'/I a lis 
 
Hollinger Corp, 
 pH 8.5 
 
The 
 Haunted Millionaire 
 
 Of Montecito 
 
 By 
 
 Marion P. Earl 
 
 ^ 
 
 THE UPUFT ASSOCIATION 
 
 Station C 
 
 LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA 
 
DEC 1 1 131? 
 
A^ 
 
 >^^v 
 
 THE HAUNTED MILLIONAIRE 
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 A Community Is Judged by 
 Its Ideals and Spirit 
 
 Baked beans made Boston famous. Now 
 baked beans mean cunning- brain, skilled 
 hand and much energy. The brown bean is 
 mighty because it represents an ideal of ex- 
 cellency and a spirit of achievement. Lon- 
 don is a nasty place with its fog and slums 
 that smell to heaven. But London is great 
 because of its ideals and spirit which reach 
 to Pekin and Timbukto. Santa Barbara has 
 climate, scenery and reputation scarcely 
 equaled world over. But the ideals and 
 spirit of this city if nation wide, would send 
 America to scrap-heap of nations. 
 
 This famous city has no slum center, but 
 she has her Montecito section fraught with 
 worse perils and problems than the slums 
 of London or New York. The dreams, no- 
 tions, whims, vagaries and ignorance of the 
 
idle rich are not the stuff out of which a 
 great city is made. 
 
 Some wag! has suggested that the Ameri- 
 can government send an ambassador to 
 Santa Barbara. Its ideals and spirit are not 
 of the flag, but belong to another world. 
 In Am^erica we believe in the government 
 of all the people, by all the people, for all 
 the people. In Montecito the ideal is the 
 government of all the people by the snob- 
 ocrasy, for the snobocrasy. Now a snob is 
 a person of common or inferior worth who 
 assumes the airs of superiority on the basis 
 that we are saved, not by grace, but by 
 ancestry and gold dollars. George Wash- 
 ington would have fought just as haTi to 
 free the people from Montecito ideals as he 
 did to escape the ideals of King George. It 
 is not a question of brains, character and 
 the spirit of honorable endeavor here in this 
 live oak vale, but just the question of a 
 mere money bag. 
 
 The American Ideal Demands the Free 
 Mingling of All Kinds and Classes 
 
 In Montecito none but the rich are 
 
V. anted. The chained gate, the haughty 
 look, the domineering manner all tell the 
 story of excKisiveness. In America it takes 
 all of us to miake a nation. As well build 
 a v/all around the slums of Xew York, a coal 
 camp, a farm section, a factor)^ comm.unity; 
 and say that thi« '« all there is of America, 
 as to put up a wall of exclusiveness about 
 Txlontecito. Our future as a nation depends 
 on keeping the bottle well shaken up. If 
 any single ingredient rises to the top or 
 settles to the bottom it is time to send for 
 the undertaker. These retired money-m>ad 
 men and apes of aristocracy take God's lit- 
 tle valley, build palaces fit for kings, and 
 drive others away. They do not believe in 
 the Declaration of Independence and are ig- 
 norant of what freedom means. 
 
 The ideals and spirit of Montecito domi- 
 nate Santa Barbara, which is the dog 
 wagged by the tail out among the live oaks. 
 It is a case of full represents: ion without 
 taxation, for the city limits com.e before 
 vou reach the valley. The ideas and whims 
 and vagaries are counted more precious 
 
than tax money. The result is that the in- 
 dustrial class is barred and any enterprise 
 that represents honest toil in the aggregate 
 is barred. The dear old adobe buildings 
 permeated with vermin are preserved intact 
 —just as one might keep the hat dear old 
 uncle wore on his darr'n^ old head as a sou- 
 venir of the dear old gentleman. So Santa 
 Barbara sleeps and dreams of greatness in 
 a world foreign to freedom and the cause 
 of man. No community which \vould ex- 
 clude anything that makes America great is 
 worthy. We can only maintain our equi- 
 librium by free mingling. 
 
