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JOHN ALLEN RIDING JUPITER. 
 
The Confessions of 
 John Allen 
 
 (and other poems) 
 
 JOHN ALLEN 
 
 Chicago 
 MANDEL & PHILLIPS CO. 
 

 2 
 &c/. 3l£, , 
 I 17 10 9 
 
 COPYRIGHT MCMV 
 
 BY 
 
 MANDEL & PHILLIPS 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Confessions of John Allen 7 
 
 The Storm 65 
 
 I Confess 71 
 
 Art and Life 83 
 
 Forbidden Fruit 96 
 
 Masks and Faces 98 
 
 Waiting 103 
 
 Reflect no 
 
 "'The Climber no 
 
 Gratitude 137 
 
 The Gifts of Life 144 
 
 A Promise 151 
 
 Success 155 
 
 M v Desolate Heart 160 
 
 What Music Is 167 
 
 Silhouettes 176 
 
 What the Devil Said 184 
 
 My Confession to Satan 196 
 
 I Try to Cast Off My Woe 210 
 
 Before the Gates 223 
 
 The New City 224 
 
 ^ Osceola 235 
 
 - The Watchers of the Trail 250 
 
 v Ramona 263 
 
 * Davy Crocket's Ride 269 
 
 v The Legend of the Argentine 277 
 
 . aIoanee 288 
 
page 
 
 • The Oregonian 300 
 
 Mirage 3*3 
 
 A Nun's Temptation 319 
 
 ' Good-bye, Sweetheart 323 
 
 v I Miss Thee 324 
 
 \ 1 1 \e Forevermore 325 
 
 * Retrospection 326 
 
 The Exile's Lament 327 
 
 M idwinter 3 2 9 
 
 Life's Woes 330 
 
 On Ice 33i 
 
 Spring 33 2 
 
 " In Winter 333 
 
 The Days of Long Ago 334 
 
 To My Soul 337 
 
 My Wants 338 
 
 Poland 339 
 
 Have Faith in Thyself 340 
 
 She is Not to Blame 34 2 
 
 Clouds and Sunshine 344 
 
 The Steamboat 345 
 
 True 346 
 
 The Brown Little Man 347 
 
 Easter Tide 349 
 
 vYule 350 
 
 v December Days 35 2 
 
 The Seasons 354 
 
THE CONFESSIONS OF 
 JOHN ALLEN. 
 
THE CONFESSIONS OF 
 JOHN ALLEN 
 
 T JOHN ALLEN, of Chicago, 
 
 9 Having fasted for years in the Wilderness ; 
 Having crossed the burning sands of the Desert ; 
 Having wept and moaned in the Shadows ; 
 Now come forth upon the dark arena of the 
 World, with a new light, a new faith, 
 To complete the work we were placed on earth to do ; 
 To annihilate the bandits that surround Life; 
 To make announcements extraordinary, and original ; 
 To break every tie held dear to the human heart ; 
 To mould the nations into one great family ; 
 To plant the seeds of the New Love in all hearts ; 
 To banish the fads and follies of society ; 
 To shatter every system now in vogue ; 
 To break every law that now exists ; 
 To consign the politician to oblivion ; 
 To plough the dark continent of the body; 
 
8 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 To destroy the religions of the universe; 
 
 To tear down the galleries and homes of Art ; 
 
 To demolish the power of gold ; 
 
 To banish every actor and theatre ; 
 
 To banish every sorrow, every fear, and 
 
 To bring back the Paradise that Adam cast 
 
 Away, five thousand years ago. 
 
 No time was ever more auspicious for 
 Such work than the present, for the world 
 Is in the grasp of false leaders, false prophets, 
 Irresponsible statesmen, crafty lawyers, 
 Useless judges, combinations of capital and 
 Labor, and will certainly be throttled or 
 Shipwrecked, if some strong arm is not 
 Stretched forth to save it. O, that it may 
 Accept me as its Saviour, and that my 
 Strength, my voice, my pen (trinity indispensable), 
 May not fail me, till my high mission is 
 Accomplished, and the sun of the New Faith 
 Shines gloriously down on every nation on its Bosom. 
 
