

The silver cup hid in his measure of meal ?

No, Lord, we are one — we must come to thy door,

As martyrs, together — together as free ;
Though the tempest that lashes the rough Plymouth shore

Shall mingle its spray with the calm Western sea !

Far better the tempest than yon lurid glow

That lights, while it mocks, the deep gloom of the sky —
Far better the lightning that smites with one blow,

Than the Copperhead's crest as uplifted on high !

Let the foe tempt our youth in his treacherous haste,
Our blades shall defend the bright colors we bear ;

As our Cactus protects in the desolate waste,
The one tint of Eden that God has left there !

'Then one ringing cheer for the deed and the day —
One smile for the present — one tear for the past;

Lord! lend us thine ear when thy servants shall pray,
Our future may show how thy mercies still last !

SOUTH PARK 331

SOUTH PARK1

(SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA, 1864)
(After Gray)

THE foundry tolls the knell of parting day,

The weary clerk goes slowly home to tea,
The North Beach car rolls onward to the bay,

And leaves the world to solitude and me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And through the Park a solemn hush prevails,

Save, in tne distance, where some school-boy wight
Rattles his hoop-stick on the iron rails ;

Save, that from yonder jealous-guarded basement
Some servant-maid vehement doth complain,

Of wicked youths who, playing near her casement,
Project their footballs through her window-pane.

Can midnight lark or animated " bust "

To these grave scenes bring mirth without alloy ?

Can shrill street-boys proclaim their vocal trust
In John, whose homeward march produces joy ?

Alas ! for them no organ-grinders play,

Nor sportive monkey move their blinds genteel ;

Approach and read, if thou canst read, the lay,

Which these grave dwellings through their stones reveal ;

"Here rests his fame, within yon ring of earth,

A soul who strove to benefit mankind —
Of private fortune and of public worth,

His trade — first man, then sugar he refined.
1 Californian, September 24, 1864.

332 THE PLAZA

" Large was his bounty, and he made his mark ;

Read here his record free from stains or blots:
He gave the public all he had — his Park ;

He sold the public — all he asked — his lots ! '*

THE PLAZA1

(SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA, 1864)

(After Sir Walter Scott)

IF thou wouldst view the Plaza aright,

Go visit it by the pale moonlight;

For the gay beams of lightsome day

Show that the fountain does not play.

When the broken benches are hid in shade,

With many a vagrant recumbent laid;

When the clock on the Monumental tower

Tolls to the night the passing hour ;

When cabman and hackman alternately

Entreat and threaten — indulging free

In coarse yet forcible imagery ;

When the scrolls that show thee the playhouse

nigh,

In monstrous letters do feign and lie,
Of " Fun divest of Vulgarity" ;
When Bella Union is heard to rave
0 'er the last conundrum the minstrel gave ;
When the street-boy pauses — intent upon
The band at Gilbert's Melodeon —
Then go — but go alone the while,
And view John Bensley's ruined pile,
And, home returning — do not swear
If thou hast seen some things more fair.
1 Californian, October 8, 18G4.

THE FIRST BROOM RANGER 333

THE FIRST BROOM RANGER1

AN OLD STORY WITH A NEW MORAL

ONCE upon the Cornish strand

Rose a tide so vast and brimming,

That it overflowed the land,

And the hamlet set a-swimming.

Every cellar was submerged,

Yet the tide kept slowly swelling

Till the waters broke and surged

0 'er the threshold of each dwelling.

Then it was an ancient crone

(True to what tradition taught her)

Seized her broom, and, all alone,
Set to sweeping out the water.

Through that ancient female's room
Rolled the mighty ocean past her —

Still the old girl with her broom
Only worked and swept the faster.

When the people gathered round
And in fear and terror sought her,

All of that poor dame they found
Was her BROOM upon the water.

Only with her latest breath

Had she ceased her work gigantic :

Fairly, squarely met her death,
Sweeping out the vast Atlantic.

1 [Part of the George B. McClellan torchlight procession in San Francisco,
October 11, 1864, consisted of nearly a thousand men carrying brooms,
called "Broom Rangers." They were sympathizers with McClellan iu
his campaign for President against Abraham Lincoln.]

334 ANSWERING THE BELL

ANSWERING THE BELL *

A STORY OF THE LATE EARTHQUAKE (SAN FRANCISCO,
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 8, 1865)

AT Number Four, had Dennis More

A decent situation —
A Celtic youth, who showed, in truth,

But little cultivation,
And " wore the green " — the kind, I mean,

Not reached by legislation.

His knowledge did not go beyond

The doorbell he attended,
The boots he blacked — the services

On which his place depended ;
Yet with his humble duties he

A certain zeal had blended.

One Sunday morn — the folks were all
At church, and no doubt sleeping,

While Dennis More at Number Four
His household watch was keeping —

When all at once there came a ring
That set his pulses leaping.

He started to his feet, but ere

He took erect position,
A certain trembling in his knees

Betrayed their weak condition ;
And looking round, poor Dennis found

This fearful exhibition :

i Californian, October 14, 1865.

ANSWERING THE BELL 335

The kitchen clock that ere the shock

The time of day was showing,
Had stopped its pendulum, although

The clock itself was going ;
It fell — he thought the End of Time

Had come with no man's knowing.

The tumhlers tumbled on 'the shelves,

Moved by mysterious forces,
The plates were shifted as they are

In dinners of twelve courses ;
And knives went racing for the plate,

Just like St. Leger horses.

But high above the general crash

He heard the doorbell ringing,
And staggering to his feet he reached

The hall where he saw swinging
The study door, and down before

Its bookshelves he fell, clinging.

One hurried glance he gave — enough

For fatal confirmation —
The very globe upon its stand

Still rocked to its foundation,
And all the standard volumes seemed

In active circulation.

The fearful thrill, continuing still,
Had loosed < ' The Stones of Venice,"

The law-books just above his head
Ejectment seemed to menace —

Till down fell " Coke on Littleton,"
Followed by " Kent " on Dennis !

336 ANSWERING THE BELL

The very poets were disturbed —
The mild and peaceful Lakers,

As though they ?d caught from " Aspen Court
Some power that made them Shakers ;

Or, that the " Life of William Penn "
Had turned them all to Quakers.

The " Testimony of the Rocks,"

In rocking,, was appalling —
Thermometer and weather-glass

Both side by side were falling;
Yet 'rnidst the jar — a Leyden jar —

He heard the doorbell calling.

Half dead, he reached the hall again, —
Sometimes on all-fours creeping, —

Wide swung the parlor's creaking door,
And, through the portals peeping,

He saw a Turkish ottoman

Like some wild dervish leaping ;

Four high-backed chairs that waltzed in pairs,

Two easy -chairs coquetting ;
And — like some dowager that found

A partner hard of getting —
The piano against the wall

Was right and left foot poussetting.

Yet, spite of giddy sights and scenes
Of books and portraits reeling,

To Dennis' brain one thing was plain —
The doorbell still was pealing ;

He seized the knob expectant of
Some frightful form revealing !

MIDSUMMER 337

The hinges swung — the door was flung

Wide open, but no spying
Disclosed the hand that rung the bell,

Nor any body trying,
Save that a pale-faced man stood near,

The walls intently eyeing.

One bound gave Dennis to the ground

And seized the rash spectator —
With wicked fingers round his throat

He clutched his respirator :
" Is thim your Sunday thricks ? " he cried,
" Ye haythen agitator ! "

" The earthquake ! " gasped the wretch. With scorn

Bold Dennis drew his brows down ;
" The airthquake, is it ? " Then he gave

A forcible but coarse noun —
" And that 's the wake excuse ye 'd give

For ringing master's house down ! "

MIDSUMMER *

A SAN FRANCISCO MADRIGAL

" The air

Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself
Unto our several senses."

Macbeth.

Now Cancer holds the fiery sun,
And Sirius flames in yonder skies,

Midsummer's languid reign 's begun —
Arise, my lady sweet, arise ;

Come forth ere evening's shadows fall-

But, dearest, don't forget thy shawl,
l Californian, July 21, 1866.

338 MIDSUMMER

For why, methinks these zephyrs bland
Are brisk and jocund in their play.

These tears, thou may'st not understand,
Spring but from joy at such a day ;

And, dearest, what thou deem'.st a frown

Is but to keep my beaver down.

Now generous Nature kindly sifts
Her blessings free from liberal hand :

How varied are her graceful gifts ;

How soft — (yes, dearest, that was sand,

A trifle — and by Nature thrown

O'er this fresh signature — her own !)

Here let us sit and watch, till morn,
The fleecy fog that creeps afar,

And, like a poultice, soothes the torn
And wind- bruised face of cliff and scar ;

Nor fear no chill from damp nor dew,

Nor — (really ! bless my soul — a4schu ! )

A sneeze — 't is nothing — what of that ?

Or if I choose, in youthful guise,
To chase this lightly flying hat,

Instead of painted butterflies —
'T is but the latitude, you know,
The season gives — well, well, we '11 go.

And when once more within our cot,

Where sweetly streams the fragrant tea,

And buttered muffins crisp and hot,

Their welcome spread for you and me j

Then, love, by fires that glitter bright,

We '11 sing Midsummer's soft delight.

POEM 339

POEM1

DELIVERED ON THE OCCASION OF THE LAYING OF THE
CORNER-STONE OF THE CALIFORNIA DEAF, DUMB, AND
BLIND ASYLUM, SEPTEMBER 26, 1867

Written for this event by Bret Harte and read by John Swett

FAIR the terrace that o'erlooks
Curving bay and sheltered nooks ;
Groves that break the western blasts,
Steepled distance fringed with masts,
And the gate that fronts our home
With its bars of cold sea-foam.

Here no flashing signal falls

Over darkened sea and sail ;
Here no ruddy lighthouse calls

White-winged Commerce with its hail;

But above the peaceful vale

Watchful, silent, calm and pale,
Science lifts her beacon walls.

Love, alone, the lamp whose beam
Shines above the troubled stream ;
Here shall patience, wise and sweet,
Gather round her waiting feet
God's unfinished few, whom fate
And their failings consecrate ;
Haply that her skill create
What His will left incomplete.

Ah, Bethsaida's pool no more
Sees the miracles of yore ;

1 Californian, September 28, 1887.

340 PORTALA'S CROSS

Faith no more to blinded eyes
Brings the light that skill denies ;
Not again shall part on earth
Lips that Nature sealed from birth.
Though His face the Master hides,
Love eternal still abides

Underneath the arching sky,
And his hand through Science guides

Speechless lip and sightless eye.

This is our Bethsaida's pool,

This our thaumaturgic school ;

We, 0 Lord, more dumb than these — •*•

Knowing but of bended knees

And the sign of clasped hands —

Here upon our western sands,

By these broad Pacific seas,
Through these stones are eloquent,

And our feeble, faltering speech
Gains what once the pebbles lent

On the legendary beach

Unto old Demosthenes.

PORTALA'S CROSS1

Pious Portala, journeying by land,

Reared high a cross upon the heathen strand,

Then far away
Dragged his slow caravan to Monterey.

The mountains whispered to the valleys, " Good ! "
The sun, slow sinking in the western flood,

Baptized in blood

The holy standard of the Brotherhood.
1 Overland Monthly, August, 1869.

PORTALA'S CROSS 341

The timid fog crept in across the sea,

Drew near, embraced it, and streamed far and free,

Saying : " 0 ye
Gentiles and Heathen, this is truly He ! "

All this the Heathen saw ; and when once more
The holy Fathers touched the lonely shore —

Then covered o'er
With shells and gifts — the cross their witness bore.

CIVIL WAR POEMS
1862-1865

A VOLUNTEER STOCKING1

WITH fingers thoroughbred, rosy and fair,

She was knitting a stocking for soldiers to wear.

But I thought, as through intricate loop and braid
Those fingers so willfully flashed and played,
Not alone did they catch in their weaving play
A woolen thread nor a filament gray,
But some subtler fancies — as maidens best know
Were knit in that stocking from heel to toe.

Those sweet, tangled fancies, that women so long
Have cherished in sorrow, oppression, and wrong ;
Those poetic impulses, waiting the warm
Grasp of Faith but to shapen and give them a form.
Thus Valor and Trust, from a chaos so full,
Here mixed with the gathering meshes of wool,
To be marshaled more firm, as with resolute chin
And half-pouting lip she knit them all in,
Till the flash of the needle's leaping light
Gleamed like those lances, when knight to knight,
In the olden joust of Chivalry's might
(Thought I), did battle for Love and Right.

So she sate, with a drooping head,
Knitting, — but not with a single thread, —
Till under the long lash something grew
Misty and faint as the mountain's blue,
Then dropped —

Like a flash it was gone
Caught and absorbed in the woven yarn,
i Golden Era, Julv 20, 1862.

346 THE CONSERVATIVE BRIDGE OF SIGHS

A tear, — just to show that the stocking was done,
And Pity had finished what Trust had begun.

THE CONSERVATIVE BKIDGE OF SIGHS1

(After Hood)

TREAT her with strategy,
Touch her with care,
Nor with rash energy
Harm one so fair !

Respect her sentiments,
So truly eloquent,
While still consistently
Drips from her clothing
Loyal blood — Look at it,
Loving not loathing.

Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny ;
Kash and undutiful,
Past all dishonor,
BLIGHT has left on her
Only the beautiful.

Still for these slips of hers,
One of ABE'S family
Wipe those pale lips of hers,
Spitting so clammily ;
Bring back her chattels,
Her fond valued chattels,
Where'er they may roam ;
Hand-cuff 'em, chain 'em, and
Send 'em back home.
1 Evening Bulletin (San Francisco), September 11, 1862.

THE CONSERVATIVE BRIDGE OF SIGHS 347

Seek not to damage
Her own institution ;
Tenderly put back
The old Constitution.