 If a man is a nabob he needs to be stirred 
 into a batch of day laborers. If a miserable 
 sinner he should mix with saints, if a saint 
 with sinners, if wealthy with hobos. May- 
 be the reason why the great American 
 novel has not been written is because we 
 have not yet produced the ideal American 
 citizen, who must be the product of the 
 right mixing of all the elements of our na- 
 tional life. He can never be produced in 
 a Montecito atmosphere. 
 
True Americans coalesce, pull together, 
 love each other. But it is rumored that in 
 this beautiful little valley there is rivalry, 
 jealousy and strife not lacking in kinship 
 to the badness of a back alley in the slum 
 districts of big cities. 
 
 To have an ambitiun to be rich enough to 
 retire to the seclusion of Mentecito valley 
 is to be in love with the scrap heap. No 
 true American wants to hob a nob with roy- 
 alty. He who boasts descent from the 
 men who conquered England by brute force, 
 and have ruled it likewise ever since, has 
 less to brag of than has the ditch digger 
 v/hose q-randfather helped throw King 
 George back across the Atlantic. 
 
 No true American hides away from his 
 fellows, but rather mingles with them and 
 helps solve the common problems. To re- 
 tire behind a chained gate and look with 
 scorn on the rest of humanity, is to betray 
 the nation to its fate, and cry, "after ine the 
 dehigc." 
 
He Who Does Not Labor is Only Fit 
 For the Scrap Heap 
 
 The true patriot works. To scorn labor 
 is to hate the flag. The sane man works 
 for the same reason that he eats, to pre- 
 serve life. Let Montecito millionaires learn 
 to black the boots of their servants and we 
 may believe in them. It is as unmanly to 
 loaf in a high power automobile as it is to 
 loaf along the railway track with a red ban- 
 dana and a tin can for supplies. The former 
 loafer is a greater menace to the nation 
 than the latter. The Montecito spirit de- 
 rides labor, builds a servants' quarter out 
 by the barn and with pious look says. "My 
 Lord loveth an aristocratic loater." 
 A Christian Mingles With the Low and 
 Needy Instead nf Hiding From Them 
 
 The spirit and ideals of Christianity cause 
 men to rninglt vvith their fellows and give 
 their lives for others. The weak, the poor, 
 the ignorant, the oppressed are dear to the 
 heart of the follower of Christ. It is ? law 
 of spiritual life that the gift avails nothing 
 without some of the sweat and blood of the 
 
giver. To save one's soul one must gc 
 where there is need and must give of one's 
 own heart to help another. No man can 
 follow Christ into a palace and live with 
 Him there any more than Tennyson's rich 
 man could find happiness in the Palace of 
 Art, — nor can any man find ii in Montecito- 
 Can a Real Man Live in a Millionaires' 
 Paradise and Not Be Haunted? 
 
 It Vv'as the consciousness of the truth of 
 these things that made The Haunted Mil- 
 loinaire so miserable. The latent and un- 
 destroyed manhood in him rebelled at the 
 ideals and practices, the spirit and the fame 
 of the society in w^hich he found himself. 
 He tells the story of the awakening and 
 how he came to know that he had entered 
 into the lists against God in achieving his 
 success : 
 
 THE STORY 
 
 In tne Twilight 
 
 In the firelight since the twilight till the 
 
 night is v;aning late 
 I have cowered enthralled and helpless here 
 
beside the flickering grate. 
 Long I watched the glory burning on the 
 
 ocean's glassy breast, 
 As the sun dropped down in triumph like a 
 
 great bird to its nest. 
 Long I watched the sunset splendor softly 
 
 glow and flame and change 
 Over gulch and crest and shoulder far 
 
 along the rugged range, 
 E'rc the bright stars kindled slowly into 
 
 clearer, deeper blaze. 
 And a mist crept from the ocean, dimmed 
 
 them with its thickening haze, 
 'Till beyond the shuttered casement I shut 
 
 out the darkness chill, 
 Brooding here alone — the tenant of the pal- 
 are by the hill. 
 I the hai'ghty master mastered by a sprU I 
 
 v.annot break, 
 In the room a mystic presence — am I sleep- 
 ing or awake? 
 The retired industrial captain I, the mighty 
 
 millionaire, 
 Must I tear the record open, lay life's 
 
 buried secrets bare? 
 