 Before I take another step, however, in this 
 My Life's great work, I will set forth where first 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. g 
 
 I saw the ''light of day", or "night", as it should 
 
 Be, and a brief history of myself, which 
 
 Will be enlarged upon, when I enter the scenes 
 
 Of the Desert, the Wilderness, and the Deep Shadows. 
 
 I was born in the City of Chicago. My father 
 Was a sailor on the lakes, and died some 
 Months before I was born — so I never saw 
 His face, and never knew a father's love, 
 Which may not have been such a great 
 Misfortune after all, for had he lived, 
 He might have interfered with my ambitions, 
 And like the majority of zealous parents, 
 Demanded that I walk the paths he had 
 Laid out for me, and this would never 
 Have suited me at all, and would have 
 Cut short the career of the greatest Saviour 
 That ever walked the bosom of the Earth. 
 His death, however, greatly affected Mother, 
 And cast her upon the tender mercies of 
 The wise old world, to fight the battle of 
 Life as best she could, and to provide 
 A living for us both. Heavy was the 
 Burden placed upon her, and nobly 
 
10 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 She took it up. Never once she faltered. 
 She had the bravest heart the world e'er 
 Knew, and where strong- men in her 
 Position faltered and failed, she succeeded. 
 Her needle was never idle, day or night, 
 And many were the beautiful dresses 
 She turned out for delighted patrons, 
 Some of whom were members of the 
 Most exclusive and wealthy families 
 In the city. Yet in the midst of her 
 Busy life she never once neglected me. 
 She always found time to caress me. She 
 Was fond of me — excessively fond — too fond. 
 And sought by every means in her power 
 To gratify my every whim — but alas ! all 
 Her kindness and attentions failed to make 
 Me happy. I was a child of eight, but 
 Felt like a man of thirty. I was beginning 
 To think — seriously — deeply on the problems 
 Of life, and this always cast a shadow 
 O'er the momentary joys the Fates granted 
 Me. The playful chatter of my school 
 Companions ; the solemn advice of my 
 Teachers ; the lessons that were planned 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. II 
 
 But never learned ; the deep love of mother — 
 
 All passed me by as trifles too light 
 
 To engage my attention. I stood apart 
 
 From them. Why, I could not explain, 
 
 But I seemed to feel in the inmost depths of 
 
 My heart and soul, that I was reserved 
 
 By the All-Wise Providence above for some 
 
 High and special mission, and that I was 
 
 Not to concern myself with the trifling, 
 
 Butterfly events of the hour, but with the 
 
 Deep — the everlasting problems of life. These 
 
 Problems generally resolved themselves 
 
 Into, why were we placed 
 
 On Earth? Whither are we going? What are the 
 
 Things we should do while we are here? Why 
 
 Do we suffer, and why did not the Saviours 
 
 Of the past bring salvation to the world? 
 
 In this wise were my days spent at home, at 
 
 St. Joseph's, and the Holy Family Schools. 
 
 But a change soon came which added 
 
 Novelty to my somewhat monotonous 
 
 Existence. A Jesuit priest one day singled 
 
 Me out of a crowd of boys, and asked 
 
 Me if I would not like to attend the 
 
12 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 College of which he was then the Rector. 
 He said he had watched me carefully 
 For many days, and noted that I was 
 Totally unlike all the boys whom he 
 Came in contact with, and that I would 
 Certainly make good material for the 
 Jesuit Order. Of course I was delighted 
 To have a great man (as I then considered 
 Him) take such an interest in me, and I 
 Replied with gravity due the situation, that 
 I would be only too pleased to attend the 
 College, but that there was one drawback 
 To the undertaking, namely, Mother 
 Could never pay for my tuition 
 There. This, however, he said, need prove 
 No obstacle in my path, and he offered 
 Me a free scholarship, urging me to 
 Accept at once. His liberality and 
 Kindness overpowered me, and it was 
 Sometime before I could command 
 Myself sufficiently to reply that I could 
 Not accept his offer until I consulted 
 Mother about it. "Very well then,'' he said. 
 Patting me on the back, "go at once and 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 13 
 
 See her, and let me know her decision. 
 I shall await it with impatience." 
 