Where the lights quiver,
So far down the river,
For many a night,
In ditches and trenches —
McGlellan's defenses —
The conflict commences,
But never a fight!

Best they should tarry where
Dreadful malaria
Kacks them with pain ;
But let no contraband
Lend them a helping hand,
If you 've a care for
The Union again.

Perishing gloomily ;
Spurred by old womanly,
Feeble loquacity,
Weak incapaeit}r,
Gone to its rest.
Still pertinacity
Says it is best.

Should the North rigidly
Stiffen too frigidly,
Decently — kindly —
Smooth and compose them,
And their eyes close them,
Staring so blindly,

348 BANKS AND THE SLAVE GIRL

Dreadfully staring
Through muddy impurity,
As that glance of daring,
The soldier despairing,
Fixed on Futurity.

Thus with such strategy
Still the South spare,
Nor with rash energy
Harm one so fair.

Owning the weakness
Of her institution,
And saving her under
The old Constitution.

BANKS AND THE SLAVE GIKL1

[General N. P. Banks, Major-General of Volunteers, Union Army,
commanded at the battle of Cedar Mountain, August 9, 1862.]

THROUGH shot and shell, one summer's day,

We stood the battle's rack,
With gaping files and shattered ranks

Our men were falling back;
When through our lines, a little child

Ran down the bloody track.

To know if she were bond or free

We had no time to spare,
Or scan with microscopic eye

The texture of her hair ;
For lo, begrimed with battle smoke,

Our men looked scarce as fair.

i Go Iden Era, October 26, 1862.

THE BATTLE AUTUMN 349

Her name, her home, her master's claim,

We could not then decide,
Until our Iron Chief rode up

Ere we could cheer or chide,
And pointing to a howitzer,

He grimly bade her "ride."

First glancing down that ghastly lane,

Where dead and dying lay,
Then back at us, and like a flash,

We saw his glances say :
"The child is free. Their batteries

Have opened her the way ! "

Perhaps they had — I said before

We could not then decide ;
For we were sorely pressed that day,

And driven back beside,
And mayhap in our chieftain's act,

Some moral then we spied.

THE BATTLE AUTUMN1

last high wain of toppling sheaves
Goes by — the farm gate swings to rest ;
.the yellow harvest, and the leaves

The red Fruit-Bearers' lips have pressed,
Lie trophies piled on Nature's breast !

But when the clouds hang dark and low,
And bird and bee no longer roam —

And long before the pitying snow

To bury the dead leaves shall come —
We '11 call another Harvest Home !
1 Golden Era, November 23, 1862.

350 SEMMES !

We '11 call that Harvest, last and best,
The Warrior-Reaper, reaps by chance,

The broken hope — the shattered crest —
The nerveless hand — the quenched glance
That heap the creeping ambulance !

Swing wide your gates — the car rolls on :
0 Reaper, are your spoils like these ?

Ah, no ! when dragon's teeth are sown,
The incense breath of patriot fields
O'ertops the languid scents of Peace!

Then still keep keen your hooks and scythe,
Ye wielders of the peaceful flail,

Tho' wintry storms the tree-tops writhe,
And scattered leaves ride on the gale,
Let not the battle harvest fail.

SEMMES!1

[Captain Raphael Semmes, the noted commander of the Confederate
privateer Alabama, on the 7th of December, 1862, captured the steamer
Ariel carrying passengers for San Francisco. He allowed the vessel and
passengers to proceed unharmed, but compelled the captain to sign a bond
to pay two hundred and sixty thousand dollars thirty days after the inde-
V pendence of the Confederate Government. On December 27, the passen
gers of the Ariel held a meeting in San Francisco and passed a vote of
thanks for Semmes's gentlemanly conduct while in possession of the ves-
.el.]

CONFEDERATION
Of Free spoliation
With Exaltation,

I sing of thee !
And of thy later,
Sweet Peculator,
And Depredator

Of every sea.
1 Golden £ra, January 11, 1863.

SEMMES ! 351

When all abuse thee
And dare confuse thee,
I '11 still excuse thee,

Though law condemns
Thy occupation,
This plain narration
Bears attestation

Of thee, 0 Semmes!

What legendary,
Incendiary
Accounts that vary

Of thee were told j
WTiat strange tradition
Of man's condition,
Through inanition

Shut in thy hold.

Thy motions elfish,

Thy conduct selfish,

Like that strange shell-fish

Who clouds with ink ;
Yes, like the Cuttle,
I hide thy subtle
Attempts to scuttle

Our ships and sink.

Thy frequent dashes,
Thy waxed mustaches,
Their glory flashes

From pole to pole !
The British Nation,
At every station,
Sends invitation

For thea to coal.

352 A CAVALRY SONG

With deprecation
And agitation,
And consternation,

Lest blood be spilt,
I view thy meeting,
— No courteous greeting —
Perchance a beating

From Vanderbilt !

Thy kind attention
I duly mention,
Though comprehension

Doth strangely show
That high-toned breeding
Tho' strange exceeding,
We find proceeding

From men termed "Low.

Then let us praise thee,
And still upraise thee,
Until we place thee

Beyond all harm,
In exaltation —
A-e-rostation
And high saltation,
From some yardarm.

A CAVALKY SONG1

0, POTENT in patriot fields,
Is the union of swiftness and force ;

In the uplifted steel,

And the prick of the heel,
And the long swinging tramp of the horse,
i Golden Era, January 18, 1863.

THE WRATH OF McDAWDLE 353

0, the Infantry make a brave show,
With the squares that no foeman dare cross ;

But their long files go down,

When the rattling hoofs drown
Their roulade with the tramp of the horse.

0, the Cannoneer's lintstocks are bright,
And the throats of their engines are hoarse;

But their thunder is dumb

When the Cavalry come,
With the lightnings that leap from the horse.

Then, up in the stirrup and ride !
No obstacles checking our course,

Till the continent's length

Is filled with the strength
Of the charging of Liberty's horse !

THE WRATH OF McDAWDLE

A CONSERVATIVE LEGEND

[General George B. McCIellan, in 1862, was severely criticized for his
tardiness and hesitation. It was claimed that he was over-cautious, that
he spent too much time in preparation, and thus gave the enemy the
advantage and an opportunity to escape.]

McDAWDLE brooked no spoiler's wrong,
Famous in border raid and song,

But hearing the tale of outrage told,

His heart waxed hot and his eye grew cold,

And said, "Now, by my ancestral hall,
This day shall McDawdle's vengeance fall ! "
1 Golden Era, January 25, 1863.

354 THE WRATH OF McDAWDLE

So he bade them bring him his barbed steed,
And rode from his castle gate with speed.

The high portcullis he paused beside,
And said, " With me shall a Squire ride

" With a fresher lance, lest this should bend
To some traitor's breast — which saints forfend!"

So his Squire beside him armed did go,
With an extra lance at his saddle-bow.

But when the heavy drawbridge dropped,
McDawdle tightened his rein and stopped,

And said, " Those spared in the fight, I wist,
With gyves should be manacled each wrist."

So they brought him gyves and again he sped
While his henchmen held their breath with dread.

But when he had passed the castle moat,
He checked his steed, and his brow he smote,

And said: "By'r Lady, methinks 'twere well
That with me should ride a priest and bell

u To shrive the souls of the men I slay,
And mine own, should I fall in this deadly fray."

So they brought him a priest with a bell and book,
And again the earth with his gallop shook.

When he reached the spot where the caitiffs lay,
Lo, the coward knaves had stolen away,

THE COPPERHEAD CONVENTION 355

Taking the spoil of his goodly land,
Dreading the might of his strong right hand.

'T were well for the caitiff knaves that they
Had wisely gone from McDawdle's way,

Lest he fall upon them with certain death;
And psalms went up from each caitiff's breath.

And psalms went up from McDawdle's hall,
When they saw him ride to the outer wall.

And the bard made a song of McDawdle's wrath,
And this is the song which that minstrel hath:

" Ye bold intent doth ye deed surpasse
Of ye braggart childe with ee of glasse."

THE COPPERHEAD CONVENTION1

SACRAMEXTO, JULY 8, 1863

THERE were footprints of blood on the soil of the Free ;
There were foes in the land where no foeman should be ;
There were fields devastated and homesteads in flame;
And each loyal cheek caught the hue of its shame ;
War's roses sprang red where each rebel heel set —
When, lo ! a convention of Democrats met !

And how did they sing the brave song of their clan — -
" Of rights that were equal — of freedom for man ? "
What epithets burned through their pitiless scorn
Of "governing classes that masters are born ?"
i Evening Bulletin (San Francisco), July 14, 1863.

356 SCHALK

What epithets ! Listen, ye gods, to yon mouth
That writhes, as it whispers, " the glorious South ! "

But came they in peace — those meek lovers of Eight, |

With pistols and bowie-knives tucked out of sight,

With real jars of oil for the sore Commonweal

That no Ali-Baba assassins conceal —

Was it Peace — or war — whose fond mercies are such

As pluck the weak straw from a drowning man's clutch ?

We know not their motives. The quick ebbing tide
That stranded their chieftain left them at his side ;
As the wave that retreats from the Seventy-four
Leaves the cockle-shells groping their way on the shore —
So their knell was the boom of the welcoming gun
That thundered the tidings that Vicksburg was won !

SCHALK!1

[Emil Schalk, a resident of the United States, was born at Mayence,
Germany, 1834, and educated at Pans. He wrote Summary of the Art of
War, 1862, Campaigns of 1862, 1863, etc.]

WHAT do our successes balk !
" Want of simple rules," says Schalk,
"Daily I am shocked to see

Utter lack of strategy;

While the skill that art combines

(Shown in my interior lines)

And success that ever dwells

In all perfect parallels,

Prove to me, beyond a doubt,

That you 're twisted right about,

And through ignorance of art,

Yours is the defensive part ;
1 Golden Era, July 19, 1863.

THE YREKA SERPENT 357

Or, to make my sense complete,
In advancing, you retreat.
Don't you see — it 's plain as day —
That thus far you 've run away,
And your siege of New Orleans
Simply was defensive means,
While your Washington, my friend,
You must conquer to defend —
Thus your whole campaign is naught
When not logically fought ! "

Right and Might at times prevail,
Lines and figures never fail !
So if you 'd your battles win —
And would properly begin —
Choose your scientific man,
Fight the European plan,
And to stop all further talk,
Win 'em by the longest Schalk.

THE YREKA SERPENT

[Yreka, July 15, 1863. Two men in coming out of their drift on Cotton-
wood Creek, some twenty miles from here, a few days ago, saw on the
mountain-side a snake, which they say was twenty-four feet long, and aa
large around as a man's body. They went toward it, when it ran up the
mountain. A party is now out looking for the snake. — Telegram in city
papers.]

STRANGER

O EXCAVATOR of the soil, 0 miner bold and free !

Where is the snake — the fearful snake — that late appeared

to thee ?

Was it a bona-fide snake, or only some untruth
Exploding like that firework so popular with youth ?
i Evening Bullttin (San Francisco), July 25, 1803.

358 THE YREKA SERPENT

Was it a real Ophidian, or was it simply nil,
Of mania a potu born — Serpent of the Still ?
Was it an Anaconda huge, or Boa of mighty strength,
Or was it but an Adder — in the details of its length ?

Was it a Python — such an one as Pliny says for lunch

Would take a Roman Phalanx down, as we take Roman
punch ?

Or was it that more modern kind that Holmes' page dis
plays,

Whose rattle was the favored toy of " Elsie's " baby days ?

What manner of a snake was it? Speak, O mysterious

man!

Proclaim the species of the snake that past thy tunnel ran —
Its length, its breadth, and whence it came, and whither

did it flee ;
And if extant on Tellus yet, oh, tell us where it be !

MINER

0 stranger in the glossy hat, and eke in store-clothes drest !
Thy words a tunnel deep have picked within this flinty

breast ;

1 may not rightly call those names thou dost so deftly

term,
But this I know — I never yet beheld so gross a worm !

My tale begins upon a day I never can forget,

The very time those Democrats in Sacramento met —

A July day — the heated pines their fragrant sap distilled,

When tidings of a victory the hills and valleys thrilled.

The mountains laughed to split their sides, the tunnels

cracked their jaws ;
The fir trees rattled down their cones in salvos of applause ;

THE YREKA SERPENT 359

The blue-jay screamed till he was black — when lo ! as if in

pain,
A hideous serpent writhed this way from Sacramento's plain.

His tail was pointed to the South, his head toward the

North,

As from the Sacramento's bank he wriggled slowly forth;
But when upon the right and left the cheers began to break,
And wider, wider spread the news — still faster flew the

snake !

He reached the mountains — like a dream he passed before
my eyes.

0 stranger ! then it was I knew the secret of his size,
It was no single snake I saw ; but by yon blessed sun !
These eyes beheld two serpents joined and blended into

one.

Two heads this fearful reptile had ; one pointed to the
South;

The other pointed to the North, a hissing tongue and
mouth ;

But that which pointed to the South was like a turtle
dove,

And dropped from time to time a text of universal love.

Its Northern head three sides displayed, and on the first of
these

1 read the legend " Slavery," and on the second " Peace,"
And on the third — oh, fearful sight ! — these eyes did

plainly see,
Deep sunken on its copper front, the capitals " J. D."

The snake is gone — the tale is told — I view in thy
affright,

SCO A FABLE FOR THE TIMES

O stranger with the troubled brow ! thou readst the tale
aright ;

This serpent of protracted length — this awful snake of
dread —

Was of the same convention born — the FUSION COPPER
HEAD.

A FABLE FOE, THE TIMES1

I LAY on my back in the scented grass,

Drowned in the odors that swept the plain,

Watching the reaper's sickle pass

Like summer lightning amidst the grain ;

And I said, " 'T is certain that Peace is sweet,
And War is cruel and useless toil —

And better the reaper of honest wheat

Than the soldier laden with sanguine spoil."

