(^tixmll Wimvmii^ pilrtatg i 7673-3 Je 2 8 3^ J)£C 3 l»40 JUL 21 1943 Cornell University Library PS 1820.E80 V.I Complete works / 3 1924 021 992 908 7673-3 Je 2 8 ^ 0£C 3 IHO JUL 2 11943 Cornell University Library PS 1S20.E80 V.I Complete works / 3 1924 021 992 908 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924021992908 THE COMPLETE WORKS OF BRET HARTE COLLECTED AND REVISED BY THE AUTHOR VOL. I. TOE MS AND TiRAMA iLontion CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY 1880 [. /// rights rtserved\ AJ6^^' ^ JO FIN ELL ^, NiVFv-SlTYi' CONTENTS. INTRODUCTION PAGE I NATIONAL POEMS. john burns of gettysburg . "how areyou, sanitary?" . battle bunny the reveille . our privilege relieving guard . the goddess on a pen of thomas starr king . a second review of the grand army the copperhead .... a sanitary message the old major explains California's greeting to seward the aged stranger the idyl of battle hollow caldwell of springfield poem, delivered on the fourteenth anniversary of california's admission into the union miss blanche says an arctic vision . st. thomas . off scarborough .... ■3 17 19 22 24 25 26 28 29 32 33 35 37 39 41 43 45 48 52 55 58 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS. THE MIRACLE OF PADRE JUNIPERO . THE WONDERFUL SPRING OF SAN JOAQUIN 65 VI Contents. PAGE THE ANGELUS . . . . • ^2 CONCEPCION DE ARGUELLO . . ... 74 " FOR THE KING " 81 RAMON 88 DON DIEGO OF THE SOUTH 91 AT THE HACIENDA 95 FRIAR PEDRO'S RIDE 96 IN THE MISSION GARDEN I02 THE LOST GALLEON I04 POEMS IN DIALECT. "i. "jim" .... chiquita dow's flat in the tunnel "cicely" penelope J ■~-S>PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES V i^THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS LUKE . ... " THE BABES IN THE WOODS " . THE LATEST CHINESE OUTRAGE TRUTHFUL JAMES TO THE EDITOR . AN IDYL OF THE ROAD THOMPSON OF ANGELS THE hawk's NEST . / HER LETTER ... . . HIS ANSWER TO " HER LETTER " " THE RETURN OF BELISARIUS " ^ asJ'URTHER LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES AFTER THE ACCIDENT .... THE GHOST THAT JIM SAW " SEVENTY-NINE " . . . . — IHE STAGE-DRIVER's STORY "3 116 119 123 125 129 131 134 136 141 144 148 158 160 163 i65 168 171 173 176 179 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. A GREYPORT LEGEND A NEWPORT ROMANCE 185 187 Contents. VII SAN FRANCISCO THE MOUNTAIN HEART's-EASE GRIZZLY .... MADRONO COYOTE . TO A SEA-BIRD . WHAT THE CHIMNEY SANG DICKENS IN CAMP TWENTY YEARS FATE grandmother tenterden guild's signal ASPIRING MISS DE LAIXE . A LEGEND OF COLOGNE . THE TALE OF A PONY ON A CONE OF THE BIG TREES LONE MOUNTAIN ALNASCHAR THE TWO SHIPS ADDRESS DELIVERED AT THE OPENING OF THE CALIFORNIA THEATRE, SAN FRANCISCO, JANUARY ig, 1870 . DOLLY VARDEN . . ... TELEMACHUS VERSUS MENTOR ... . . WHAT THE WOLF REALLY SAID TO LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD . HALF-AN-HOUR BEFORE SUPPER WHAT THE BULLET SANG PAGE 190 . 192 194 196 198 199 200 202 204 206 207 210 212 219 228 232 239 240 242 244 248 249 2^2 PARODIES, ETC. BEFORE THE CURTAIN TO THE PLIOCENE SKULL THE BALLAD OF MR. COOKE THE BALLAD OF THE EMEU MRS. JUDGE JENKINS A GEOLOGICAL MADRIGAL AVITOR . THE WILLOWS . NORTH BEACH . THE LOST TAILS OF MILETUS THE RITUALIST A MORAL VINDICATOR 255 256 258 263 265 268 270 272 275 276 278 279 viii Contents. PAGE CALIFORNIA MADRIGAL 2S1 WHAT THE ENGINES SAID . 283 THE LEGENDS OF THE RHINE 286 SONGS WITHOUT SENSE 288 LITTLE POSTERITY. MASTER johnny's NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOUR MISS EDITH'S MODEST REQUEST MISS EDITH MAKES IT PLEASANT FOR BROTHER JACK MISS EDITH MAKES ANOTHER FRIEND ON THE LANDING . ... 293 296 300 30Z DRAMA. TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 307 CADET GREY 43 T INTRODUCTION. In rearranging and editing the following pages, the author is impelled by a desire to present under his own super- vision an English edition of his writings which shall show as nearly as possible the order in which his several tales and sketches have appeared in America ; shall contain those writings and sketches which have appeared in England at various times and under various shapes and editions ; and shall, more particularly, take the place of a volume known as his "Complete Works.'' This volume, published in 1872, before the author's presence in Europe made his personal cognisance and supervision of such a work pos- sible, was desultory and incomplete, even for the time of its publication. The present edition aims to contain the substance of that volume,- duly corrected, with all that was then omitted by the editor or has since been published by the author. The opportunity here offered to give some account of the genesis of these Californian sketches, and the con- ditions under which they were conceived, is peculiarly tempting to an author who has been obliged to retain a decent professional reticence under a cloud of ingenious VOL. I. A 2 Introduction. surmise, theory, and misinterpretation. It might seem hardly necessary to assure an intelligent English audience that the idea and invention of these stories was not due to the success of a satirical poem known as the " Heathen Chinee,'' or that the author obtained a hearing for his prose writings through this happy local parable ; yet it is within the past year that he has had the satisfaction of reading this ingenious theory in a literary review of no mean eminence. He very gladly seizes this opportunity to establish the chronology of the sketches, and incidentally to show that what are considered the " happy accidents " of literature are very apt to be the results of quite logical and often prosaic processes. The author's first volume was published in 1865 in a thin book of verse, containing, besides the titular poem, "The Lost Galleon," various patriotic contributions to the lyrics of the civil war, then raging, and certain better known humorous pieces, which have been hitherto interspersed with his later poems in separate volumes, but are now restored to their former companionship. This was followed in 1867 by " The Condensed Novels," originally contributed to the San Francisco Californian, a journal then edited by the author, and a number of local sketches entitled " Bohemian Papers," making a single not very plethoric volume, the author's first book of prose. But he deems it worthy of consideration that during this period, i.e., from 1862 to 1866, he produced "The Society upon the Stanislaus" and "The Story of Mliss," — the first a dialectical poem, the second a Californian romance, — his first efforts toward indicating a peculiarly characteristic Western American literature. He would like to offer these facts as evidence Introduction. 3 of his very early, half-boyish, but very enthusiastic, belief in such a possibility — a belief which never deserted him, and which, a few years later, from the better-known pages of the Overland Monthly, he was able to demonstrate to a larger and more cosmopolitan audierK;e in the story of " The Luck of Roaring Camp " and the poem of the " Heathen Chinee." But it was one of the anomalies of the very condition of life that he worked amidst, and endeavoured to portray, that these first efforts were rewarded by very little success ; and, as he will presently show, even " The Luck of Roaring Camp" depended for its recognition in California upon its success elsewhere. Hence the critical reader will observe that the bulk of these earlier efforts, as shown in the first two volumes, were marked by very little flavour of the soil, but were addressed to an audience half foreign in their sympathies, and still imbued with Eastern or New England habits and literary traditions. " Home " was still potent with these voluntary exiles in their moments of relaxation. Eastern magazines and current Eastern literature formed their literary recreation, and the sale of the better class of periodicals was singularly great. Nor was the taste confined to American literature. The illus- trated and satirical English journals were as frequently seen in California as in Massachusetts ; and the author records that he has experienced more difficulty in procuring a copy of Punch in an English provincial town than was his fortune at "Red Dog" or "One-Horse Gulch.'' An audience thus liberally equipped and familiar with the best modern writers was naturally critical and exacting, and no one appreciates more than he does , the salutary effects of this severe dis- cipline upon his earl^=:r efforts. 4 Introduction. When the first number of the Overland Monthly appeared, the author, then its editor, called the publisher's attention to the lack of any distinctive Californian romance in its pages, and averred that, should no other contribution come in, he himself would supply the omission in the next number. No other contribution was offered, and the author, having the plot and general idea already in his mind, in a few days sent the manuscript of " The Luck of Roaring Camp " to the printer. He had not yet received the proof-sheets when he was suddenly summoned to the office of the publisher, whom he found standing the picture of dismay and anxiety with the proof before him. The indignation and stupefac- tion of the author can be well understood when he was told that the printer, instead of returning the proofs to him, submitted them to the publisher, with the emphatic declara- tion that the matter thereof was so indecent, irreligious, and improper, that his proof-reader — a young lady — had with difficulty been induced to continue its perusal, and that he, as a friend of the publisher and a well-wisher of the magazine, was impelled to present to him personally this shameless evidence of the manner in which the editor was imperilling the future of that enterprise. It should be premised that the critic was a man of character and standing, the head of a large printing establishment, a church member, and, the author thinks, a deacon. In which circumstances the pub- lisher frankly admitted to the author that, while he could not agree with all of the printer's criticisms, he thought the story open to grave objection, and its publication of doubtful expediency. ( Believing only that he was the victim of some extra- ordinary typographical blunder, the author at once sat down Introduction. 5 and read the proof. In its new dress, with the metamorphosis of type — that metamorphosis which every writer so well knows changes his relations to it and makes it no longer seem a part of himself — he was able to read it with some- thing of the freshness of an untold tale. As he read on he found himself affected, even as he had been affected in the conception and writing of it — a feeling so incompatible with the charges against it, that he could only lay it down and declare emphatically, albeit hopelessly, that he could really see nothing objectionable in it. Other opinions were sought and given. To the author's surprise, he found himself in the minority. Finally, the story was submitted to three gentlemen of culture and experience, friends of publisher and author, — who were unable, however, to come to any clear decision. It was, however, suggested to the author that, assuming the natural hypothesis that his editorial reasoning might be warped by his literary predilections in a considera- tion of one of his own productions, a personal sacrifice would at this juncture be in the last degree heroic This last suggestion had the effect of ending all further discussion ; for he at once informed the publisher that the question of the propriety of the story was no longer at issue ; the only question was of his capacity to exercise the proper editorial judgment; and that unless he was permitted to test that capacity by the publication of the story, and abide squarely by the result, he must resign his editorial position. The publisher, possibly struck with the author's confidence, possibly from kindliness of disposition to a younger man, yielded, and " The Luck of Roaring Camp " was published in the current number of the magazine for which it was written, as it was written, without emendation, omission, 6 Introduction. alteration, or apology. A no inconsiderable part of the grotesqueness of the situation was the feeling, which the author retained throughout the whole affair, of the perfect sincerity, good faith, and seriousness of his friend's — the printer's— objection, and for many days thereafter he was haunted by a consideration of the sufferings of this con- scientious man, obliged to assist materially in disseminating the dangerous and subversive doctrines contained in this baleful fiction. What solemn protests must have been laid with the ink on the rollers and impressed upon those wicked sheets ! what pious warnings must have been secretly folded and stitched in that number of the Overland Monthly ! Across the chasm of years and distance the author stretches forth the hand of sympathy and forgiveness, not forgetting the gentle proof-reader, that chaste and unknown nymph, whose mantling cheeks and downcast eyes gave the iirst indications of warning. But the troubles of the " Luck" were far from ended. It had secured an entrance into the world, but, like its own hero, it was born with an evil reputation and to a community that had yet to learn to love it. The secular press, with one or two exceptions, received it coolly, and referred to its " singularity ;" the religious press frantically excommunicated it, and anathematised it as the offspring of evil ; the high promise of the Overland Monthly was said to have been ruined by its birth ; Christians were cautioned against pol- lution by its contact ; practical business men were gravely urged to condemn and frown upon this picture of Califor- nian society that was not conducive to Eastern immigration ; its hapless author was held up to obloquy as a man who had abused a sacred trust. If its life and reputation had Introduction. y depended on its reception in California, this edition and explanation would alike have been needless. But, fortu- nately, the young Overland Monthly had in its first number secured a hearing and position throughout the American Union, and the author waited the larger verdict. The publisher, albeit his worst fears were confirmed, was not a man to weakly regret a position he had once taken, and waited also. The return mail from the East brought a letter addressed to the " Editor of the Overland Monthly," enclos- ing a letter from Fields, Osgood & Co., the publishers of the Atlantic Monthly, addressed to the — to them — unknown " Author of ' The Luck of Roaring Camp. ' " This the author opened, and found to be a request, upon the most flattering terms, for a story for the Atlantic similar to the "Luck." The same mail brought newspapers and reviews welcoming the little foundling of Californian literature with an enthu- siasm that half frightened its author ; but with the placing of that letter in the hands of the publisher, who chanced to be standing by his side, and who during those dark days had, without the author's faith, sustained the author's position, he felt that his compensation was full and complete. Thus encouraged, "The Luck of Roaring Camp" was followed by " The Outcasts of Poker Flat," " Higgles," "Tennessee's Partner," and those various other characters who had impressed the author when, a mere truant schoolboy, he had lived among them. It is hardly necessary to say to any observer of human nature that at this time he was advised by kind and well-meaning friends to content himself with the success of the " Luck," and not tempt criticism again ; or that from that moment ever after he was in receipt of that equally sincere contemporaneous 8 Introduction. criticism which assured him gravely that each successive story was a falling off from the last. Howbeit, by rein- vigorated confidence in himself and some conscientious industry, he managed to get together in a year six or eight of these sketches, which, in a volume called " The Luck of Roaring Camp and Other Sketches," gave him that en- couragement in America and England that has since seemed to justify him in swelling these records of a picturesque passing civilisation into the compass of the present edition. A few words regarding the peculiar conditions of life and society that are here rudely sketched, and often but barely outlined. The author is aware that, partly from a habit of thought and expression, partly from the exigencies of brevity in his narratives, and partly from the habit of addressing an audience familiar with the local scenery, he often assumes, as premises already granted by the reader, the existence of a peculiar and romantic state of civilisatipn, the like of which few English readers are inclined to accept without corroborative facts and figures. These he could only give by referring to the ephemeral records of Californian journals of that date, and the testimony of far-scattered witnesses, survivors of the exodus of 1849. He must beg the reader to bear in mind that this emigration was either across a continent almost unexplored, or by the way of a long and dangerous voyage around Cape Horn, and that the promised land itself presented the singular spectacle of a patriarchal Latin race who had been left to themselves, forgotten by the world, for nearly three hundred years. The faith, courage, vigour, youth, and capacity for adventure necessary to this emigration produced a body of men as Introduction. g strongly distinctive as the companions of Jason. Unlike most pioneers, the majority were men of profession and education ; all were young, and all had staked their future in the enterprise. Critics who have taken large and exhaustive views of mankind and society from club windows in Pall Mall or the Fifth Avenue can only accept for granted the turbulent chivalry that thronged the streets of San Francisco in the gala days of her youth, and must read the blazon of their deeds like the doubtful quarterings of the shield of Amadis de Gaul. The author has been frequently asked if such and such incidents were real ; if he had ever met such and such characters ? To this he must return the one answer, that in only a single instance was he conscious of drawing purely from his imagination and fancy for a character and a logical succession of incidents drawn there- from. A few weeks after his story was published, he received a letter, authentically signed, correcting some of the minor details of his facts (!), and enclosing as corroborative evidence a slip from an old newspaper, wherein the main incident of his supposed fanciful creation was recorded with a largeness of statement that far transcended his powers of imagination. He has been repeatedly cautioned, kindly and unkindly, intelligently and unintelligently, against his alleged tendency to confuse recognised standards of morality by extenu- ating lives of recklessness, and often criminality, with a single solitary virtue. He might easily show that he has never written a sermon, that he has never moralised or commented upon the actions of his heroes, that he has never voiced a creed or obtrusively demonstrated an ethical opinion. He might easily allege that this merciful I o Introduction. effect of his art arose from the reader's weak human sym- pathies, and hold himself irresponsible. But he would be conscious of a more miserable weakness in thus divorcing himself from his fellow-men who in the domain of art must ever walk hand in hand with him. 1 So he prefers to say, that of all the various forms in which Cant presents itself to suffering humanity, he knows of none so out- rageous, so illogical, so undemonstrable, so marvellously absurd as the Cant of " Too Much Mercy." When it shall be proven to him that communities are degraded and brought to guilt and crime, suffering or destitution, from a predominance of this quality ; when he shall see pardoned ticket-of-leave men elbowing men of austere lives out of situation and position, and the repentant Magdalen sup- planting the blameless virgin in society, then he will lay aside his pen and extend his hand to the new Draconian discipline in fiction. But until then he will, without claiming to be a religious man or a moralist, but simply as an artist, reverently and humbly conform to the rules laid down by a Great Poet who created the parable of the "Prodigal Son " and the " Good Samaritan," whose works have lasted eighteen hundred years, and will remain when the present writer and his generation are forgotten. And he is con- scious of uttering no original doctrine in this, but of only voicing the beliefs of a few of his literary brethren happily living, and one gloriously dead, who never made proclama- tion of this "from the housetops.'' POEMS. National. Joljn OBurng of (15ettg0iurg. Have you heard the story that gossips tell Of Burns of Gettysburg ?— No ? Ah, well : Brief is the glory that hero earns, Briefer the story of poor John Burns : lie was the fellow who won renown, — The only man who didn't back down When the rebels rode through his native town ; But held his own in the fight next day, When all his townsfolk ran away. . That was in July sixty-three. The very day that General Lee, Flower of Southern chivalry, Baffled and beaten, backward reeled From a stubborn Meade and a barren field. I might tell how but the day before John Burns stood at his cottage door. Looking down the village street, Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine. He heard the low of his gathered kine, And felt their breath with incense sweet ; Or I might say, when the sunset burned The old farm gable, he thought it turned The milk that fell like a babbling flood Into the milk-pail red as blood ! Or how he fancied the hum of bees 14 John Burns of Gettysburg. Were bullets buzzing among the trees. But all such fanciful thoughts as these Were strange to a practical man like Burns, Who minded only his own concerns, Troubled no more by fancies fine Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed, kine,- Quite old-fashioned and matter-of-fact. Slow to argue, but quick to act. That was the reason, as some folk say. He fought so well on that terrible day. And it was terrible. On the right Raged for hours the heady fight, Thundered the battery's double bass, — Difficult music for men to face ; While on the left— where now the graves Undulate like the living waves That all that day unceasing swept Up to the pits the rebels kept — Round shot ploughed the upland glades. Sown with bullets, reaped with blades ; Shattered fences here and there Tossed their splinters in the air ; The very trees were stripped and bare ; The barns that once held yellow grain Were heaped with harvests of the slain ; The cattle bellowed on the plain, The turkeys screamed with might and main. And brooding barn-fowl left their rest With strange shells bursting in each nest Just where the tide of battle turns, ' Erect and lonely stood old John Burns. John Burns of Gettysburg. 1 5 How do you think the man was dressed ? He wore an ancient long buff vest, Yellow as saffron, — but his best ; And, buttoned over his manly breast, Was a bright blue coat, with a rolling collar, And large gilt buttons, — size of a dollar, — With tails that the country-folk called "swaller." He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat, White as the locks on which it sat. Never had such a sight been seen For forty years on the village green. Since old John Burns was a country beau, And went to the " quiltings " long ago. Close at his elbows all that day, Veterans of the Peninsula, Sunburnt and bearded, charged away ; And striplings, downy of lip and chin, — Clerks that the Home Guard mustered in, — Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore. Then at the rifle his right hand bore ; And hailed him, from out their youthful lore. With scraps of a slangy ripertoire : " How are you. White Hat ! " " Put her through ! " " Your head's level ! " and " Bully for you ! " Called him " Daddy," — begged he'd disclose The name of the tailor who made his clothes. And what was the value he set on those ; While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff. Stood there picking the rebels off, — With his long brown rifle and bell-crown hat. And the swallow-tails they were laughing at. 'Twas but a moment, for that respect Which clothes all courage their voices checked ; 1 6 John Burns of Gettysburg. And something the wildest could understand Spake in the old man's strong right hand, And his corded throat, and the lurking frown Of his eyebrows under his old bell-crown ; Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw. In the antique vestments and long white hair, The Past of the Nation in battle there ; And some of the soldiers since declare That the gleam of his old white hat afar. Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre, That day was their oriflamme of war. So raged the battle. You know the rest : How the rebels, beaten and backward pressed, Broke at the final charge and ran. At which John Burns — a practical man — Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows, And then went back to his bees and cows. That is the story of old John Burns ; This is the moral the reader learns : In fighting the battle, the question's whether You'll show a hat that's white, or a feather ! ( 17 ) " jl^oto arc gou, ©anitarg ? " Down the picket-guarded lane Rolled the comfort-laden wain, Cheered by shouts that shook the plain, Soldier-like and merry : Phrases such as camps may teach, Sabre-cuts of Saxon speech. Such as " Bully ! " " Them's the peach ! " " Wade in. Sanitary ! " Right and left the caissons drew As the car went lumbering through. Quick succeeding in review Squadrons military ; Sunburnt men with beards like frieze. Smooth-faced boys, and cries like these, — " U. S. San. Com." " That's the cheese ! " " Pass in. Sanitary ! " In such cheer it struggled on Till the battle front was won. Then the car, its journey done, Lo ! was stationary ; And where bullets whistling fly. Came the sadder, fainter cry, " Help us, brothers, ere we die, — Save us, Sanitary ! " VOL. I 1 8 ^^ How are you. Sanitary ?" Such the work. The phantom flies, Wrapped in battle clouds that rise ; But the brave — whose dying eyes, Veiled and visionary. See the jasper gates swung wide, See the parted throng outside — Hears the voice to those who ride : " Pass in, Sanitary ! " ( 19 ) IBattle 'Bunng, (malvern hill, 1864.) [" After the men were ordered to lie down, a white rabbit, which had been hopping hither and thither over the field swept by grape and musketry, took refuge among the skirmishers, in the breast of a cor- poral." — Report of the Battle of Malvern Hill.'] Bunny, lying in the grass, Saw the shining column pass ; Saw the starry banner fly. Saw the chargers fret and fume, Saw the flapping hat and plume — Saw them with his moist and shy Most unspeculative eye, Thinking only, in the dew. That it was a fine review — Till a flash, not all of steel. Where the rolling caissons wheel, Brought a rumble and a roar Rolling down that velvet floor. And Uke blows of autumn flail Sharply threshed the iron hail. Bunny, thrilled by unknown fears. Raised his soft and pointed ears. Mumbled his prehensile lip, Quivered his pulsating hip, 20 Battle Bunny. As the sharp vindictive yell Rose above the screaming shell ; Thought the world and all its men- All the charging squadrons meant— All were rabbit-hunters then, All to capture him intent. Bunny was not much to blame : Wiser folk have thought the same- Wiser folk who think they spy Every ill begins with " I." Wildly panting here and there, Bunny sought the freer air, Till he hopped below the hill. And saw, lying close and still, Men with muskets in their hands. (Never Bunny understands That hypocrisy of sleep, In the vigils grim they keep, As recumbent on that spot They elude the level shot.) One — a grave and quiet man. Thinking of his wife and child Far beyond the Rapidan, Where the Androsaggin smiled — Felt the little rabbit creep, Nestling by his arm and side, Wakened from strategic sleep. To that soft appeal replied. Drew him to his blackened breast. And— But you have guesse* the rest. Softly o'er that chosen pair Omnipresent Love and Care Battle Bunny. 2 1 Drew a mightier Hand and Arm, Shielding them from every harm ; Right and left the bullets waved, Saved the saviour for the saved. Who believes that equal grace God extends in every place, Little difference he scans 'Twixt a rabbit's God and man's. ( 22 ) Cfte Eetieille. Hark ! I hear the tramp of thousands, And of armfed men the hum ; Lo ! a nation's hosts have gathered Round the quick alarming drum, — Saying, " Come, Freemen, come ! Ere your heritage be wasted," said the quick alarming drum. " Let me of my heart take counsel : War is not of life the sum ; Who shall stay and reap the harvest When the autumn days shall come ? " But the drum Echoed, " Cotne ! Death shall reap the braver harvest," said the solemn- sounding drum. " But when won the coming battle. What of profit springs therefrom ? What if conquest, subjugation, Even greater ills become ? " But the drum Answered, " Come ! You must do the sum to prove it," said the Yankee- answer- ing drum. The Reveille. 23 " What if, 'mid the cannons' thunder, Whistling shot and bursting bomb. When my brothers fall around me, Should my heart grow cold and numb ? " But the drum Answered, " Come ! Better there in death united, than in life a recreant, — Come ! " Thus they answered, — hoping, fearing, Some in faith, and doubting some. Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming. Said, " My chosen people, come ! " Then the drum, Lo ! was dumb. For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, answered " Lord, we come ! " ( 24 ) £Dur privilege. Not ours, where battle smoke upcurls, And battle dews lie wet, To meet the charge that treason hurls By sword and bayonet. Not ours to guide the fatal scythe The fleshless Reaper wields j The harvest moon looks calmly down Upon our peaceful fields. The long grass dimples on the hill, The pines sing by the sea, And Plenty, from her golden horn. Is pouring far and free. O brothers by the farther sea ! Think still our faith is warm ; The same bright flag above us waves That swathed our baby form. The same red blood that dyes your fields Here throbs in patriot pride — The blood that flowed when Lander fell. And Baker's crimson tide. And thus apart our hearts keep time With every pulse ye feel, And Mercy's ringing gold shall chime With Valour's clashing steel. ( 25 ) Eelietitng (BuarD. T. S. K. OBIIT MARCH 4, 1 864. Came the relief. " What, sentry, ho ! How passed the night through thy long waking ? " " Cold, cheerless, dark, — as may befit The hour before the dawn is breaking." " No sight ? no sound ? " " No ; nothing save The plover from the marches calling, And in yon western sky, about An hour ago, a star was falling." " A star? There's nothing strange in that'' "No, nothing; but, above the thicket, Somehow it seemed to me that God Somewhere had just relieved a picket." ( 26 ) Cfie (15olitie00. FOR THE SANITARY FAIR. " Who comes ? " The sentry's warning cry Rings sharply on the evening air : Who comes ? The challenge : no reply, Yet something motions there. A woman, by those graceful folds ; A soldier, by that martial tread : " Advance three paces. Halt ! until Thy name and rank be said." " My name ? Her name, in ancient song Who fearless from Olympus came : Look on me ! Mortals know me best In battle and in flame." " Enough ! I know that clarion voice ; I know that gleaming eye and helm ; Those crimson lips, — and in their dew The best blood of the realm. I " The young, the brave, the good and wise, Have fallen in thy curst embrace : The juices of the grapes of wrath Still stain thy guilty face. The Goddess. 27 " My brother lies in yonder field, Face downward to the quiet grass : Go back ! he cannot see thee now ; But here thou shalt not pass.'' A crack upon the evening air, A wakened echo from the hill : The watchdog on the distant shore Gives mouth, and all is still. The sentry with his brother lies Face downward on the quiet grass ; And by him, in the pale moonshine, A shadow seems to pass. No lance or warlike shield it bears : A helmet in its pitying hands Brings water from the nearest brook. To meet his last demands. Can this be she of haughty mien. The goddess of the sword and shield ? Ah, yes ! The Grecian poet's myth Sways still each battlefield. For not alone that rugged War Some grace or charm from Beauty gains ; But, when the goddess' work is done. The woman's still remains. ( 28 ) Dn a pzn of Ci)oma0 gttarr Eing. This is the reed the dead musician dropped, With tuneful magic in its sheath still hidden ; The prompt allegro of its music stopped, Its melodies unbidden. But who shall finish the unfinished strain, Or wake the instrument to awe and wonder. And bid the slender barrel breathe again, An organ-pipe of thunder ! His pen ! what humbler memories cling about Its golden curves ! what shapes and laughing graces Slipped from its point, when his full heart went out In smiles and courtly phrases ? The truth, half jesting, half in earnest flung ; The word of cheer, with recognition in it ; The note of alms, whose golden speech outrung The golden gift within it. But all in vain the enchanter's wand we wave : No stroke of ours recalls his magic vision : The incantation that its power gave Sleeps with the dead magician. ( 29 ) a ©econU Eetieto of tfie dPcanD armg. I READ last night of the grand review In Washington's chiefest avenue, — Two hundred thousand men in blue, I think they said was the number, — Till I seemed to hear their trampling feet, The bugle blast and the drum's quick beat, The clatter of hoofs in the stony street, The cheers of people who came to greet, And the thousand details that to repeat Would only my verse encumber, — Till I fell in a reverie, sad and sweet, And then to a fitful slumber. When, lo ! in a vision I seemed to stand In the lonely Capitol. On each hand Far stretched the portico, dim and grand Its columns ranged like a martial band Of sheeted spectres, whom some command Had called to a last reviewing. And the streets of the city were white and bare ; No footfall echoed across the square ; But out of the misty midnight air I heard in the distance a trumpet blare, And the wandering night-winds seemed to bear The sound of a far tattooing. 30 A Second Review of the Grand Army. Then I held my breath with fear and dread ; For into the square, with a brazen tread, There rode a figure whose stately head O'erlooked the review that morning, That never bowed from its firm-set seat When the living column passed its feet, Yet now rode steadily up the street To the phantom bugle's warning. Till it reached the Capitol square, and wheeled, And there in the moonlight stood revealed A well-known form that in State and field Had led our patriot sires : Whose face was turned to the sleeping camp, Afar through the river's fog and damp, That showed no flicker, nor waning lamp. Nor wasted bivouac fires. And I saw a phantom army come. With never a sound of fife or drum. But keeping time to a throbbing hum Of wailing and lamentation : The martyred heroes of Malvern Hill, Of Gettysburg and Chancellorsville, The men whose wasted figures fill The patriot graves of the nation. And there came the nameless dead, — the men Who perished in fever swamp and fen. The slowly-starved of the prison pen ; And, marching beside the others. Came the dusky martyrs of Pillow's fight. With limbs enfranchised and bearing bright; I thought — perhaps 'twas the pale moonlight — They looked as white as their brothers ! A Second Review of the Grand Army. 31 And so all night marched the nation's dead, With never a banner above them spread, Nor a badge, nor a motto brandished ; No mark — save the bare uncovered head Of the silent bronze Reviewer ; With never an arch save the vaulted sky ; With never a flower save those that lie On the distant graves — for love could buy No gift that was purer or truer. So all night long swept the strange arra)', So all night long till the morning gray I watched for one who had passed away, With a reverent awe and wonder, — Till a blue cap waved in the length'ning line, And I knew that one who was kin of mine Had come ; and I spake — and lo ! that sign Awakened me from mv slumber. ( 32 ) (1864.) There is peace in the swamp where the Copperhead sleeps, Where the waters are stagnant, the white vapour creeps, Where the musk of Magnolia hangs thick in the air, And the lilies' phylacteries broaden in prayer. There is peace in the swamp, though the quiet is death, Though the mist is miasma, the upas-tree's breath. Though no echo awakes to the cooing of doves, — There is peace : yes, the peace that the Copperhead loves ! Go seek him : he coils in the ooze and the drip, Like a thong idly flung from the slave-driver's whip ; But beware the false footstep, — the stumble thgit brings A deadlier lash than the overseer swings. Never arrow so true, never bullet so dread. As the straight steady stroke of that hammer-shaped head ; Whether slave or proud panther, who braves that dull crest. Woe to him who shall trouble the Copperhead's rest ! Then why waste your labours, brave hearts and strong men. In tracking a trail to the Copperhead's den ? Lay your axe to the cypress, hew open the shade To the free sky and sunshine Jehovah has made ; Let the breeze of the North sweep the vapours away, Till the stagnant lake ripples, the freed waters play ; And then to your heel can you righteously doom The Copperhead born of its shadow and gloom ! ( 33 ) a ©anitarg 90rigi8fage. Last night, above the whistling wind, I heard the welcome rain, — A fusillade upon the roof, A tattoo on the pane : The keyhole piped ; the chimney-top A warlike trumpet blew ; Yet, mingling with these sounds of strife, A softer voice stole through. " Give thanks, O brothers ! " said the voice, " That He who sent the rains Hath spared your fields the scarlet dew That drips from patriot veins : I've seen the grass on Eastern graves In brighter verdure rise ; But, oh ! the rain that gave it life Sprang first from human eyes. " I come to wash away no stain Upon your wasted lea ; I raise no banners, save the ones The forest waves to me : Upon the mountain side, where Spring Her farthest picket sets, My reveille awakes a host Of grassy bayonets. VOL. I. c 34 A Sanitary Message. " I visit every humble toof ; I mingle with the low : Only upon the highest peaks My blessings fall in snow ; Until, in tricklings of the stream And drainings of the lea, My unspent bounty comes at last To mingle with the sea." And thus all night, above the wind, I heard the welcome rain,— A fusillade upon the roof, A tattoo on the pane : The keyhole piped; the chimney- top A warlike trumpet blew ; But, mingling with these sounds of strife. This hymn of peace stole through. ( 35 ) Cfje £DIti spaj'or OBirpIaing. (re-union, army of the POTOMAC, I2TH MAY 1871.) Well, you see, the fact is, Colonel, I don't know as I can come : For the farm is not half planted, and there's, work to do at home; And my leg is getting troublesome, — it laid me up last Fall, And the doctors, they have cut and hacked, and never found the ball. And then, for an old man like me, it's not exactly right, This kind o' playing soldier with no enemy in sight. " The Union," — that was well enough way up to '66 ; But this "Re-Union," maybe now it's mixed with politics? No ? Well, you understand it best ; but then, you see, my lad, I'm deacon now, and some might think that the example's bad. And week from next is Conference. . . . You said the twelfth of May ? Why, that's the day we broke their line at Spottsyl- van-i-a ! 36 The Old Major Explains. Hot work ; eh, Colonel, wasn't it ? Ye mind that narrow front : They called it the " Death-Angle ! " Well, well, my lad, we won't Fight that old battle over now : I only meant to say I really can't engage to come upon the twelfth of May. How's Thompson ? What ! will he be there ? Well, now I wan't to know ! The first man in the rebel works ! they called him " Swearing Joe." A wild young fellow, sir, I fear the rascal was ; but then — Well, short of heaven, there wa'n't a place he dursn't lead his men. And Dick, you say, is coming too. And Billy ? ah ! it's true We buried him at Gettysburg : I mind the spot ; do you ? A littk field below the hill, — it must be green this May ; Perhaps that's why the fields about bring him to me to- day. Well, well, excuse me. Colonel ! but there are some things that drop The tail-board out one's feelings ; and the only way's to stop. So they want to see the old man ; ah, the rascals ! do they, eh? Well, I've business down in Boston about the twelfth of May. ( 37 ) California'^ (Greeting to ©etoatD. (1869.) We know him well : no need of praise Or bonfire from the windy hill To light to softer paths and ways The world-worn man we honour still. No need to quote those truths he spoke That burned through years of war and shame, While History carves with surer stroke Across our map his noonday fame. No need to bid him show the scars Or blows dealt by the Scaean gate, Who lived to pass its shattered bars, And see the foe capitulate : Who lived to turn his slower feet Toward the western setting sun, To see his harvest all complete, His dream fulfilled, his duty done. The one flag streaming from the pole. The one faith borne from sea to sea : For such a triumph, and such goal, Poor must our human greeting be. 38 California' s Greeting to Seward. Ah ! rather that the conscious land In simpler ways salute the Man, — The tall pines bowing where they stand, The bared head of El Capitan, The tumult of the waterfalls, Pohono's kerchief in the breeze, The waving from the rocky walls. The stir and rustle of the trees ; Till, lapped in sunset skies of hope, In sunset lands by sunset seas, The Young World's Premier treads the slope Of sunset years in calm and peace. ( 39 ) Cfte 3geD ©tranger. AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. " I WAS with Grant — " the stranger said . Said the farmer, " Say no more, But rest thee here at my cottage porch, For thy feet are weary and sore.'' " I was with Grant — " the stranger said ; Said the farmer, " Nay, no more,— I prithee sit at my frugal board. And eat of my humble store. " How fares my boy, — my soldier boy, Of the old Ninth Army Corps ? I warrant he bore him gallantly In the smoke and the battle's roar ! " " I know him not," said the aged man, " And, as I remarked before, I was with Grant — " "Nay, nay, I know,' Said the farmer, " say no more : " He fell in battle, — I see, alas ! Thoii'dst smooth these tidings o'er, — Nay, speak the truth, whatever it be, Though it rend my bosom's core. 40 The Aged Stranger. " How fell he ? — with his face to the foe, Upholding the flag he bore ? Oh, say not that my boy disgraced The uniform that he wore ! " " I cannot tell," said the aged man, " And should have remarked before. That I was with Grant, — in Illinois, — ^ Some three years before the war." Then the farmer spake him never a word. But beat with his fist full sore That aged man, who had worked fcr Grant Some three years before the war. ( 41 ) Cije 3D^l of "Battle Ipolloto. (war of the rebellion, 1864.) No, I won't — thar, now, so ! And it ain't nothin', — no ! And thar's nary to tell that you folks yer don't know ; And it's " Belle, tell us, do ! " and it's " Belle, is it true ? " And " Wot's this yer yarn of the Major and you ? " Till I'm sick of it all, — so I am, but I s'pose That is nothin' to you Well, then, listen I yer goes ! It was after the fight, and around us all night Thar was poppin' and shootin' a powerful sight ; And the niggers had fled, and Aunt Chlo was abed. And Pinky and Milly were hid in the shed : And I ran out at daybreak and nothin' was nigh But the growlin' of cannon low down in the sky. And I saw not a thing as I ran to the spring. But a splintered fence rail and a broken-down swing. And a bird said " Kerchee ! " as it sat on a tree. As if it was lonesome and glad to see me ; And I filled up my pail and was risin' to go, When up comes the Major a canterin' slow. When he saw me, he drew in his reins, and then threw On the gate-post his bridle, and — what does he do 42 The Idyl of Battle Hollow. But come down where I sat ; and he lifted his hat, And he says — well, thar ain't any need to tell that — 'Twas some foolishness, sure, but it 'mounted to this, Thet he asked for a drink, and he wanted — a kiss. Then I said (I was mad), " For the water, my lad. You're too big and must stoop ; for a kiss, it's as bad — You ain't near big enough." And I turned in a huff. When that Major he laid his white hand on my cuff, And he says, " You're a trump ! Take my pistol, don't fear ! But shoot the next man that insults you, my dear.'' Then he stooped to the pool, very quiet and cool, Leavin' me with that pistol stuck there like a fool, When thar flashed on my sight a quick glimmer of light From the top of the little stone-fence on the right, And I knew 'twas a rifle, and back of it all Rose the face of that bushwhacker, Cherokee Hall ! Then I felt in my dread that the moment the head Of the Major was lifted, the Major was dead ; And I stood still and white, but Lord ! gals, in spite Of my care, that derned pistol went off' in my fright ! Went off" — true as gospil ! — and, strangest of all, It actooally injured that Cherokee Hall. Thet's all — now, go long. Yes, some folks thinks it's wrong. And thar's some wants to know to what side I belong ; But I says, " Served him right ! " and I go, all my might. In love or in war, for a fair stand-up fight ; And as for the Major — Sho ! gals, don't you know Thet — Lord ! — thar's his step in the garden below. ( 43 ) CalDtoell of @)pnngfitelD. (new jersey, 1780.) Here's the spot. Look around you. Above on the height Lay the Hessians encamped. By that church on the right Stood the gaunt Jersey farmers. And here ran a wall — You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball Nothing more. Grasses spring, waters run, flowers blow, Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago. Nothing more, did I say ? Stay one moment ; you've heard Of Caldwell, the parson, who once preached the word Down at Springfield? What, No? Come — that's bad. Why he had All the Jerseys aflame ! And they gave him the name Of the "rebel high priest." He stuck in their gorge, For he loved the Lord God — and he hated King George ! He had cause, you might say 1 When the Hessians that day Marched up with Knyphausen, they stopped on their way At the " farms," where his wife, with a child in her arms. Sat alone in the house. How it happened none knew But God— and that one of the hireling crew Who fired the shot ! Enough ! — there she lay, And Caldwell, the chaplain, her husband, away ! 44 Caldwell of Springfield Did he preach — did he pray ? Think of him as you stand By the old church to-day : — think of him arid that band Of militant ploughboys ! See the smoke and the heat Of that reckless advance — of that straggling retreat ! Keep the ghost of that wife, foully slain, in your view — And what could you, what should you, what would you do ? Why, just what he did ! They were left in the lurch For the want of more wadding. He ran to the church, Broke the door, stripped the pews, and dashed out in the road With his arms full of hymn-books, and threw down his load At their feet ! Then above all the shouting and shots Rang his yoice — " Put Watts into 'em — Boys, give 'em Watts!" And they did. That is all Grasses spring, flowers blow, Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago. You may dig- anywhere and you'll turn up a ball — But not always a hero like this — and that's all. ( 45 ) potm DELIVERED ON THE FOURTEENTH ANNIVERSARY OF CALI- FORNIA'S ADMISSION INTO THE UNION. September^, 1864. We meet in peace, though from our native East The sun that sparkles on our birthday feast Glanced as he rose in fields whose dews were red With darker tints than those Aurora spread. Though shorn his rays — his welcome disc concealed In the dim smoke that veiled each battlefield, Still striving upward, in meridian pride. He climbed the walls that East and West divide — Saw his bright face flashed back from golden sand, And sapphire seas that lave the Western land. Strange was the contrast that such scenes disclose From his high vantage o'er eternal snews ; There War's alarm the brazen trumpet rings — Here his love-song the mailed cicala sings ; There bayonets glitter through the forest glades — Here yellow cornfields stack their peaceful blades ; There the deep trench where Valour finds a grave — Here the long ditch that curbs the peaceful wave ; There the bold sapper with his lighted train — Here the dark tunnel and its stores of gain ; Here the full harvest and the wain's advance — There the Grim Reaper and the ambulance. 