 When I arrived home that night and 
 Related to Mother, all that had transpired, 
 She clasped me in her arms and wept for 
 Joy at my good fortune, but on second 
 Thought, through her tears she declared 
 That she would never allow me to accept 
 A free scholarship. And she kept her 
 Word. I was duly entered at the College 
 With tuition fully paid, and began my 
 Studies with all the eagerness of youth. 
 They possessed a strange fascination for me 
 At first, but I frankly confess they soon 
 Ceased to interest me at all. In fact they 
 Appeared unpardonably dull to my youthful 
 Roving eye, and I promptly said so to my 
 Astonished professors, and further declared 
 With considerable warmth, that Latin, 
 Greek, and Algebra were certainly refined 
 Inventions of the Devil bequeathed to the 
 Descendants of Adam, to give them a 
 Foretaste of what they might expect on 
 
I4 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Their arrival at Hades. For these 
 Rebellious ideas I was severely reproved 
 By the Rector, and brusquely informed that 
 I would be dismissed from the College if 
 I did not apply myself more warmly to 
 My studies. Threats however possessed no terrors 
 For me, they never did, and I continued in the same 
 Old way, with an occasional entertaining lecture 
 From my Teacher, on that enlightened 
 And ancient society popularly known 
 As "Blockheads," by way of variety. To 
 Tell the truth, however, it was not dullness on 
 My part, nor the dry studies that brought about 
 This state of affairs at college. Life was the cause of 
 It all. It was my thought by day, my dream 
 By night. I saw what no other eyes could see — 
 Life helplessly entangled in the snares — Life sur- 
 rounded 
 By millions of bandits in the Wilderness, the Desert 
 And the Dark Shadows, and I firmly resolved 
 In the very depths of my heart, to the neglect of 
 
 everything 
 Else, Earthly, Heavenly or otherwise, to become its 
 Saviour, to brush away its snares, and to 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 15 
 
 Annihilate the bandits that surrounded it. 
 
 This determination of course, caused me to bid 
 
 Adieu to all studies, to all professors, and the 
 
 College itself, and thus at an early age, 
 
 I found myself standing tremblingly at 
 
 The threshold of the Dark Shadows. How I 
 
 Passed through them, what scenes I witnessed there, 
 
 What people I conversed with, and what thoughts 
 
 Entered my head, day by day, I will now 
 
 Relate, but it is indeed with a heavy heart, 
 
 That I pull aside the curtains, to retrace my 
 
 Steps once more among them. 
 
 THE DARK SHADOWS. 
 I. 
 
 ' I A HE Dark Shadows ! — trembling with sorrow-laden 
 
 Heart, I walk where fall their sylvan types, 
 Beneath the weeping willows — the giant-like 
 Oaks — the sombre evergreens — the wide-spreading 
 Elms — shadows that I always knew, when but 
 A barefoot-boy upon the prairies. They 
 Were present always, save when the sun came 
 From its bed of gold and roses. 'Twas then 
 
1 6 THE CONFESSIOXS 
 
 I played with my companions ; 'twas then the 
 
 World with all its folly, vice, and crime, lived 
 
 ( )n unknown, unheeded by me in the 
 
 Distance dim, and I was happy till the 
 
 Evening shadows lengthened o'er the lonely 
 
 I Vairies ; then sad longings filled my heart : 
 
 Quiet tears suffused my eyes, and my weary 
 
 Head I laid upon the bosom of the 
 
 Earth, and sobbed as if my heart would break. The 
 
 Dark Shadows were upon me. 
 
 II. 
 