But lo, as I spake, in the upper sky,
I heard the tumult of mimic war,

And a troop of swallows came whistling by,
In chase of a hawk that flew before —

Till with baffled wing and beaten crest,
That gray guerrilla of raid and wrong,

Flew off — and back to each ransomed nest,
The heroes came in exultant song.

But one, as he neared me, dropped his wing
With a weak, uncertain, tremulous beat,

ALS round and round in a narrowing ring,
His circuit he M double and then repeat —
l Golden Era, August 2, 1863.

THOMAS CARLYLE AND PETER OF THE NORTH 3G1

Till at length he dropped, like lead, in the brake,
And I sprang to my feet, but found, alas,

He was charmed by a meditative snake
That lay near me in the scented grass.

THOMAS CARLYLE AND PETEK OF THE NORTH1

The English author, Thomas Carlyle, must have his say upon the civil
war in this country. It is very brief, and appears in the August number
of Macmillan's Magazine. Here it is: —

Peter of the North (to Paul of the South). — " Paul,
you unaccountable scoundrel, I find you hire your servants
for life, not by the month or year, as I do ! You are going
straight to hell, you — ! "

Paul. — " Good words, Peter ! The risk is my own ; I
am willing to take the risk. Hire your servants by the
month or day, and get straight to Heaven, leave me to my
own method."

Peter. — " No, I won't. I will beat your brains out first!
(And is trying dreadfully ever since, but cannot yet man
age it:') ' T. c.

May, 1863.

" PETER OP THE NORTH " TO THOMAS CARLYLE

IT 'n true that I hire my servant per day,

Per month, or per year — as he chooses ;
While " Paul of the South " takes his bondman for life,
Without asking if he refuses,

T. C.,
Without asking if he refuses !

i Evening Bulletin (San Francisco), September 8, 1863.

362 CALIFORNIA TO THE SANITARY COMMISSION

But if you are judge of the merits alone,

We surely have right to inquire
The date of your service with "Paul of the South,"
And what is the length of your hire,

T. C.,
And what is the length of your hire !

F. B. H.

CALIFORNIA TO THE SANITARY COMMISSION1

WITH A DRAFT FOR " FIFTY THOUSAND," DECEMBER, 1863

THROUGHOUT the long summer our hearts shrank in doubt,
As sterile and parched as our plains with the drought,
Till your voice on the wings of the winter's first rain
Awoke heart and meadow to bounty again.

JT is yours in its freshness — the first gift that springs
From the soil overarched by these merciful wings,
As pure and less cold than the snowflake that flies
Over fields that are crimson with War's autumn dyes.

We speak not of Glory, we talk not of Fame,
We gauge not our bounty to honor or blame ;
You ride with the battery wrapped in the dun ;
We creep with the ambulance steadily on.

Yet stay but a moment. Our faith is the same,
Though warmed in the sunshine, or tried in the flame ;
Would you say that we shrink, while your courage en
dures —
That we offer our draft as an exchange for yours ?

No, perish the thought ! whether sunshine or storm,
Though the matrix is broken that moulded our form ;
1 Evening Bulletin (San Francisco), December 19, 1863.

SONG OF THE " CAMANCHE " 363

When our mills shall run dry, in the stamps that re
main,
That Strength which bred Mercy shall conquer again !

SONG OF THE "CAMANCHE"1

[The monitor Camanche from New York arrived at San Francisco on
the ship Aquila in November, 1863. The Aquila with her cargo sank at her
dock in the harhor for some unknown reason. She had remained there for
some time when Bret Harte wrote these verses. She was finally raised,
built, and launched. Harte's "A Lay of the Launch " gives a humorous
accour* »f his presence on that occasion.]

0 STRANGER, o'er this sunken wreck

Behold no risen glory ;
No fragments of a battle-deck

Invite the poet's story;
Fame cannot write my name above

With Freedom's fearless fighters;
For why ? this little lay of mine

Belongs to Underwriters.

You tell me that by Sumter's walls

The monitors are swinging,
And harmless from their armor falls

The thunderbolts yet ringing ;
Yet, peaceful here in mud I lie

Like any sailor drunken,
Dead as a coffin-nail, or as

— My rivet-heads-die-sunken !

You say the pirate's stealthy prow

This way is slowly turning,
From tropic seas, where even now
Some luckless prize is burning.
1 Evening Bulletin (San Francisco), January 16, 1864.

364 A LAY OF THE LAUNCH

Above them gleams the Southern Cross
And constellations blinking,

"While I beneath a Northern sky
With Aquila am sinking.

O, had I dropped in some deep well

Of ocean vast and mighty,
Old Neptune might have tolled my bell

Along with Amphitrite ;
Or mermaids from their coral stores

Have decked my turret gayly,
Instead of filth your city pours

From sewers round me daily.

Then, stranger, rather let me hide

Where river ooze still smothers,
If locked in my disgrace abide

Some meaner faults of others !
Thou hast a paper — tell me quick

The worst — though nothing worse is
I ?m libeled — in the Circuit Court,

Thank God ! — and not in verses.

A LAY OF THE LAUNCH1

(After Tennyson)

[On November 14, 1864, the monitor Camanche was successfully
launched. She was intended as a formidable addition to the defenses of
the harbor of San Francisco. Bret Harte was one of the invited guests.]

MY heart is wasted with my woe,

Camanche ;

In vain I strove to see the show,

Camanche ;
l Californian, November 19, 1864.

A LAY OF THE LAUNCH 365

Divorced from shore — from libels free —
I came to view thy charms per se ;
It was no maiden plunge to thee,

Camanche.

I did not see thee launched at all,

Camanche ;

The crowd was large — the gate was small,

Camanche.

I stood without and cursed my fate,

The time, the tide that would not wait,

With others who had come too late,

Camanche.

Why did they send thee off so soon,

Camanche ?
They should have waited until noon,

Camanche.

0 cruel fate, that from my gaze
Hid wedges, props, and broken stays,
And made thy ways as "secret ways,"

Camanche.

1 was thine own invited guest,

Camanche ;
I missed the feast, with all the rest,

Camanche.

I missed the cold tongue, and the flow
Of eloquence and Veuve Clicquot ;
I missed my watch and chain, also,

Camanche.

For when I strove to reach thy deck,

Camanche ;

366 A LAY OF THE LAUNCH

A hand was passed around my neck,

Camanche ;

A false, false hand my beaver pressed
Upon mine eyes, and from my vest
Unhooked my chain — why tell the rest ?

Camanche.

My coat was torn — the best I had,

Camanche ;

I wished I, too, were ironclad,

Camanche.

They tore my coat and vest of silk,

They groaned and cried, " a bilk, a bilk ! J?

Rude boys and others of that ilk,

Camanche.

Thy yard was full of stumbling blocks,

Camanche :

That told a sudden fall in stocks,

Camanche.

I stood where late thy keel had slid —

I did not heed as I was bid,

Hence what thy keel had done, I did,

Camanche.

It was a bitter, frightful fall,

Camanche ;
I slid some thirty feet in all,

Camanche.

Some thirty feet upon my back
I slipped along the slimy track ;
They cried, "Another launch — alack ! "

Camanche.

THE FLAG-STAFF ON SHACKLEFORD ISLAND 367

My heart was wasted with my woe,

Camanche ;
I thought that I would homeward go,

Camanche.

In vain I hailed a crowded car ;
They answered not my signs afar ;
0 day, cursed by my evil star,

Camanche.

THE FLAG-STAFF ON SHACKLEFORD ISLAND1

AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR

[The following incident was related in a recent lecture by the Rev. A.
L. Stone, Pastor, Park Street Church, Boston: "In the early part of the
war there stood on Shackleford Island, North Carolina, a high flag-staff
from which floated the national banner. Of course, the secessionists soon,
tore this down. But there still surmounted the staff the national eagle.
This was too loyal for the traitors, and after a time they succeeded in get-
ing it down or breaking it off. Their work was hardly finished, when lo!
the air quivered with the rush of lordly wings, and a majestic eagle swept
down and lighted on the staff. In a few minutes the marksmen sent bul
let after bullet at the royal mark. In vain. His piercing eye looked at
them defiant; he rose, circled round a few feet, and settled again on his
perch."]

PIERCING the blue of a southern sky,
On Shackleford Island a flagstaff rose,

And a flag that flew,

Loyal and true,
Over the heads of disloyal foes.

Fluttered the flag in the breezy air ;
Sullen they gazed, but did not speak,

Till the flap of each fold,

Like a buffet bold,

Crimsoned with shame each traitor's cheek*
1 Evening Bulletin (San Francisco), May 3, 1864.

368 THE FLAG-STAFF ON SHACKLEFORD ISLAND

" Down with the Abolition rag ! "
Was the cry their hatred found at last;
And they tore it down
And over the town
Trailed the flag they had stripped from the mast.

"Down with the Eagle — the Yankee bird;
False in one thing, false in the whole " ;
So they battered down
The flag-staff 's crown —
The Eagle crest of the liberty pole.

Lo ! as it dropped, from the upper air
Came the rush of wings, and around the base

Of the flag-staff played

A circling shade,
And the real bird swooped to the emblem's placee

Vainly, below from the angry mob
The curse and the rifle shot went up.

Not a feather stirred

Of the royal bird
In his lonely perch on the flag-staff top.

Since that day, on Shackleford Isle,
Clothed in beauty the staff is set ;

Since that day

The bird alway
Guards the spot that is sacred yet.

So, when the Nation's symbols lie
Broken, we look through our despair

To the sky that brings

The rush of wings
And the Truth that dwells in the upper air.

THE HERO OF SUGAR TINE 369

OF ONE WHO FELL IN BATTLE1

(H. A. G., JUNE 3, 1864)

BY smoke-encumbered field and tangled lane,

Down roads whose dust was laid with scarlet dew,

Past guns dismounted, ragged heaps of slain,

Dark moving files, and bright blades glancing through,

All day the waves of battle swept the plain

Up to the ramparts, where they broke and cast

Thy young life quivering down, like foam before the blast.

Then sank the tumult. Like an angel's wing,

Soft fingers swept thy pulses. The west wind

Whispered fond voices, mingling with the ring

Of Sabbath bells of Peace — such peace as brave men find,

And only look for till the months shall bring

Surcease of Wrong, and fail from out the land

Bondage and shame, and Freedom's altars stand.

THE HERO OF SUGAR PINE 2

" OH, tell me, Sergeant of Battery B,

Oh, hero of Sugar Pine!
Some glorious deed of the battle-field,
Some wonderful feat of thine.

" Some skillful move, when the fearful game

Of battle and life was played
On yon grimy field, whose broken squares
In scarlet and black are laid."

1 Cftlifornian, August 6, 1864.

2 Californian, August 20, 1864.

370 ST. VALENTINE IN CAMP

" Ah, stranger, here at my gun all day,

I fought till my final round
Was spent, and I had but powder left,
And never a shot to be found;

" So I trained my gun on a rebel piece :

So true was my range and aim,
A shot from his cannon entered mine
And finished the load of the same! "

" Enough ! Oh, Sergeant of Battery B,

Oh, hero of Sugar Pine !
Alas! I fear that thy cannon's throat
Can swallow much more than mine ! "

ST. VALENTINE IN CAMP1

WE had borne the wintry sieges in our swamp-encircled

camp,
When a step surprised the sentry in his measured tread and

tramp,

And across the broad abatis swarmed the skirmishes of

spring,
And the ivy's scaling ladders on the scarp hung quivering ;

Till the bold invader's colors shook on every rocky wall,
And the buds with wedding carols drowned the bugle's
warning call.

Then a sudden vision thrilled me, and I seemed to stand
again

With my hand upon the ploughshare on the far New Eng
land plain.
1 Evening Bulletin (San Francisco), March 1, 1865.

ST. VALENTINE IN CAMP 371

Blithely sang the lark above me, and among the gathered
kine

Sang the milkmaid in the farmyard, sang the song of Val
entine ;

Or across the distant meadow, as of old she seemed to

glide —
She whose troth with mine was plighted when we wandered

side by side.

Where the wanton winds of summer stirred the maple's*

leafy crown,
Or the gusty breath of Autumn shook the rugged walnuts

down.

But between me and my vision rise the graves upon the

hill
Where my comrades lie together, and the winds are hushed

and still.

They to whom the lark's blithe carol, and the songs of love

are dead ;
Vain to them the white encampment of the crocus o'er

their head ;

And my cheek is flushed with crimson — better that a

stranger's hand
Guide the coulter in the furrow, if mine own shall wield

the brand!

What to me the rattling walnuts in Love's consecrated
shade,

Who have heard the bullets dropping in the dusky ambus
cade ?

372 SCHEMMELFENNIG

What to me if greenly flourish newer life within the wood,
If the baby leaves are nourished in the dew of brothers' blood ?

Blithely lift your tuneful voices, blithely sing and meirily
Chant your marriage morning paeans, 0 ye birds, but not
for me!

Till the Nation's dreary winter shall have passed, and time

shall bring
Through the Autumn's smoke of battle glimpses of the

Nation's Spring;

Till a people's benediction mingle with the songs above,
That shall hail the glad espousals of a long estranged love ;

Then a symbol of that Union shall my darling fitly wear,
Hickory leaves and orange blossoms wreathed together in
her hair.

SCHEMMELFENNIG l

[General Alexander Schemmelfennig commanded the forces that first
entered Charleston upon its evacuation by the Confederates in 1865.]

BRAVE Teuton, though thy awful name

Is one no common rhyme can mimic,
Though in despair the trump of Fame

Evades thy painful patronymic —
Though orators forego thy praise,

And timid bards by tongue or pen ig-
Nore thee — thus alone I raise

Thy name in song, my Schemmelfennig !