The Awakening 
 
 Y ester morn within the store room, where 
 
 I searched for papers old, 
 From the corner of a great chest came a 
 
 gleam of ancient gold. 
 Many a year untouched, forgotten it had 
 
 lain amid the dust, 
 With its hidden cruel secret that defied the 
 
 moth and rust — 
 Just a sm.all and simple locket hiding but a 
 
 single curl 
 And a dim and faded picture of sweet and 
 
 winsome girl. 
 Never since that fatal morning when the 
 
 years of life were young, 
 Have I quite shut out the whisper of a 
 
 strange accusing tongue ; 
 Never yet have I sought comfort in strong 
 
 action or in rest. 
 But tLe gnawings of discomfort stirred 
 
 W'itliin niy haunted breast. 
 Long the throes of outraged conscience I 
 
 have checked v^ith iron will, 
 Vainly I the haunting voices have com- 
 manded to be still. 
 
From the tomb I sealed stout hearted, lo! 
 
 the stone is rolled away, 
 Thirty years of death and darkness, now 
 
 the light of the clear day. 
 In my hand I hold the locket, dim eyes 
 
 looking into mine, 
 As of old so pure and tender. Life was 
 
 love, and love divine 
 E're the money-madness seized me, seared 
 
 the heart and fired the brain, 
 And miy better self I offered on the altar 
 
 fires of gain. 
 The Story of 
 Dishonor 
 Thirty times the beach and maple on the 
 
 old New England farm 
 Have been touched with autumn color as 
 
 with a magician's charm, 
 Thirty times the winding river 'neath its 
 
 icy floor has crept, 
 And the merry skaters gaily 'twixt the 
 
 woods and meadows swept. 
 Hand in hand we often glided underneath 
 
 the vv^inter moon, 
 In our hearts the joy and music of the wak- 
 
ing dawns of June. 
 Never yet a darker shadow settled down 
 
 on human deed 
 As I spoke the fatal message that from 
 
 her's my life I freed, 
 Told her I no longer loved her, cursed my 
 
 spirit with the lie, 
 Left her dazed, and crushed, and wounded, 
 
 with no heart to make reply. 
 'Twas the fault of Mamie's father, mine the 
 
 honor, his the blame. 
 By his lack he showed his station with the 
 
 halt and blind and lame. 
 Business is but business said I, he must 
 
 win and hold who can, 
 Great the game, who cannot play it lacks 
 
 the measure of a man. 
 In his trust he told the secret where far 
 
 coal banks lay concealed, 
 I with quicker wit and action gained the 
 
 option on the field. 
 It was then the tiger madness caught my 
 
 heart and fired my brain, 
 It was then I learned to measure all things 
 
 by the yardstick gain. 
 
Called I love less good than riches, money- 
 mad and worldly wise, 
 
 Did the deed that seemed expedient in 
 mine own deluded eyes. 
 
 Money-mad I jilted Mamie, broke her heart 
 and wrecked her life, 
 
 Led another to the altar, made one all un- 
 loved my wife. 
 
 As a prince is sometimes wedded out of 
 policy of court 
 
 When the stroke of subtle statecraft saves 
 the cost of fleet and fort, 
 
 So I won the shallow daughter of a new- 
 made millionaire. 
 
 Put her gold into my coffers — saved the 
 strife to put it there. 
 
 I have never loved this woman, she has 
 ruled my thought and will, 
 
 But her tactful woman's prowess never 
 kept my longing still. 
 