 Within their 
 Gloomy depths I groped my weary way ; hoping. 
 Vainly hoping that the sun would send its 
 Floods of gold to o'erwhelm the Shadows, and 
 Shine on — forevermore ; but alas ! it 
 Came not down, and the Shadows reigned supreme. 
 In the Dark Shadows — naught is found, but bitter 
 Tears, and broken hearts, and hopeless loves. Ofttimes 
 I wonder and I ask, "Why was I placed 
 Upon the Earth, a gloomy untamed 
 Animal — to wander weeping, moaning, 
 Asking, vainly asking, up and down the 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 1 7 
 
 Shadows dark, if Shadows are to be my 
 
 Lot, but sugary philosophy, or 
 
 Silence grim and terrible is the only 
 
 Answer I receive." This much, though, I know, 
 
 And know it well, that I shall find no peace, 
 
 Nor rest, till I am laid within the silent 
 
 Tomb. All this dawned on me in the Shadows 
 
 Dark, and directly woe, unutterable 
 
 Woe came stealing o'er me, and convulsed my 
 
 Frame. I was all alone, and felt my 
 
 Misery and loneliness, as shipwrecked 
 
 Souls feel theirs on desert isles. There was no 
 
 Hand stretched forth to smooth the hair back from my 
 
 Fevered brow ; no voice to cheer my throbbing 
 
 Heart, no loving lips to kiss my woe away. 
 
 The Dark Shadows were with me — these and 
 
 Nothing more. The deepest gloom was everywhere. 
 
 There seemed to be a sob on every breeze, and 
 
 I stood with head bowed on my breast before 
 
 It all. O, how I longed for the sun to 
 
 Come with all its fluid gold, to wash the 
 
 Shadows from the Earth — forevermore ! 
 
 "Come 
 Down, come down, thou glorious sun," I cried 
 
1 8 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 In my deep agony ; "come down with showers 
 Of gold, and wash away the Shadows dark 
 That make of life a mockery and living 
 Hell ; come down and guide me on through all the 
 Gloom, to Peace, and Rest, and Happiness!" I 
 Turned, and saw a struggling mass of people 
 Winding snake-like through the shadows. Their voices 
 Reached my ears — "John Allen, the first shadows 
 Fell within the Garden. They are falling 
 Still. There is no peace, no rest within them. 
 Helplessly we drag our weary feet along. 
 Hopelessly we look from right to left. All 
 Is dark. Everywhere the shadows fall. We 
 Are helpless ; you are strong. The blackness of 
 The night is on us now. We know not whence 
 It came. You have studied it for years. You 
 Know it well. Be our Saviour from it now — 
 Now while the tempests rage, and gloom abides." 
 "Yes ! I'll be your Saviour," came the words from 
 Out my lips ; but I trembled when I spoke, 
 And fancy too, how pale I must have been. 
 Millions of frenzied eyes were on me! 
 Millions of arms now wildly waved in air ! 
 Millions of voices, thrilled with agony, 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 
 
 Cried out : "O, save us ! save us, John Allen ! 
 Save us from the darkness of the shadows, 
 From the bitterness, and all the woe. Tarry 
 Not a moment longer. Be our Saviour 
 Now r 
 
 "Yes ! I'll be your Saviour," once again 
 I murmured low. Then as I thought of Life 
 And all its misery supreme; of the 
 Morgue, and the young and wayward maid lying 
 Dead and cold upon its table ; of the 
 Bride deserted at the altar ; of the 
 New-born babe left on the doorstep ; of the 
 Secret deed of shame ; of the mother old 
 And gray deserted by her children, I 
 Turned away deep crushed with grief, and with 
 Bitter thoughts for the coming sacrifice. 
 
 III. 
 I am the great Destroyer ! I am the 
 Great Sufferer, and the while I suffer, 
 I make ready to destroy. I come with 
 Sharp pointed weapons, and nothing in the 
 World shall dare withstand me, no, not even 
 
 19 
 
20 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Time itself ! I love the Past no better 
 
 Than the Present ; they are one, and these I 
 
 Will destroy. The Present is nothing but 
 
 A shadow of the Past, and the world has 
 
 Learned absolutely nothing from it, for 
 
 Its Present is to-day identical 
 
 With its Past. We have to-day our murderers, 
 
 Our suicides; our births; our deaths; our lovers; 
 
 Our men of fame; our politicians just 
 
 The same as in the Past, but the World learns 
 
 Nothing from it all. It rolls merrily 
 
 On, but suffers dreadfully from the 
 
 Shadows that fall upon it. 
 