What though no hecatombs may swell
With mangled forms thy path victorious j
i CaUfornian. April 1, 1865.

THE VENDUE OF JEFFERSON DAVIS 373

Though Charleston to thee bloodless fell,
Wert thou less valiant or less glorious ?

Thou took'st tobacco — cotton — grain —

And slaves — they say a hundred and ten nig-

Gers were captives in thy train

And swelled thy pomp, my Schemmelfennig!

Let Asboth mourn his name unsung,

And Schurz his still unwritten story;
Let Blenker grieve the silent tongue,

And Zagonyi forego his glory ;
Ye are but paltry farthing lamps,

Your lights the fickle marsh or fen ig-
Nus fatuus of Southern swamps,

Beside the sun of Schemmelfennig!

THE VENDUE OF JEFFERSON DAVIS1

THE CAUSE

OF all the tyrants whose actions swell

The pages of history, and tell

How well they fought, and how brave they fell

In battle assault or siege, pell-mell,

Or blew up their foes and themselves as well,

By way of a general ridding,
Commend us to Jefferson D. who spread
On the " outer wall " a flag of red,
And called to an auction sale instead

The wretches who did his lidding.

And yet, so fickle 's the human mind,
In fact or fiction you '11 always find
1 Califarnian, April 15, 1865.

374 THE VENDUE OF JEFFERSON DAVIS

The popular taste is most inclined

To the traitor that 's most consistent,
And the standard drama declares the fact
That he ought to die with his weapon hack't,
Or fall on his sword in the final act,
As Brutus once did in his tent.

Laugh at the principle if you will,
One feels a kind of indefinite thrill
For the hunted pirate who cowers still
O'er his magazine with an iron will

And a pistol cocked and loaded,
And knows that capture will bring the flash,
The swift upheaval, and awful crash,
The blinding smoke, and the sullen splash,
But never dreamed of selling for cash,

As certain people we know did j
Alas ! that the theory and the rash

Example are both exploded.

No doubt that Samson essayed to crown

In some such manner his life's renown

In that final act which they say brought down

The house on his last appearance ;
Or, if further illustrations you lack,
1 7ve been keeping the scorpion figure back,
Who, girdled with fire, is never slack

In effecting his mortal clearance.

But there are skeptical folk who doubt

If Jefferson Davis really sold out,

On the eve of his final defeat and rout,

Such trifles as pots and kettles ;
Or ever his proud soul stooped so low,
\Vhilc girding his loins for a final blow,

THE VENDUE OF JEFFERSON DAVIS 375

To lend himself to a Yankee show,

Whose very detail belittles,
And call the tale a canard — as near
What really is genuine and sincere
As the duck of Vaucauson might appear

To the one that digests its victuals.

But ah ! the poet, whose prophet eyes

Can look through the battle-clouds that rise,

Sees not the traders who sacrifice

Such homely trifles as housewives prize,

But a symbol of something greater —
The selling out of a mansion built
On the soil where a Nation's blood is spilt,
With Fate for an auctioneer, and Guilt

Close by, an amazed spectator.

To such there comes a terrible awe,

To think that the people who gathered saw

The mighty arm of some Northern Thor

Uplifting the auction hammer,
And knocking down with each terrible blow
Some things that the catalogue did n't show,
In words that the reader will find below

Mixed up with the vendor's clamor:

THE SALE

" Going, gentlemen ! — going, gone !
The entire furniture, slightly worn,
And the family portraits these walls adorn,
Well worthy of any man's — hanging ;
And some English carpets as good as new,
A little down-trodden, but then they '11 do

376 THE VENDUE OF JEFFERSON DAVIS

If you let Grant shake 'em and put 'em through
The usual beating and banging !

"Who bids for a genealogical tree —
A beautiful piece of embroidery,
A very first family's pedigree ?

What a chance for our youthful scions?
Who bids ? As the article 's useless now
I '11 take — < five dollars ! '' — too bad, I vow !
Well, put it in greenbacks ! What name ? eh, how ?

Ah, beg your pardon ! — * Lord Lyons ! '

" A family Bible I offer next,
Wrhich opens itself at a certain text
About Onesimus that once vext

The church as a casus belli ;
And all those passages stricken out
Which provoke research in this age of doubt :
How much ? — Ah, thank you ? — 't is yours, my stout

Old Cardinal — Antonelli !

" Now here 's an article one might skip,
But the lot goes together — a driver's whip,
And, barring some stains on the thong and tip,

It 's still in complete preservation :

Who bids ? where 's the man who 's afraid to speak loud ?
What, you, little white-coat, just back in the crowd,
j With the yellow mustachios and bearing so proud !
Going, gone ! — to the Austrian Legation !

" Going, gentlemen — going, gone !
The household gods of a man forlorn,
For the benefit of the wives that mourn,
And of children's children, yet unborn,
And of bonds that none shall sever;

IX MEMORIAM 377

The house, and all that the house contains,
The wandering ghosts and their vengeful manes,
The naked walls and their blots and stains,
And even the title that now obtains
With an U. S. Grant forever ! "

IN MEMORIAM1

JEFFERSON DAVIS

Repudiator, Speculator, Dictator ;
Who enjoyed the distinction of being the first

And last

President of the Southern Confederacy.

A Christian and Chivalrous Gentleman,

He starved Union Captives in his Prisons,

And sanctioned the Massacre of Fort Pillow.

But his manners were courtly and elegant,

And his State papers models of excellence.

He was remarkable for his executive wisdom:

To provide material for his forces,

He ordered corn to be planted instead of cotton,

Which enabled Sherman to march through Georgia.

He perpetuated a Slave Empire,
Whose bondsmen were guides to the Union Armies.

Consistent in his inconsistencies,

He connived at the assassination of the only man

Who could have saved him from the gallows.

The incarnation of dignity and heroism,

He was taken disguised in his wife 's petticoats,

Claiming exemption from capture

On the grounds of his femininity.

As such, friends, respect his weakness,

And that of the few who still admire him.

i Califwnian, May 20, 1865.

378 THE LAMENT OF THE BALLAD-WRITER

THE LAMENT OF THE BALLAD-WRITER1

Air: "Just Before the Battle, Mother"

Now the battle 's over, Mother,

And your tears no longer start,
Really, it is my opinion

You and I had better part.
Farewell, Mother, if forever,

Your affection I resign,
Gone the days when just your blessing

Brought me fifty cents a line.

Farewell, 0 Maternal Fiction !

Thou whose far- parental sigh
Home has brought the youthful soldier,

Time and time again to die.
Farewell, Mother, you may never

In the future, peaceful years,
Bring a sob from private boxes —

Steep a dress-circle in tears.

Farewell, 0 thou gentle sister!

Thou, who in my cunning hand,
Didst deliver pious sermons,

Mild, innocuous, and bland ;
Never more from thee I '11 borrow

Moral sentiments to preach,
Nor shall " morrow " rhyme with " sorrow "

In thy bitter parting speech.

Farewell, 0 devoted Maiden !

Thou who for the country, true,
Sacrificed not only lover

But thy Lindley Murray, too ;
i Californian, October 7, 1865.

A THANKSGIVING RETROSPECT 379

Incoherent was my logic,

Wild and vague thy words I fear,
Yet the pit would still encore thee,

And the galleries would cheer.

Farewell, all ye facile phrases,

Gags and sentimental cant !
Names that took the place of ideas — '

Sherman, Sheridan, and Grant ;
Gone the days when schoolboy jingles

Took the place of manly talk,
When the " thought that breathed " was puffy,

And the word that burned — burnt cork.

Just before the battle, Mother,

Then my cheapest figure told;
While the rebel stood before us,

Then my glitter looked like gold.
Now this " cruel war is over,"

All inflated thought must fall ;
Mother, dear, your boy must henceforth

Write sound sense, or not at all.

A THANKSGIVING EETROSPECT *

WELL ! Charge your glasses ! — Softly, friends,

The toast we drink to-night :
" The vacant chair," that holds the post

Of honor on our right.
" The vacant chair " — why now so grave

Your looks once bright with love ?
What though our circle narrows here,
It widens still above.

1 Californian, December 9, 1865.

380 A THANKSGIVING RETROSPECT

We drink to him who joins the host

That left our hearth before —
Dear hands that once have clasped our own

Shall touch his on that shore ;
The grandsire whose unflinching soul

Went up from Concord fight,
Shall welcome him whose youthful arm

Last year struck home for Right !

That though he lived where barren hills

Were white with winter snows,
Where man through stubborn toil alone

To higher nature rose :
He sleeps where never click of hail

Or ice their changes ring,
But consonants of Winter yield

To open-vowels of Spring.

Above him drifts the cotton-bloom

Knee-deep above his grave ;
The shroud that veils his southern bed

The north-wind never gave.
His sable mourners tread a shore

Enfranchised from their toil —
Thank God ! (through valor such as his)

Our own — no foreign soil !

Then charge your glasses full, and pour

A stream as red and free
As that which from his youthful veins

Was poured for Liberty.
To-night no sorrow drown our thanks — •

To-morrow tears may fall
For him who fills the vacant chair,

Yet sleeps near Ty bee's wall.

LATER POEMS

1871-1902

CHICAGO
(THE GREAT CONFLAGRATION OF OCTOBER 8-10, 1871)

BLACKENED and bleeding, helpless, panting, prone,
On the charred fragments of her shattered throne
Lies she who stood but yesterday alone.

Queen of the West ! by some enchanter taught

To lift the glory of Aladdin's court,

Then lose the spell that all that wonder wrought.

Like her own prairies by some chance seed sown,
Like her own prairies in one brief day grown,
Like her own prairies in one fierce night mown.

She lifts her voice, and in her pleading call
We hear the cry of Macedon to Paul —
The cry for help that makes her kin to all.

But haply with wan fingers may she feel
The silver cup hid in the proffered meal —
The gifts her kinship and our loves reveal.

BILL MASON'S BEIDE

HALF an hour till train time, sir,
An' a fearful dark time, too ;

Take a look at the switch lights, Tom,
Fetch in a stick when you 're through.

384 BILL MASON'S BRIDE

" On time ? " well, yes, I guess so —

Left the last station all right —
She '11 come round the curve a-flyin' ;
Bill Mason comes up to-night.

You know Bill ? No ! He 's engineer,

Been on the road all his life —
I '11 never forget the mornin'

He married his chuck of a wife.
'T was the summer the mill hands struck —

Just off work, every one ;
They kicked up a row in the village

And killed old Donovan's son.

Bill had n't been married mor 'n an hour,

Up comes a message from Kress,
Orderin' Bill to go up there,

And bring down the night express.
He left his gal in a hurry,

And went up on number one,
Thinking of nothing but Mary,

Arid the train he had to run.

And Mary sat down by the window

To wait for the night express ;
And, sir, if she had n't 'a' done so,

She 'd been a widow, I guess.
For it must 'a' been nigh midnight

When the mill hands left the Ridge —
They come down — the drunken devils! —

Tore up a rail from the bridge.
But Mary heard 'em a-workin'

And guessed there was somethin' wrong -
And in less than fifteen minutes,

Bill's train it would be along!

DEACON JONES'S EXPERIENCE 385

She couldn't come here to tell us:

A mile — it would n't 'a' done —
So she jest grabbed up a lantern,

And made for the bridge alone.
Then down came the night express, sir?

And Bill was makin' her climb!
But Mary held, the lantern,

A-swingin' it all the time.

Well ! by Jove ! Bill saw the signal,

And he stopped the night express,
And he found his Mary cryin'

On the track, in her weddin? dress ;
Cryin7 an' laughin' for joy, sir,

An' holdin' on to the light —
Hello ! here 's the train — good-bye, sir,

Bill Mason 's on time to-night.

DEACON JONES'S EXPERIENCE
(ARKANSAS CONFERENCE)

1874
YE 'RE right when you lays it down, Parson,

Thet the flesh is weak and a snare ;
And to keep yer plow in the furrow —

When yer cattle begins to rare —
Ain't no sure thing. And, between us,
The same may be said of prayer.

Why, I stood the jokes, on the river,
Of the boys, when the critters found

Thet I 'd jined the Church, and the snicker
Thet, maybe ye mind, went round,

The day I set down with the mourners,
In the old camp-meetin' ground!

386 DEACON JONES'S EXPERIENCE

I stood all that, and I reckon
I might at a pinch stood more —

Eor the boys, they represents Bael,

And I stands as the Rock of the Law 5

And it seemed like a moral scrimmage,
In holdin' agin their jaw.

But thar 's crosses a Christian suffers,
As hezn't got that pretense —

Things with no moral purpose,
Things ez hez got no sense ;

Things ez, somehow, no profit
Will cover their first expense.

Ez how ! I was jest last evenin'
Addressin' the Throne of Grace,

And mother knelt in the corner,

And each of the boys in his place —

When that sneakin' pup of Keziah's
To Jonathan's cat giv chase!

I never let on to mind 'em,

I never let on to hear;
But driv that prayer down the furrow

With the cat hidin' under my cheer,
And Keziah a-whisperin', " Sic her! "

And mother a-sayin', " You dare ! "

I asked fer a light fer the heathen,
To guide on his narrer track,

With that dog and that cat jest walzin',
And Jonathan's face jest black,

When the pup made a rush and the kitten •
Dropped down on the small of my back.

THE MAT QUEEX 387

Yes, I think, with the Lud's assistance,

I might have continered then,
If, gettin' her holt, that kitten

Hed n't dropped her claws in me — when
It somehow reached the "Old Adam,"

And I jumped to my feet with " Amen."

So, ye 're right when you say it, Parson,
Thet the flesh is weak and a snare;

And to keep yer plow in the furrow —
When yer cattle begins to rare —

Ain't no sure thing. And, between us,
I say it 's jest so with prayer.