46 Poem. With scenes so adverse, what mysterious bond Links our fair fortunes to the shores beyond? Why come we here — last of a scattered fold — To pour new metal in the broken mould ? To yield our tribute, stamped with Cxsar's face, To Caesar, stricken in the market-place ? Ah ! love of country is the secret tie That joins these contrasts 'neath one arching sky ; Though brighter paths our peaceful steps explore — We meet together at the Nation's door. War winds her horn, and giant cliffs go down Like the high walls that girt the sacred town. And bares the pathway to her throbbing heart, From clustered village and from crowded mart. Part of God's providence it was to found A Nation's bulwark on this chosen ground — Not Jesuit's zeal nor pioneer's unrest Planted these pickets in the distant West ; But He who first the Nation's fate forecast Placed here His fountains sealed for ages past, Rock-ribbed and guarded till the coming time Should fit the people for their work sublime ; When a new Moses with his rod of steel Smote the tall cliffs with one wide-ringing peal, And the old miracle in record told To the new Nation was revealed in gold. Judge not too idly that our toils are mean, Though no new levies marshal on our green ; Nor deem too rashly that our gains are small, Weighed with the prizes for which heroes fall. Poem. 47 See, where thick vapour wreathes the battle-line ; There Mercy follows with her oil and wine ; Or when brown Labour with its peaceful charm Stiffens the sinews of the Nation's arm. What nerves its hands to strike a deadlier blow And hurl its legions on the rebel foe ? Lo ! for each town new rising o'er our State See the foe's hamlet waste and desolate, While each new factory lifts its chimney tall, Like a fresh mortar trained on Richmond's wall. For this, oh ! brothers, swings the fruitful vine. Spread our broad pastures with their countless kine ; For this o'erhead the arching vault springs clear. Sunlit and cloudless for one half the year ; For this no snowflake, e'er so lightly pressed. Chills the warm impulse of our mother's breast. Quick to reply, from meadows brown and sere, She thrills responsive to Spring's earliest tear ; Breaks into blossom, flings her loveliest rose Ere the white crocus mounts Atlantic snows ; And the example of her liberal creed Teaches the lesson that to-day we need. Thus ours the lot with peaceful, generous hand To spread our bounty o'er the suffering land ; As the deep cleft in Mariposa's wall Hurls a vast river splintering in its fall — Though the rapt soul who stands in awe below Sees but the arching of the promised bow — Lo ! the far streamlet drinks its dews iinseen. And the whole valley makes a brighter green. ( 48 ) Wi0S 'Blancfje @ap. And you are the poet, and so you want Something — what is it ? — a theme, a fancy ? Something or other the Muse won't grant In your old poetical necromancy ; Why one half your poets — you can't deny — Don't know the Muse when you chance to meet her, But sit in your attics and mope and sigh For a faineant goddess to drop from the sky, When flesh and blood may be standing by Quite at your service, should you but greet her. What if I told you my own romance ? Women are poets, if yoii so take them, One-third poet — the rest what chance Of man and marriage may choose to make them. Give me ten minutes before you go, — Here at the window we'll sit together. Watching the currents that ebb and flow ; Watching the world as it drifts below Up to the hot Avenue's dusty glow : Isn't it pleasant — this bright June weather ? Well, it was after the war broke out, And I was a school-girl fresh from Paris ; Papa had contracts, and roamed about, And I — did nothing — for I was an heiress. iMiss Blanche Says. 49 Picked some lint, now I think ; perhaps Knitted some stocking — a dozen nearly; Havelocks made for the soldiers' caps ; Stood at fair tables and peddled traps Quite at a profit. The " shoulder-straps '' Thought I was pretty. Ah, thank you ! really ? Still it was stupid. Rata-tat-tat ! Those were the sounds of that battle summer, Till the earth seemed a parchment round and flat, And every footfall the tap of a drummer ; And day by day down the Avenue went Cavalry, infantry, all together, Till my pitying angel one day sent My fate in the shape of a regiment. That halted, just as the day was spent, Here at our door in the bright June weather. None of your dandy warriors they, Men from the West, but where I know not ; Haggard and travel-stained, worn and grey, With never a ribbon or lace or bow-knot : And I opened the window, and leaning there, I felt in their presence the free winds blowing ; My neck and shoulders and arms were bare — I did not dream that they might think me fair, But I had some flowers that night in my hair. And here, on my bosom, a red rose glowing. And I looked from the window along the line, Dusty and dirty and grim and solemn. Till an eye like a bayonet flash met mine. And a dark face grew from the darkening column, VOL. I. D 50 Miss Blanche Says. And a quick flame leaped to my eyes and hair, Till cheeks and shoulders burned all together, And the next I found myself standing there With my eyelids wet and my cheeks less fair, And the rose from my bosom tossed high in air. Like a blood-drop falling on plume and feather. Then I drew back quickly : there came a cheer, A rush of figures, a noise and tussle, And then it was over, and high and clear My red rose bloomed on his gun's black muzzle. Then far in the darkness a sharp voice cried. And slowly and steadily, all together. Shoulder to shoulder and side to side, Rising and falling, and swaying wide, But bearing above them the rose, my pride, They marched away in the twilight weather. And I leaned from my window and watched my rose Tossed on the waves of the surging column, Warmed from above in the sunset glows, Borne from below by an impulse solemn. Then I shut the window. I heard no more Of my soldier friend, my flower neither, But lived my life as I did before. I did not go as a nurse to the war — - Sick folks to me are a dreadful bore — So I didn't go to the hospital either. You smile, O poet, and what do you ? You lean from your window, and watch life's column Trampling and struggling through dust and dew. Filled with its purposes grave and solemn ; Miss Blanche Says. 5 1 An act, a gesture, a face — who knows ? — Touches your fancy to thrill and haunt you. And you pluck from your bosom the verse that grows, And down it flies like my red, red rose. And you sit and dream as away it goes, And think that your duty is done — now don't you ? I know your answer, I'm not yet through. Look at this photograph — " In the Trenches ! " That dead man in the coat of blue Holds a withered rose in his hand. That clenches Nothing ! — except that the sun paints true. And a woman is sometimes prophetic-minded. And that's my romance. And, poet, you Take it and mould it to suit your view ; And who knows but you may find it too Come to your heart once more, as mine did. ( 52 ) an arctic Hi0ion. Where the short-legged Esquimaux Waddle in the ice and snow, And the playful Polar bear Nips the hunter unaware ; Where by day they track the ermine, And by night another vermin. — Segment of the frigid zone, Where the temperature alone Warms on St. Elias' cone ; Polar dock, where Nature slips From the ways her icy ships ; Land of fox and deer and sable. Shore end of our western cable, — Let the news that flying goes Thrill through all your arctic floes, And reverberate the boast From the cliffs off Beechey's coast, Till the tidings, circling round Every bay of Norton Sound, Throw the vocal tide-wave back To the isles of Kodiac. Let the stately Polar bears Waltz around the pole in pairs, And the walrus, in his glee. Bare his tusk of ivory ; An Arctic Vision. 53 While the bold sea-unicorn Calmly takes an extra horn ; All ye Polar skies, reveal your Very rarest of parhelia ; Trip it all ye merry dancers, In the airiest of " Lancers ; " Slide, ye solemn glaciers, slide. One inch farther to the tide, Nor in rash precipitation Upset Tyndall's calculation. Know you not what fate awaits you, Or to whom the future mates you ? All ye icebergs make salaam, — You belong to Uncle Sam ! On the spot where Eugene Sue Led his wretched Wandering Jew, Stands a form whose features strike Russ and Esquimaux alike. He it is whom Skalds of old In their Runic rhymes foretold ; Lean of flank and lank of jaw, See the real Northern Thor ! See the awful Yankee leering Just across the Straits of Behring ; On the drifted snow, too plain, Sinks his fresh tobacco stain, Just beside the deep inden- Tation of his Number 10. Leaning on his icy hammer Stands the hero of this drama. And above the wild-duck's clamour, In his own peculiar grammar. 54 -^n Arctic Vision. With its linguistic disguises, Lo ! the Arctic prologue rises : — "Wa'U, I reckon 'tain't so bad, Seein' ez 'twas all they had ; True, the Springs are rather late, And early Falls predominate ; But the ice crop 's pretty sure, And the air is Icind o' pure ; 'Tain't so very mean a trade, When the land is all surveyed. There's a right smart chance for fur-chase All along this recent purchase, And, unless the stories fail. Every fish from cod to whale ; Rocks, too ; mebbe quartz ; let's see, — 'T would be strange if there should be,— Seems I've heerd such stories told ; Eh ! — why, bless us, — yes, it's gold ! " While the blows are falling thick From his California pick, You may recognise the Thor Of the vision that I saw, — Freed from legendary glamour. See the real magician's hammer. ( 55 ) ©t Cf)oma0. (a geographicai, survey, 1868.) Very fair and full of promise Lay the island of St. Thomas : Ocean o'er its reefs and bars Hid its elemental scars ; Groves of cocoanut and guava Grew above its fields of lava. So the gem of the Antilles, — " Isles of Eden,'' wliere no ill is, — Like a great green turtle slumbered On the sea that it encumbered. Then said William Henry Seward, As he cast his eye to leeward, " Quite important to our commerce Is this island of St. Thomas." Said the Mountain ranges, " Thank'ee. But we cannot stand the Yankee O'er our scars and fissures poring, In our very vitals boring, In our sacred caverns prying, All our secret problems trying, — Digging, blasting, with dynamit Mocking all our thunders ! Damn it ! 56 Si. Thomas. Other lands may be more civil, Bust our lava crust if we will ! " Said .the Sea, its white teeth gnashing Through its coral-reef lips flashing, " Shall I let this scheming mortal Shut with stone my shining portal, Curb my tide and check my play, Fence with wharves my shining bay ? Rather let me be drawn out In one awful waterspout ! " Said the black-browed Hurricane, Brooding down the Spanish Main, " Shall I see my forces, zounds ! Measured by square inch and pounds, With detectives at my back When I double on my, track, And my secret paths made clear, Published o'er the hemisphere To each gaping, prying crew ? Shall I ? Blow me if I do ! " So the Mountains shook and thundered. And the Hurricane came sweeping. And the people stared and wondered As the Sea came on them leaping : Each, according to his promise, Made things lively at St. Thomas. Till one morn, when Mr. Seward Cast his weather eye to leeward. There was not an inch of dry land Left to mark his recent island. St Thomas. cy Not a flagstaff or a sentry,. Not a wharf or port of entry, — Only — to cut matters shorter — Just a patch of muddy water In the open ocean lying, And a gull above it flying. ( 58 ) Dff gicarfiorougf). (SEPTEMBER I 7 79-) " Have a care ! " the bailiffs cried From their cockleshell that lay Off the frigate's yellow side, Tossing on Scarborough Bay, While the forty sail it convoyed on a bowline stretched away; " Take your chicks beneath your wings, And your claws and feathers spread, Ere the hawk upon them springs — Ere around Flamborough Head Swoops Paul Jones, the Yankee falcon, with his beak and talons red." II. How we laughed ! — my mate and I — On the " Bon Homme Richard's " deck, — As we saw that convoy fly Like a snow squall, till each fleck Melted in the twilight shadows of the coast-line, speck by speck ; And scuffling back to shore The Scarborough bailiffs sped, Off Scarborough. 59 As the " Richard," with a roar Of her cannon round the Head, Crossed her royal yards and signalled to her consort : "Chase ahead!" III. But the devil seize Landais In that consort ship of France ! For the shabby, lubber way That he worked the " Alliance " In the offing, — nor a broadside fired save to our mis- chance ! — When tumbling to the van, With his battle-lanterns set, Rose the burly Englishman 'Gainst our hull as black as jet — Rode the yellow-sided " Serapis," and all alone we met ! IV. All alone — though far at sea Hung his consort, rounding to ; All alone — though on our lee Fought our " Pallas," stanch and true ! For the first broadside around us both a smoky circle drew: And, like champions in a ring. There was cleared a little space — Scarce a cable's length to swing— Ere we grappled in embrace, All the world shut out around us, and we only face to face ! 6o Off Scarborough. V. Then -awoke all hell below From that broadside, doubly curst, For our long eighteens in row Leaped the first discharge and burst ! And on deck our men came pouring, fearing their own guns the worst. And as dumb we lay, till, through Smoke and flame and bitter cry, Hailed the " Serapis " — " Have you Struck your colours ? " Our reply, "We have not yet begun to fight!" went shouting to the sky! VI. ^oux of Brest, old fisher, lay Like a herring gasping here; Bunker of Nantucket Bay, Blown from out the port, dropped sheer Half a cable's length to leeward ; yet we faintly raised a cheer As with his own right hand. Our Commodore made fast The foeman's head-gear and The " Richard's " mizzen-mast, A.nd in that death-lock clinging held us there from first to last! VII. Yet the foeman, gun on gun. Through the " Richard " tore a road — Off Scarborough. 6] With his gunners' rammers run Through our ports at every load, Till dear the blue beyond us through our yawning timbers showed. Yet with entrails torn we clung Like the Spartan to our fox, And on deck no coward tongue Wailed the enemy's hard knocks, Nor that all below us trembled like a wreck upon the rocks. Then a thought rose in my brain, As through Channel mists the sun. From our tops a fire like rain Drove below decks every one Of the enemy's ship's company to hide or work a gun, And that thought took shape as I On the " Richard's " yard lay out, That a man might do and die, If the doing brought about Freedom for his home and country, and his messmates' cheering shout ! IX. Then I crept out in the dark Till I hung above the hatch Of the " Serapis '' — a mark For her marksmen ! — with a match And a hand-grenade, but lingered just a moment more to snatch One last look at sea and sky ! At the lighthouse on the hill ! 6 2 Off Scarborough. At the harvest-moon on high ! And our pine flag fluttering still ; Then turned and down her yawning throat I launched that devil's pill ! Then a blank was all between As the flames around me spun ! Had I fired the magazine ? Was the victory lost or won ? Nor knew I till the fight was o'er but half my work was done: For I lay among the dead In the cockpit of our foe, With a roar above my head — Till a trampling to and fro, And a lantern showed my mate's face, and I knew what now you know ! SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS. ( 65 ) Ci)e Miracle of paDre 31unipero. This is the tale that the Chronicle Tells of the wonderful miracle Wrought by the pious Padre Serro, The very reverend Junipero. The heathen stood on his ancient mound, Looking over the desert bound Into the distant, hazy South, Over the dusty and broad champaign, Where, with many a gaping mouth And fissure, cracked by the fervid drouth. For seven months had the wasted plain Known no moisture of dew or rain. The wells were empty and choked with sand ; The rivers had perished from the land ; Only the sea-fogs to and fro Slipped like ghosts of the streams below. Deep in its bed lay the river's bones. Bleaching in pebbles and milk-white stones. And tracked o'er the desert faint and far. Its ribs shone bright on each sandy bar. Thus they stood as th'e sun went down Over the foot-hills bare and brown ; VOL. I. E 66 The Miracle of Padre Junipero. Thus they looked to the South, wherefrom The pale-face medicine-man should come, Not in anger or in strife, But to bring — so ran the tale — The welcome springs of eternal life. The living waters that should not fail. Said one, " He will come like Manitou, Unseen, unheard, in the falling dew." Said another, " He will come full soon Out of the round-faced watery moon." And another said, " He is here ! " and lo, — Faltering, staggering, feeble and slow, — Out from the desert's blinding heat The Padre dropped at the heathen's feet. They stood and gazed for a little space Down on his pallid and careworn face. And a smile of scorn went round the band As they touched alternate with foot and hand This mortal waif, that the outer space Of dim mysterious sky and sand Flung with so little of Christian grace Down on their barren, sterile strand. Said one to him : " It seems thy God Is a very pitiful kind of God ; He could not shield thine aching eyes From the blowing desert sands that rise. Nor turn aside from thy old grey head The glittering blade that is brandished By the sun He set in the heavens high ; He could not moisten thy lips when dry ; The desert fire is in thy brain ; Thy limbs are racked with the fever-pain : The Miracle of Padre Junipero. 6"] If this be the grace He showeth thee Who art His servant, what may we, Strange to His ways and His commands. Seek at His unforgiving hands ? " " Drink but this cup," said the Padre, straight, " And thou shalt know whose mercy bore These aching limbs to your heathen door, And purged my soul of its gross estate. Drink in His name, and thou shalt see The hidden depths of this mystery. Drink ! " and he held the cup. One blow From the heathen dashed to the ground below The sacred cup that the Padre bore, And the thirsty soil drank the precious store Of sacramental and holy wine. That emblem and consecrated sign And blessed symbol of blood divine. Then, says the legend (and they who doubt The same as heretics be accurst). From the dry and feverish soil leaped out A living fountain ; a well-spring burst Over the dusty and broad champaign. Over the sandy and sterile plain. Till the granite ribs and the milk-white stones That lay in the valley — the scattered bones — Moved in the river and lived again ! Such was the wonderful miracle Wrought by the cup of wine that fell From the hands of the pious Padre Serro, The very reverend Junipero. ( 68 ) Cfje OTonDerful @)pring of ^m Joaauin. Of all the fountains that poets sing, — • Crystal, thermal, or mineral spring ; Ponce de Leon's Fount of Youth ; Wells with bottoms of doubtful truth ; In short, of all the springs of Time That ever were flowing in fact or rhyme, That ever were tasted, felt, or seen, — There were none like the Spring of San Joaquin. j4nno Domini Eighteen-seven, Father Dominguez (now in heaven, — Obiit, Eighteen twenty-seven) Found the spring, and found it, too, By his mule's miraculous cast of a shoe ; For his beast — a descendant of Balaam's ass — Stopped on the instant, and would not pass. The Padre thought the omen good, And bent his lips to the trickling flood ; Then — as the Chronicles declare, On the honest faith of a true believer — His cheeks, though wasted, lank, and bare, Filled like a withered russet-pear In the vacuum of a glass receiver, The Wonder/til Spring of San Joaquin. 69 And the snows that seventy winters bring Melted away in that magic spring. Such, at least, was the wondrous news The Padre brought into Santa Cruz. The Church, of course, had its own views Of who were worthiest to use The magic spring ; but the prior claim Fell to the aged, sick, and lame. Far and wide the people came : Some from the healthful Aptos Creek Hastened to bring their helpless sick ; Even the fishers of rude Soquel Suddenly found they were far from well ; The brawny dwellers of San Lorenzo Said, in fact, they had never been so : And all were ailing, — strange to say, — From Pescadero to Monterey. Over the mountain they poured in, With leathern bottles and bags of skin ; Through the canons a motley throng Trotted, hobbled, and limped along. The Fathers gazed at the moving scene With pious joy and with souls serene ; And then — a result perhaps foreseen — They laid out the Mission of San Joaquin. Not in the eyes of faith alone The good effects of the water shone ; But skins grew rosy, eyes waxed clear. Of rough vaquero and muleteer ; ^o The Wonderful Spring of San foaquin. Angular forms were rounded out, Limbs grew supple and waists grew stout ; And as for the girls — for miles about They had no equal ! To this day, From Pescadero to Monterey, You'll still find eyes in which are seen The Uquid graces of San Joaquin. There is a limit to human bliss, And the Mission of San Joaquin had this ; None went abroad to roam or stay, But they fell sick in the queerest way, — A singular maladie du pays, With gastric symptoms : so they spent Their days in a sensuous content. Caring little for things unseen Beyond their bowers of living green, — Beyond the mountains that lay between The world and the Mission of San Joaquin. Winter passed and the summer came ; The trunks of madrono, all aflame. Here and there through the underwood Like pillars of fire starkly stood. All of the breezy solitude Was filled with the spicing of pine and bay And resinous odours mixed and blended. And dim and ghost-like, far away. The smoke of the burning woods ascended. Then of a sudden the mountains swam. The rivers piled their floods in a dam. The ridge above Los Gatos Creek The Wonderful Spring of San Joaquin. 7 1 Arched its spine in a feline fashion ; The forests waltzed till they grew sick, And Nature shook in a speechless passion ; And, swallowed up in the earthquake's spleen, The wonderful Spring of San Joaquin Vanished, and never more was seen ! Two days passed : the Mission folk Out of their rosy dream awoke ; Some of them looked a trifle white. But that, no doubt, was from earthquake fright Three days : there was sore distress, Headache, nausea, giddiness. Four days : faintings, tenderness Of the mouth and fauces ; and in less Than one week, — here the story closes ; We won't continue the prognosis, — Enough that now no trace is seen Of Spring or Mission of San Joaquin. MORAL. You see the point ? Don't be too quick To break bad habits : better stick, Like the Mission folk, to your arsenic. ( 72 ) (heard at the mission DOLORES, 1868.) Bells of the Past, whose long-forgotten music Still fills the wide expanse, Tingeing the sober twilight of the Present With colour of romance ! I hear your call, and see the sun descending On rock and wave and sand, As down the coast the Mission voices, blending, Girdle the heathen land. Within the circle of your incantation No blight nor mildew falls ; Nor fierce unrest, nor lust, nor low ambition Passes those airy walls. Borne on the swell of your long waves receding, I touch the farther Past, — • I see the dying glow of Spanish glory, The sunset dream and last ! Before me rise the dome-shaped Mission towers. The white Presidio ; The swart commander in his leathern jerkin, The priest in stole of snow. The Angelus. 73 Once more I see Portala's cross uplifting Above the setting sun ; And past the headland, northward, slowly drifting The freighted galleon. O solemn bells ! whose consecrated masses Recall the faith of old, — O tinkling bells ! that lulled with twilight music The spiritual fold 1 Your voices break and falter in the darkness, — Break, falter, and are still ; And veiled and mystic, like the Host descending, The sun sinks from the hill ! ( 74 ) Concepcion lie arguello. (presidio DE SAN FRANCISCO, 180O.) Looking seaward, o'er the sandhills stands the fortress, old and quaint, By the San Francisco friars lifted to their patron saint, — Sponsor to that wondrous city, now apostate to the creed. On whose youthful walls the Padre saw the angel's golden reed ; All its trophies long since scattered, all its blazon brushed away ; And the flag that flies above it but a triumph of to-day. Never scar of siege or battle challenges the wandering eye — Never breach of warlike onset holds the curious passer-by ; Only one sweet human fancy interweaves its threads of gold With the plain and home-spun present, and a love that ne'er grows old : Concepcion de Arguello. 75 Only one thing holds its crumbling walls above the meaner dust, — Listen to the simple story of a woman's love and trust. Count von Resanoff, the Russian, envoy of the mighty Czar, Stood beside the deep embrasures where the brazen cannon He with grave provincial magnates long had held serene debate On the Treaty of Alliance and the high affairs of state ; He from grave provincial magnates oft had turned to talk apart With the Commandante's daughter on the questions of the heart, Until points of gravest import yielded slowly one by one. And by Love was consummated what Diplomacy begun ; Till beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon are, He received the twofold contract for approval of the Czar ; Till beside the brazen cannon the betrothed bade adieu, And, from sallyport and gateway, north the Russian eagles flew. 76 Concepcion de Arguello. III. I,ong beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon are, Did they wait the promised bridegroom and the answer of the Czar ; Day by day on wall and bastion beat the hollow, empty breeze, — Day by day the sunlight glittered on the vacant, smiling seas ; Week by week the near hills whitened in their dusty leather cloaks, — Week by week the far hills darkened from the fringing plain of oaks , Till the rains came, and far-breaking, on the fierce south- wester tost, Dashed the whole long coast with colour, and then vanished and were lost. So each year the seasons shifted, — wet and warm and drear and dry ; Half a year of clouds and flowers, — half a year of dust and sky. Still it brought no ship nor message, — brought no tidings, ill or meet. For the statesmanlike Commander, for the daughter fair and sweet. Concepcion de Arguello. j"] Yet she heard the varying message, voiceless to all ears beside : " He will come," the flowers whispered ; " Come no more," the dry hills sighed. Still she found him with the waters lifted by the morning breeze, — Still she lost him with the folding of the great white-tented seas : Until hollows chased the dimples from her cheeks of olive brown, And at times a swift, shy moisture dragged the long sweet lashes down ; Or the small mouth curved and quivered as for some denied caress. And the fair young brow was knitted in an infantine distress. Then the grim Commander, pacing where the brazen cannon are, Comforted the maid with proverbs, — wisdom gathered from afar; Bits of ancient observation by his fathers garnered, each As a pebble worn and polished in the current of his speech : " ' Those who wait the coming rider travel twice as far as he ; ' ' Tired wench and coming butter never did in time agree ; ' 7 8 Concepcion de Argue llo. " ' He that getteth himself honey, though a clown, he shall have flies ; ' ' In the end God grinds the miller ; ' ' In the dark the mole has eyes ; ' " ' He whose father is Alcalde of his trial hath no fear,' — And be sure the Count has reasons that will make his con- duct clear." Then the voice sententious faltered, and the wisdom it would teach Lost itself in fondest trifles of his soft Castilian speech ; And on " Concha,'' " Conchitita,'' and " Conchita " he would dwell With the fond reiteration which the Spaniard knows so well. So with proverbs and caresses, half in faith and half in doubt. Every day some hope was kindled, flickered, faded, and went out. IV. Yearly, down the hillside sweeping, came the stately caval- cade. Bringing revel to vaquero, joy and comfort to each maid ; Bringing days of formal visit, social feast and rustic sport ; Of bull-baiting on the plaza, of love-making in the court. Vainly then at Concha's lattice, vainly as the idle wind. Rose the thin high Spanish tenor that bespoke the youth too kind ; Concepdon de Arguello. 