 Whenever 
 I go forth and see two happy lovers, 
 Newly wed, locked in each other's arms — a 
 Paradise to them, and return to find 
 The fair one fled, and he in tears, and hear 
 The same old story, how a stranger with 
 A piercing eye, and winning way, was the 
 Cause of her false step, I look back, and see 
 Adam and Eve, and the snake in the 
 Garden. When I read in the newspapers, 
 Of a murder, a picture of Cain and 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 21 
 
 Abel, always rises to my eyes. When 
 
 I hear of Brigham Young, his wives, and the 
 
 Temple in that "City of the Saints," I 
 
 Think at once of Solomon, the splendor 
 
 Of his court, and his myriad wives. When I 
 
 Read of the British-Boer, and Japo-Russian 
 
 Wars, I call to mind the wars of Rome with 
 
 Carthage, and the Franco-German War. Would 
 
 You have me read the riddle of America 
 
 Acquiring the Philippines, the 
 
 Hawaiian Isles, and Porto Rico? 
 
 Lo! you have it in Rome extending her 
 
 Territory at the expense of all 
 
 Her neighbors. You have it in England 
 
 Seizing India, the Transvaal, Thibet — 
 
 Shadows, shadows, everyone of them — ever 
 
 The Dark Shadows — no bold orginality — 
 
 No attempt at freedom — these I will destroy. 
 
 IV. 
 Long has the sun been shining, 
 Long has the world rolled round, 
 Long have the mountains stood, 
 Long have the rivers flowed, 
 
22 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Long have the states cried for salvation, 
 Long have they waited for my coming. 
 
 Greater than the Northman's discovery of America, 
 
 Greater than the landing of Columbus, 
 
 Greater than De Soto's discovery of the Mississippi, 
 
 Greater than the Spanish explorations, 
 
 Greater than the Cabots' expeditions, 
 
 Greater than the Pilgrims landing at Plymouth, 
 
 Greater than Hudson's discovery of the river, 
 
 Greater than Penn's arrival with the Quakers, 
 
 Greater than Washington's triumphs, 
 
 Greater than Franklin's genius, 
 
 Greater than Scott's victories in Mexico, 
 
 Greater than Lincoln's administration, 
 
 Greater than Grant's or Sherman's victories, 
 
 Is my coming to the states, and the Faith I bring. 
 
 Not with banners flying, nor with bands 
 A-playing, do I come, things fit for 
 Kindergartens only; not like the 
 Cautious scribe of history, seeking for 
 Favorite expressions and situations ; 
 Nor like the minister, the poet, the 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 23 
 
 Orator (poor fools), lauding their country 
 To the skies, but I come with that which will 
 Wipe away the Shadows for all time — the 
 Shadows that have hung o'er the land, for a 
 Century and more. I can see them, wise 
 Old world, if you cannot. I can trace them 
 'Neath the maples, and the pines of Maine. They 
 Hover o'er the white-clad mountains, and the 
 Lakes of old New Hampshire. I find them in 
 The footprints of the Iroquois ; the forests 
 Of Vermont, and where the 
 Connecticut river flows. Dark, dark are 
 The shadows, dark, and full of pain. 
 
 V. 
 
 The 
 Hardy toiler of the mills, returning 
 From his work at close of day, is met by 
 His little children with their arms outstretched, 
 And by the busy housewife, calling from the door ; 
 And as he kisses each in turn, and feels 
 Their arms entwined around his neck, his heart 
 Is rilled with love, and life seems fair and sweet 
 To him. In the fullness of his heart, the 
 
24 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Words flow from his lips, "God bless my home, my 
 
 Wife, and little ones, and God bless my own, 
 
 My native State, the cradle of our 
 
 Liberty — Massachusetts great and grand !" 
 
 Yes, poor fool ! draw down God's blessing on the 
 
 Soil that was nursed with the bones, and deluged 
 
 With the blood of misguided men, called 
 
 Patriots ! What to him is the State he 
 
 Lives in? Is it better than any other 
 
 State? Within its boundaries, he toils and 
 
 Earns his living by the sweat of his brow, 
 
 Just as thousands of others do. The State 
 
 Gives him nothing. If he falls sick, and has 
 
 Xo money, it remains passive. If he 
 
 Works and earns money, it is passive. If 
 
 He dies and is buried, it still is passive. 
 