THE MAY QUEEN

XADAPTED TO A BACKWARD SEASON)

IP you 're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear,
And see that my room is warm, mother, and the fire is

burning clear ;
And tallow my nose once more, mother, once more ere

you go away,
For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen

o' the May.

It froze so hard last night, mother, that really I couldn't

break
The ice in my little pitcher, mother, till I thought the

poker to take ;
You '11 find it there on the hearth, mother — but oh, let

that hot brick stay,
For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen

o' the May.

388 OF WILLIAM FRANCIS BARTLETT

I shall put on my aqua scutem outside of my sealskin coat,
And two or three yards of flannel, dear, will go around my

throat ;
And you '11 see that the honeset-tea, mother, is drawn while

your child 's away,
For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen

o' the May.

Little Effie shall go with me, if her nose is fit to be seen ;
And you shall be there, too, dear mother, to see me made

the Queen,

Provided the doctor '11 let you ; and, if it don't rain instead,
Little Johnny is to take me a part of the way on his sled.

So, if you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear,

For to-morrow may be the chilliest day of all the glad New-
Year ;

For to-day is the thirtieth, mother, and bless'd if your child
can say

If she ain't an April Fool, mother, instead of a Queen o'
the May.

OF WILLIAM FRANCIS BARTLETT

DEAD AT PITTSFIELD, MASSACHUSETTS, 1876

O POOR Romancer, — thou whose printed page,
Filled with rude speech and ruder forms of strife,

Was given to heroes in whose vulgar rage
No trace appears of gentler ways and life ! —

Thou, who wast wont of commoner clay to build
Some rough Achilles or some Ajax tall ;

Thou, whose free brush too oft was wont to gild
Some single virtue till it dazzled all ; —

OF WILLIAM FRANCIS BARTLETT 389

What right hast thou beside this laureled bier
Whereon all manhood lies — whereon the wreath

Of Harvard rests, the civic crown, and here

The starry flag, and sword and jeweled sheath ?

Seest thou these hatchments ? Knowest thou this blood
Nourished the heroes of Colonial days ; —

Sent to the dim and savage-haunted wood

Those sad-eyed Puritans with hymns of praise?

Look round thee ! Everywhere is classic ground.

There Greylock rears. Beside yon silver " Bowl "
Great Hawthorne dwelt, and in its mirror found

Those quaint, strange shapes that filled his poet's soul.

Still silent, Stranger ? Thou, who now and then

Touched the too credulous ear with pathos, canst not
speak ?

Hast lost thy ready skill of tongue and pen ?

What, Jester ! Tears upon that painted cheek ?

Pardon, good friends ! I am not here to mar

His laureled wreaths with this poor tinseled crown, —

This man who taught me how H was better far
To be the poem than to write it down.

I bring no lesson. Well have others preached
This sword that dealt full many a gallant blow ;

I come once more to touch the hand that reached
Its knightly gauntlet to the vanquished foe.

0 pale Aristocrat, that liest there,

So cold, so silent ! Couldst thou not in grace

Have borne with us still longer, and so spare
The scorn we see in that proud, placid face ?

390 THE WANDERINGS OF ULYSSES

" Hail and farewell! " So the proud Roman cried
O'er his dead hero. "Hail," but not "farewell."

With each high thought thou walkest side by side ;

We feel thee, touch thee, know who wrought the spell !

THE WANDERINGS OF ULYSSES

AS REPORTED BY MARY JOXES, MAID TO MRS. GRANT

WE 'RE here, dear, and what with our glories

And honor, you '11 know by that sign
Why we have n't met Mrs. Sartoris

And I have n't written a line ;
Why, what with Dukes giving receptions,

And going in state to Guildhall,
You ain't got the faintest conceptions

Of what we are doing at all !

I 've just took the card of a Countess,

I 've said " Not-at-home " to an Earl ;
As for Viscounts and Lords the amount is

Too absurd. Why there is n't a girl
In Galena who would n't be hating

Your friend Mary Jones, who now writes,
While behind her this moment, in waiting,

Stands the gorgeousest critter in tights.

He 's the valet of Viscount Fitz Doosem ;

He wears eppylets and all that;
Has an awful nosegay in his bosom ;

His legs are uncommonly fat.
He called our Ulysses " My Master,"

Just think of it! — but I stopped that.
He tried to be halfway familiar,

But I busted the crown of his hat !

THE WANDERINGS OF ULYSSES 391

We 're to dine out at Windsor on Friday ;

We take tea with the Princess next week;
Of course I shall make myself tidy

And fix myself up, so to speak.
" I presume I 'm addressing the daughter

Of America's late President ? "
Said a Duke to me last night ; you oughter

Have seen how he stammered and — went.

The fact is the " help " of this city

Ain't got no style, nohow ; why, dear,
Though I shouldn't say it, I pity

These Grants, for they do act so queer.
Why, Grant smoked and drinked with a Marshal,

Like a Senator, and Missus G.,
Well ! — though I 'm inclined to be partial,

She yawned through a royal levee.

Why, only last night, at a supper,

He sat there so simple and still,
That, had I the pen of a — Tapper,

I could n't express my shame — till
An Earl, he rose up and says, winking,
"You 're recalling your battles, no doubt? "
Says Ulysses, " I only was thinking

Of the Stanislaus and the dug-out.

" And the scow that I ran at Knight's Ferry,

And the tolls that I once used to take."
Imagine it, dear ! Them 's the very

Expression he used. Why, I quake
As I think of it — till a great Duchess

Holds out her white hand and says " shake " 5
Or words of that meaning ; for such is

Them English to folks whom they take.

392 THAT EBREW JEW

There 's dear Mr. Pierrepont; yet think, love,

In spite of his arms and his crest,
And his liveries — all he may prink, love,

Don't bring him no nearer the best ;
For they 're tired of shamming and that thing

They 've had for some eight hundred year,
And really perhaps it 's a blessing

These Grants are uncommonly queer.

As for me, dear, — don't let it go further, —

But — umph ! — there 's the son of a peer
Who 7s waiting for me till his father

Shall give him a thousand a year ;
Tha castle we '11 live in, as I know,

Is the size of the White House, my dear,
And you '11 just tell them folks from Ohio

That I think we will settle down here.

THAT EBREW JEW

THERE once was a tradesman renowned as a screw
Who sold pins and needles and calicoes too,
Till he built up a fortune — the which as it grew
Just ruined small traders the whole city through —

Yet one thing he knew,

Between me and you,

There was a distinction

'Twixt Christian and Jew.

Till he died in his mansion — a great millionaire —
The owner of thousands ; but nothing to spare
For the needy and poor who from hunger might drop,
And only a pittance to clerks in his shop.

THAT EBREW JEW 393

But left it all to
A Lawyer, who knew
A subtile distinction
'Twixt Ebrew and Jew.

This man was no trader, but simply a friend

Of this Gent who kept shop and who, nearing his end,

Handed over a million — 't was only his due,

Who discovered this contrast 'tvvixt Ebrew and Jew.

For he said, " If you view

This case as I do,

There is a distinction

'Twixt Ebrew and Jew.

For the Jew is a man who will make money through
His skill, his finesse, and his capital too,
And an Ebrew 's a man that we Gentiles can 'do,'
So you see there 's a contrast 'twixt Ebrew and Jew.

Ebrew and Jew,

Jew and Ebrew,

There 's a subtile distinction

'Twixt Ebrew and Jew.7'

So he kept up his business of needles and pins,
But always one day he atoned for his sins,
But never the same day (for that would n't do),
That the Jew faced his God with the awful Ebrew.

For this man he knew,

Between me and you,

There was a distinction

'Twixt Ebrew and Jew.

So he sold soda-water and shut up the fount

Of a druggist whose creed was the Speech on the Mount;

And he trafficked in gaiters and ruined the trade

Of a German whose creed was by great Luther made.

394 THAT EBREW JEW

But always he knew,
Between me and you,
A subtile distinction
'Twixt Ebrew and Jew.

Then he kept a hotel — here his trouble began —
In a fashion unknown to his primitive plan ;
For the rule of this house to his manager ran,
"Don't give entertainment to Israelite man."

Yet the manager knew,

Between me and you,

No other distinction

'Twixt Ebrew and Jew.

" You may give to John Morissey supper and wine,
And Madame N. N. to your care I '11 resign ;
You '11 see that those Jenkins from Missouri Flat
Are properly cared for ; but recollect that

Never a Jew

Who 's not an Ebrew

Shall take up his lodgings

Here at the Grand U.

" You '11 allow Miss McFlimsey her diamonds to wear;

You '11 permit the Van Dams at the waiters to swear ;

You '11 allow Miss Decollete to flirt on the stair ;

But as to an Israelite — pray have a care ;
For, between me and you,
Though the doctrine is new,
There 's a business distinction
'Twixt Ebrew and Jew."

Now, how shall we know ? Prophet, tell us, pray do,
Where the line of the Hebrew fades into the Jew ?
Shall we keep out Disraeli and take Rothschild in ?
Or snub Meyerbeer and think Verdi a sin ?

THE LEGEND OF GLEN HEAD 395

What shall we do ?
O, give us a few
Points to distinguish
'Twixt Ebrew and Jew.

There was One — Heaven help us! — who died in man's place,
With thorns on his forehead, but Love in his face :
And when " foxes had holes " and birds in the air
Had their nests in the trees, there was no spot to spare

For this "King of the Jews."

Did the Romans refuse

This right to the Ebrews

Or only to Jews ?

THE LEGEND OF GLEN HEAD
(RELATED BY A CAUTIOUS OBSERVER)

THEY say — though I know not what value to place

On the strength of mere local report —
That this was her home — though the tax list gives space,

I observe, to no fact of the sort.

But here she would sit ; on that wheel spin her flax, —

I here may remark that her hair
Was compared to that staple, — yet as to the facts

There is no witness willing to swear.

Yet here she would sit, by that window reserved
For her vines — like a " bower of bloom,"

You '11 remark I am quoting — the fact I 've observed
Is that plants attract flies to the room.

The house and the window, the wheel and the flax
Are still in their status preserved, —

396 THE LEGEND OF GLEN HEAD

And yet, what conclusion to draw from these facts,
I regret I have never observed.

Her parents were lowly, her lover was poor ;

In brief it appears their sole plea
For turning Fitz-William away from her door

Was that he was still poorer than she.

Yet why worldly wisdom was so cruel then,

And perfectly proper to-day,
I am quite at a loss to conceive, — but my pen

Is digressing. They drove him away.

Yon bracket supported the light she would trim

Each night to attract by its gleam,
Moth-like, her Fitz-William, who fondly would swim

To her side — seven miles and upstream.

I know not how great was the length of his limb
Or how strong was her love-taper's glow ;

But it seems an uncommon long distance to swim
And the light of a candle to show.

When her parents would send her quite early to bed
She would place on yon bench with great care

A sandwich, instead of the crumbs that she fed,
To her other wild pets that came there.

One night — though the date is not given, in view
Of the fact that no inquest was found —

A corpse was discovered — Fitz-William's ? — a few
Have alleged — drifting out on the Sound.

At the news she fell speechless, and, day after day,
She sank without protest or moan ;

"KITTY HAWK" 397

Till at last, like a foam-flake, she melted away -—
So 't is said, for her grave is unknown.

Twenty years from that day to the village again

Came a mariner portly and gray,
Who was married at Hempstead — the record is plain

Of the justice — on that fatal day.

He hired the house, and regretted the fate

Of the parties whose legend I've told.
He made some repairs, — for 't is proper to state

That the house was exceedingly old.

His name was McCorkle — now, while there is naught

To suggest of Fitz- William in that,
You '11 remember, if living, our Fitz- William ought

To have grown somewhat grayer and fat.

But this is conjecture. The fact still remains

Of the vines and the flax as before.
And knowing your weakness I 've taken some pains

To present them, my love, nothing more.

"KITTY HAWK"

A MARINE DIALOGUE

[Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, a small settlement and signal station, was,
in November, 1877, the scene of the wreck of the United States man-of-war
Huron, and the loss of almost all the crew. The fact that apparently no
effort wa* made at rescue, and the finding for many miles along the shore
of the bodies stripped of all valuables, led to considerable comment.]

Poet Kitty

POET

WHERE the seas worn out with chasing, at thy white feet
sink embracing, thou still sittest, coldly facing,

Kitty Hawk !

398 "KITTY HAWK"

Facing, gazing seaward ever, on each weak or strong en
deavor, but in grief, or pity, never,

Kitty Hawk!

Eagles, sea-gulls round thee flying, land birds spent with,
speed and dying, even Man to thee outcrying,

Kitty Hawk !

All thou seest, all thou nearest, yet thou carest naught nor
f earest, flesh nor fowl to thee is dearest,

Kitty Hawk!

Art thou human ? art thou woman ? art thou dead to love
and to man more than all relentless, ever ?

Kitty Hawk!

Hast thou wrongs to right, 0 Kitty ? wrongs that move the
soul to pity ? tell to me thy mournful ditty,

Kitty Hawk !

Tell me all! how some false lover, vagrant ship-boy, sailor
rover, left, bereft thee, threw thee over,

Kitty Hawk!

For some Antipodean savage, left thy rage the shore to
ravage (with a faint idea of salvage),

Kitty Hawk !

How thy vague but tragic story clothes the sandy promon
tory, calls in accents monitory,

Kitty Hawk !

How thy feline appellation, in accipitrine combination, mosl
befits a rhymed narration,

Kitty Hawk!

MISS EDITH HELPS THINGS ALONG 399

KITTY

Festive tramp ! around me prying — man with hair unkempt
and flying — youth with neck and head retractile,

Like a clam.

Draw within thy soft inclosure, stop this cerebral exposure,
for that 's not the kind of hairpin

That I am.