79 Vainly, leaning from their saddles, caballeros, bold and fleet, Plucked for her the buried chicken from beneath their mustang's feet ; So in vain the barren hillsides with their gay serapes blazed, Blazed and vanished in the dust-cloud that their flying hoofs had raised. Then the drum called from the rampart, and once more, with patient mien, The Commander and his daughter each took up the dull routine, — Each took up the petty duties of a life apart and lone, Till the slow years wrought a music in its dreary monotone. Forty years on wall and bastion swept the hollow idle breeze, Since the Russian eagle fluttered from the California seas ; Forty years on wall and bastion wrought its slow but sure decay, And St George's cross was lifted in the port of Monterey ; And the citadel was lighted, and the hall was gaily drest, All to honour Sir George Simpson, famous traveller and guest. Far and near the people gathered to the costly banquet set. And exchanged congratulations with the English baronet ; 8o Concepcion de Arguello. Till, the formal speeches ended, and amidst the laugh and wine. Some one spoke of Concha's lover, — heedless of the warning sign. Quickly then cried Sir George Simpson : " Speak no ill of him, I pray — He is dead. He died, poor fellow, forty years ago this day. " Died while speeding home to Russia, falling from a frac- tious horse. Left a sweetheart, too, they tell me. Married, I suppose, of course ! "Lives she yet?" A death4ike silence fell on banquet, guests, and hall, And a trembling figure rising fixed the awestruck gaze of alL Two black eyes in darkened orbits gleamed beneath the nun's white hood ; Black serge hid the wasted figure, bowed and stricken where it stood. " Lives she yet ? " Sir George repeated. All were hushed as Concha drew Closer yet her nun's attire. " Seiior, pardon, she died too ! " ( 8i ) " JTor m ming." (northern MEXICO, 1640.) As you look from the plaza at Leon west You can see her house, but the view is best From the porch of the church where she lies at rest. Where much of her past still Uves, I think, In the scowling brows and sidelong blink Of the worshipping throng that rise or sink To the waxen saints that, yellow and lank. Lean out from their niches, rank on rank. With a bloodless Saviour on either flank ; In the gouty pillars, whose cracks begin • To show the adoie core within, — A soul of earth in a whitewashed skin. And I think that the moral of all, you'll say, Is the sculptured legend that molds away On a tomb in the choir : " For el Rey." " For el Rey ! " Well, the king is gone Ages ago, and the Hapsburg one Shot — but the Rock of the Church lives on. VOL. I. F 82 ''For the King." " Por el Rey ! " What matters, indeed. If king or president succeed To a country haggard with sloth and greed, As long as one granary is fat, And yonder priest, in a shovel hat, Peeps out from the bin like a sleek brown rat ? What matters ? Nought, if it serves to bring The legend nearer, — no other thing, — We'll spare the moral, " Live the king ! " Two hundred years ago, they say, The Viceroy, Marquis of Monte-Rey, Rode with his retinue that way ; Grave, as befitted Spain's grandee. Grave, as the substitute should be Of His Most Catholic Majesty ; Yet, from his black plume's curving grace To his slim black gauntlet's smaller space, Exquisite as a piece of lace ! Two hundred years ago — e'en so — The Marquis stopped where the lime-trees blow, While Leon's seneschal bent him low. And begged that the Marquis would that night take His humble roof for the royal sake, And then, as the custom demanded, spake The usual wish, that his guest would hold The house, and all that it might enfold. As his — with the bride scarce three days old. ^'For the King." 83 Be sure that the Marquis, in his place, Replied to all with the measured grace Of chosen speech and unmoved face ; Nor raised his head till his black plume swept The hem of the lady's robe, who kept Her place, as her husband backward stept. And then (I know not how nor why) A subtle flame in the lady's eye — Unseen by the courtiers standing by — Burned through his lace and titled wreath, Burned through his body's jewelled sheath. Till it touched the steel of the man beneath ! (And yet, mayhap, no more was meant Than to point a well-worn compliment. And the lady's beauty, her worst intent.) Howbeit, the Marquis bowed again : "Who rules with awe well serveth Spain, But best whose law is love made plain.'' Be sure that night no pillow pressed The seneschal, but with the rest Watched, — as was due a royal guest, — Watched from the wall till he saw the square Fill with the moonlight, white and bare, — Watched till he saw two shadows fare Out from his garden, where the shade That the old church tower and belfry made Like a benedictory hand was laid. 84 ''For the King." Few words spoke the seneschal as he turned To his nearest sentry : " These monks have learned That stolen fruit is sweetly earned. " Myself shall punish yon acolyte Who gathers my garden grapes by night ; Meanwhile, wait thou till the morning light." Yet not till the sun was riding high Did the sentry meet his commander's eye, Nor then till the Viceroy stood by. To the lovers of grave formalities No greeting was ever so fine, I wis, As this host's and guest's high courtesies ! The seneschal feared, as the wind was west, A blast from Morena had chilled his rest ; The Viceroy languidly confessed That cares of state, and — he dared to say — Some fears that the King could not repay The thoughtful zeal of his host, some way Had marred his rest. Yet he trusted much None shared his wakefulness ; though such Indeed might be ! If he dared to touch A theme so fine — the bride, perchance, Still slept ! At least, they missed her glance To give this greeting countenance. Be sure that the seneschal, in turn, Was deeply bowed with the grave concern Of the painful news his guest should learn : "For the King." 85 '• Last night, to her father's dying bed By a priest was the lady summoned ; Nor know we yet how well she sped, " But hope for the best.'' The grave Viceroy (Though grieved his visit had such alloy) Must still wish the seneschal great joy Of a bride so true to her filial trust ! Yet now, as the day waxed on, they must To horse, if they'd 'scape the noonday dust. "Nay," said the seneschal, "at least, To mend the news of this funeral priest, Myself shall ride as your escort east.'' The Viceroy bowed. Then turned aside To his nearest follower : " With me ride — You and Felipe — on either side. " And list ! Should anything me befall. Mischance of ambush or musket-ball. Cleave to his saddle yon seneschal ! " No more." Then gravely in accents clear Took formal leave of his late good cheer ; Whiles the seneschal whispered a musketeer, Carelessly stroking his pommel top : " If from the saddle ye see me drop, Riddle me quickly yon solemn fop ! " So these, with many a compliment. Each on his own dark thought intent. With grave politeness onward went. 86 ''For the King" Riding high, and in sight of all, Viceroy, escort, and seneschal. Under the shade of the Almandral ; Holding their secret hard and fast, Silent and grave they ride at last Into the dusty travelled Past. Even like this they passed away Two hundred years ago to-day. What of the lady ? Who shall say ? Do the souls of the dying ever yearn To some favoured spot for the dust's return- For the homely peace of the family urn ? I know not. Yet did the seneschal. Chancing in after years to fall Pierced by a Flemish musket-ball. Call to his side a trusty friar. And bid him swear, as his last desire. To bear his corse to San Pedro's choir At Leon, where 'neath a shield azure Should his mortal frame find sepulture ; This much, for the pains Christ did endure. Be sure that the friar loyally Fulfilled his trust by land and sea, Till the spires of Leon silently Rose through the green of the Almandral, As if to beckon the seneschal To his kindred dust 'neath the choir wall. "For the King!' 87 I wot that the saints on either side Leaned from their niches open-eyed To see the doors of the church swing wide — That the wounds of the Saviour on either flank Bled fresh, as the mourners, rank by rank, Went by with the coffin, clank on clank. For why ? When they raised the marble door Of the tomb, untouched for years before, The friar swooned on the choir floor ; For there, in her laces and festal dress. Lay the dead man's wife, her loveliness Scarcely changed by her long duress ; As on the night she had passed away — Only that near her a dagger lay. With the written legend, " Per el Rey." What was their greeting — the- groom and bride, They whom that steel and the years divide ? I know not. Here they lie side by side. Side by side ! Though the king has his way. Even the dead at last have their day. Make you the moral. " Por el Rey ! " C 88 ) Eamon. (rEFUGIO mine, northern MEXICO.) Drunk and senseless in his place, Prone and sprawling on his face, More like brute than any man Alive or dead, — By his great pump out of gear, Lay the peon engineer. Waking only just to hear, Overhead, Angry tones that called his name. Oaths and cries of bitter blame — Woke to hear all this, and, waking, turned and fled ! "To the man who'll bring to me," Cried Intendant Harry Lee, — Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine, — " Bring the sot alive or dead, I will give to him," he said, " Fifteen hundred pesos down, Just to set the rascal's crown Underneath this heel of mine : Since but death Deserves the man whose deed. Be it vice or want of heed, Ramon. 89 Stops the pumps that give us breath, — Stops the pumps that suck the death From the poisoned lower levels of the mine ! " No one answered ; for a cry From the shaft rose up on high, And shuffling, scrambling, tumbling from below, Came the miners each, the bolder Mounting on the weaker's shoulder, Grappling, clinging to their hold or Letting go. As the weaker gasped and fell From the ladder to the well, — To the poisoned pit of hell Down below ! " To the man who sets them free," Cried the foreman, Harry Lee, — Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine, — " Brings them out and sets them free, I will give that man," said he, " Twice that sum, who with a rope Face to face with Death shall cope. Let him come who dares to hope ! " " Hold your peace ! " some one replied, Standing by the foreman's side ; " There has one already gone, whoe'er he be ! " Then they held their breath with awe. Pulling on the rope, and saw Fainting figures reappear. On the black rope swinging clear. Fastened by some skilful hand from below ; 90 Ramon. Till a score the level gained, And but one alone remained, — He the hero and the last, He whose skilful hand made fast The long line that brought them back to hope and cheer ! Haggard, gasping, down dropped he At the feet of Harry Lee, — Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine. "I have come," he gasped, "to claim Both -rewards. Senor, my name Is Ramon ! I'm the drunken engineer, I'm the coward, Senor — " Here He fell over, by that sign. Dead as stone ! ( 9T ) Don Diego of tfic @)Out!), (refectory, mission SAN GABRIEL, 1 869.) Good ! — said the Padre, — believe me still, " Don Giovanni," or what you will. The type's eternal ! We knew him here As Don Diego del Sud. I fear The story's no new one ! Will you hear ? One of those spirits you can't tell why God has permitted. Therein I Have the advantage, for / hold That wolves are sent to the purest fold. And we'd save the wolf if we'd get the lamb. You're no believer ? Good ! I am. Well, for some purpose, I grant you dim, The Don loved women, and they loved him. Each thought herself his last love ! Worst, Many believed that they were V\^ first ! And, such are these creatures since the Fall, The very doubt had a charm for all ! You laugh ! You are young, but 7— indeed I have no patience ... To proceed — You saw, as you passed through the upper town, The Eucinal where the road goes down 92 Don Diego of the South. To San Felipe ! There one morn They found Diego, — his mouth torn, And as many holes through his doublet's band As there were wronged husbands — you understand ! " Dying," so said the gossips. " Dead " Was what the friars who found him said. May be. Quien sabe 2 Who else should know — It was a hundred years ago. There was a funeral. Small indeed — Private. What would you ? To proceed : — Scarcely the year had flown. One night The Commandante awoke in fright. Hearing below his casement's bar The well-known twang of the Don's guitar ; And rushed to the window, just to see His wife a-swoon on the balcony. One week later, Don Juan Ramirez Found his own daughter, the Dona Inez, Pale as a ghost, leaning out to hear The song of that phantom cavalier. Even Alcalde Pedro Bias Saw, it was said, through his niece's glass, The shade of Diego twice repass. What these gentlemen each confessed Heaven and the Church only knows. At best The case was a bad one. How to deal With Sin as a Ghost, they couldn't but feel Was an awful thing. Till a certain Fray Humbly offered to show the way. Don Diego of the South. 93 And the way was this. Did I say before That the Fray was a stranger ? No, Seiior ? Strange ! very strange ! I should have said That the very week that the Don lay dead He came among us. Bread he broke Silent, nor ever to one he spoke. So he had vowed it ! Below his brows His face was hidden. There are such vows ! Strange ! are they not ? You do not use Snuff? A bad habit ! Well, the views Of the Fray was this : That the penance done By the caballeros was right ; but one Was due from the cause, and that, in brief. Was Donna Dolores Gomez, chief. And Inez, Sanchicha, Concepcion, And Carmen — Well, half the girls in town On his tablets the Friar had written down. These were to come on a certain day And ask at the hands of the pious Fray For absolution. That done, small fear But the shade of Diego would disappear. They came ; each knelt in her turn and place To the pious Fray with his hidden face And voiceless lips, and each again Took back her soul freed from spot or stain. Till the Dona Inez, with eyes downcast And a tear on their fringes, knelt her last. 94 Don Diego of the South. And then — perhaps that her voice was low From fear or from shame — the monks said so — But the Fray leaned forward, when, presto ! all Were thrilled by a scream, and saw her fall Fainting beside the confessional. And so was the ghost of Diego laid As the Fray had said. Never more his shade Was seen at San Gabriel's Mission. Ah ! The girl interests you ? I dare say ! " Nothing," said she, when they brought her to— " Only a faintness ! " They spoke more true Who said 'twas a stubborn soul. But then — Women are women and men are men ! So, to return. As I said before, Having got the wolf, by the same high law We saved the lamb in the wolf's own jaw, And that's my moral. The tale, I fear. But poorly told. Yet it strikes me here Is stuff for a moral. What's your view ? You smile, Don Pancho,— Ah ! that's like you ! ( 95 ) 3t tf)e ^acicnDa. Know I not whom thou mayst be Carved upon this olive tree — " Manuela of La Torre," For around on broken walls Summer sun and Spring rain falls, And in vain the low wind calls " Manuela of La Torre." Of that song no words remain But the musical refrain : " Manuela of La Torre." Yet at night, when winds are still, Tinkles on the distant hill A guitar, and words that thrill Tell to me the old, old story — Old when first thy charms were sung. Old when these old walls were young, " Manuela of La Torre." ( 96 ) jTriar pcUro'0 EiDe. It was the morning season of the year ; It was the morning era of the land ; The watercourses rang full loud and clear ; Portala's cross stood where Portala's hand Had planted it when Faith was taught 'by Fear, When monks and missions held the sole command Of all that shore beside the peaceful sea, Where spring-tides beat their long-drawn reveille. . Out of the Mission of San Luis Rey, All in that brisk, tumultuous spring weather, Rode Friar Pedro, in a pious way, With six dragoons in cuirasses of leather, Each armed alike for either prayer or fray. Handcuffs and missals they had slung together ; And as in aid the gospel truth to scatter Each swung a lasso — alias a "riata.'' In sooth, that year the harvest had been slack, The crop of converts scarce worth computation ; Some souls were lost, whose owners had turned back To save their bodies frequent flagellation ; And some preferred the songs of birds, alack ! To Latin matins and their soul's salvation. And thought their own wild whoopings were less dreary Than Father Pedro's droning miserere. Fi'iai" Pedro s Ride. 97 To bring them back to matins and to prime, To pious works and secular submission, To prove to them tliat liberty was crime, — This was, in fact, the Padre's present mission ; To get new souls perchance at the same time. And bring them to a " sense their condition " — That easy phrase, which, in the past and present. Means making that condition most unpleasant. He saw the glebe land guiltless of a furrow ; He saw the wild oats wrestle on the hill ; He saw the gopher working in his burrow ; He saw the squirrel scampering at his will ; — He saw all this and felt no doubt a thorough And deep conviction of God's goodness ; still He failed to see that in His glory He Yet left the humblest of Flis creatures free. He saw the flapping crow, whose frequent note Voiced the monotony of land and sky. Mocking with graceless wing and rusty coat His priestly presence as he trotted by. He would have cursed the bird by bell and rote. But other game just then was in his eye — A savage camp, whose occupants preferred Their heathen darkness to the living Word. He rang his bell, and at the martial sound Twelve silver spurs their jingling rowels clashed ; Six horses sprang across the level ground As six dragoons in open order dashed ; Above their heads the lassos circled round, In every eye a pious fervour flashed ; vol,. I. G 98 Friar Pedro's Ride. They charged the camp, and in one moment more They lassoed six and reconverted four. The Friar saw the conflict from a knoll, And sang Laus Deo and cheered on his men : " Well thrown, Bautista — that's another soul ; After him, Gomez — try it once again ; This way, Felipe — there the heathen stole ; Bones of St. Francis ! — surely that makes te7i ; Te deum laudamus — but they're very wild ; Non nobis dominus — all right, my child ! " When at that moment — as the story goes — A certain squaw, who had her foes eluded, Ran past the Friar — ^just before his nose. He stared a moment, and in silence brooded, Then in his breast a pious frenzy rose And every other prudent thought excluded ; He caught a lasso, and dashed in a canter After that Occidental Atalanta. High o'er his head he swirled the dreadful noose. But, as the practice was quite unfamiliar, His first cast tore Felipe's captive loose And almost choked Tiburcio Camilla, And might have interfered with that brave youth's Ability to gorge the tough tortilla ; But all things come by practice, and at last His flying slip-knot caught the maiden fast. Then rose above the plain a mingled yell Of rage and triumph — a demoniac whoop ; The Padre heard it like a passing knell, And would have loosened his unchristian loop ; Friar Pedro's Ride. 99 But the tough raw-hide held the captive well, And held, alas ! too well the captor-dupe ; For with one bound the savage fled amain, Dragging horse, Friar, down the lonely plain. Down the arroyo, out across the mead, By heath and hollow, sped the flying maid, Dragging behind her still the panting steed And helpless Friar, who in vain essayed To cut the lasso or to check his speed. He felt himself beyond all human aid, And trusted to the saints — and, for that matter. To some weak spot in Felipe's riata. Alas ! the lasso had been duly blessed. And, like baptism, held the flying wretch — A doctrine that the priest had oft expressed — Which, like the lasso, might be made to stretch But would not break ; so neither could divest Themselves of it, but, like some awful fetch. The holy Friar had to recognise The image of his fate in heathen guise. He saw the glebe land guiltless of a furrow ; He saw the wild oats wrestle on the hill ; He saw the gopher standing in his burrow ; He saw the squirrel scampering at his will ; — He saw all this, and felt no doubt how thorough The contrast was to his condition ; still The squaw kept onward to the sea, till night And the cold sea-fog hid them both from sight. The morning came above the serried coast, Lighting the snow-peaks with its beacon fires, lOO Friar Pedro s Ride. Driving before it all the fleet-winged host Of chattering birds above the Mission spires, Filling the land with light and joy— but most The savage woods with all their leafy lyres ; In pearly tints and opal flame and fire The morning came, but not the holy Friar. Weeks passed away. In vain the Fathers sought Some trace or token that might tell his story ; Some thought him dead, or, like Elijah, caught Up to the heavens in a blaze of glory. In this surmise some miracles were wrought On his account, and souls in purgatory Were thought to profit from his intercession ; In brief, his absence made a "deep impression." A twelvemonth passed ; the welcome Spring once more Made green the hills beside the white-faced Mission, Spread her bright dais by the western shore, And sat enthroned — a most resplendent vision. The heathen converts thronged the chapel door At morning mass, when, says the old tradition, A frightful whoop throughout the church resounded, And to their feet the congregation bounded. A tramp of hoofs upon the beaten course, Then came a sight that made the bravest quail : A phantom Friar on a spectre horse. Dragged by a creature decked with horns and tail. By the lone Mission, with the whirlwind's force. They madly swept, and left a sulphurous trail — And that was all — enough to tell the story And leave unblessed those souls in purgatory. Friar Pedro s Ride. loi And ever after, on that fatal day That Friar Pedro rode abroad lassoing, A ghostly couple came and went away With savage whoop and heathenish hallooing, Which brought discredit on San Luis Rey, And proved the Mission's ruin and undoing ; For ere ten years had passed, the squaw and Friar Performed to empty walls and fallen spire. The Mission is no more ; upon its walls The golden lizards slip, or breathless pause Still as the sunshine brokenly that falls Through crannied roof and spider-webs of gauze ; No more the bell its solemn warning calls — A holier silence thrills and overawes ; And the sharp lights and shadows of to-day Outline the Mission of San Luis Rey. ( 102 ) 3!n tl)e S^ig^ion c^arUen. (1865.) FATHER FELIPE. I SPEAK not the English well, but Pachita She speak for me ; is it not so, my Pancha ? Eh, little rogue ? Come, salute me the stranger Americano. Sir, in my country we say, " Where the heart is, There live the speech." Ah ! you not understand? So! Pardon an old man, — what you call " ol fogy," — Padre Felipe ! Old, Senor, old ! just so old as the Mission. You see that pear-tree ? How old you think, Seiior ? Fifteen year? Twenty? Ah, Senor, just y^ Gone since I plant him ! You like the wine ? It is some at the Mission, Made from the grape of the year Eighteen Hundred ; All the same time when the earthquake he come to San Juan Bautista. But Pancha is twelve, and she is the rose-tree ; And I am the olive, and this is the garden : And Pancha we say ; but her name is Francisca, Same like her mother. In the Mission Garden. 103 Eh, you knew herl No? Ah ! it is a story; But I speak not, like Pachita, the English : So ! if I try, you will sit here beside me, And shall not laugh, eh ? When the American come to the Mission, Many arrive at the house of Francisca : One, — he was fine man, — he buy the cattle Of Josd Castro. So ! he came much, and Francisca she saw him : And it was love, — and a very dry season ; And the pears bake on the tree, — and the rain come, But not Francisca. Not for one year ; and one night I have walk much Under the olive-tree, when comes Francisca, — Comes to me here, with her child, this Francisca, — Under the olive-tree. Sir, it was sad ; . . . but I speak not the English ; So ! . . . she stay here, and she wait for her husband : He come no more, and she sleep on the hillside ; There stands Pachita. Ah ! there's the-Angelus. Will you not enter? Or shall you walk in the garden with Pancha ? Go, little rogue — sit — attend to the stranger. Adios, Senor. PACHIT.\ (briskly). So, he's been telling that yarn about mother ! Bless you ! he tells it to every stranger : Folks about yer say the old man's my father ; What's your opinion ? ( I04 ) Cfie lo0t dalleon. In sixteen hundred and forty-one, The regular yearly galleon, Laden with odorous gums and spice, India cottons and India rice, And the richest silks of far Cathay, Was due at Acapulco Bay. Due she was, and over-due, — Galleon, merchandise, and crew, Creeping along through rain and shine. Through the tropics, under the line. The trains were waiting outside the walls, The wives of sailors thronged the town, The traders sat by their empty stalls, And the Viceroy himself came down ; The bells in the tower were all a-trip, Te Deunis were on each Father's lip, The limes were ripening in the sun For the sick of the coming galleon. All in vain. Weeks passed away. And yet no galleon saw the bay : India goods advanced in price ; The Governor missed his favourite spice ; The Senoritas mourned for sandal And the famous cottons of Coromandel ; The Lost Galleon. 