 The State is nothing. 'Tis merely a piece 
 
 Of clay with a label, same as a man. 
 
 Yet, you will find hundreds such as he, who 
 
 Continually laud their States to the 
 
 Skies — the States that absolutely do 
 
 Nothing for them, except perhaps to grant 
 
 Them the privilege of walking on the 
 
 Soil, and in some instances even this 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 2 $ 
 
 Is prohibited by signs that read, 
 
 "Keep off the grass." Call down your blessings, poor 
 
 Wretch ! What to you is Bunker Hill, and 
 
 Lexington, or Concord and Boston? What 
 
 Are they now to the so-called patriots, 
 
 Whose bones have gone to nurse the soil beneath 
 
 Them? Nothing whatever! Mere themes for the 
 
 Song-writer, the poet, the novelist, 
 
 And the historian. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Sometimes I try 
 To drown the grief I feel. Sometimes I try 
 To blot the shadows that ever flit 
 Before me, but alas ! 'tis all in vain ! 
 The grief will not be drowned, nor the shadows 
 Blotted from my life. Others can walk 
 Along the road of life, and look upon 
 The fields and flowers, and purple walls of trees 
 On either side; can listen to the 
 Melodies of feathered warblers, and the 
 Cheerful chatter of the little children at 
 Their play ; can watch the gaudy colored 
 Butterflies a-wing, the flying flowers of 
 
26 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 The air ; can attend the services at 
 
 Church ; can walk arm-in-arm with orphans, 
 
 Tramps and beggars, and find in each and 
 
 Every thing and person, a note of that 
 
 Which they are pleased to term the "beautiful 
 
 Song of Life," but try how I will, I can 
 
 Find naught but shadows grim and dark, and 
 
 Full of pain. Shall I walk forth where mirth holds 
 
 Sway, while shadows fall ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 At sunset with 
 Agonies raging in my heart, I watch 
 The workmen, women, and children, pouring 
 Out in steady streams from the trade-palaces 
 On State Street. The tall buildings, that almost 
 Throne their scalps above the clouds, wear an air 
 Of gloomy grandeur, at the closing hour. 
 Bells of cable-cars are ringing ! Newsboys 
 Shouting "Chicago-American," "News" 
 Or a "Journal," the "Sporting Extra !" Wagons 
 Rattle up and down the street, and then comes 
 The army of workmen, women, and children, 
 Pushing along with impatient feet. What 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 2 J 
 
 Walking histories have we here ? What 
 Pages of destiny ! Terrible to 
 Think of ! Terrible to dream of ! What a 
 Horrible mockery of life it is, 
 That passes away into the night. What 
 A terrible day it has been for them 
 All ! No prisoner in Siberia's 
 Darkest, and bitterest depths, has suffered 
 More misery, than these poor wretches for 
 The day. Some of them will strenuously 
 Deny that they have suffered. But, O tear 
 Aside the mask, and see the scars ! Behold 
 How they groan out forgotten lives from 
 Garret to basement, from counter to desk, 
 For paltry salaries, which the Merchant- 
 Bandits are pleased to hand them from their 
 Plunder. And this is what society 
 Is pleased to term employment, this work in 
 The big stores. Employment? Why this is not 
 Employment at all. It is slavery ! 
 We might as well take off the sugar coating, 
 And tell the truth once in a while. These humble 
 Workers are the white slaves of the twentieth 
 Century ! Slavery is not a thing 
 
28 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Of the past. It is as common as our 
 
 Everyday life, but it is masked under 
 
 Different titles. Slavery is one 
 
 Of America's greatest institutions, and 
 
 "The Land of the Free," is one of the most 
 
 Brilliant mottoes of sarcasm that 
 
 America boasts to-day ! It has been 
 
 Said that the "night was made for coons," but I 
 
 Say that Americans were born for the 
 
 Night — for in the day they are slaves in their 
 
 Refined prisons. The old feudal days have 
 
 Not passed away by any means. The 
 
 Name of the system has changed, that's all. 
 