 She the proud and haughty leader of a 
 choice exclusive set, 
 
 She the cold determined woman never 
 made my heart forget. 
 
 In my life a void of yearning, in my halls 
 
no infant mirth — 
 Children crying in the silence to be loved 
 
 and wooed to birth. 
 She I won has counted childbirth ^t the 
 
 lower surf and brute, 
 Wasted all her mother passion on a poodh 
 
 counted cute. 
 Life is more than showy splendor, stateiy 
 
 pride and senses cloyed, 
 Just a vague and dying echo ringing down 
 
 a dismal void — 
 Without love the story dwindles and the in- 
 terest swiftly wanes, 
 Though he gain the whole world's treasure, 
 
 without love he nothing gains. 
 The Flight 
 Yester morn I fled in terror from the m^em- 
 
 ories that vv^ere stirred, 
 Urged my chauffeur eastward, onward till 
 
 the engines throbbed and purred, 
 Fled the oaks of Montecito, o'er the steep 
 
 Ortega grade. 
 Past the groves of Carpint'ria, wound 
 
 through Rincon's sylvan shade, 
 Climbed the passes of Casitas to Ventura 
 
by the sea — 
 From the hurt of wakened memories 
 
 naught availed to set me free. 
 ^here I turned again and hastened to the 
 
 crest of the West Pass, 
 Paused to watch the wondrous picture 
 
 round the sea of fire and glass ; 
 Miles on miles of craggy summits where 
 
 the lights and shadows rest 
 To the distant gates of sunset far away 
 
 adown the west ; 
 Watched the long and foaming surf line 
 
 twixt the waters and the sand 
 Off toward Santa Barbara's headland wind 
 
 beside the bluffs and sand; 
 Dim beyond the smiling channel veiled in 
 
 soft and mystic blue, 
 Saw the island hills and mountains bar the 
 
 limits of the view; 
 Close at hand the slopes of Rincon v/ith the 
 
 fields of barley green ; 
 Down below the winding canyon lay its 
 
 steeper walls between. 
 I have wandered in famed places with ad- 
 miring and surprise 
 
In the land ol song and story nnderncath 
 
 Italian skies ; 
 Never there my eye was captured and my 
 
 feelings, deeply stirred, 
 Never there my soul so startled, as v/ith 
 
 some great earnest word. 
 As 1 paused to viev\^ the pic^-ure where so 
 
 often I have gazed. 
 Was it a real flash from heaven into my 
 
 wild breast that blazed? 
 For there seemed to come a vvhisper in a 
 
 breath of sea breeze sweet, 
 "Where thou art the ground is holy, put 
 
 thy shoes from off thy feet." 
 Quickly then I fled the mountain with my 
 
 soul afraid and awed — 
 Was it but the living presence of the ever- 
 lasting God? 
 From the green slopes of Casiias. on down 
 
 Rincon's live oak shade. 
 Through the groves of Carpint'ria home I 
 
 sped still more afraid ; 
 Something moved in grove and orchard, 
 
 over foothill, greening field, 
 A new active force in nature "till that hour 
 
to me concealed. 
 In the little vine hung chapel by the shore 
 
 at Miramar, 
 I have said old prayers with reverence to a 
 
 king enthroned afar, 
 I have bowed in stately temple where the 
 
 ritual grand was heard, 
 While the organ rolled in rapture and a 
 
 deep emotion stirred. 
 Ne'er in church nor grand cathedral where 
 
 men in their reverence kneel, 
 Have I found a God whose presence 
 
 seemed to be at hand and real. 
 I have talked of evolution, cycles of ma- 
 terial sway 
 Where the master will must triumph, 
 
 cleave its destined right of way. 
 Have I touched the hidden meaning of the 
 
 earth, the sky and sea? 
 Is God life of breeze and billow, blade and 
 
 bud and shrub and tree? 
 Is He God because He giveth of himself to 
 
 m^ake the rose? 
 Is man's life but the outgoing of a life that 
 
 sv.ell and flows" 
 