1 05 And some for an absent lover lost, And one for a husband, — Donna Julia, Wife of the captain tempest-tossed, In circumstances so peculiar : Even the Fathers, unawares. Grumbled a little at their prayers ; And all along the coast that year Votive candles were scarce and dear. Never a tear bedims the eye That time and patience will not dry ; Never a lip is curved with pain That can't be kissed into smiles again ; And these same truths, as far as I know, Obtained on the coast of Mexico More than two hundred years ago, In sixteen hundred and fifty-one, — Ten years after the deed was done, — And folks had forgotten the galleon : The divers plunged in the gulf for pearls, White as the teeth of the Indian girls ; The traders sat by their full bazaars ; The mules with many a weary load. And oxen, dragging their creaking cars, Came and went on the mountain road. Where was the galleon all this while ? Wrecked on some lonely coral isle. Burnt by the roving sea-marauders, Or sailing north under secret orders ? Had she found the Anian passage famed, By lying Moldonado claimed, And sailed through the sixty-fifth degree Direct to the North Atlantic Sea? io6 The Lost Galleon. Or had she found the " River of Kings," Of which De Fonte told such strange things ? In sixteen forty ! Never a sign. East or west or under the line, They saw of the missing galleon ; Never a sail or plank or chip They found of the long-lost treasure-ship, Or enough to build a tale upon. But when she was lost, and where and how. Are the facts we're coming to just now. Take, if you please, the chart of that day, Published at Madrid, — -por el Rey ; Look for a spot in the old South Sea, The hundred and eightieth degree Longitude west of Madrid : there, Under the equatorial glare. Just where the east and west are one. You'll find the missing galleon, — You'll find the " San Gregorio," yet Riding the seas, with sails all set. Fresh as upon the very day She sailed from Acapulco Bay. How did she get there ? What strange spell Kept her two hundred years so well, Free from decay and mortal taint ? What but the prayers of a patron saint ! A hundred leagues from Manilla town, The " San Gregorio's " helm came down ; Round she went on her heel, and not A cable's length from a galliot That rocked on the waters just abreast Of the galleon's course, which was west-sou- west. The Lost Galleon. 107 Then said the galleon's commandante, General Pedro Sobriente (That was his rank on land and main, A regular custom of Old Spain), " My pilot is dead of scurvy : may I ask the longitude, time, and day ? " The first two given and compared ; The third, — the commandante stared ! " Ths. first of June ? I make it second." Said the stranger, " Then you've wrongly-reckoned ; I make \t first : as you came this way, You should have lost, d'ye see, a day ; Lost a day, as plainly see, On the hundred and eightieth degree." ".Lost a day ? " " Yes ; if not rude. When did you make east longitude ? " " On the ninth of May, — our patron's day." " On the ninth ? — you had no ninth of May ! Eighth and tenth was there ; but stay " — Too late ; for the galleon bore away. Lost was the day they should have kept. Lost unheeded and lost unwept ; Lost in a way that made search vain. Lost in a trackless and boundless main ; Lost like the day of Job's awful curse, In his third chapter, third and fourth verse ; Wrecked was their patron's only day, — What would the holy Fathers say ? Said the Fray Antonio Estavan, The galleon's chaplain, — a learned man,- io8 The Lost Galleon. " Nothing is lost that you can regain ; And the way to look for a thing is plain, To go where you lost it, back again. Back with your galleon till you see The hundred and eightieth degree. Wait till the rolling year goes round. And there will the missing day be found ; For you'll find — if computation's true — That sailing east will give to you Not only one ninth of May, but two, — One for the good saint's present cheer^ And one for the day we lost last year." Back to the spot sailed the galleon ; Where, for a twelvemonth, off and on The hundred and eightieth degree She rose and fell on a tropic sea. But lo ! when it came to the ninth of May, All of a sudden becalmed she lay One degree from that fatal spot. Without the power to move a knot ; And of course the moment she lost her way. Gone was her chance to save that day. To cut a lengthening story short. She never saved it. Made the sport Of evil spirits and baffling wind, She was always before or. just behind. One day too soon, or one day too late, And the sun, meanwhile, would never wait. She had two eighths, as she idly lay. Two tenths, but never a ninth of May \ The Lost Galleon. 109 And there she rides through two hundred years Of dreary penance and anxious fears ; Yet, through the grace of the saint she served, Captain and crew are still preserved. By a computation that still holds good. Made by the Holy Brotherhood, The " San Gregorio " will cross that line In nineteen hundred and thirty-nine : Just three hundred years to a day From the time she lost the ninth of May. And the folk in Acapulco town. Over the waters looking down, Will see in the glow of the setting sun The sails of the missing galleon, And the royal standard of Philip Rey, The gleaming mast and glistening spar. As she nears the surf of the outer bar. A Te Deum sung on her crowded deck. An odour of spice along the shore, A crash, a cry from a shattered wreck, — And the yearly galleon sails no more In or out of the olden bay ; For the blessed patron has found his day. Such is the legend. Hear this truth : Over the trackless past, somewhere, Lie the lost days of our tropic youth, Only regained by faith and prayer, Only recalled by prayer and plaint : Each lost day has its patron saint ! IN DIALECT. ( 113 ) VOL. I. Say there ! P'r'aps Some on you chaps Might know Jim Wild ? Well, — no offence : Thar ain't no sense In gittin' riled ! Jim was my chum Up on the Bar : That's why I come Down from up yar, Lookin' for Jim. Thank ye, sir ! You Ain't of that crew, — Blest if you are ! Money ? — Not much : That ain't my kind : I ain't no such. Rum ? — I don't mind, Seein' it's you. Well, this yer Jim, Did you know him ? — 114 ''Jim. Jess 'bout your size ; Same kind of eyes ; — Well, that is strange : Why, it's two year Since he came here. Sick, for a change. Well, here's to us : Eh? The h you say ! Dead? That little cuss ? What makes you star, — You over thar ? Can't a man drop 's glass in yer shop But you must rar' ? It wouldn't take D much to break You and your bar. Dead! Poor— little— Jim ! Why, thar was me, Jones, and Bob Lee, Harry and Ben,^ — No-account men : Then to take him ! Well, thar— Good by,— No more, sir, — I — Eh? What's that you say? — "Jim" 115 Why, dern it ! — sho ! — No ? Yes ! By Joe 1 Sold! Sold ! Why, you limb, You ornery. Darned old Long-legged Jim ! ( ii6 ) Cfjiquita, Beautiful ! Sir, you may say so. Thar isn't her match in the county. Is thar, old gal, — Chiquita, my darling, my beauty ? Feel of that neck, sir, — thar's velvet ! Whoa ! steady, — ah, will you, you vixen ! Whoa ! I say. Jack, trot her out ; let the gentleman look at her paces. Morgan ! — she ain't nothing else, and I've got the papers to prove it. Sired by Chippewa Chief, and twelve hundred dollars won't buy her. Briggs of Tuolumne owned her. Did you know Briggs of Tuolumne ? — Busted hisself in White Pine, and blew out his brains down in 'Frisco ? Hedn't no savey — ^hed Briggs. Thar, Jack ! that'll do, — quit that foolin' ! Nothin' to what she kin do, when she's got her work cut out before her. Hosses is bosses, you know, and likewise, too, jockeys is jockeys : And 'tain't eVry man as can ride as knows what a boss has got in him. Chiquita. 1 1 7 Know the old ford on the Fork, that nearly got Flanigan's leaders ? Nasty in daylight, you bet, and a mighty rough ford in low water ! Well, it ain't six weeks ago that me and the Jedge and his nevey Struck for that ford in the night, in the rain, and the water all round us : Up to our flanks in the gulch, and Rattlesnake Creek just a bilin', Not a plank left in the dam, and nary a bridge on the river. I had the grey, and the Jedge had his roan, and his nevey, Chiquita ; And after us trundled the rocks jest loosed from the top of the canon. Lickity, lickity, switch, we came to the ford, and Chiquita Buckled right down to her work, and afore I could yell to her rider, Took water jest at the ford, and there was the Jedge and me standing, And twelve hundred dollars of hoss-flesh afloat, and a driftin' to thunder ! Would ye b'lieve it? that night that hoss, that ar' filly, Chiquita, Walked herself into her stall, and stood there, all quiet and dripping : Clean as a beaver or rat, with nary a buckle of harness, Just as she swam the Fork, — that hoss, that ar' filly, Chiquita. 1 1 8 Chiquita. That's what I call a hoss ! and — What did you say ? — Oh, the nevey ? Drownded, I reckon, — leastways, he never kem back to deny it. Ye see the derned fool had no seat, — ye couldn't have made him a rider ; And then, ye know, boys will be boys, and bosses — well, bosses is bosses ! ( 119 ) Doto'fi jTlat. (1856.) Dow's Flat. That's its name ; And I reckon that you Are a stranger ? The same ? Well, I thought it was true, — For thar isn't a man on the river as can't spot the place at first view. It was called after Dow, — Which the same was an ass, — And as to the how Thet the thing kem to pass, — Jest tie up your hoss to that buckeye, and sit ye down here in the grass. You see this 'yer Dow Hed the worst kind of luck ; He slipped up somehow On each thing thet he struck. Why, ef he'd a straddled thet fence-rail, the derned thing 'ed get up and buck. He mined on the bar Till he couldn't pay rates ; I20 Dows Flat. He was smashed by a car When he tunnelled with Bates ; And right on the top of his trouble kem his wife and five kids from the States. It was rough, — mighty rough ; But the boys they stood by, And they brought him the stuff For a house, on the sly ; And the old woman, — well, she did washing, and took on when rio one was nigh. But this 'yer luck of Dow's Was so powerful mean That the spring near his house Dried right up on the green ; And he sunk forty feet down for water, but nary a drop to be seen. Then the bar petered out, And the boys wouldn't stay ; And the chills got about. And his wife fell away ; But Dow in his well kept a peggin' in his usual ridikilous way. One day. — it was June,— And a year ago, jest — This Dow kem at noon To his work like the rest, With a shovel and pick on his shoulder, and a derringer hid in his breast. Dow's Flat. 121 He goes to the well, And he stands on the brink, And stops for a spell Jest to listen and think ; For the sun in his eyes (jest like this, sir !), you see, kinder made the cuss blink. His two ragged gals In the gulch were atplay, And a gownd that was Sal's Kinder flapped on a bay : Not much for a man to be leavin', but his all, — as I've heer'd the folks say. And — That's a peart hoss Thet you've got, — ain't it now ? What might be her cost ? Eh? Oh !— Well, then, Dow- Let's see, — well, that forty-foot grave wasn't his, sir, that day, anyhow. For a blow of his pick Sorter caved in the side, And he looked and turned sick, ^ Then he trembled and cried. For you see the dern cuss had struck — " Water ? " — Beg your parding, young man, — there you lied ! It was gold, — in the quartz, And it ran all alike ; And I reckon five oughts Was the worth of that strike ; And that house with the coopilow's his'n,— which the same isn't bad for a Pike. 122 Dow's Flat. Thet's why it's Dow's Flat ; And the thing of it is That he kinder got that Through sheer contrairiness : For 'twas water the derned cuss was seekin', and his luck made him certain to miss. Thet's so ! Thar's your way, To the left of yon tree ; But — a — look h'yur, say ? Won't you come up to tea ? No? Well, then the next time you're passin'; and ask after Dow, — and thet's me. ( 123 ) 3In tIje'Cunncl. Didn't know Flynn, — Flynn of Virginia, — Long as he's been 'yar ? Look 'ee here, stranger, Whar hev you been ? Here in this tunnel He was my pardner, That same Tom Flynn, — Working together. In wind and weather. Day out and in. Didn't know Flynn ! Well, that is queer ; Why, it's a sin To think of Tom Flynn, - Tom with his cheer, Tom without fear, — Stranger, look 'yar ! Thar in the drift, Back to the wall, He held the timbers Ready to fall ; 124 I^ i^ Tunnel. Then in the darkness I heard him call : " Run for your life, Jake ! Run for your wife's sake ! Don't wait for me." And that was all Heard in the din, Heard of Tpm Flynn, — Flynn of Virginia. That's all about Flynn of Virginia. That lets me out. Here in the damp, — Out of the sun, — That 'ar derned lamp Makes my eyes run. Well, there,— I'm done ! But, sir, when you'll Hear the next fool Asking of Flynn, — Flynn of Virginia, — Just you chip in, Say you knew Flynn ; Say that you've been 'yar. ( 125 ) " Cicelg." (alkali station.) Cicely says you're a poet ; maybe, — I ain't much on rhyme: 1 reckon you'd give me a hundred, and beat me every time. Poetry ! — that's the way some chaps puts up an idee, But I takes mine "straight without sugar,'' and that's what's the matter with me. Poetry ! — just look round you, — alkali, rock, and sage ; Sage-brush, rock, and alkali ; ain't it a pretty page ! Sun in the east at mornin', sun in the west at night, And the shadow of this yer station the on'y thing moves in sight. Poetry ! — Well now — Polly ! Polly, run to your mam ; Run right away, my pooty ! . By-by ! Ain't she a lamb ? Poetry ! — that reminds me o' suthin' right in that suit : Jest shet that door thar, will yer ? — for Cicely's ears is cute. Ye noticed Polly, — the baby ? A month afore she was born, Cicely — my old woman — was moody-like and forlorn ; Out of her head and crazy, and talked of flowers and trees ; Family man yourself, sir ? Well, you know what a woman he's. 126 "Cicely" Narvous she was, and restless, — said that she "couldn't stay." Stay ! — and the nearest woman seventeen miles away. But I fixed it up with the doctor, and he said he would be on hand, And I kinder stuck by the shanty, and fenced in that bit o' land. One night, — the tenth of October, — I woke with a chill and a fright, For the door it was standing open, and Cicely warn't in sight, But a note was pinned on the blanket, which it said that she " couldn't stay," But had gone to visit her neighbour, — seventeen miles away ! When and how she stampeded, I didn't wait for to see. For out in the road, next minit, I started as wild as she ; Running first this way and that way, like a hound that is off the scent. For there warn't no track in the darkness to tell me the way she went. I've had some mighty mean moments afore I kem to this spot, — Lost on the Plains in '50, drownded almost and shot ; But out on this alkali desert, a hunting a crazy wife, Was ra'ly as on-satis-factory as anything in my life. "Cicely ! Cicely ! Cicely ! " I called, and I held my breath. And " Cicely !" came from the canyon, — and all was as still as death. "Cicely." 127 And " Cicely ! Cicely ! Cicely ! " came from the rocks below, And jest but a whisper of " Cicely ! " down from them peaks of snow. I ain't what you call religious, — but I jest looked up to the sky, And — this yer's to what I'm coming, and maybe ye think Hie: But up away to the east'ard, yaller and big and far, I saw of a suddent rising the singlerist kind of star. Big and yaller and dancing, it seemed to beckon to me : Yaller and big and dancing, such as you never see : Big and yaller and dancing, — I never saw such a star. And I thought of them sharps in the Bible, and I went for it then and thar. Over the brush and bowlders I stumbled and pushed ahead ; Keeping the star afore me, I went wharever it led. it might hev been for an hour, when suddent and peart and nigh. Out of the yearth afore me thar riz up a baby's cry. Listen ! thar's the same music ; but her lungs they are stronger now Than the day I packed her and her mother, — I'm derned if I jest know how. But the doctor kem the next minit, and the joke o' the whole thing is That Cis never knew what happened from that very night to this ! 128 ''Cicely:' But Cicely says you're a poet, and maybe you might, some da^, Jest sling her a rhyme 'bout a baby that was born in a curious way, And see what she says ; and, old fellow, when you speak of the star, don't tell As how 'twas the doctor's lantern, — for maybe 'twon't sound so well. ( 129 ) (Simpson's bar, 1858.) So you've kern 'yer agen, And one answer won't do ? Well, of all the derned men That I've struck, it is you. O Sal ! 'yer's that derned fool from Simpson's, cavortin' round 'yer in the dew. Kem in, ef you will. Thar, — quit ! Take a cheer. Not that ; you can't fill Them theer cushings this year, — For that cheer was my old man's, Joe Simpsoo, and they don't make such men about 'yer. He was tall, was my Jack, And as strong as a tree. Thar's his gun on the rack, — Jest you heft it, and see, And you come a courtin' his widder ! Lord ! where can that critter, Sal, be ! VOL. I. I 1 30 Penelope. You'd fill my Jack's place ? And a man of your size, — With no baird to his face, Nor a snap to his eyes, And nary — Sho ! thar ! I was foolin', — I was, Joe, for sar- tain, — don't rise. Sit down. Law ! why, sho ! I'm as weak as a gal. Sal ! Don't you go, Joe, Or I'll faint, — sure, I shall. Sit down, — anywheer, where you like, Joe, — in that cheer, if you choose, — Lord ! where's Sal ? ( 131 ) plain language from Crutfiful 3Iame0. (table mountain, 1870.) Which I wish to remark, And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar. Which the same I would rise to explain. Ah Sin was his name ; And I shall not deny, In regard to the same, What that name might imply ; But his smile it was pensive and childlike. As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. It was August the third. And quite soft was the skies ; Which it might be inferred That Ah Sin was likewise ; Yet he played it that day upon William And me in a way I despise. 132 Plain Language from Truthful James. Which we had a small game, And Ah Sin took a hand : It was Euchre. The same He did not understand ; But he smiled as he sat by the table, With the smile that was childlike and bland. Yet the cards they were stocked In a way that I grieve. And my feelings were shocked At the state of Nye's sleeve, Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers. And the same with intent to deceive. But the hands that were played By that heathen Chinee, And the points that he made, Were quite frightful to see, — Till at last he put down a right bower. Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. Then I looked up at Nye, And he gazed upon me ; And he rose with a sigh, And said, " Can this be ? We are ruined by Chinese cheap labour,"— And he went for that heathen Chinee. In the scene that ensued I did not take a hand. But the floor it was strewed Like the leaves on the strand With the cards that Ah sin had been hiding, In the game "he did not understand." Plain Language from Truthful James, i In his sleeves, which were long, He had twenty-four packs, — Which was coming it strong, Yet I state but the facts ; And we found on his nails, which were taper. What is frequent in tapers, — that's wax. Which is why I remark. And my language is plain. That for ways that are dark And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar, — Which the same I am free to maintain. ( 134 ) Cfte ©ociet^ upon tfje ®tam0lau0. I RESIDE at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James ; I am not up to small deceit or any sinful games ; ; — , And I'll tell in simple language what I know about the irow That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow. But first I would remark, that it, is not a proper plan ■For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man, And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim, To lay for that same member for to " put a head " on him. Now nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see Than the first six months' proceedings of that same Society, Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones. Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there. From those same bohes, an animal that was extremely rare ; And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the rules, Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules. The Society upon the Stanislaus. 135 Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at fault, It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault ; He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown, And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town. Now I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent To say another is an ass, — at least, to all intent ; Nor should the individual who happens to be meant Reply by heaving rocks at him, to any great extent. Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order, when A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen"^ And.he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor, And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more. For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage In a warfare with the remnants of a palaeozoic age ; And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin, Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in. And this is all I have to say of these improper games, For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James ; And I've told in simple language what I knew about the row That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow. ( 136 ) (in the COLORADO PARK, 1 87 3.) Wot's that you're readin' ? — a novel ? A novel ! — well darn my skin ! You a man grown and bearded and histin' such stuff ez that in — Stuff about gals and their sweethearts ! No wonder you're thin ez a knife. Look at me ! — clar two hundred — and never read one in my life ! That's my opinion o' novels. And ez to their lyin' round here, They belong to the Jedge's daughter — the Jedge who came up last year On account of his lungs and the mountains and the balsam o' pine and fir ; And his daughter — well, she read novels, and that's what's the matter with her. Yet she was sweet on the Jedge, and stuck by him day and night, Alone in the cabin up 'yer — till she grew like a ghost, all white. She wus only a slip of a thing, ez light and ez up and away Ez rifle smoke blown through the woods, but she wasn't my kind — no way ! Luke. 137 Speakin' o' gals, d'ye mind that house ez you rise the hill, A mile and a half from White's, and jist above Mattingly's mill? You do ? Well now that's a gal 1 What ! you saw her ? Oh, come now, thar ! quit ! She was only bedevlin' you boys, for to me she don't cotton one bit. Now she's what I call a gal — ez pretty and plump ez a quail ; Teeth ez white ez a hound's, and they'd go through a ten- penny nail ; Eyes that kin snap like a cap. So she asked to know " whar I was hid ? " She did ! Oh, it's jist like her sass, for she's peart ez a Katydid. But what vyas I talking of? — Oh ! the Jedge and his daughter — she read Novels the whole day long, and I reckon she read them abed ; And'sometimeiB she read them out loud to the Jedge on the porch where he sat, And 'twas how " Lord Augustus " said this, and how " Lady Blanche " she said that. But the sickest of all that I heerd was a yarn thet they read 'bout a chap, " Leather-stocking " by name, and a hunter chock full o' the greenest o' sap ; 1 38 Luke. And they asked me to hear, but I says, " Miss Mabel, not any for me ; When I likes I kin sling my own lies, and thet chap and I shouldn't agree." Yet somehow or other she was always sayin' I brought her to mind Of folks about whom she had read, or suthin belike of thet kind. And thar warn't no end o' the names that she give me thet summer up here — "Robin Hood," " Leather-stocking," "Rob Roy,"— Oh, I tell you, the critter was queer ! And yet, ef she hadn't been spiled, she was harmless enough in her way ; She could jabber in French to her dad, and they said that she knew how to play ; And she worked me that shot-pouch up thar, which the man doesn't live ez kin use ; And slippers — you see 'em down 'yer — ez would cradle an Injin's papoose. Yet along o' them novels, you see, she was wastin' and mopin' away. And then she got shy with her tongue, and at last had nothin' to say ; And whenever I happened around, her face it was hid by a book, And it warn't until she left that she give me ez much ea a look. Luke. 139 And this was the way it was. It was night when I kem up . here To say to 'em all "good-bye," for I reckoned to go for deer At "sun up " the day they. left. So I shook 'em all round by the hand, 'Cept Mabel, and she was sick, ez they give me to under- stand. But jist ez I passed the house next morning at dawn, some one. Like a little waver o' mist got up on the hill with the sun ; Miss Mabel it was, alone — all wrapped in a mantle o' lace — And she stood there straight in the road, with a touch o' the sun in her face. And she looked me right in the eye — I'd seen suthin like it before When I hunted a wounded doe to the edge o' the Clear Lake Shore, And I had my knee on its neck, and jist was raisin' my knife, When it give me a look like that, and — well, it got off with its life. * " We are going to-day," she said, " and I thought I would say good-bye To you in your own house, Luke — these woods and the bright blue sky ! You've always been kind to us, Luke, and papa has found you still As good as the air he breathes, and wholesome as Laurel Tree Hill. 140 L^ike. "And we'll always think of you, Luke, as the thing we could not take away, — ■ The balsam that dwells in the woods, the rainbow that Uves in the spray. And you'll sometimes think of ine, Luke, as you know you once used to say, A rifle smoke blown through the woods, a moment, but never to stay." And then we shook hands. She turned, but a-suddent she tottered and fell, And I caught her sharp by the waist, and held her a minit. Well, It was only a minit, you know, thet ez cold and ez white she lay Ez a snowflake here on my breast, and then^well, she melted away— And was gone . . . And thar are her books ; but I says not any for me ; Good enough may be for some, but them and I mightn't agree. They spiled a decent gal ez might hev made some chap a wife, And look at me ! — clar two hundred — and never read one in my life ! ( 141 ) "Clje TdnUff in tlje COooti0." (big pine flat, 187 1.) " Something characteristic," eh ? Humph ! I reckon you mean by that Something that happened in our way, Here at the crossin' of Big Pine Flat. Times aren't now as they used to be. When gold was flush and the boys were frisky, And a man would pull out his battery For anything — maybe the price of whisky. Nothing of that sort, eh ? That's strange ! Why, I thought you might be diverted Hearing how Jones of Red Rock Range Drawedhis "hint to the unconverted," And saying, " Whar will you have it ? " shot Cherokee Bob at the last debating ! What was the question I forgot. But Jones didn't like Bob's way of stating. Nothing of that kind, eh ? You mean Something milder ? Let's see ! — O Joe ! Tell to the stranger that little scene Out of the " Babes in the Woods." You know. 142 '''The Babes in the Woods." " Babes " was the name that we gave 'em, sir, Two lean lads in their teens, and greener Than even the belt of spruce and fir Where they built their nest, and each day grew leaner. No one knew where they came from. None Cared to ask if they had a mother. Runaway scholboys, maybe. One Tall and dark as a spruce ; the other Blue and gold in the eyes and hair. Soft and low in his speech, but rarely Talking with us ; and we didn't care To get at their secret at all unfairly. For they were so quiet, so sad and shy, Content to trust each other solely. That somehow we'd always shut one eye. And never seem to observe them wholly As, they passed to their work. 