If you're me apostrophizing, with this attitudinizing,
prithee, hasten your uprising,

And in time,

On this beach, which is the Station's, leave some certain in
dentations — " footprints " for some sailing brother,

Who might rhyme !

For my name is Jane Maria, and my father, Kezuriah,
though he greatly might admire,

All your talk,

As one of the town officials, might prefer that his initials
should appear, just as he writes them —

K. T. Hawk.

MISS EDITH HELPS THINGS ALONG

" MY sister '11 be down in a minute, and says you 're to wait,

if you please,
And says I might stay till she came, if I 'd promise her

never to tease.
Nor speak till you spoke to me first. But that 's nonsense,

for how would you know
"What she told me to say, if I did n't ? Don't you really

and truly think so ?

400 MISS EDITH HELPS THINGS ALONG

" And then you 'd feel strange here alone ! And you

would n't know just where to sit ;
For that chair is n't strong on its legs, and we never use it

a bit.
We keep it to match with the sofa. But Jack says it

would be like you
To flop yourself right down upon it and knock out the very

last screw.

" S'pose you try ? I won't tell. You 're afraid to ! Oh !

you're afraid they would think it was mean !
Well, then, there 's the album — that 's pretty, if you 're

sure that your fingers are clean.
For sister says sometimes I daub it ; but she only says that

when she 's cross.
There 's her picture. You know it ? It 's like her ; but

she ain't as good-looking, of course !

" This is me. It 's the best of 'em all. Now, tell me,

you 'd never have thought
That once I was little as that ? It 's the only one that

could be bought —
For that was the message to Pa from the photograph man

where I sat —
That he would n't print off any more till he first got his

money for that.

" What ? Maybe you 're tired of waiting. Why, often

she 's longer than this.
There 's all her back hair to do up and all of her front curls

to friz.
But it 's nice to be sitting here talking like grown people,

just you and me.
Do you think you '11 be coming here often? Oh, do ! But

don't come like Tom Lee.

THE DEAD POLITICIAN 401

"Tom Lee. Her last beau. Why, my goodness! He

used to be here day and night,
Till the folks thought that he 'd be her husband ; and Jack

says that gave him a fright.
You won't run away, then, as he did ? for you 're not a rich

man, they say.
Pa says you are as poor as a church mouse. "Now, are you ?

And how poor are they ?

"Ain't you glad that you met me? Well, I am; for I

know now your hair isn't red.
But what there is left of it ?s mousy, and not what that

naughty Jack said.
But there ! I must go. Sister ?s coming. But I wish I

could wait, just to see
If she ran up to you and she kissed you in the way that

she used to kiss Lee. "

THE DEAD POLITICIAN

FIFTH WARD

' WHO 's dead ? > Ye want to know
Whose is this funeral show —

This A 1 corteg' ?
Well, it was Jim Adair,
And the remains's hair

Sported a short edge !

" When a man dies like Jim,
There 's no expense of him

We boys are sparing.
In life he hated fuss,
But — as he 's left to us —

Them plumes he 's wearing !

402 THE DEAD POLITICIAN

" All the boys here, you see,
Chock full each carriage !
Only one woman. She —
Cousin by marriage.

"Who was this Jim Adair ?
Who ? Well, you 've got me there !
Reckon one of them 'air

Fogy * old res'dents ! '
Who ? Why, that corpse you see
Ridin' so peacefully,
Head o' this jamboree —

'Lected three Pres'dents !

" Who was he ? Ask the boys
Who made the biggest noise,

Rynders or Jimmy ?
Who, when his hat he 'd fling,
Knew how the l Ayes ' would ring,

Oh, no ! not Jimmy I

" Who was he ? Ask the Ward
Who hed the rules aboard,

All parliamentary?
Who ran the delegate,
That ran the Empire State,
And — just as sure as fate —

Ran the whole 'kentry ?

" Who was he ? S' pose you try
That chap as wipes his eye

In that hack's corner.
Ask him — the only man
That agin Jimmy ran —

Now his chief mourner !

OLD TIME AND NEW 403

" Well — that 's the last o' Jim.
Yes, we ivas proud o' him."

OLD TIME AND NEW

(Contributed to the first number of the Time Magazine, April, 1879)

How well we know that figure limned

On every almanac's first page,
The beard unshorn, the hair imtrimmed,

The gaunt limbs bowed and bent with age ;
That well-known glass with sands run out,

That scythe that he was wont to wield
With shriveled arm, which made us doubt

His power in Life's harvest field !

Ah, him we know! But who comes here

Pranked with the fashion of the town ?
This springald, who in jest or jeer,

Tries on old Time's well-frosted crown!
Vain is his paint ! Youth's freshest down

Through penciled wrinkles shows too soon
The bright mischievous face of Clown,

Beneath the mask of Pantaloon!

A doubtful jest, howe'er well played,

To mock the show of fleeting breath
With youth's light laugh, and masquerade

This gaunt stepbrother of grim Death!
Is this a moralist to teach

The equal fate of small and large ?
Peace ! Yet — one moment — yield him speech

Before we give the scamp in charge!

" I crave no grace from those who dream
Time only was, and from the past

404 UNDER THE GUNS

Still draw the wisdom that they deem

Will only live and only last.
Time is not old, as all who 've tried

To kill or cheat him must attest :
And outward symbols cannot hide

The same firm pulse that stirs your breast.

"The old stock properties you preach

To truer symbols must pay tithe;
M'Cormick's reapers better teach

My truths than your old-fashioned scythe.
The racing ' Timer's ' slender vane

That marks the quarter seconds pass,
Marks, too, its moral quite as plain

As e'er was drawn in sand through glass.

" So if I bring in comelier dress

And newer methods, things less new,
I claim that honored name still less

To be consistent than be true.
If mine be not the face that 's cast

In every almanac and rhyme,
Look through them — all that there will last

You'll find within these leaves of <TIME!'»

UNDER THE GUNS

UNDER the guns of the Fort on the Hill
Daisies are blossoming, buttercups fill;
Up the gray ramparts the scaling vine flings
High its green ladders, arid falters and clings

Under the guns,

Under the guns,
Under the guns of the Fort on the Hill.

COMPENSATION 405

Under the guns of the Fort on the Hill
Once shook the earth with the cannonade's thrill,
Once trod these buttercups feet that, now still,
Lie all at rest in their trench by the mill.

Under the guns,

Under the guns,
Under the guns of the Tort on the Hill.

Under the guns of the Fort on the Hill
Equal the rain falls on good and on ill,
Soft lies the sunshine, still the brook runs,
Still toils the Husbandman — under the guns,

Under the guns,

Under the guns,
Under the guns of the Fort on the Hill.

Under the guns of Thy Fort on the Hill
Lord ! in Thy mercy we wait on Thy will ;
Lord ! is it War that Thy wisdom best knows,
Lord ! is it Peace, that Thy goodness still shows,

Under the guns,

Under the guns,
Under the guns of Thy Fort on the Hill ?

COMPENSATION

THE Poet sings on the plain,
The Trader toils in the mart,
One envies the other's gain,
One stares at the other's art.

Yet each one reaches his goal,
And the Critic sneers as they pass,
And each of the three in his soul '
Believes the other an ass.

406 SCOTCH LINES TO A. S. B.

OUR LAUREATE

(Contributed to the Holmes number of the Critic, issued on the twenty-
ninth of August, 1884 — the seventy -fifth anniversary of the birth of Dr.
Oliver Wendell Holmes.)

OXE day from groves of pine and palm,

The poets of the sky and cover
Had come to greet with song and psalm

The whip-poor-will — their woodland lover.
All sang their best, but one clear note

That fairly voiced their admiration
Was his — who only sang by rote —

The mock-bird's modest imitation.

So we, who 'd praise the bard who most

Is poet of each high occasion,
Who 'd laud our laureate, and toast

The blithe Toast-Master of the Nation, —
To celebrate his fete to-day,

In vain each bard his praise rehearses :
The best that we can sing or say

Is but an echo of his verses.

SCOTCH LINES TO A. S. B.1
(FROM AN UNINTELLIGENT FOREIGNER)

WE twa hae heard the gowans sing,
Sae saf t and dour, sae fresh and gey ;

And paidlet in the brae, in Spring,

To scent the new-mown " Scots wha hae."

l Bret Harte's replv to some jesting stanzas in the vernacular written by
hia artist frieud, Alexander Stuart lioyd.

THE ENOCH OF CALAVERAS 407

But maist we loo'ed at e'en to chase

The pibroch through each wynd and close,

Or climb the burn to greet an' face
The skeendhus gangin' wi' their Joes.

How aft we said "Eh, Sirs ! " and " Mon ! "

Likewise " Whateffer " — apropos
Of nothing. And pinned faith upon

" Aiblins " — though why we didna know.

We 've heard nae mon say "gowd " for "gold,"
And yet wi' all our tongues up-curled,

We — like the British drum-beat — rolled
Our "R's" round all the speaking worruld.

How like true Scots we didna care

A bawbee for the present tense,
But said " we will be " when we were*

}T was bonny — but it wasna sense.

And yet, "ma frien " and "trusty frere,"
We '11 take a right gude " Willie Waught"

(Tho' what that may be is not clear,
Nor where it can be made or bought).

THE ENOCH OF CALAVERAS

WELL, dog my cats ! Say, stranger,

You must have traveled far !
Just flood your lower level

And light a fresh cigar.
Don't tell me in this weather,

You hoofed it all the way ?
Well, slice my liver lengthways !

Why, stranger, what 's to pay ?

408 THE ENOCH OF CALAVERAS

Huntin' yer wife, you tell me ;

Well, now, dog-gone my skin!
She thought you dead and buried,

And then bestowed her fin
Upon another fellow !

Just put it there, old pard!
Some fellows strike the soft things,

But you have hit it hard.

I 'm right onto your feelin's,

I know how it would be,
If my own shrub slopped over

And got away from me.
Say, stranger, that old sage hen,

That 's cookin' thar inside,
Is warranted the finest wool,

And just a square yard wide.

I would n't hurt yer, pardner,

But I tell you, no man
Was ever blessed as I am

With that old pelican.
It 's goin' on some two year

Since she was j'ined to me,
She was a widder prior,

Her name was Sophy Lee —

Good God ! old man, what 's happened ?

Her ? She ? Is that the one ?
That 's her ? Your wife, you tell me ?

Now reach down for yer gun.
I never injured no man,

And no man me, but squealed,
And any one who takes her

Must do it d d well heeled !

"FREE SILVER AT ANGEL'S " 409

Listen ? Surely. Certainly

I '11 let you look at her.
Peek through the door, she 'a in thar,

Is that your furnitur' ?
Speak, man, quick ! You 're mistaken !

No ! Yours ! You recognize
My wife, your wife, the same one ?

The man who says so, lies!

Don't mind what I say, pardner,

I'm not much on the gush,
But the thing comes down on me

Like fours upon a flush.
If that 's your wife — hold — steady !

That bottle, now my coat,
She '11 think me dead as you were.

My pipe. Thar. I 'm afloat.

But let me leave a message.

No ; tell her that I died :
No, no ; not that way, either,

Just tell her that I cried.
It don't rain much. Now, pardner,

Be to her what I 've been,
Or, by the God that hates you,

You '11 see me back again !

"FREE SILVER AT ANGEL'S"

I RESIDE at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful

James,
I have told the tale of "William" and of "Ah Sin's"

sinful games ;

410 "FREE SILVER AT ANGEL's"

I have yarned of " Our Society," and certain gents I know,
Yet my words were plain and simple, and I never yet was
low.

Thar is high-toned gents, ink-slingers ; thar is folks as will

allow

Ye can't reel off a story onless they 've taught ye how ;
Till they get the word they 're wanting they 're allus cryin'

" Whoa ! "
All the while their mule is pullin' (that 's their " Pegasus,"

you know).

We ain't built that way at Angel's — but why pursue this

theme ?

When things is whirling round us in a wild delusive dream ;
When " fads " on " bikes " go scorchin' down — to t 'other

place you know
(For I speak in simple language — and I never yet was low).

It was rain in' up at Angel's — we war sittin' round the bar,
Discussin' of " Free Silver " that was " going soon to par,"
And Ah Sin stood thar a-listenin' like a simple guileless

child,
That hears the Angels singin' — so dreamy like he smiled.

But we knew while he was standin' thar — of all that

heathen heard

And saw — he never understood a single blessed word ;
Till Brown of Calaveras, who had waltzed up on his bike,
Sez r " What is your opinion, John, that this Free Silver 's

like?"

But Ah Sin said, " No shabbee," in his childish, simple

way,
And Brown he tipped a wink at us and then he had his say:

"FREE SILVER AT ANGEL'S " 411

He demonstrated then and thar how silver was as good
As gold — if folks war n't blasted fools, and only under
stood !

He showed how we " were crucified upon a cross of gold "
By millionaires, and banged his fist, until our blood ran

cold.
He was a most convincin' man — was Brown in all his

ways,
And his skill with a revolver, folks had oft remarked with

praise.

He showed us how the ratio should be as " sixteen to one,"
And he sorted out some dollars — while the boys enjoyed

the fun —

And laid them on the counter — and heaped 'em in a pile,
"While Ah Sin, he drew nearer with his happy, pensive

smile.

"The heathen in his blindness bows down to wood and

stone,"
Said Brown, "but this poor heathen won't bow to gold

alone ;

So speak, my poor Mongolian, and show us your idee
Of what we call l Free Silver ' and what is meant by

'Free.'"

Swift was the smile that stole across that heathen's face !

I grieve
That swifter was the hand that swept those dollars up his

sleeve.
"Me shabbee 'Silvel' allee same as Mellican man," says

he;
" Me shabbee ' Flee ' means ' B'longs to none,' so Chinaman

catch he! "

412 "FREE SILVER AT ANGEL'S "

Now, childlike as his logic was, it didn't justify

The way the whole crowd went for him without a reason

why;
And the language Brown made use of I shall not attempt

to show,
For my words are plain and simple — and I never yet was

low.