Is life love, the free outpouring of the heart 
 
 that throbbed and yearned 
 *Till it made this world of beauty, smiling 
 
 where the eye is turned? 
 Is he only great and noble from whom some 
 
 one new life drawe, 
 Who is spent in saving others, swallowed 
 
 up in some great cause? 
 Is there no path to greatness but by toil 
 
 and sacrifice? 
 I who wrested gain from others, is my life 
 
 the worst of lies? 
 The Banquet 
 Yester' night my halls were crowded 3.nh 
 
 the festal board was spread, 
 I was gay amid the gladness for the wine 
 
 was flowing red. 
 Wealth and beauty, pride and culture bri! 
 
 liant light and service rare — 
 'Twas a choice exclusive gathering called 
 
 my luxury to share. 
 I the far famed man of millions, I the 
 
 would-be genial host 
 Lifted up a costly chalice to speak out a 
 
 witty toast. 
 
Was it then a frenzied fetiicy? Had I let my 
 
 reason slip? 
 Did the wine within the goblet turn to 
 
 blood upon my lip? 
 In my brain there ,-/"^ke the drooning of the 
 
 iron wheels that spin 
 Where enslaved the little children toil amid 
 
 the dust and din, 
 Driven by their cruel masters with their 
 
 hearts transformed to stone, 
 Grinding off the flesh God-image where the 
 
 m.ill wheels race and moan. 
 It was I who drove the drivers — for the 
 
 m.eans must reach the ends, 
 Who invests must reap the proHts, stock 
 
 must bear it sdividends. 
 They were hers not mine, those factories, 
 
 miine to rule by wedding dower. 
 So I've spoiled the human harvest by the 
 
 Dlight of childhood's flower. 
 In the smoke and dust of smelters — mine 
 
 the furnace and the mill — 
 Long I drove the slaves of labor v/ith a 
 
 grim unyielding will, 
 Gave each man a chosen number, names 
 
are naught to such a race — 
 When one died amid the turmoil took the 
 
 next to fill the place. 
 Oft I've seen their stolid faces in the flame 
 
 of furnace glare — 
 When 1 raised the costly chalice, cold and 
 
 still I saw them there. 
 Long in dreams have come the voices of the 
 
 children spoiled and slain,. 
 And the flitting ghastly, faces of the men 
 
 cut deep by pain. 
 Still, 'twas ordered that men per-^sh in the 
 
 harvest of great wealth, 
 Who could win a place and fortune if he 
 
 counted life and health? 
 Rights of property are lawful—pillage, rob- 
 bery and loot 
 Was the primal law when mankind was 
 
 emerging from the brute; 
 Nothing else will serve the purpose in a 
 
 v/orld of action real — 
 He can never win vv^ho loiters in the realm 
 
 of the ideal. 
 Men of pride and hate and warfare, 
 
 schemers sleek, astute and bold — 
 
These have been my masters, models, whose 
 
 reward is povver and gold. 
 Captains of industrial conquest rule by 
 
 right divine, supreme, 
 Men of need are but the chessmen in the 
 
 nation-helping scheme — 
 So has run m.y worldly logic like a chain 
 
 across the years, 
 Every link was forged with effort amid 
 
 hidden doubts and fears. 
 Iron mailed and eager hearted I invoked 
 
 the law of might — 
 Does that law ccnPiict forever with the 
 
 eternal law of right? 
 What is mine is mine, is written in the an- 
 cient civil code, 
 What is mine — is that the measure of the 
 
 debt to others ov»-ed? 
 The Palace of Unrest 
 I have built this stately mansion 'mid the 
 