'Twas a worn-out claim, And it paid them grub. They could live with- out it, For the boys had a way of leaving game In their tent, and forgetting all about it. Yet no one asked for their secret. Dumb It lay in their big eyes' heavy hollows. It was understood that no one should come To their tent unawares, save the bees and swallows. So they lived alone. Until one warm night I was sitting here at the tent-door, — so, sir ! When out of the sunset's rosy light Up rose the Sheriff of Mariposa. ''The Babes in the Woods" 143 I knew at once there was something wrong, For his hand and his voice shook just a little, And there isn't much you can fetch along To make the sinews of Jack Hill brittle. " Go warn the Babes !" he whispered, hoarse ; " Tell I'm coming — to get and scurry ; For I've got a story that's bad, — and worse, I've got a warrant : G — d d — n it, hurry ! " Too late ! they had seen him cross the hill ; I ran to their tent and found them lying Dead in each other's arms, and still Clasping the drug they had taken flying. And there lay their secret cold and bare, Their life, their trial — the old, old story I For the sweet blue eyes and the golden hair Was a woman's shame and a woman's glory. " Who were they? " Ask no more, or ask The sun that visits their grave so lightly ; Ask of the whispering reeds, or task The mourning crickets that chirrup nightly. All of their life but its love forgot. Everything tender and soft and mystic, These are our Babes in the Woods, — you've got. Well — human nature — that's characteristic. (144 ) Cije latesft C!)ine0e Outrage. It was noon by the sun ; we had finished our game, And was passin' remarks goin' back to our claim ; Jones was countin' his chips, Smith relievin' his mind Of ideas that a " straight " should beat " three of a kind," When Johnson of Elko came gallopin' down, With a look on his face 'twixt a grin and a frOwn, And he calls, " Drop your shovels and face right about, For them Chinees from Murphy's are cleanin' us out — With their ching-a-ring-chow And their chic-colorow They're bent upon making No slouch of a row.'' Then Jones — my own pardner — looks up with a sigh " It's your wash-bill," sez he, and I answers, "You lie ! " But afore he could draw or the others could arm, Up tumbles the Bates' boys, who heard the alarm. And a yell from the hill-top and roar of a gong, Mixed up with remarks like " Hi ! yi ! Chang-a-wong," And bombs, shells, and crackers, that crashed through the trees. Revealed in their war-togs four hundred Chinees ! Four hundred Chinee ; We are eight, don't ye see ! That made a square fifty To just one o' we. The Latest Chinese Outrage. 145 They were dressed in their best, but I grieve that that same Was largely made up of our own, to their shame ; And my pardner's best shirt and his trousers were hung On a spear, and above him were tauntingly swung ; While that beggar, Chey Lee, like a conjuror sat Pullin' out eggs and chickens from Johnson's best hat ; And Bates' game rooster was part of their " loot," And all of Smith's pigs were skyugled to boot ; But the climax was reached and I like to have died When my demijohn, empty, came down the hillside, — Down the hillside — What once held the pride Of Robertson County Pitched down the hillside ! Then we axed for a parley. When out of the din To the front comes a-rockin' that heathen. Ah Sin ! " You owe flowty dollee — me washee you camp. You catchee my washee — me catchee no stamp ; One dollar hap dozen, me no catcher yet. Now that flowty dollee— no hab ? — how can get ? Me catchee you piggee — me sellee for cash. It catchee me licee — you catchee no ' hash ; ' Me belly good Sheliff — me lebbee when can. Me allee same halp pin as MeUcan man ! But Melican man He washee him pan On bottom side hillee And catchee — how can ? " " Are we men ? " says Joe Johnson, " and list to this jaw. Without process of warrant or colour of law ? 146 The Latest Chinese Outrage. Are we men or — a-chew ? " — here he gasped in his speech, For a stink-pot had fallen just out of his reach. " Shall we stand here as idle, and let Asia pour Her barbaric hordes on this civilised shore ? Has the White Man no country? Are we left in the lurch ? And likewise what's gone of the Established Church ? One man to four hundred is great odds, I own, But this 'yer's a White Man — I plays it alone ! " And he sprang up the hillside — to stop him none dare — Till a yell from the top told a " White Man was there ! " A White Man was there ! We prayed he might spare Those misguided heathens The few clothes they wear. They fled, and he followed, but no matter where ; They fled to escape him, — the " White Man was there," — Till we missed first his voice on the pine-wooded slope, And we knew for the heathen henceforth was no hope ; And the yells they grew fainter, when Petersen said, " It simply was human to bury his dead." And then, with slow tread, We crept up, in dread. But found nary mortal there, Living or dead. But there was his trail, and the way that they came, And yonder, no doubt, he was bagging his game. When Jones drops his pickaxe, and Thompson says "Shoo!" And both of 'em points to a cage of bamboo Hanging down from a tree, with a label that swung The Latest Chinese Outrage. 147 Conspicuous, with letters in some foreign tongue, Which, when freely translated, the same did appear Was the Chinese for saying, " A White Man is here ! " And as we drew near, In anger and fear. Bound hand and foot, Johnson Looked down with a leer ! In his mouth was an opium pipe — which was why He leered at us so with a drunken-like eye ! They had shaved off his eyebrows, and tacked on a cue, They had painted his face of a coppery hue, And rigged him all up in a heathenish suit. Then softly departed, each man with his "loot." Yes, every galoot, And Ah Sin, to boot. Had left him there hanging Like ripening fruit. At a mass meeting held up at Murphy's next day There were seventeen speakers and each had his say ; There were twelve resolutions that instantly passed. And each resolution was worse than the last ; There were fourteen petitions, which, granting the same. Will determine what Governor Murphy's shall name ; And the man from our District that goes up next year Goes up on one issue — that's patent and clear • " Can the work of a mean, Degraded, unclean Believer in Buddha Be held as a lien ? " ( 148 ) Crutfiful 3fame0 to tfie (JBDltor. (yreka, 1873.) Which it is not my style To produce needless pain By statements that rile Or that go 'gin the grain, But here's Captain Jack still a-livin', and Nye has no skelp on his brain ! On that Caucasian head There is no crown of hair ; It has gone, it has fled ! And Echo sez " Where ? " And I asks, " Is this Nation a White Man's, and is generally things on the square ? " She was known in the camp As " Nye's other squaw," And folks of that stamp Hez no rights in the law. But is treacherous, sinful, and slimly, as Nye might hev well known before. But she said that she knew Where the Injins was hid, Truthful James to the Editor. 149 And the statement was true For it seemed that she did, Since she led William where he was covered by seventeen Modocs, and — slid ! Then they reached for his hair ; But Nye sez, " By the law Of nations, forbear ! I surrenders — no more : And I looks to be treated,- — you hear me ? — as a pris'ner, a pris'ner of war ! " But Captain Jack rose And he sez, " It's too thin ! Such statements as those It's too late to begin. There's a Modoc indictment agin you, O Paleface, and you're goin' in ! " You stole Schonchin's squaw In the year sixty-two ; It was in sixty-four That Long Jack you went through. And you burned Nasty Jim's rancheria, and his wives and his papooses too. " This gun in my hand Was sold me by you 'Gainst the law of the land, And I grieves it is true ! " And he buried his face in his blanket and wept as he hid it from view. 1 50 Truthf id James to the Editor. " But you're tried and condemned, And skelping's your doom," And he paused and he hemmed — But why this resume ? He was skelped 'gainst the custom of nations, and cut off like a rose in its bloom. So I asks without guile. And I trusts not in vain, If this is the style That is going to obtain — If here's Captain Jack still a-livin', and Nye with no skelp on his brain ? { 151 ) an 3itigl of ti)e BoaU. SIERRAS, 1876. DRAMATIS PERSONS. First Tourist. Second Tourist. " Yuba Bill,''' Driver. A Stranger. First Tourist. Look how the upland plunges into cover, Green where the pines fade sullenly away. Wonderful those olive depths ! and wonderful, more- Second Tourist. The red dust that rises in a suffocating way. First Tourist. Small is the soul that cannot soar above it, Cannot but cling to its ever-kindred clay : Better be yon bird, that seems to breathe and love it Second Tourist. Doubtless a hawk or some other bird of prey. Were we, like him, as sure of a dinner That on our stomachs would comfortably stay ; 152 An Idyl of the Road. Or were the fried ham a shade or two just thinner, That must confront us at closing of the day : Then might you sing like Theocritus or Virgil, Then might we each make a metrical essay ; But verse just now — I must protest and urge — ill Fits a digestion by travel led astray. Chorus of Passengers. Speed, Yuba Bill ! oh, speed us to our dinner ! Speed to the sunset that beckons far away. Second Tourist. William of Yuba, O Son of Nimshi, hearken ! Check thy profanity, but not thy chariot's play. Tell us, O William, before the shadows darken. Where, and, oh ! how we shall dine .■■ O William, say ! Yuba Bill. It ain't my fault, nor the Kumpeney's, I reckon. Ye can't get ez square meal ez any on the Bay, Up at yon place, whar the senset 'pears to beckon — Ez thet sharp allows in his airy sort o' way. Thar woz a place wor yer hash ye might hev wrestled. Kept by a woman ez chipper ez a jay — Warm in her breast all the morning sunshine nestled ; Red on her cheeks all the evening's sunshine lay. Second Tourist. Praise is but breath, O chariot compeller ! Yet of that hash we would bid you farther say. An Idyl of the Road. 153 Yuba Bill. Thar woz a snipe — like you, a fancy tourist - Kem to that ranch ez if to make a stay, Ran off the gal, and ruined jist the purist Critter that lived Stranger [quietly). You're a liar, driver ! Yuba Bill {reaching for his revolver). Eh! Here take my lines, somebody Chorus of Passengers. Hush, boys ! listen 1 Inside there's a lady ! Remember ! No affray ! Yuba Bill. Ef that man lives, the fault ain't mine or his'n. Stranger. Wait for the sunset that beckons far away, Then — as you will ! But, meantime, friends, believe me, Nowhere on earth lives a purer woman ; nay, If my perceptions do surely not deceive me, She is the lady we have inside to-day. As for the man — you see that blackened pine tree, Up which the green vine creeps heavenward away ! He was that scarred trunk, and she the vine that sweetly Clothed him with life again, and lifted 154 -^n Idyl of the Road. How know you this ? Second Tourist. Yes ; but pray Stranger. She's my wife. Yuba Bill. The h — 11 you say ! ( 155 ) Ci)omp0on of angefe. It is the story of Thompson — of Thompson, the hero of Angels. Frequently drunk was Thompson, but always polite to the stranger ; Light and free was the touch of Thompson upon his revolver ; Great the mortality incident on that lightness and freedom. Yet not happy or gay was Thompson, the hero of Angels ; Often spoke to himself in accents of anguish and sorrow, " Why do I make the graves of the frivolous youth who in folly Thoughtlessly pass my revolver, forgetting its lightness and freedom ? "Why in my daily walks does the surgeon drop his left eyelid, The undertaker smile, and the sculptor of gravestone marbles Lean on his chisel and gaze? I care not o'er much for attention ; Simple am I in my ways, save but for this lightness and freedom." 1 56 Thompson of Angels. So spake that pensive man — this Thompson, the hero of Angels, Bitterly smiled to himself, as he strode through the chapparal musing. " Why, O why ? " echoed the pines in the dark olive depth far resounding. 'Why, indeed?" whispered the sage brush that bent 'neath his feet non-elastic Pleasant indeed was that morn that dawned o'er the bar- room at Angels, Where in their manhood's prime was gathered the pride of the hamlet. Six "took sugar in theirs," and nine to the barkeeper lightly Smiled as they said, "Well, Jim, you can give us our regular fusil." Suddenly as the grey hawk swoops down on the barnyard, alighting Where, pensively picking their corn, the favourite pullets are gathered. So in that festive bar-room dropped Thompson, the hero of Angels, Grasping his weapon dread with his pristine lightness and freedom. Never a word he spoke ; divesting himself of his garments, Danced the war-dance of the playful yet truculent Modoc, Uttered a single whoop, and then, in the accents of chal- lenge. Spake ; " Oh, behold in me a Crested Jay Hawk of the mountain." Thompson of Angels. 157 Then rose a pallid man — a man sick with fever and ague ; Small was he, and his step was tremulous, weak, and un- certain ; Slowly a Derringer drew, and covered the person of Thompson ; Said in his feeblest pipe, " I'm a Bald-headed Snipe of the Valley." As on its native plains the kangaroo, startled by hunters, Leaps with successive bounds, and hurries away to the thickets, So leaped the Crested Hawk, and quietly hopping behind . him Ran, and occasionally shot, that Bald-headed Snipe of the Valley. Vain at the festJve bar still lingered the people of Angels, Hearing afar in the woods the petulant pop of the pistol ; Never again returned the Crested Jay Hawk of the moun- tains. Never again was seen the Bald-headed Snipe of the Valley. Yet in the hamlet of Angels, when truculent speeches are uttered. When bloodshed and life alone will atone for some trifling misstatement, Maidens and men in their prime recall the last hero of Angels, Think of and vainly regret the Bald-headed Snipe of the Valley ! ( 158 ) (sierras.) We checked our pace, the red road sharply rounding ; We heard the troubled flow Of the dark olive depths of pines resounding A thousand feet below. Above the tumult of the canon lifted, The grey ha,wk breathless hung. Or on the hill a wingfed shadow drifted Where furze and thorn-bush clung ; Or where half-way the mountain side was furrowed With many a seam and scar ; Or some abandoned tunnel dimly burrowed, — A mole-hill seen so far. We looked in silence down across the distant Unfathomable reach : A silence broken by the guide's consistent And realistic speech. " Walker of Murphy's blew a hole through Peters For telling him he lied ; Then up and dusted out of South Hornitos Across the Long Divide. The Hawk's Nest. 159 " We ran him out of Strong's, and up through Eden, And 'cross the ford below, And up this canon (Peters' brother leadin'), And me and Clark and Joe. " He fou't us game : somehow I disremember Jest how the thing kem round ; Some say 'twas wadding, some a scattered ember From fires on the ground. " But in one minute all the hill below him Was just one sheet of flame ; Guardin' the crest, Sam Clark and I called to him, And, — well, the dog was game ! " He made no sign : the fires of hell were round him, The pit of hell below. We sat and waited, but never found him ; And then we turned to go. "And then — you see that rock that's grown so bristly With chapparal and tan — Suthin crep' out : it might hev been a grizzly, It might hev been a man ; " Suthin that howled, and gnashed its teeth, and shouted In smoke and dust and flame ; Suthin that sprang into the depths about it, Grizzly or man, — but game ! " That's all 1 Well, yes, it does look rather risky, And kinder makes one queer And dizzy looking down. A drop of whisky Ain't a bad thing right here ! " ( i6o ) Iper Letter. I'm sitting alone by the fire, Dressed just as I came from the dance, In a robe even you would admire, — It cost a cool thousand in France ; I'm be-diamonded out of all reason, My hair is done up in a cue ; In short, sir, " the belle of the season " Is wasting an hour upon you. A dozen engagements I've broken ; I left in the midst of a set ; Likewise a proposal, half spoken. That waits — on the stairs — for me yet. They say he'll be rich,^ — when he grows up,- And then he adores me indeed ; And you, sir, are turning your nose up, Three thousand miles off, as you read. " And how do I like my position ? " " And what do I think of New York ? " " And now, in my higher ambition, With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk ? " " And isn't it nice to have riches. And diamonds and silks, and all that ? " " And aren't it a change to the ditches And tunnels of Poverty Flat ^ " Her Letter. i6i Well, yes, — if you saw us out driving Each day in the Park, four-in-hand, — If you saw poor dear mamma contriving To look supernaturally grand, — If you saw papa's picture, as taken By Brady, and tinted at that, — You'd never suspect he sold bacon And flour at Poverty Flat. And yet, just this moment, when sitting In the glare of the grand chandelier, — In the bustle and glitter befitting The " finest soiree of the year," — In the mists of a gaze de Chambtry, And the hum of the smallest of talk, — Somehow, Joe, I thought of the " Ferry," And the dance that we had on " The Fork ; " Of Harrison's barn, with its muster Of flags festooned over the wall ; Of the candles that shed their soft lustre And tallow qji head-dress and shawl ; Of the steps that we took to one fiddle. Of the dress of my queer vts^-vis^; And how I once went down the middle With the man that shot Sandy McGee ; Of the moon that was quietly sleeping On the hill, when the time came to go ; Of the few baby peaks that were peeping From under their bedclothes of snow ; Of that ride, — that to me was the rarest; Of — the something you said at the gate. VOL. I. L 1 62 Her Letter. Ah ! Joe, then I wasn't an heiress To " the best-paying lead in the State." Well, well, it's all past ; yet it's funny To think, as I stood in the glare Of fashion and beauty and money. That I should be thinking, right there, Of some one who breasted high water. And swam the North Fork, and all that. Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter. The Lily of Poverty Flat. But goodness ! what nonsense I'm writing ! (Mamma says my taste still is low). Instead of my triumphs reciting, I'm spooning on Joseph, — heigh-ho ! And I'm to be "finished" by travel, — Whatever's the meaning of that. Oh, why did papa strike pay gravel In drifting on Poverty Flat ? Good night ! — here's the end of my paper : Good night ! — if the longitude please, — For maybe, while wasting my taper. Your sun's climbing over the trees. But know, if you haven't got riches, And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that. That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches, And you've struck it, — on Poverty Flat. ( i63 ) pi$ aitiStocr to "!per Letter." (reported by truthful JAMES.) Being asked by an intimate party, — Which the same I would term as a friend,-^ Though his health it were vain to call hearty, Since the mind to deceit it might lend ; For his arm it was broken quite recent, And there's something gone wrong with his lung,- Which is why it is proper and decent I should write what he runs off his tongue. First, he says. Miss, he's read through your letter To the end, — and " the end came too soon ; " That a " slight illness kept him your debtor," (Which for weeks he was wild as a loon) ; That " his spirits are buoyant as yours is ; " That with you. Miss, he "challenges Fate," (Which the language that invalid uses At times it were vain to relate). And he says " that the mountains are fairer For once being held in your thought ; " That each rock " holds a wealth that is rarer Than ever by gold-seeker sought" 164 His Answer to ''Her Letter." (Which are words he would put in these pages, By a party not given to guile ; Though the claim not, at date, paying wages, Might produce in the sinful a smile.) He remembers the ball at the Ferry, And the ride, and the gate, and the vow. And the rose that you gave him, — that very Same rose he is "treasuring now." (Which his blanket he's kicked on his trunk. Miss, And insists on his legs being free ; And his language to me from his bunk. Miss, Is frequent and painful and free.) He hopes you are wearing no willows. But are happy and gay all the while ; That he knows — (which this dodging of pillows Imparts but small ease to the style. And the same you will pardon) — he knows. Miss, That, though parted by many a mile, " Yet, were he lying under the snows. Miss, They'd melt into tears at your smile." And " you'll still think of him in your pleasures. In your brief twilight dreams of the past ; In this green laurel spray that he treasures, — It was plucked where your parting was last ; In this specimen, — but a small trifle, — It will do for a pin for your shawl." (Which, the truth not to wickedly stifle, Was his last week's " clean up," — and his all.) His Answer to ''Her Letter." 165 He's asleep, which the same might seem strange, Miss, Were it not that I scorn to deny That I raised his last dose, for a change, Miss, In view that his fever was high ; But he lies there quite peaceful and pensive. And now, my respects, Miss, to you ; Which my language, although comprehensive. Might seem to be freedom, it's true. Which I have a small favour to ask you, As concerns a bull-pup, and the same, — If the duty would not overtask you, — You would please to procure for me, game ; And send per express to the Flat, Miss, — For they say York is famed for the breed, Which, though words of deceit may be that, Miss, I'll trust to your taste. Miss, indeed. P.S. — Which this same interfering Into other folks' way I despise ; Yet if it so be I was hearing That it's just empty pockets as lies Betwixt you and Joseph, it foUers That, having no family claims. Here's my pile, which it's six hundred dollars. As is yours, with respects, Truthful James. ( i66 ) " Ci)e meturn of "Btli^mm." (mud flat, i860.) So you're back from your travels, old fellow, And you left but a twelvemonth ago ; You've hobnobbed with Louis Napoleon, Eugenie, and kissed the Pope's toe. By Jove, it is perfectly stunning. Astounding, — and all that, you know ; Yes, things are about as you left them In Mud Flat a twelvemonth ago. The boys ! — they're all right, — Oh ! Dick Ashley, He's buried somewhere in the snow ; He was lost on the Summit last winter. And Bob has a hard row to hoe. You knew that he's got the consumption ? You didn't ! Well come, that's a go ; I certainly wrote you at Baden, — Dear me ! that was six months ago, I got all your outlandish letters. All stamped by some foreign P.O. I handed myself to Miss Mary That sketch of a famous chateau. ' ' The Return of Belisarius. " 167 Tom Saunders is living at 'Frisco, — They say that he cuts quite a show. You didn't meet Euchre-deck Billy Anywhere on your road to Cairo ? So you thought of the rusty old cabin, The pines, and the valley below, And heard the North Fork of the Yuba As you stood on the banks of the Po ? 