Then Abner Dean called "Order!" and he said "that it

would seem

The gentleman from China's deductions were extreme ;
I move that we should teach him, in a manner that shall

strike,
The ' bi-metallic balance ' on Mr. Brown's new bike ! "

Now Dean was scientific, — but was sinful, too, and gay, —
And I hold it most improper for a gent to act that way,
And having muddled Ah Sin's brains with that same silver

craze,
To set him on a bicycle — and he not know its ways*

They set him on and set him off; it surely seemed a sin
To see him waltz from left to right, and wobble out an<?

in,
Till his pigtail caught within the wheel and wound up

round its rim,
And that bicycle got up and reared — and then crawled

over him.

"My poor Mongolian friend," said Dean, "it's plain that

in your case

Your centre point of gravity don't fall within your base.
We '11 tie the silver in a bag and hang it from your queue,
And then — by scientific law — you '11 keep your balance

true!"

"FREE SILVER AT ANGEI/S " 413

They tied that silver to his queue, and it hung down behind,

But always straight, no matter which the side Ah Sin in
clined —

For though a sinful sort of man — and lightsome, too, I
ween —

He was no slouch in Science — was Mister Abner Dean !

And here I would remark how vain are all deceitful

tricks, —
The boomerang we throw comes back to give us its last

licks, —
And that same weight on Ah Sin's queue set him up straight

and plumb,
And he scooted past us down the grade and left us cold and

dumb !

" Come back ! Come back ! " we called at last. We heard

a shriek of glee,
And something sounding strangely like " All litee ! Sil-

vel 's flee ! "
And saw his feet tucked on the wheel — the bike go all

alone !
And break the biggest record Angel's Camp had ever known !

He raised the hill without a spill, and still his speed.

maintained,
For why ? — he traveled on the sheer momentum he had

gained,
And vanished like a meteor — with his queue stretched in

the gale,
Or I might say a Comet — takin' in that silver tail !

But not again we saw his face — nor Brown his " Silver

Free " !
And I marvel in my simple mind howe'er these things can be!

414 "HASTA MANANA"

But I do not reproduce the speech of Brown who saw him

go,
For my words are pure and simple — and I never yet was

low !

"HASTA MAN ANA"

WHEN all 's in bud, and the leaf still unfolding,

When there are ruby points still on the spray,

When that prim school gown your charms are withholding,

Then, Manuela, child, well may you say :

" Hasta Mariana ! Hasta Mariana !
Until to-morrow — amigo, alway."

When, Manuela, white, crimson, and yellow,
Peep through green sepals the roses of May,
And through black laces the bloom of your face is
Fresh as those roses, child, still you may say :

Through your mantilla — coy Manuela !
" Hasta Mariana, amigo, alway. "

When all Js in bloom, and the rose in its passion
Warmed on your bosom would never say nay,
Still it is wise — in your own country fashion —
.Under your opening fan, only to say :

u Hasta Mariana ! Hasta Mariana !
Until to-morrow, amigo, alway. "

When all is gray and the roses are scattered,
Hearts may have broken that brook no delay,
Yet will to-morrow, surcease of sorrow
•Bring unto eyes and lips that still can say :
" Hasta Mariana ! Hasta Mariana !
Until to-morrow is best for to-day 1 "

LINES TO A PORTRAIT, BY A SUPERIOR PERSON 415

Phrase of Castilian lands ! Speech, that in languor
Softly procrastinates, for " aye " or " nay,"
From Seville's orange groves to remote Yanguea,
Best heard on rosy lips — let thy words say :
" Hasta Mariana! Hasta Mariana!
Until to-morrow, amigo, alway ! "

LINES TO A PORTRAIT, BY A SUPERIOR PERSON

WHEN I bought you for a song,
Years ago — Lord knows how long ! —
I was struck — I may be wrong —

By your features,
And — a something in your air
That I could n't quite compare
To my other plain or fair

Fellow-creatures.

In your simple, oval frame

You were not well known to fame,

But to me — 't was all the same —

Whoe'er drew you;
For your face I can't forget,
Though I oftentimes regret
That, somehow, I never yet

Saw quite through you.

Yet each morning, when I rise,
I go first to greet your eyes ;
And, in turn, you scrutinize

My presentment.

And when shades of evening fall,
As you hang upon my wall,
You 're the last thing I recall

With contentment.

416 LINES TO A PORTRAIT, BY A SUPERIOR PERSON

It is weakness, yet I know
That I never turned to go
Anywhere, for weal or woe,

But I lingered

For one parting, thrilling flash
From your eyes, to give that dash
To the curl of my mustache,

That I fingered.

If to some you may seem plain,
And when people glance again
Where you hang, their lips refrain

From confession ;
Yet they turn in stealth aside,
And I note, they try to hide
How much they are satisfied

In expression.

Other faces I have seen ;

Other forms have come between;

Other things I have, I ween,

Done and dared for !
But our ties they cannot sever,
And, though / should say it never,
You 're the only one I ever

Keally cared for !

And you '11 still be hanging there
When we 're both the worse for wear?
And the silver 'a on my hair

And off your backing ;
Yet my faith shall never pass
In my dear old shaving-glass,
Till my face and yours, alas !

Both are lacking !

THE BIRDS OF CIRENCESTER 417

THE BIRDS OF CIRENCESTER

DID I ever tell you, my dears, the way
That the birds of Cisseter — " Cisseter ! " eh?
Well " Ciren-cester " —one ought to say,
From "Castra," or "Caster,"
As your Latin master
Will further explain to you some day;
Though even the wisest err,
And Shakespeare writes " (7i-cester,"
While every visitor
Who does n't say " Cisseter "
Is in " Ciren-cester " considered astray.

A hundred miles from London town —
Where the river goes curving and broadening down
From tree-top to spire, and spire to mast,
Till it tumbles outright in the Channel at last —
A hundred miles from that flat foreshore
That the Danes and the Northmen haunt no more -~
There 's a little cup in the Cotswold Hills
Which a spring in a meadow bubbles and fills,
Spanned by a heron's wing — crossed by a stride —
Calm and untroubled by dreams of pride,
Guiltless of fame or ambition's aims,
That is the source of the lordly Thames!
Remark here again that custom condemns
Both "Thames" and Thamis — you must say "Terns"!
But why? no matter ! — from them you can see
Cirencester's tall spires loom up o'er the lea.

A.D. Five Hundred and Fifty-two,
The Saxon invaders — a terrible crew —
Had forced the lines of the Britons through;

418 THE BIRDS OF CIRENCESTER

And Cirencester — half mud and thatch,
Dry and crisp as a tinder match j
Was fiercely beleaguered by foes, who 'd catch
At any device that could harry and rout
The folk that so boldly were holding out.

For the streets of the town — as you'll see to-day —
Were twisted and curved in a curious way
That kept the invaders still at bay ;
And the longest bolt that a Saxon drew
Was stopped, ere a dozen of yards it flew,
By a turn in the street, and a law so true
That even these robbers — of all laws scorners ! —
Knew you couldn't shoot arrows around street corners.

So they sat them down on a little knoll,
And each man scratched his Saxon poll,
And stared at the sky, where, clear and high,
The birds of that summer went singing by,
As if, in his glee, each motley jester
Were mocking the foes of Cirencester,
Till the jeering crow and the saucy linnet
Seemed all to be saying : " Ah ! you 're not in it ! "

High o'er their heads the mavis flew,
And the " ouzel-cock so black of hue " ;
And the " throstle," with his " note so true "
(You remember what Shakespeare says — he knew);
And the soaring lark, that kept dropping through
Like a bucket spilling in wells of blue ;
And the merlin — seen on heraldic panes —
With legs as vague as the Queen of Spain's;
And the dashing swift that would ricochet
From the tufts of grasses before them, yet —

THE BIRDS OF CIRENCESTER 419

Like bold Antaeus — would each time bring

New life from the earth, barely touched by his wing;

And the swallow and martlet that always knew

The straightest way home. Here a Saxon churl drew

His breath — tapped his forehead — an idea had got through !

So they brought them some nets, which straightway they

filled

With the swallows and martlets — the sweet birds who build
In the houses of man — all that innocent guild
Who sing at their labor on eaves and in thatch —
And they stuck on their feathers a rude lighted match
Made of resin and tow. Then they let them all go
To be free ! As a childlike diversion ? Ah, no !
To work Cirencester's red ruin and woe.

For straight to each nest they flew, in wild quest
Of their homes and their fledglings — that they loved the

best ;

And straighter than arrow of Saxon e'er sped
They shot o'er the curving streets, high overhead,
Bringing fire and terror to roof-tree and bed,
Till the town broke in flame, wherever they came,
To the Briton's red ruin — the Saxon's red shame !

Yet they 're all gone together ! To-day you '11 dig up
From " mound '? or from "barrow" some arrow or cup.
Their fame is forgotten — their story is ended —
'Neath the feet of the race they have mixed with and blended.
But the birds are unchanged — the ouzel-cock sings,
Still gold on his crest and still black on his wings ;
And the lark chants on high, as he mounts to the sky,
Still brown in his coat and still dim in his eye ;
While the swallow or martlet is still a free nester
In the eaves and the roofs of thrice-built Cirencester.

420 TRUTHFUL JAMES AND THE KLONDIKER

TRUTHFUL JAMES AND THE KLONDIKER

WE woz sittin' free — like ez you and me — in our camp
on the Stanislow,

Round a roarin' fire of bresh and brier, stirred up by a
pitch-pine bough,

And Jones of Yolo had finished his solo on Bilson's pros-
pectin' pan,

And we all woz gay until Jefferson Clay kem in with a
Klondike man.

Now I most despise low language and lies, as I used to re
mark to Nye,

But the soul of Truth — though he was but a youth —
looked out of that stranger's eye,

And the things he said I had frequent read in the papers
down on " the Bay,"

And the words he choosed woz the kind wot 's used in the
best theayter play.

He talked of snows, and of whiskey wot froze in the solid-
est kind of chunk,

Which it took just a pound to go fairly around when the
boys had a first-class drunk,

And of pork that was drilled and with dynamite filled be
fore it would yield to a blow,

For things will be strange when thermometers range to
sixty degrees below.

How they made soup of boots — which the oldest best
suits — and a "fry" from a dancin' shoe,

How in Yukon Valley a corpse de bally might get up a
fine " menoo."

TRUTHFUL JAMES AND THE KLONDIKER 421

But their regular fare when they 'd nothin' to spare and

had finished their final mule
Was the harness leather which with hides went together,

though the last did n't count ez a rule.

Now all this seemed true, and quite nateral, too, and then

he spoke of the gold,
And we all sot up, and refilled his cup, and this is the yarn

he told :
There was gold in heaps — but it 's there it keeps, and will

keep till the Judgment Day,
For it 'a very rare that a man gets there — and the man

that is there must

It's a thousand miles by them Russian isles till you come

onto " Fort Get There "
(Which the same you are not if you '11 look at the spot on

the map — that of gold is bare) ;
Then a river begins that the Amazon skins and the big

Mississippi knocks out,
For it's seventy miles 'cross its mouth when it smiles, and —

you 've only begun your route.

Here Bilson arose with a keerless-like pose and he gazed on

that Klondike youth,
And he says : " Fair -sir, do not think I infer that your

words are not words of truth,
But I 'd simply ask why — since that all men must die —

your sperrit is wanderin' here
When at Dawson City — the more's the pity — you've been

frozen up nigh a year."

" You need not care, for I never was there," said that sim
ple Klondike man.

422 UNCLE JUBA

" I 'm a company floater and business promoter, and this is
my little plan :

I show you the dangers to which you are strangers, and
now for a sum you '11 learn

What price you expect us — as per this Prospectus — to in
sure your safe return."

Then Bilson stared, and he almost r'ared, but he spoke in

a calm-like tone :
" You '11 excuse me for sayin' you 're rather delayin' your

chance to insure your own!
For we're wayworn and weary, your style isn't cheery, we've

had quite enough of your game."
But — what did affect us — he took that Prospectus and

chucked it right into the flame !

Then our roarin' fire of bresh and brier flashed up on the

Stanislow,
And Jefferson Clay went softly away with that youth with

a downcast brow,
And Jones of Yolo repeated his solo on that still, calm

evening air,
And we thought with a shiver of Yukon Biver and the

fort that was called " Get There! "

UNCLE JUBA

" DAR was a man in Florida, dey called him ' Uncle Ju,'
De doctor found him proof agin all fevers dat dey knew;
De cholera bacillus he would brush away like flies,
And yaller fever microbes he would simply jess despise.
For he was such a bery seasoned nigger

Froo and froo — all froo,
Jess de acclimated, vaccinated figger
To do — to do.

UNCLE JUBA 423

When de sojer boys came marching, dey would

shout,
'Lordy! Here's de man for Cuba — trot him

out.

For even if he cannot pull a trigger
Just like you — like you,
He ?s a seasoned and an acclimated figure,
Dat will do — will do/

" De proudest man in Florida dat day was ' Uncle Ju,J
When dey marched him off to Cuba wid de odder boys in

blue;

He had a brand-new uniform, a red cross on his arm,
He said, 'Don't mind me, darkies, I can't come to any harm,
For de surgeon dat inspected of my iigger

When on view — on view,
Sez I 'm just de kind of acclimated nigger

Dat 'ud do — would do.
I can tackle yaller fever all de day,
I 'm de only man for Cuba what can stay,
For agin de bery worst kind of malaria
Dat dey knew — dey knew,
I 'm an iron- plated, sheathed and belted area
Froo and froo — all froo.'