 To-day, baronial castles are called 
 
 Palaces of trade ; the slaves, employes ; 
 
 And the barons, lords, and what-not, employers. 
 
 So you see the shadows of the old days 
 
 Rest on our present system ! And the treatment 
 
 Within their walls ! Why, no 
 
 Slaves of the past, or prisoners of the 
 
 Present, ever bowed their heads before more 
 
 Imperious masters than the employers 
 
 Of to-day. And these same employers always 
 
 Select for managers, first-class slave-drivers 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 
 
 From among their employes, men who have 
 
 No sympathy whatever for the 
 
 Miserable wretches, the cattle who 
 
 Have to do their bidding, or lose the 
 
 Position that is keeping body and 
 
 Soul together. Not that the lost position 
 
 Is a prize to be wept over, but because 
 
 The damnable condition of present 
 
 Day society, forces workers to 
 
 Fear the loss of it. These managers, clothed 
 
 With brief authority, exert all their 
 
 Powers to hide the abilities of 
 
 Others from the proprietor's eyes, 
 
 In order that they may shine with greater 
 
 Lustre, and receive praise for things which they 
 
 Have never done. This is, indeed, Christian 
 
 Charity with a vengeance! 
 
 And to think 
 Of it ! these employes, these slaves are to 
 Be the future fathers and mothers of 
 America ! Just think of it, they are 
 To raise children to move through the dark 
 Shadows, just as they are doing to-day ! 
 
 29 
 
3o 
 
 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Just fancy what a magnificent race 
 Of Spartans we must expect from these 
 Men and women of the prisons ! 
 
 Yet, the 
 Big stores on State Street, with all their faults, are 
 
 great 
 Educators. This fact cannot be denied. 
 They are just the places to learn respect 
 For proprietors and managers, 
 Who lie; just the places to learn how to 
 Crush out all kind feelings from the heart; just 
 The places to learn how to lie and cheat ; 
 Just the places to learn that society 
 Is nothing but a sham ; just the places 
 To learn how to crush out all respect and 
 Love of country from your soul; just the places 
 To learn that you are not human ; just the 
 Places to learn that you are looked upon 
 By your employers as so much cattle ; 
 Just the places to learn that your vote 
 Politically must be used as the 
 Employers so direct; just the places 
 To learn that you must not think, for 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 
 
 Anybody found guilty of the crime 
 Of thinking, will be severely dealt with. 
 Universities are really of no 
 Use when these great educational 
 Institutions exist. 
 
 In the 
 State Street stores, there is absolutely 
 Nothing to be hoped for by the poor 
 Wretches behind desks and counters, 
 For employers will correct none 
 Of the crying abuses of the present. They 
 Have sold their honor and their souls for gold, 
 And you are slaves ! But tremble not ! I have 
 Come to save you. I have come to destroy 
 The rotten system of the present, and 
 To erect on its ashes, the new cities 
 With the New Faith, that shall heal all bleeding 
 Hearts, and make of earth a Paradise till 
 Judgment Day. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Weary and still in the clutches 
 Of my woe, I draw aside the curtains — 
 
 31 
 
3^ 
 
 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 I gaze out upon the world, and find that 
 There exists in our present damnable 
 System, three kinds of society. But, 
 To tell the truth there is but one great class, 
 Namely the common or poor people, which 
 Has given birth to the others. The only 
 Distinction my eyes can find between them, 
 Is that which is found between snow, ice, and 
 Water. They are all water, and all it 
 Requires to verify it, is for the sun 
 To come with all its power and majesty. 
 To melt the snow and ice into water, 
 The great common body. I have grown 
 Aweary of the ravings and distinctions 
 Of society, for I am the sun of 
 Salvation, and I have come to melt its 
 Snow and ice, into its proper sphere — the 
 Great common body. But, as it stands now, 
 There are three classes in existence ; the 
 High class, to which the millionaires belong; 
 The middle class, or the well-to-do, and 
 The lower class, better known, and despised 
 As the poor. It is really unfortunate 
 That they are compelled to live together, 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 
 