'Twas just like your romance, old fellow ; But now there is standing a row Of stores on the site of the cabin That you lived in a twelvemonth ago. But it's jolly to see you, old fellow, — To think it's a twelvemonth ago ! And you have seen Louis Napoleon, And look like a Johnny Crapaud. Come in. You will surely see Mary, — You know we are married. What, no ?- Oh, ay ! I forgot there was something Between you a twelvemonth ago. ( i68 ) jTurtter language from Crutftful 3Iame0. (nYE's ford, STANISLAUS, 1870.) Do I sleep ? do I dream ? Do I wonder and doubt ? Are things what they seem ? Or is visions about ? Is our civilisation a failure ? Or is the Caucasian played out ? Which expressions are strong; Yet would feebly imply Some account of a wrong — - Not to call it a lie — As was worked off on William, my pardner, And the same being W. Nye. He came down to the Ford On the very same day Of that lottery drawed By those sharps at the Bay ; And he says to me, " Truthful, how goes it ? " I replied, "It is far, far from gay ; Further Language from Truthful James. 169 " For the camp has gone wild On this lottery game, And has even beguiled ' Injin Dick ' by the same." Then said Nye to me, " Injins is pizen : But what is his number, eh ? James ? " I replied, "7,2, 9,8,4, is his hand ;" When he started, and drew Out a list, which he scanned ; Then he softly went for his revolver With language I cannot command. Then I said, "William Nye !" But he turned upon me, And the look in his eye Was quite painful to see ; And he says, " You mistake ; this poor Injin I protects from such sharps as you be ! " I was shocked and withdrew ; But I grieve to relate, When he next met my view Injin Dick was his mate ; And the two around town was a-lying In a frightfully dissolute state. Which the war dance they had Round a tree at the Bend Was a sight that was sad ; And it seemed that the end ['JO Further Latiguage from Truthful James. Would not justify the proceedings, As I quiet remarked to a friend. For that Injin he fled The next day to his band ; And we found William spread Very loose on the strand, With a peaceful-like smile on his features, And a dollar greenback in his hand ; Which the same, when rolled out, We observed, with surprise, Was what he, no doubt, Thought the number and prize — Them figures in red in the corner, Which the number of notes specifies. Was it guile, or a dream ? Is it Nye that I doubt? Are things what they seem ? Or is visions about ? Is our civilisation a failure ? Or is the Caucasian played out ? ( 171 ) after tfje accident. (mouth of the shaft.) What I want is my husband, sir,- And if you're a man, sir, You'll give me an answer, — Where is my Joe ? Penrhyn, sir, Joe, — Caernarvonshire. Six months ago Since we came here — Eh ? — Ah, you know ! Well, I am quiet And still, But I must stand here, And will ! Please, I'll be strong, If you'll just let me wait Inside o' that gate Till the news comes along. " Negligence ! " — That was the cause ! — Butchery ! 172 After the A ccident. Are there no laws, — Laws to protect such as we ? Well, then ! I won't raise my voice. There, men ! I won't make no noise, Only you just let me be. Four, only four — did he say — Saved ! and the other ones ? — Eh ? Why do they call ? Why are they all Looking and coming this way ? What's that ? — a message ? I'll take it. I know his wife, sir, I'll break it. "Foreman !" Ay, ay ! " Out by and by,— Just saved his life. Say to his wife Soon he'll be free." Will I ?— God bless yoh ! It's me ! { ^73 ) Cl)e mm tftat 3[m @)ato. Why, as to that, said the engineer, Ghosts ain't things we are apt to fear ; Spirits don't fool with levers much. And throttle-valves don't take to such. And as for Jim, What happened to him Was one half fact and t'other half whim ! Running one night on the line, he saw A house — as plain as the moral law — Just by the moonlit bank, and thence Came a drunken man with no more sense Than to drop on the rail Flat as a flail. As Jim drove by with the midnight mail Down went the patents — steam reversed. Too late ! for there came a "thud." Jim cursed As the fireman, there in the cab with him, Kinder stared in the face of Jim, And says, " What now ? " Says Jim, " What now ! I've just run over a man, -^that's how ! " 1 74 The Ghost that Jim Saw. The fireman stared at Jim. They ran Back, but they never found house nor man,- Nary a shadow within a mile. Jim turned pale, but he tried to smile, Then on he tore Ten mile or more. In quicker time than he'd made afore. Would you believe it ! the very next night Up rose that house in the moonlight white, Out comes the chap and drops as before, Down goes the brake and the rest encore ; And so, in fact, Each night that act Occurred, till folks swore Jim was cracked. umph ! let me see ; it's a year now, 'most. That I met Jim, East, and says, " How's your ghost ? ' " Gone," says Jim ; " and more, it's plain That ghost don't trouble me again. I thought I shook That ghost when I took A place on an Eastern line,— but look ! " What should I meet, the first trip out, But the very house we talked about. And the selfsame man ! ' Well,' says I, ' I guess It's time to stop this 'yer foolishness.' So I crammed on steam. When there came a scream From my fireman, that jest broke my dream : The Ghost that Jim Saw. 175 " ' You've killed somebody ! ' Says I, ' Not much ! I've been thar often, and thar ain't no such, And now I'll prove it ! ' Back we ran, And, — darn my skin ! — but thar was a man On the rail, dead, Smashed in the head ! — Now I call that meanness ! " That's all Jim said. ( 176 ) "@)ei)entB=aine." (mr. interviewer interviewed.) Know me next time when you see me, won't you, old smarty ? Oh, I mean you, old figger-head, — ^just the same party ! Take out your pensivil, d — n you ; sharpen it, do ! Any complaints to make ? Lot's of 'em — one of 'em's you. You ! who are you, anyhow, goin' round in that sneakin' way? Never in jail before, was you, old blatherskite, say ? Look at it ; don't it look pooty ? Oh, grin, and be d — d to you, do ! But if I had you this side o' that gratin', I'd just make it lively for you. How did I get in here ? Well what 'ud you give to know ? 'Twasn't by sneakin' round where I hadn't no call to go : 'T wasn't by hangin' round a-spyin' unfortnet men. Grin ! but I'll stop your jaw if ever you do that agen. Why don't you say suthin, blast you ? Speak your mind if you dare. Ain't I a bad lot, sonny ? Say it, and call it square. ' ' Seventy-Nine. " 177 Hain't got no tongue, hey, hev ye ? O guard ! here's a little swell A cussin' and swearin' and yellin', and bribin' me not to tell. There ! I thought that 'ud fetch ye ! And you want to know my name ? " Seventy-nine " they call me, but that is their little game ; For I am werry highly connected, as a gent, sir, can under- stand. And my family hold their heads up with the very furst in the land. For 'twas all, sir, a put-up job on a pore young man like me ; And the jury was bribed a puppos, and at furst they couldn't agree ; And I sed to the judge, sez I,— Oh, grin ! it's all right, my son ! But you're a werry lively young pup, and you ain't to be played upon ! Wot's that you got ? — tobacco ? I'm cussed but I thought 'twas a tract. Thank ye ! K chap t'other day — now, lookee, this is a fact- Slings me a tract on the evils o' keepin' bad company. As if all the saints was howlin' to stay here along o' we. No, I hain't no complaints. Stop, yes ; do you see that chap, — Him standin' over there, a-hidin' his eyes in his cap ? VOL. I. M 17^ "Seventy-Nine." Well, that man's stumick is weak, and he can't stand the pris'n fare ; For the coffee is just half beans, and the sugar it ain't no- where. Perhaps it's his bringin' up ; but he's sickenin' day by day, And he doesn't take no food, and I'm seein' him waste away. And it isn't the thing to see ; for, whatever he's been and done. Starvation isn't the plan as he's to be saved upon. For he cannot rough it like me ; and he hasn't the stamps, I guess, To buy him his extry grub outside o' the pris'n mess. And perhaps if a gent like you, with whom I've been sorter free, Would — thank you ! But, say ! look here ! Oh, blast it ! don't give it to me ! Don't you give' it to me ; now, don't ye, don't ye, donH! You think it's a put-up job j so I'll thank ye, sir, if you won't. But hand him the stamps yourself : why, he isn't even my pal; And, if it's a comfort to you, why, I don't intend that he shall. ( 179 ) Cte @tage-E)nt)er'0 ^torg. It was the stage-driver's story, as he stood with his back to the wheelers, Quietly flecking his whip, ^nd turning his quid of tobacco ; While on the dusty road, and blent with the rays of the moonlight, We saw the long curl of his lash and the juice of tobacco descending. " Danger ! Sir, I believe you, — indeed, I may say, on that subject, You your existence might put to the hazard and turn of a wager. I have seen danger ? Oh, no ! not me, sir, indeed, I assure you : 'Twas only the man with the dog that is sitting alone in yon waggon. " It was the Geiger Grade, a mile and a half from the sum- mit : Black as your hat was the night, and never a star in the heavens. Thundering down the grade, the gravel and stones we sent flying Over the precipice side, — a thousand feet plumb to the bottom. 1 80 The Stage-Driver's Story. " Half-way down the grade I felt, sir, a thrilling and creak- ing, Then a lurch to one side, as we hung on the bank of the canon ; Then, looking up the rpad, I saw, in the distance behind me. The off hind wheel of the coach, just loosed from its axle, and following. " One glance alone I gave, then gathered together my rib- bons, Shouted, and flung them, outspread, on the straining necks of my cattle ; Screamed at the top of my voice, and lashed the air in my frenzy, While down the Geiger Grade, on three wheels, the vehicle thundered. " Speed was our only chance, when again came the ominous Tattle : Crack, and another wheel slipped away, and was lost in the darkness. Two only now were left ; yet such was our fearful momen- tum. Upright, erect, and sustained on two wheels, the vehicle thundered. " As some huge bowlder, unloosed from its rocky shelf on the mountain, Drives before it the hare and the timorous squirrel, far leaping, The Stage- Driver's Story. 1 8 1 So down the Geiger Grade rushed the Pioneer coach, and before it Leaped the wild horses, and shrieked in advance of the danger impending. "But to be brief in my tale. Again, ere we came to the level. Slipped from its axle a wheel ; so that, to be plain in my statement, A matter of twelve hundred yards or more, as the distance may be, We travelled upon one wheel, until we drove up to the station. " Then, sir, we sank in a heap ; but, picking myself from the ruins, I heard a noise up the grade ; and looking, I saw in the distance The three wheels following still, like moons on the horizon whirling. Till, circling, they gracefully sank on the road at the side of the station. " This is my story, sir ; a trifle, indeed, I assure you. Much more, perchance, might be said — but I hold him of all men most lightly Who swerves from the truth in his tale. No, thank you — Well, since you are pressing. Perhaps I don't care if I do : you may give me the same, Jim, — no sugar." MISCELLANEOUS. ( i85 ) H (Pregport legend, (I797-) They ran through the streets of the seaport town, They peered from the decks of the ships that lay ; The cold sea-fog that came whitening down Was never as cold or white as they. " Ho, Starbuck and Pinckney and Tenterden ! Run for your shallops, gather your men, Scatter your boats on the lower bay. Good cause for fear ! In the thick mid-day The hulk that lay by the rotting pier, Filled with the children in happy play. Parted its moorings and drifted clear, — Drifted clear beyond the reach or call, — Thirteen children they were in all, — All adrift in the lower bay ! Said a hard-faced skipper, " God help us all ! She will not float till the turning tide ! " Said his wife, " My darling will hear my call, Whether in sea or heaven she bide," And she lifted a quavering voice and high. Wild and strange as a sea-bird's cry, Till they shuddered and wondered at her side. 1 86 A Greyport Legend. The fog drove down on each labouring crew, Veiled each from each and the sky and shore : There was not a sound but the breath they drew, And the lap of water and creak of oar ; And they felt the breath of the downs, fresh blown O'er leagues of clover and cold grey stone, But not from the lips that had gone before. They come no more. But they tell the tale. That, when fogs are thick on the harbour reef, The mackerel fishers shorten sail ; For the signal they know will bring relief : For the voices of children, still at play In a phantom hulk that drifts alway Through channels whose waters never fail. It is but a fooUsh shipman's tale, A theme for a poet's idle page ; But still, when the mists of doubt prevail, And we lie becalmed by the shores of Age, We hear from the misty troubled shore The voice of the children gone before. Drawing the soul to its anchorage. ( i87 ) 3 Jl3etoport Romance. They say that she died of a broken heart (I tell the tale as 'twas told to me) ; But her spirit lives, and her soul is part Of this sad old house by the sea. Her lover was fickle and fine and French : It was nearly a hundred years ago When he sailed away from her arms — poor wench !- With the Admiral Rochambeau. I marvel much what periwigged phrase Won the heart of this sentimental Quaker, At what golden-laced speech of those modish days She listened — the mischief take her ! But she kept the posies of mignonette That he gave ; and ever as their bloom failed And faded (though with her tears still wet) Her youth with their own exhaled. Till one night, when the sea-fog wrapped a shroud Round spar and spire and tarn and tree, Her soul went up on that lifted cloud From this sad old house by the sea. 1 88 A Newport Romance. And ever since then, when the clock strikes two, She walks unbidden from room to room, And the air is filled that she passes through With a subtle, sad perfume. The delicate odour of mignonette, The ghost of a dead and gone bouquet. Is ail that tells of her story ; yet, Could she think of a sweeter way ? I sit in the sad old house to-night, — Myself a ghost from a farther sea ; . And I trust that this Quaker woman might, In courtesy, visit me. For the laugh is fled from porch and lawn. And the bugle died from the fort on the hill. And the twitter of girls on the stairs is gone, And the grand piano is still. Somewhere in the darkness a clock strikes two ; And there is no sound in the sad old house. But the long veranda dripping with dew. And in the wainscot a mouse. The light of my study-lamp streams out From the library door, but has gone astray In the depths of the darkened hall. Small doubt But the Quakeress knows the way. Was it the trick of a sense o'erwrought With outward watching and inward fret ? But I swear that the air just now was fraught With the odour of mignonette ! A Newport Romance.. 189 I open the window, and seem almost — So still lies the ocean — to hear the beat Of its Great Gulf artery off the coast, And to bask in its tropic heat. In my neighbour's windows the gas-lights flare, As the dancers swing in a waltz of Strauss ; And I wonder now could I fit that air To the song of this sad old house. And no odour of mignonette there is But the breath of morn on the dewy lawn ; And mayhap from causes as slight as this The quaint old legend is born. But the soul of that subtle, sad perfume. As the spiced embalmings, they say, outlast The mummy laid in his rocky tomb, Awakens my buried past. And I think of the passion that shook my youth, Of its aimless loves and its idle pains, And am thankful now for the certain truth That only the sweet remains. And I hear no rustle of stiff brocade. And I see no face at my library door ; For now that the ghosts of my heart are laid, She is viewless for evermore. But whether she came as a faint perfume. Or whether a spirit in stole of white, I feel, as I pass from the darkened room, She has been with my soul to-night ! ( I90 ) ®an iTtrancigco. (from the sea.) Serene, indifferent of Fate, Thou sittest at the Western Gate ; Upon thy height, so lately won, Still slant the banners of the sun ; Thou seest the white seas strike their tents, O Warder of two Continents ! And, scornful of the peace that flies Thy angry winds and sullen skies, Thou drawest all things, small or great, To thee, beside the Western Gate. lion's whelp, that hidest fast In jungle growth of spire and mast ! 1 know thy cunning and thy greed, Thy hard high lust and wilful deed, And all thy glory loves to tell Of specious gifts material. San Francisco. igi Drop down, O Fleecy Fog, and hide Her sceptic sneer and all her pride ! Wrap her, O Fog, in gown and hood Of her Franciscan Brotherhood. Hide me her faults, her sin and blame ; With thy grey' mantle cloak her shame ! So shall she, cowlfed, sit and pray Till morning bears her sins away. Then rise, O Fleecy Fog, and raise The glory of her coming days ; Be as the cloud that flecks the seas Above her smoky argosies ; When forms familiar shall give place To stranger speech and newer face ; When all her throes and anxious fears Lie hushed in the repose of years ; When Art shall raise and Culture lift The sensual joys and meaner thrift. And all fulfilled the vision we Who watch and wait shall never see, Who, in the morning of her race, Toiled fair or meanly in our place. But, yielding to the common lot. Lie unrecorded and forgot. ( 192 ) Ci)e agountain lpeart'i0i=(£a]Se. By scattered rocks and turbid waters shining, By furrowed glade and dell, To feverish men thy calm, sweet face uplifting. Thou stayest them to tell The delicate thought that cannot find expression, For ruder speech too fair, That, like thy petals, trembles in possession. And scatters on the air. The miner pauses in his rugged labour, And, leaning on his spade, Laughingly calls unto his comrade-neighbour To see thy charms displayed. But in his eyes a mist unwonted rises, : And for a moment clear Some sweet home face his foolish thought surprises And passes in a tear, — Some boyish vision of his Eastern village, Of uneventful toil. Where golden harvests followed quiet tillage Above a peaceful soil. The Mountain HearVs-Ease. 193 One moment only, for the pick, uplifting. Through root and fibre cleaves, And on the muddy current slowly drifting Are swept thy bruisfed leaves. And yet, O poet, in thy homely fashion. Thy work thou dost fulfil. For on the turbid current of his passion Thy face is shining still ! VOL. I. ( 194 ) (Eirifflg. Coward, — of heroic size, In whose lazy muscles lies Strength we fear and yet despise ; Savage, — whose relentless tusks Are content with acorn husks ; Robber, — whose exploits ne'er soared O'er the bee's or squirrel's hoard ; Whiskered chin and feeble nose, Claws of steel on baby toes, — - Here, in solitude and shade, Shambling, shuffling plantigrade, Be thy courses undismayed ! Here, where Nature makes thy bed, Let thy rude, half-human tread Point to hidden Indian springs. Lost in ferns and fragrant grasses. Hovered o'er by timid wings. Where the wood-duck lightly passes, Where the wild bee holds her sweets,- Epicurean retreats, Fit for thee, and better than Fearful spoils of dangerous man. Grizzly. 195 In thy fat-jowled deviltry Friar Tuck shall live in thee ; Thou may St levy tithe and dole ; Thou shalt spread the woodland cheer, From the pilgrim taking toll ; Match thy cunning with his fear ; Eat, and drink, and have thy fill ; Yet remain an outlaw still ! ( 196 ) 90aDrono. Captain of the Western wood, Thou that apest Robin Hood ! Green above thy scarlet hose, How thy velvet mantle shows ; Never tree like thee arrayed. Oh thou gallant of the glade ! When the fervid August sun Scorches all it looks upon, And the balsam of the pine Drips from stem to needle fine. Round thy compact shade arranged, Not a leaf of thee is changed ! When the yellow autumn sun Saddens all it looks upon, Spreads its sackcloth on the hills. Strews its ashes in the rills, Thou thy scarlet hose dost doff, And in limbs of purest buflf Challengest the sombre glade For a sylvan masquerade. Madrono. 197 Where, where, shall he begin Who would paint thee, Harlequin ? With thy waxen burnished leaf, With thy branches' red relief, With thy polytinted fruit, — In thy spring or autumn suit, — Where begin, and oh ! where end, — Thou whose charms all art transcend ? ( I9B ) Cogote. ±iLOWN out of the prairie in twilight and dew, Half bold and half timid, yet lazy all through ; Loath ever. to leave, and yet fearful to stay, He limps in the clearing, an outcast in grey. A shade on the stubble, a ghost by the wall, Now leaping, now limping, now risking a fall, Lop-eared and large jointed, but ever alway A thoroughly vagabond outcast in grey. Here, Carlo, old fellow, — he's one of your kind, — Go, seek him, and bring him in out of the wind. What ! snarling, my Carlo ! So even dogs may Deny their own kin in the outcast in grey. Well, take what you will, — though it be on the sly. Marauding, or begging, — I shall not ask why ; But will call it a dole, just to help on his way A four-footed friar in orders of grey ! { 199 ) Co a ©ea^lSirti, (SANTA CRUZ, 1 869.) Sauntering hither on listless wings, Careless vagabond of the sea. Little thou heedest the surf that sings, The bar that thunders, the shale, that rings, — Give me to keep thy company. Little thou hast, old friend, that's new, Storms and wrecks are old things to thee ; Sick am I of these changes, too; Little to care for, little to rue, — ' I on the shore, and thou on the sea. All of thy wanderings, far and near. Bring thee at last to shore and me ; All of my journeyings end them here. This our tether must be our cheer, — I on the shore, and thou on the sea. Lazily rocking on ocean's breast. Something in common, old friend, have we ; Thou on the shingle seek'st thy nest, I to the waters look for rest, — I on the shore, and thou on the sea ( 200 ) COfjat tl)c Cfjimneg ®ang. Over the chimney the night-wind sang And chanted a melody no one knew ; And the Woman stopped, as her babe she tossed, And thought of the one she had long since lost. And said, as her tear-drops back she forced, " I hate the wind in the chimney." Over the chimney the night- wind sang And chanted a melody no one knew ; And the Children said, as they closer drew, " 'Tis some witch that is cleaving the black night through, — 'Tis a fairy trumpet that just then blew. And we fear the wind in the chimney." Over the chimney the night- wind sang And chanted a melody no one knew ; And the Man, as he sat on his hearth below, Said to himself, " It will surely snow, And fuel is dear and wages low. And I'll stop the leak in the chimney." What the Chimney Sang. 201 Over the chimney the "night- wind sang And chanted a melody no one knew ; But the Poet listened and smiled, for he Was Man, and Woman, and Child, all three, And said, " It is God's own harmony, This wind we hear in the chimney." ( 202 ) HDicfeenief in Camp. Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting, The river sang below ; The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting Their minarets of snow. The roaring camp-fire, with rude humour, painted The ruddy tints of health On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted In the fierce race for wealth ; Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure A hoarded volume drew. And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure To hear the tale anew. And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, And as the firelight fell. He read aloud the book wherein the Master Had writ of " Little Nell." Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy, — for the reader Was youngest of them all, — But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar A silence seemed to fall ; Dickens m Camp. 203 The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, Listened in every spray. While the whole camp, with " Nell " on English meadows Wandered and lost their way. And so in mountain solitudes — o'ertaken As by some spell divine — Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken From out the gusty pine. Lost is that camp and wasted all its fire : And he who wrought that spell ? — Ah ! towering pine and stately Kentish spire, Ye have one tale to tell ! Lost is that camp, but let its firagrant story Blend with the breath that thrills With hop-vine's incense all the pensive glory That fills the Kentish hills. And on that grave where English oak and holly And laurel wreaths entwine, Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly, — This spray of Western pine ! July, 1870. ( 204 ) " Ctoentg gears." Beg your pardon, old fellow ! I think I was dreaming just now when you spoke. The fact is, the musical clink Of the ice on your wine-goblet's brink A chord of my memory woke. And I stood in the pasture-field where Twenty summers ago I had stood ; And I heard in that sound, I declare, The clinking of bells in the air. Of the cows coming home from the wood. Then the apple-bloom shook on the hill ; And the mullein-stocks tilted each lance ; And the sun behind Rapalye's mill Was my uttermost West, and could thrill Like some fanciful land of romance. Then my friend was a hero, and then My girl was an angel. In fine, I drank buttermilk ; for at ten Faith asks less to aid her than when At thirty we doubt over wine. "Twenty Years." 