 ancient live oak trees 
 Here between the rugged mountains and 
 
 the calm and sunlit seas, 
 Walled it in with high seclusion, chained 
 
 the gate lest men intrude, 
 
Lest they mar my peace and quiet with 
 
 their manners dull and rude, 
 Shut my heart to want and sorrow, bid 
 
 farewell to pain and need. 
 Like a prince enjoyed the harvest of my 
 
 long and fruitful greed. 
 On these walls the dreams of artists from 
 
 the costly canvas start. 
 On these shelves the masterpieces — science, 
 
 literature and art; 
 Here I've roamed the fields of action in the 
 
 lands of history past. 
 Talked with king and sage and dreamer 
 
 with their stores of knov\^ledge vast; 
 Harked the songs of m.ighty poets that like 
 
 healing streams h ive fl own, 
 Sought to sing their music with them, 
 
 sought to make their joy mine ovvn ; 
 Here I've hailed the lords of science, bid 
 
 them share their stores of thought, 
 Viewed with them the modern v/onders that 
 
 their brains and hands have wrought; 
 But like guests all uninvited these great 
 
 hearts and minds among 
 I have stood an awkward listener harking 
 
to an unknown tongue. 
 Money-mad I jilted Mamie, money-mad 
 
 I've gained my goal — 
 Money-madness blights the vision, wastes 
 
 the prowess of the soul. 
 iNloney will not buy the treasure of a clean 
 
 and contrite heart, 
 Nor the love of truth, the insight that great 
 
 genius doeth impart. 
 I the clean bred Anglo-Saxon born vi noble 
 
 dream.s and w^orth, 
 Taught to spurn the sham and snobbery of 
 
 the vulgar pride of birth. 
 Mating here with blue blood gentry boast- 
 ful of a lineage old 
 From some drunken brute ancestor con- 
 quering by sheer force bo!d. 
 And with shallow-Yvilted copyists of old 
 
 duke or prince or lord 
 Who to hob-a-nob with rich men count it 
 
 life's supreme reward. 
 Tvloney will not buy the knowledge of stern 
 
 righteousness and truth, 
 Money will not buy the vision of a lost and 
 
 wasted younth. 
 
I would give my wealth to feel it — Mamie^s 
 arms around my neck, 
 
 Run the ship upon the headland, haste in 
 triumph from the wreck. 
 
 There are stains on my escutcheon gener- 
 ous deeds can not atone, 
 
 Tho' no eye was ever troubled by the 
 glimpse but m.ine alone. 
 
 iThis a splendid haunted palace , mine the 
 heart of dread and fear, 
 
 Faces flitting on my vision, voices whisper- 
 ing in mine ear. 
 
 Oft I've fled in quest of comfort, but the 
 spectral brood pursues 
 
 Down the long and shaded pavements with 
 their charm of changing viev/s ; 
 
 From the slopes of the Casitas' I have raced 
 in speeding car 
 
 To the grades of Gaviota and San Marcus 
 pass afar; 
 
 Where the walnut groves are standing in 
 their long^ and even rows 
 
 And the lemon, orange, live meet tlie lillie 
 and the rose ; 
 
 ^Vlicre the roaring waves are breaking 
 
on the smooth axid level sand, 
 Where the foothill drives are winding and 
 
 the views are counted grand. 
 I have dined in Franklin's canyon with the 
 
 live oak branches spread 
 Interwoven gainst the sunlight of the soft 
 
 blue sky o'erhead ; 
 Harked Vvliere rippling Rincon's waters 
 
 leap and laugh from pool to pool 
 'I\lid the banks of fern and foliage kissed 
 
 by soft sea breezes cool ; 
 I have wo'md the v^^ondrous canyon with 
 
 its sylvan shadows dark, 
 Whiled away the hours of dreamland 'mid 
 
 the gloves at vStanley Park; 
 I have dined with money princes where the 
 
 oaks at Shepard's Inn 
 Banish all the toil and turmoil, of far cities 
 
 v/ith their din. 
 Everywhere the touch of grandeur and 
 
 charm of beauty rare, 
 Everywhere the balm and healing for life's 
 
 trouble, pain and care — 
 Rut my restless heart within me mocks the 
 
 peace of scenes like these, 
 
From each studied n=ew diversion rises up 
 
 in fear and flees. 
 He is poor who gains the whole world 
 
 while his noblest powers decline — 
 I the discord to the music, love and hope 
 
 no longer mine ; 
 Lust of eye and pride of living, lust of flesh 
 
 long satisfied, 
 But the simple joy of being is forevermore 
 
 denied. 
 The Pictures on 
 the Wall 
 On the wall here hangs a picture, a choice 
 