" Alas ! for Ju, poor Uncle Ju, aldo' dar was no doubt
Dey passed him froo as fever proof, one ting dey had left

out ;
For while he took his rations straight, and odders died like

flies,
Along o' dat 'er Yaller Jack and deadly Cuban skies,

And though such a bery highly seasoned nigger

Froo and froo — all froo,
And an acclimated, vaccinated figure
Just like new — like new,

424 THE QUEEN'S DEATH

One day a Spanish gunner sent a shell
Which skooted dat poor darkle off to dwell
Where de fever would send any odder nigger

Like you — like you,
For it flattened out dat acclimated figger

Ob old Ju — poor Ju. "

THE QUEEN'S DEATH

(ON THE DEATH OF QUEEN VICTORIA)

WHEN your men bowed heads together

With hushed lips,
And the globe swung out from gladness

To eclipse ;

When your drums from the equator

To the pole
Carried round it an unending

Funeral roll ;

When your capitals from Norway

To the Cape
Through their streets and from their houses

Trailed their crape ;

Still the sun awoke to gladness

As of old,
And the stars their midnight beauty

Still unrolled ;

For the glory born of Goodness

Never dies,
And its flag is not half-masted

In the skies.

THE SWOKD OF DON JOSE 425

THE SWORD OF DON JOSE

(TOLD AT THE MISSION OF SAN LUIS KEY, i860)
(Bret Harte's last poem)

AYE, look, there it hangs! You would think 't was a cross

Fairly wrought of old iron. Yet, barring the loss

Of some twisted work here that once guarded the hand,

You might say 't was the hilt of some cavalier's brand ;

As it is, of a truth ! You are staring, Senor !

At this shrine, at this altar, where never before

Hung ex voto so strange ; at these walls in decay,

All that stands of the Mission of San Luis Rey ;

At these leagues of wild llano beyond, which still hoard

In their heart this poor shrine, and a cavalier's sword!

Yes ! It hangs there to praise Holy Church and the spell

She once broke in her power and glory ; as well

As that tough blade she snapped in its vengeance, just

when —
But here is — Don Pancho ! — a tale for your pen !

You accept. Then observe on the blade near its haft
The world-renowned stamp of that chief of his craft
In Toledo, Sebastian Hernandez. The date
You will note : sixteen hundred and seventy-eight !
That 's the year, so 't is said, when this story begins
And he fashioned that blade for our sorrows and sins.

From a baldric of Cordovan leather and steel

It trailed in its prime, at the insolent heel

Of Don Jose Ramirez, a Toledan knight,

Poor in all, so 't was said, but a stomach for fight.

And that blade, like himself, was so eager and keen

It would glide through a corselet and all else between ;

426 THE SWORD OF DON JOSE

And so supple 't would double from point to the hilt,
Yet pierce a cuirass like a lance in full tilt ;
Till 'twixt Master and Sword, there was scarcely a day
That both were not drawn in some quarrel or fray.

Then Kuy Mendoza, a grandee of Spain,
Castellan of Toledo, was called to maintain
That such blades should be parted, but Jose replied,
" Come and try it ! " — while Kuy let fall, on his side
Certain sneers which too free a translation might mar,
Such as " Ho! Espadachin! " and " Fanfarronear ! "
Till Don Josd burst out that " the whole race abhorred,"
The line of Mendoza's should "fall by his sword"

The oath of a braggart, you 'd say ? Well, in truth,
So it seemed, for that oath wrought Ramirez but ruth ;
And spite of the lightnings that leaped from his blade,
Here and there, everywhere, never point yet he made ;
While the sword of Mendoza, pressing closely but true,
At the third and fourth pass ran the challenger through,
And he fell. But they say as the proud victor grasped
The sword of Ramirez, the dying man gasped,
And his white lips repeated the words of his boast :
" Ye — shall — fall — by — my — sword," as he gave up
the ghost.

" Retribution ? " Quien sabe ? The tale 's not yet done.
For a twelvemonth scarce passed since that victory won
And the sword of Don Jose hung up in the hall
Of Mendoza's own castle, a lesson for all
Who love brawls to consider, when one summer noon
Don Ruy came home just an hour too soon,
As some husbands will do when their wives prove un
true,
Arid discovered his own with a lover, who flew

THE SWORD OF DON JOSE 427

From her bower through passage and hall in dismay,
With the Don in pursuit, but at last stood at bay
In the hall, where they closed in a deadly affray.

But here, runs the tale, when the lover's bright blade,

Engaging Don Ruy's, showed out " in parade,"

The latter drew back with a cry and a start

Which threw up his guard, and straightway through his

heart

Passed the sword of his rival. He fell, but they say
He pointed one hand, as his soul was set free,
To the blade, and gasped out : " 'T is his sword! Aydemi!"
And 't was true ! For the lover, unarmed in his flight,
Caught up the first weapon that chanced to his sight —
The sword on the wall, Jose's own fateful brand,
Not knowing the curse to be wrought by his hand..

So the first victim fell ! When Don Luis, the heir
Of the luckless Don Ruy, in haste summoned there,
Heard the tale, he commanded the sword which had wrought
Such mischance to his race to be instantly brought,
And in presence of all smote the blade such a blow
'Cross the mail of his knee as should snap it ; but, no ;
For that well-tempered steel, from its point to its heel,
Was so supple, it bent in an arc like a wheel,
And recoiling, glanced up, to the horror of all,
Through the throat of the heir, in his dead father's hall !

Next of kin was a soldier, Ramon, who maintained
That by boldness alone was security gained,
And the curse would be naught to the man who dared trip
Through the rest of his life with that sword on his liip,
As he should. But, what would you ? when Tie took the

field,
His troop was surrounded ; himself made to yield

428 THE SWORD OF DON JOSE

And deliver his sword ! You can fancy the rest

When you think of the curse. By the foe sorely pressed

In a fight, when released, he fell by that brand

Of the Spanish Jose, in some strange Flemish hand !

Then the sword disappeared, and with it, it seemed,

The race of Mendoza. No man ever dreamed

Of a curse lying perdu for centuries ; when,

Some time in the year eighteen hundred and ten,

There died at the Pueblo of San Luis Key

Comandante Mendoza, descended, they say,

From those proud hidalgos who brought in their hands

No sword, but the cross, to these far heathen lands,

And he left but one son, Agustin, to alone

Bear the curse of his race (though to him all unknown);

A studious youth, quite devout from a child,

With no trace of that sin his ancestors denied.

You know the Pueblo ? On its outskirts there stood

The casa new-built of El Capitan Wood

An American trader, who brought from the seas

Much wealth and the power to live at his ease.

And his casa was filled with the spoils of all climes

He had known ; silks and china, rare goods of all times.

But notably first, 'midst queer idols and charms,

Was a rare and historical trophy of arms ;

And supreme over all, hung the prize of that hoard,

An antique and genuine Toledan sword.

He had, too, a son, who was playmate and friend

To Agustin. Together, their joy was to spend

In this house of rare treasures their hours of play ;

And here it so chanced that an unlucky day

The son of the host in adventurous zeal

Climbed the wall to examine that queer-looking steel

THE SWORD OF DON JOSE 429

While Agustin looked on. A misstep ! A wild cry !
And a clutch that tore loose that queer weapon on high,
And they both hurtled down on Agustin beneath
With his uplifted arms, and his breast a mere sheath
For the blade! When, thank God! (and all glory and

praise

To our blessed San Luis, whose shrine here we raise !)
Its point struck the cross ever hung at his neck
And shivered like glass! a miraculous wreck!
Without splinter or fragment save this near the hilt,
And of innocent blood not a drop ever spilt !

There 's the tale ! Yet not all ! though that cross broke

the spell

It ended the race of Mendoza as well,
For that youth was the last of his name ! You ask, " How ?
Died he too ? " Nay, Don Pancho, — he speaks with you

now, —

Spared that curse as " Ayustin" his young life he laid,
With his vows, on this altar, as " Brother Merced"
And this cross on my breast with this dent, as you see,
Hangs but where it hung when that spell was set free !

THE END

INDEX OF TITLES

JJsop, The Improved, 232.

American Haroun al-Raschid, An, 171.

American Humor, 225.

Angelus, The, 128.

Answering the Bell, 334.

Arcadia Revisited, 312.

Argument of Lurline, The, 321.

Artemus Ward, 126.

At the Sepulchre, 310.

Bailie o' Perth, The, 296.
Banks and the Slave Girl, 348.
Bartlett, William Francis, Of, 388.
Battle Autumn, The, 349.
Bill Mason's Bride, 383.
Birds of Cirencester, The, 417.
Boggs on the Horse, 12.
By the Sad Sea Waves, 303.

California to the Sanitary Commission,

362.

"Camanche," Song of the, 363.
Carlyle, Thomas, and Peter of the North,

361.

Case of Blasted Affections, A, 68.
Cavalry Song, A, 352.
Chicago, 383.

Child's Ghost Story, A, 33.
Colenso Rhymes for Orthodox Children,

327.

Compensations 405.

Confucius and the Chinese Classics, 235.
Conservative Bridge of Sighs, The, 346.
Copperhead Convention, The, 355.
Count of Monte Cristo, The. See My

Favorite Novelist.
Countess, The, 88.

Davis, Jefferson, In Memoriam, 377.
Davis, Jefferson, The Vendue of, 373.
Deacon Jones's Experience, 385.
Dead Politician, The, 401.
Dickens, Charles, 165.
Dolores, 294.

Dumas, Alexander. See My Favorite
Novelist.

Early Californian Superstitions, 144.

Effie, 303.

Elise, 296.

Enoch of Calaveras, The, 407.

Fable for the Times, A, 360.
Facts concerning a Meerschaum, 87.
Few Words about Mr. Lowell, A, 256.
First Broom Ranger, The, 333.
First Man, The. 184.

Fixing up an Old House, 129.
Flag-Staff on Shackleford Island, The,

367.

Fog Bell, The, 291.
Fountain of Youth, The, 283.
Free Silver at Angel's, 409.

Gentleman of La Porte, A, 197.
Great Patent-Office Fire, The, 237.

Hasta Mafiana, 414.
Hero of Sugar Pine, The, 369.
His Wife's Sister, 58.
Homestead Barn, The, 288.

Important Mexican Correspondence, 315.
Improved ^Esop, The, 232.
In Memoriam, 377.
Intercepted Letter, An, 315.

Jayhawk, Sylvester, 150.
Jessie, 293.

King, Thomas Starr, 310.
Kitty Hawk, 397.

Lament of the Ballad-Writer, The, 378.

Lay of the Launch, A, 864.

Legend of Glen Head, The, 395.

Lessons from the Earthquake, 162.

Lethe, 299.

Lincoln, Abraham, On the Assassination

of, 140.
Lines to a Portrait, by a Superior Person,

Lines written in a Prayer-Book, 280.

Longfellow, 249.

Lost Heiress, The, 83.

Love and Physic, 281.

Lowell, Mr., A Few Words about, 256.

Mad River, 319.

Madame Brimborion, 80.

Mary's Album, 306.

May Queen, The, 387.

Mida's Wooing, 300.

Midsummer, 337.

Miss Edith helps Things along, 399.

Miss Mary Crusoe, The Story of, 104.

My Favorite Novelist and bis Best Book,

266.

My Metamorphosis, 3.
My Otherself, 44.
My Soul to Thine, 304.

Naughty Little Boy, Sleeping, Oa a.

432

INDEX OF TITLES

Of One who fell in Battle, 369.

Of William Francis Bartlett, 388.

Old Time and New, 403.

On a Naughty Little Boy, Sleeping, 309.

On a Pretty Girl at the Opera, 134.

Our Last Offering, 140.

Our Laureate, 406.

Patent-Office Fire, The Great, 237.

"Peter of the North" to Thomas Carlyle,
361.

Petroleum Fiend, The, 94.

Pioneers of "Forty-Nine," The, 158.

Pla/a, The, 332.

Poem delivered at the Patriotic Exercises
in the Metropolitan Theatre, San
Francisco, July 4, 1863, 328.

Poem delivered on the Occasion of the
Laying of the Corner-Stone of the Cali
fornia Deaf, Dumb, and Blind Asylum,
339.

Pony Express, The, 320.

Popular Biographies, 150.

Portala's Cross, 340.

Pretty Girl at the Opera, On a, 134.

Prize-Fighter to his Mistress, The, 305.

Queen's Death, The, 424.
Question, 297.

Ran Away, 72.

Rejected Stockholder, The, 307.

Retiring from Business, 188.

Sabbath Bells, The, 314.
St. Valentine in Camp, 370.
Schalk! 356.
Schenimelfennig, 372.
Scotch Lines to A. S. B., 406.
Self-made Men of Our Day, 150.

Semmes, 350.

Sepulchre, At the, 310.

Serenade, 304.

Ships, 111.

Song of the "Camanche," 363.

South Park, 331.

Stage-Coach Conversations, 155.

Stories for Little Girls, 103.

Story of Miss Mary Crusoe, The, 104.

Story of the Revolution, 23.

Student's Dream, The, 286.

Sword of Don Jos6, The, 425.

Sylvester Jayhawk, 150.

Thanksgiving Retrospect, A, 379.
That Ebrew Jew, 392.
Transcendental Valentine, A, 304.

Treasurer A y, 326.

Truthful James and the Klondiker, 420.
Trysling, 290.

Uncle Juba, 422.
Under the Guns, 404.

Valentine, The, 279.

Vendue of Jefferson Davis, The, 373.

Volunteer Stocking, A, 345.

Wanderings of Ulysses, The, 390.
Wanted — a Printer, 118.
Ward, Artemus, 126.
Washington, 120.
Washington in New Jersey, 215.
What Bret Harte saw, 221.
Wrath of McDawdle, The, 353.
Wrecker, The, 301.

Yale won the Great Race, How, 221.
Yerba Buena, The, 325.
Yreka Serpent, The, 357.

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