205 Ah ! well, it does seem that I must Have been dreaming just now when you spoke, Or lost, very like, in the dust Of the years that slow fashioned the crust On that bottle whose seal you last broke. Twenty years was its age, did you say ? Twenty years ? Ah ! my friend, it is true ? All the dreams that have flown since that day, All the hopes in that time passed away, Old friend, I've been drinking with you ! ( 206 ) jTate. " The sky is clouded, the rocks are bare ! The spray of the tempest is white in air ; The winds are out with the waves at play, And I shall not tempt the sea to-day. " The trail is narrow, the wood is dim. The panther clings to the arching limb ; And the lion's whelps are abroad at play, And I shall not join in the chase to-day.'' But the ship sailed safely over the sea, And the hunters came from the chase in glee ; And the town that was builded upon a rock Was swallowed up in the earthquake shock ( 207 ) (Prantimotfier CenterDen, (MASSACHUSETTS SHORE, 180O.) I MIND it was but yesterday, — The sun was dim, the air was chill ; Below the town, below the hill. The sails of my son's ship did fill, — My Jacob, who was cast away. He said, " God keep you, mother dear," But did not turn to kiss his wife ; They had some foolish, idle strife ; Her tongue was like a two-edged knife, And he was proud as any peer. Howbeit that night I took no note Of sea nor sky, for all was drear ; I marked not that the hills looked near, Nor that the moon, though -curved and clear. Through curd-like scud did drive and float. For with my darling went the joy Of autumn woods and meadows brown ; I came to hate the little town ; It seemed as if the sun went down With him, my only darling boy. 2o8 Grandmother Tenterden. It was the middle of the night, The wind it shifted west-by-south ; It piled high up the harbour mouth ; The marshes, black with summer drouth, Were all abroad with sea-foam white. It was the middle of the night, — The sea upon the garden leapt. And my son's wife in quiet slept, And I, his mother, waked and wept. When lo ! there came a sudden light. And there he stood ! his seaman's dress All wet and dripping seemed to be ; The pale blue fires of the sea Dripped from his garments constantly, — I could not speak through cowardness. " I come through night and storm," he said ; " Through storm and night and death," said he, " To kiss my wife, if it so be That strife still holds 'twixt her and me, For all beyond is peace," he said. " The sea is His, and He who sent The wind and wave can soothe their strife ; And brief and foolish is our life." He stooped and Kissed his sleeping wife. Then sighed, and, like a dream, he went. Now, when my darling kissed not me. But her — his wife — who did not wake. My heart within me seemed to break ; I swore a vow, nor thenceforth spake Of what my clearer eyes did see. Grandmother Tenterden. 209 And when the slow weeks brought him not, Somehow we spake of aught beside, For she, — her hope upheld her pride ; And I, — in me all hope had died. And my son passed as if forgot. It was about the next spring-tide, She pined and faded where she stood ; Yet spake no word of ill or good ; She had the hard, cold, Edwards' blood In all her veins, — and so she died. One time I thought, before she passed, To give her peace ; but ere I spake Methought, " He will be first to break The news in heaven," and for his sake I held mine back until the last. And here I sit, nor care to roam ; I only wait to hear his call ; I doubt not that this day next fall Shall see me safe in port, where all And every ship at last comes home. And you have sailed the Spanish Main, And knew my Jacob ? . . . Eh ! Mercy ! Ah ! God of wisdom ! hath the sea Yielded its dead to humble me ? My boy ! . . . My Jacob ! . . . Turn again I VOL. I. ( 2IO ) William Guild was engineer of the train which on the 19th of April plunged into Meadow Brook, on the line of the Stonington and Providence Railroad. It was his custom, as often as he passed his home, to whistle an "All's well " to his wife. He was found, after the disaster, dead, with his hand on the throttle-valve of his engine. Tv/o low whistles, quaint and clear. That was the signal the engineer — That was the signal that Guild, 'tis said — Gave to his wife at Providence, As through the sleeping town, and thence, Out in the night. On to the light, Down past the farms, lying white, he sped ! As a husband's greeting, scant, no doubt. Yet to the woman looking out. Watching and waiting, no serenade. Love song, or midnight roundelay Said what that whistle seemed to say : " To my trust true. So love to you ! Working or waiting, good night ! " it said. Guild's Signal. 211 Brisk young bagmen, tourists fine, Old commuters along the line, Brakemen and porters glanced ahead, Smiled as the signal, sharp, intense, Pierced through the shadows of Providence : " Nothing amiss — Nothing ! — it is Only Guild calling his wife," they said. Summer and winter the old refrain Rang o'er the billows of ripening grain, Pierced through the budding boughs o'erhead Flew down the track when the red leaves burned Like living coals from the engine spurned ; Sang as it flew : " To our trust true, First of all, duty. Good night ! " it said. And then, one night, it was heard no more From Stonington over Rhode Island shore. And the folk in Providence smiled and said As they turned in their beds, " The engineer Has once forgotten his midnight cheer." One only knew, To his trust true. Guild lay under his engine dead. ( 212 ) asfplring ^is^ Dt ILaine, (a chemical narrative.) Certain facts which serve to explain The phj'sical charms of Miss Addle De Laine, Who, as the common reports obtain, Surpassed in complexion the lily and rose ; With a very sweet mouth and a reiroussS nose ; A figure Uke Hebe's, or that which revolves In a milliner's window, and partially solves That question which mentor and moralist pains. If grace may exist minus feeling or brains. Of course the young lady had beaux by the score, All that she wanted, — what girl could ask more ? Lovers that sighed, and lovers that swore, Lovers that danced, and lovers that played. Men of profession, of leisure, and trade ; But one, who was destined to take the high part Of holding that mythical treasure, her heart, — This lover — the wonder and envy of town — Was a practising chemist, — a fellow called Brown. I might here remark that 'twas doubted by many. In regard to the heart, if Miss Addie had any ; Aspiring Miss De Laine. 2 1 3 But no one could look in that eloquent face, With its exquisite outline and features of grace, And mark, through the transparent skin, how the tide Ebbed and flowed at the impulse of passion or pride, — None could look who believed in the blood's circulation As argued by Harvey, but saw confirmation That here, at least, Nature had triumphed o'er art, And, as far as complexion went, she had a heart But this par parenthesis. Brown was the man Preferred of all others to carry her fan, Hook her glove, drape her shawl, and do all that a belle May demand of the lover she wants to treat well. Folks wondered and stared that a fellow called Brown — Abstracted and solemn, in manner a clown, 111 dressed, with a lingering smell of the shop — Should appear as her escort at party or hop. Some swore he had cooked up some villanous charm, Or love philter, not in the regular Pharm- Acopoeia, and thus, from pure malice prepense. Had bewitched and bamboozled the young lady's sense ; Others thought, with more reason, the secret to lie In a magical wash or indelible dye ; While Society, with its censorious eye And judgment impartial, stood ready to damn What wasn't improper as being a sham. For a fortnight the townfolk had all been agog With a party, the finest the season had seen, To be given in honour of Miss Pollywog, Who was just coming out as a belle of sixteen. The guests were invited ; but one night before A carriage drew up at the modest back-door 2 14 Aspiring Miss De Laine. Qi Brown's lab'ratory, and, full in the glare Of a big purple bottle, some closely-veiled fair Alighted and entered : to make matters plain, Spite of veils and disguises, 'twas Addie De Laine. As a bower for true love, 'twas hardly the one That a lady would choose to be wooed in or won ; No odour of rose or sweet jessamine's sigh Breathed a fragrance to hallow their pledge of troth by. Nor the balm that exhales from the odorous thyme ; But the gaseous eflFusions of chloride of lime. And salts, which your chemist delights to explain As the base of the smell of the rose and the drain. Think of this, O ye lovers of s\Yeetness ! and know What you smell when you snuff up Lubin or Pinaud. I pass by the greetings, the transports and bliss, Which, of course, duly followed a meeting like this, And come down to business ; — for such the intent Of the lady who now o'er the crucible leant. In the glow of a furnace of carbon and lime. Like a fairy called up in the new pantomime ; — And give but her words as she coyly looked down. In reply to the questioning glances of Brown : " I am taking the drops, and am using the paste. And the little white powders that had a sweet taste, Which you told me would brighten the glance of my eye. And the depilatory, and also the dye. And I'm charmed with the trial ; and now, my dear Brown, I have one other favour, — now, ducky, don't frown, — Only one, for a chemist and genius like you But a trifle, and one you can easily do. Aspiring Miss De Laine. 2 1 5 Now listen : to-morrow, you know, is the night Of the birthday soirk of that Pollywog fright ; And I'm to be there, and the dress I shall wear Is too lovely ; but " — "But what then, ma chlreV Said Brown, as the lady came to a full stop. And glanced round the shelves of the little back shop. " Well, I want — I want something to fill out the skirt To the proper dimensions, without being girt In a stiff crinoline, or caged in a hoop That shows through one's skirt like the bars of a coop ; Something light, that a lady may waltz in, or polk. With a freedom that none but you masculine folk Ever know. For, however poor woman aspires, She's always bound down to the earth by these wires. Are you listening ? Nonsense ! don't stare like a spoon. Idiotic ; some light thing, and spacious, and soon — Something like — well, in fact — something like a balloon !" Here she paused ; and here Brown, overcome by surprise, Gave a doubting assent with still wondering eyes, And the lady departed. But just at the door Something happened, — 'tis true, it had happened before In this sanctum of science, — a sibilant sound, Like some element just from its trammels unbound, Or two substances that their affinities found. The night of the anxiously-looked-for soirke Had come, with its fair ones in gorgeous array ; With the rattle of wheels and the tinkle of bells. And the " How do ye do's," and the " Hope you are well's ; " And the crush in the passage, and last lingering look You give as you hang your best hat on the hook ; The rush of hot air as the door opens wide ; And your entry, — that blending of self-possessed pride 2 1 6 Aspiring Miss De Laine. And humility shown in your perfect-bred stare At the folk, as if wondering how they got there ; With other tricks worthy of Vanity Fair. Meanwhile the safe topic, the heat of the room, Already was loosing its freshness and bloom ; Young people were yawning, and wondering when The dance would come off, and why didn't it then : When a vague expectation was thrilling the crowd, Lo ! the door swung its hinges with utterance proud ! And Pompey announced, with a trump^-like strain, The entrance of Brown and Miss Addie De Laine. She entered ; but oh ! how imperfect the verb To express to thft senses her movement superb ! To say that she " sailed in " more clearly might tell Her grace in its buoyant and billowy swell. Her robe was a vague circumambient space, With shadowy boundaries made of point-lace. The rest was but guesswork, and well might defy The power of critical feminine eye To define or describe : 'twere as futile to try The gossamer web of the cirrus to trace. Floating far in the blue of a warm summer sky. 'Midst the humming of praises and the glances of beaux. That greet our fair maiden wherever she goes, Brown slipped like a shadow, grim, silent, and black, With a look of anxiety, close in her track. Once he whispered aside in her delicate ear A sentence of warning, — it might be of fear : " Don't stand in a draught, if you value your life." (Nothing more, — such advice might be given your wife Or your sweetheart, in times of bronchitis and cough. Without mystery, romance, or frivolous scoff.) Aspiring Miss De Laine. 2 1 7 But hark to the music : the dance has begun. The closely-draped windows wide open are flung ; The notes of the piccolo, joyous and light, Like bubbles burst forth on the warm summer night. Roundabout go the dancers ; in circles they fly ; Trip, trip, go their feet as their skirts eddy by ; And swifter and lighter, but somewhat too plain, Whisks the fair circumvolving Miss Addie De Laine. Taglioni and Cerito well might have pined For the vigour and ease that her movements combined ; E'en Rigelboche never flung higher her robe In the naughtiest city that's known on the globe. 'Twas amazing, 'twas scandalous : lost in surprise, Some opened their mouths, and a few shut their eyes. But hark ! At the moment Miss Addie De Laine, Circling round at the outer edge of an ellipse Which brought her fair form to the window again. From the arms of her* partner incautiously slips ! And a shriek fills the air, and the music is still. And the crowd gather round where her partner forlorn Still frenziedly points from the wide window-sill Into space and the night ; for Miss Addie was gone ! Gone like the bubble that bursts in the sun ; Gone like the grain when the reaper is done ; Gone like the dew on the fresh morning grass ; Gone without parting farewell ; and alas ! Gone with a flavour of hydrogen gas ! When the weather is pleasant, you frequently meet A white-headed man slowly pacing the street; His trembling hand shading his lack-lustre eye. Half-blind with continually scanning the sky. 2 1 8 Aspiring Miss De Laine. Rumour points him as some astronomical sage, Re-perusing by day the celestial page ; But the reader, sagacious, will recognise Brown, Trying vainly to conjure his lost sweetheart down, And learn the stern moral this story must teach, That Genius may lift its love out of its reach. { 219 ) 3 legeno of Cologne. Above the bones St. Ursula owns, And those of the virgins she chaperon.es ; Above the boats, And the bridge that floats, And the Rhine and the steamers' smoky throats ; Above the chimneys and quaint-tiled roofs, Above the clatter of wheels and hoofs ; Above Newmarket's open space. Above that consecrated place Where the genuine bones of the Magi seen are, And the dozen shops of the real Farina ; Higher than even old Hohestrasse, Whose houses threaten the timid passer : Above them all, Through scaffolds tall And spires like delicate limbs in splinters, The great Cologne's Cathedral stones Climb through the storms of eight hundred winters. Unfinished there. In high mid-air The towers halt like a broken prayer ; 2 20 A Legend of Cologne. Through years belated, Unconsummated, The hope of its architect quite frustrated. Its very youth They say, forsooth, With a quite improper purpose mated ; And every stone With a curse of its own Instead of that sermon Skakespeare stated, Since the day its choir. Which all admire, By Cologne's Archbishop was consecrated. Ah ! that was a day, One well might say, To be marked with the largest, whitest stone To be found in the towers of all Cologne ! Along the Rhine, From old Rheinstein, The people flowed like their own good wine. From Rudesheim, And Geisenheim, And every spot that is known to rhyme ; From the famed Cat's Castle of St. Goarshausen, To the pictured roofs of Assmannshausen, And down the track. From quaint Schwalbach To the clustering tiles of Bacharach ; From Bingen, hence To old Coblentz : From every castellated crag, Where the robber chieftains kept their '■ swag," The folk flowed in, and Ober-Cassel Shone with the pomp of knight and vassal ; A Legend of Cologne. 221 And pouring in from near and far, As the Rhine to its bosom draws the Ahr, Or takes the arm of the sober Mosel, So in Cologne, knight, squire, and losel, Choked up the city's gates with men From old St. Stephen to Zint Mdrjen. What had they come to see ? Ah me ! I fear no glitter of pageantry, Nor sacred zeal For Church's weal, Nor faith in the virgins' bones to heal ; Nor childlike trust in frank confession Drew these, who, dyed in deep transgression. Still in each nest On every crest Kept stolen goods in their possession ; But only their gout For something new, More rare than the " roast " of a wandering Jew ; Or — to be exact — To see — in fact — A Christian soul, in the very act Of being damned, secundum artem, By the devil, before a soul could part 'em. For a rumour had flown Throughout Cologne, That the church, in fact, was the devil's own ; That its architect (Being long " suspect ") Had confessed to the bishop that he had wreckt Not only his own soul, but had lost The very first Christian soul that crossed 2 22 A Legend of Cologne. The sacred threshold ; and all, in fine, For that very beautiful design Of the wonderful choir They were pleased to admire. And really, he must be allowed to say — To speak in a purely business way — That, taking the ruling market prices Of souls and churches, in such a crisis It would be shown — And his Grace must own — It was really a bargain for Cologne ! Such was the tale That turned cheeks pale With the thought that the enemy might prevail, And the church doors snap With a thunder-clap On a Christian soul in that devil's trap. But a wiser few, Who thought that they knew Cologne's Archbishop, replied, " Pooh, pooh ! Just watch him and wait. And as sure as fate, You'll find that the Bishop will give checkmate." One here might note How the popular vote, As shown in all legends and anecdote, Declares that a breach Of trust to o'erreach The devil is something quite proper for each. And, really, if you Give the devil his due In spite of the proverb — it's something you'll rue. A Legend oj Cologne. 223 But to lie and deceive him, To use and to leave him, From Job up to Faust is the way to receive him, Though no one has heard It ever averred That the " Father of Lies " ever yet broke his word, But has left this position. In every tradition. To be taken alone by the " truth-loving " Christian ! Bom ! from the tower ! It is the hour ! The host pours in, in its pomp and power Of banners and pyx, And high crucifix, And crosiers and other processional sticks, And no end of Marys In quaint reliquaries ; To gladden the souls of all true antiquaries ; And an Osculum Fads — (A myth to the masses Who trusted their bones more to mail and cuirasses), All borne by the throng Who are marching along To the square of the Dom with processional song. With the flaring of dips. And bending of hips, And the chanting of hundred perfunctory lips ; And some good little boys Who had come up from Neuss And the Quirinuskirche to show off their voice : All march to the square Of the great Dom, and there File right and left, leaving alone and quite bare 2 24 A Legend of Cologne. A covered sedan, Containing — so ran The rumour — the victim to take oiFthe ban. They have left it alone, They have sprinkled each stone Of the porch with a sanctified Eau de Cologne, Guaranteed in this case To disguise every trace Of a sulphurous presence in that sacred place. Two Carmelites stand On the right and left hand Of the covered sedan chair, to wait the command Of the prelate to throw Up the cover and show The form of the victim in terror below. There's a pause and a prayer, Then the signal, and there — Is a woman ! — by all that is good and is fair ! A woman ! and known To them all — one must own Too well known to the many, to-day to be shown As a martyr, or e'en As a Christian ! A queen Of pleasaunce and revel, of glitter and sheen ; So bad that the worst Of Cologne spake up first. And declared 'twas an outrage to suffer one curst, And already a fief Of the Satanic chief, To martyr herself for the Church's relief. A L egend of Cologne. 225 But in vain fell their sneer On the mob, who I fear On the whole felt a strong disposition to cheer. A woman ! and there She stands in the glare Of the pitiless sun and their pitying stare — A woman still young, With garments that clung To a figure, though wasted with passion and wrung With remorse and despair. Yet still passing fair, With jewels and gold in her dark shining hair. And cheeks that are faint 'Neath her dyes and her paint — A woman most surely — but hardly a saint ! She moves. She has gone From their pity and scorn ; She has mounted alone The first step of stone. And the high swinging doors she wide open has thrown, Then pauses and turns, As the altar blaze burns On her cheeks, and with one sudden gesture she spurns Archbishop and Prior, Knight, ladye, and friar, And her voice rings out high from the vault of the choir. " Oh, men of Cologne ! What I was ye have known j ^Miat I am, as I stand here, One knoweth alone. If it be but His will I shall pass from Him still, VOL. I. P 2 26 A Legend of Cologne. Lost, curst, and degraded, I reckon no ill ; If still by that sign Of His anger divine One soul shall be saved, He hath blessed more than mine. Oh, men of Cologne ! Stand forth if ye own A faith like to this, or more fit to atone, And take ye my place, And God give you grace To stand and confront Him, like me, face to face ! " She paused. Yet aloof They all stand. No reproof Breaks the silence that fills the celestial roof. One instant — no more — ■ She halts at the door. Then enters ! . . . A flood from the roof to the floor Fills the church rosy red. She is gone ! But instead, Who is this leaning forward with glorified head And hands stretched to save ? Sure this is no slave Of the Powers of Darkness, with aspect so brave ! They press to the door. But too late ! All is o'er. Nought remains but a woman's form prone on the floor. But they still see a trace Of that glow in her face That they saw in the light of the altar's high blaze On the image that stands With the babe in its hands Enshrined in the churches of all Christian lands. A Legend of Cologne. 227 A Te Deinn sung, A censer high swung, With praise, benediction, and incense wide-flung. Proclaim that the curse Is removed — and no worse Is the Dom for the trial — in fact, the reverse ; For instead of their losing A soul in abusing The Evil One's faith, they gained one of his choosing. Thus the legend is told : You will find in the old Vaulted aisles of the Dom, stiff in marble or cold In iron and brass. In gown and cuirass, The knights, priests, and bishops who came to that Mass ; And high o'er the lest. With her babe at her breast. The image of Mary Madonna the blest. But you look round in vain. On each high pictured pane. For the woman most worthy to walk in her train. Yet, standing to-day O'er the dust and the clay, 'Midst the ghosts of a life that has long passed away. With the slow-sinking sun Looking softly upon That stained-glass procession, I scarce miss the one That it does not reveal, For I know and I feel That these are but shadows — the woman was real ! ( 228 ) Ctje Calc of a Ponp» Name of my heroine, simply "Rose;" Surname, tolerable only in prose ; Habitat, Paris, — that is where She resided for change of air ; yEtat. twenty ; complexion fair, Rich, good-looking, and debonnaire, Smarter than Jersey-lightning — There ! That's her photograph, done with care. In Paris, whatever they do besides, Every lady in full dress rides ! Moirt antiques you never meet Sweeping the filth of a dirty street ; But every woman's claim to ton Depends upon The team she drives, whether phaeton. Landau, or britzka. Hence it's plain That Rose, who was of her toilet vain, Shpuld have a team that ought to be Equal to any in all Paris ! " Bring forth the horse ! " The commissaire Bowed, and brought Miss Rose a pair Leading an equipage rich and rare. Why doth that lovely lady stare ? The I'ale of a Pony. 229 Why ? The tail of the off grey mare Is bobbed, by all that's good and fair ! Like the shaving-brushes that soldiers wear. Scarcely showing as much back-hair As Tam O'Shanter's " Meg,"— and there. Lord knows, she'd little enough to spare. That stare and frown the Frenchman knew, But did as well-bred Frenchmen do : Raised his shoulders above his crown. Joined his thumbs with the fingers down, And said, " Ah Heaven ! " — then, " Mademoiselle Delay one minute, and all is well'! " He went — returned ; by what good chance These things are managed so well in France I cannot say, — but he made the sale. And the bob-tailed mare had a flowing tail. All that is false in this world below Betrays itself in a love of show ; Indignant Nature hides her lash In the purple-black of a dyed mustache ; The shallowest fop wiU trip in French, The would-be critic will misquote Trench ; In short, you're always sure to detect A sham in the things folks rhost affect ; Bean-pods are noisiest when dry, And you always wink with your weakest eye : And that's the reason the old grey mare Forever had her tail in the air, With flourishes beyond compare, Though every whisk Incurred the risk Of leaving that sensitive region bare, — 230 The Tale of a Pony. She did some things that you couldn't but feel She wouldn't have done had her tail been real. Champs Elys^es : Time, past five ; There go the carriages, — look alive ! Everything that man can drive. Or his inventive skill contrive, — Yankee buggy or English "chay," Dog-cart, droschky, and smart coup^, A disobligeante quite bulky (French idea of a Yankee sulky) ; Band in the distance playing a march, Footmen standing stiff as starch ; Savans, lorettes, deputies, Arch- Bishops, and there together range &'z