 painting counted rare — 
 Hoffman's rich young ruler, lighted by the 
 
 firelight's fitful glare. 
 As the sun breaks into fullness through the 
 
 morning mist and haze, 
 Now at me the Christ seems looking with 
 
 a sad, accusing gaze. " '' 
 Was it but a pasing fartcy 'that upon my 
 
 hearing fell : 
 "Feed the poor and help the worker, all ye 
 
 have forsake and sell?" 
 I have held the rights of money greater 
 
than the rights of man, 
 
 I have held Jehovah's favor rests upon the 
 man who can, 
 
 I have looked with scorn on Lazarus, safely- 
 barred beyond my gate, 
 
 Spurned him as inferior, useless, as I 
 passed in power and state; 
 
 Why should I waste time and trouble on 
 an outcast such as he? 
 
 Whence this still voice, "Thou need'st Laz- 
 arus more than Lazarus needeth thee." 
 
 I have cloyed my sense with plenty whilt 
 the millions underfed 
 
 Toil like slaves upon the treadmill for a bit 
 of sodden bread. 
 
 What is mine is mine forever, by the law 
 of conquest old, 
 
 What is man that I should mind him? 
 Vv'hat is mine is mine to hold. 
 
 \A'hat is mine is theirs who need it — by 
 what law comes such a claim? 
 
 What? the law of their devotion who have 
 named Christ's saving name? 
 
 Did the traveler of Samaria on the road to 
 Jericho 
 
 V\ hen he bound his wounds who suffered 
 
from the robber's well aimed blow 
 Paid his keep and careful nursing — get 
 
 more than he freely gave^ 
 Are the savers helped by serving more than 
 
 those they serve and save? 
 Poor and useless, dull and brutish I have 
 
 lived to self alone, 
 I have cloyed the sense with plenty, fed my 
 
 soul a crust and bone. 
 What is charity to justice, giving alms does 
 
 not avail, 
 When the method of my getting meant that 
 
 other men must fail. 
 Is my palace then a prison for my best self 
 
 bound in chains, 
 In the hovel and the alley can I find the 
 
 God Who reigns? 
 Mine a vulgar show of money, manhood 
 
 withering to decay. 
 Is it vain then that I worship life my hands 
 
 to praise and pray ; 
 He gives vainly of his treasure who vvith- 
 
 holds the heart's good v/ill? 
 Never gave I gift to Lazarus but I spurned 
 
 and loathed him still. 
 "Wouldst thou" comes a solemn whisper, 
 ''gain the clearest view of Him, 
 
Go where burdened manhood labors 'mid 
 
 the din and shadows dim; 
 
 ---'.^ffi 
 
 There within the shifting turmoil of the 
 
 factory, mill and mine, 
 In the hearts of them the toilers is the 
 
 image most divine. 
 You will find my glory hidden in the brests 
 
 of rhen you meet, 
 Find my dread and awful presence 'mid the 
 
 turmoil of the street; 
 Vain the stately creed and ritual learned 
 
 talk of saving plan, 
 Man must save his soul by loving every 
 
 low and loathsome man." 
 The Scorn of the 
 Padre 
 
 Yonder on his brazen panier lifting conse- 
 crated hands 
 Noblest of the Mission fatliers, .Ssrra ,tlie; 
 
 great padre stands, . ;*U V". 7 \ / 
 He who laid aside all honor a lost people to 
 
 redeem, 
 Led the padres to that conquest, nameless 
 
 graves by shore and stream; 
 I the honored ,man of money, I, whqse rise.. 
 
cost others dear, 
 In the withering scorn of Serra sit and 
 
 cower and tremble here. 
 Many times I've heard the old oells call 
 
 caross the silent air, 
 Bidding men to pause and worship, waft on 
 
 high an honest prayer, 
 While a shame has burned within me at the 
 
 thought of their high zeal 
 Who first raised these ancient turrets, bid 
 
 the bells their message peal. 
 He wdio gives himself takes station wit^ 
 ' ;: the noble and the brave, 
 He who gets and holds sinks lower than the 
 
 outcast and the slave. 
 Betraying the Flag 
 IT ere above the marble mantel hangs my 
 
 grandsire's portrait old, 
 iPirm of lip and strong of feature, once a 
 
 warrior glad and bold. 
 Who from Bunker Hill to Yorktown 
 
 through the snows of V^alley Forge 
 Bore the sword in many a battle gainst the 
 
 minions of King George. 
 
Then they made a mighty nation, flung the 
 
 stars and stripes on high, 
 Set the flag, a blaze of beauty there forever 
 
 gainst the sky. 
 But tonight he eyes me grimly with a look 
 
 that scorning hides, 
 He and I were men of battle — he and I on 
 
 different sides, 
 His the sword unsheathed for freedom's 
 
 last and noblest patriot dream — 
 Mine the war to make the prowess of the 
 
 clans of wealth supreme. 
 "Let the people rule the nation," cry the 
 
 I'eaders of reform, 
 "Down with special rights," they argue 
 
 while their blood is waxing w^arm. 
 I the heir of Christian ages, armed with all 
 
 the gains of time, 
 •Have I preyed on human freedom with the 
 
 wealth that is a crime? 
 ils he wdio with studied caution seeks the 
 
 just law to evade 
 Greater foe to human freedom than who 
 
 bears a rebel's blade? 
 I have fought the rank insurgents with 
 
their policies and dreams, 
 Plotters 'gainst the ruling order with their 
 
 new and untried schemes. 
 What the claims of common people gainst 
 
 the claims of me and mine? 
 Property and rank are sacred — I have ruled 
 
 by right divine. 
 Shall a child's cry still the drooning of the 
 
 wheels of certain gain? 
 Does a man's need hold unquestioned right 
 
 of eminent domain? 
 Is the civil code the echo of Jehovah's voice 
 
 of awe? 
 "^s he traitor then to freedom who ignores 
 
 the moral law? 
 Does he then betray his fellows who for- 
 gets the Sinai code, 
 Bind a nation to disaster somewhere down 
 
 the distant road? 
 When I mastered men and ^used them in 
 
 my purpose strong and grim 
 Did I strive in court and congress gainst 
 
 the purposes of Him? 
 Party rule and party leaders at His fiat all 
 
 must hark, 
 
By the arras in the throne room hides He 
 in the shadow dark. 
 
 Spite of all the human logic, sophists skill 
 
 > q, and custom long, 
 
 Stands the nation's only safety in the right 
 against the wrong? 
 
 I am cowering in the firelight terrified, ap- 
 palled and awed, 
 
 Every avenue of refuge brings me face to 
 face with God. 
 
 It is he who casts the mighty from their 
 seats of pride and trust, 
 
 It is He who breaks the nations, flings 
 their grandeur into dust. 
 
 I have spared no man, but flung them from 
 their stations in my path — 
 
 I have now begun to wrestle with Jeho- 
 vah's silent wrath. 
 
 Are there flashes sent from heaven making 
 all life's meaning plain? 
 
 Is this all a feverish fancy of a wild dis- 
 
 *^r:; <^^^^^c<i brain? 
 
 In the East the dawn is kindling, in the 
 
 ;•, -^gra'Qithe fire burns low, 
 
 I have written down the story, I am free to 
 rise :ind go. 
 
OF COWGRESS 
 
 ii 
 
 f ■"««. ^^ ^ 
 
 C1917 by L. W. Perry