 For they cordially hate, and ape 
 
 Each other. High society sets the pace, 
 
 And the classes immediately below, 
 
 Follow up in a less pretentious 
 
 Manner. Shadows ! Nothing but shadows ! There 
 
 Is one thing, however, which High Society 
 
 Does, which like a charitable mantle, 
 
 Covers a multitude of its sins, and 
 
 That is, its feverish anxiety to 
 
 Keep from the newspapers, all notices 
 
 Of its engagements, its marriages, its 
 
 Tears, its joys, its barbaric costumes, its 
 
 Receptions, its divorces, its — sins, and 
 
 All that kind of thing; but with all its 
 
 Precautions, it does seem strange how 
 
 Copyrighted photos of its 
 
 Monkeys creep into the vulgar newspapers, 
 
 Coupled with charming accounts of its 
 
 Acrobatic triumphs. The only explanation 
 
 I can offer for this peculiar state 
 
 Of affairs, is that a traitor must live 
 
 Within the lines, who sells his or her 
 
 Information to the enemy — the Editor, 
 
 Who in turn exposes his war secrets 
 
 33 
 
34 
 
 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 To the vulgar gaze of the vulgar herd. 
 This must be the truth, and truth triumphs 
 Every time, for we all well know how shy 
 Society is about appearing in print. 
 Mercy ! Anything but that ! Why, if 
 Society was to be written up every 
 Day, it would melt away like snow before 
 The April sun. The very essence of 
 Its existence, consists in screening 
 Itself from the public gaze. Society 
 In this respect, is like the actors, who 
 Would rather not have audiences, while 
 They are performing. 
 
 High Society 
 Has many trials, many humiliations. 
 Two of its greatest humiliations, 
 Two that gall at all times, are the facts, first 
 That its existence depends entirely 
 On the lower class ; second, that its revenue 
 Is derived from the sale of vulgar cattle, 
 Canned-goods, soaps, perfumes, toilet-paper, and 
 Other things less familiar. It seems a 
 Pity that Society is compelled to 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 35 
 
 Deal in the aforesaid vulgarities, 
 
 And to stain its immaculate hands with 
 
 The vulgar money of the vulgar plebians. 
 
 There ought to be some method by which 
 
 The sacred barriers of society could 
 
 Be upheld, and the vulgar lucre kept 
 
 Out of its coffers. Then all its humiliations 
 
 Would fade away. How it must gall the 
 
 Astors to know that the vulgar fortune 
 
 They possess, was made from the sale of the 
 
 Vulgar skins of the vulgar animals ! 
 
 How it must gall the Rockefellers to 
 
 Know that the wealth they possess, was made 
 
 From the vulgar oil, of the vulgar soil ! 
 
 How it must gall the Armours, to know that 
 
 The wealth they have, was made from the sale of 
 
 Canned-goods, and hogs ! What a pleasure it would 
 
 Be, if they could proudly lean back in their 
 
 Mahogany seats and say, "Our fortunes 
 
 Were inherited from a long line of 
 
 Ancestors, old, so old, that all trace of 
 
 The founders is lost in the dim twilight 
 
 Of tradition." But, alas ; they cannot do 
 
 This. The world seems unrulv, and refuses 
 
36 THE CONFESSIOXS 
 
 To be moulded to the cast they prefer. 
 It refuses to close its eyes on the 
 Knowledge of things it possesses. 
 
 Society 
 Of to-day, forms a very favorable 
 Comparison with a set of monkeys 
 I once saw in a cage at a country 
 Fair. They were clad in tinsel and finery. 
 And their grimaces, their chattering and 
 Their gambols highly amused the people 
 Who came to see them, but what capped the 
 Climax of the whole affair, was the air 
 Of seriousness they affected, and 
 Their magnificent exclusiveness. So 
 Is it with society at large, but especially 
 So with the Lake-Shore-Drive-Clan. Talk 
 About your tinsel, your finery, your 
 Exclusiveness, why here it is a virtue, 
 But especially so, is it true of the 
 Latter quality, and to be just, it should 
 Be, for really no wise person would 
 Care to enter cages devoted to 
 Monkeys, and to inhale the stench that 
 Proceeds therefrom. 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 37 
 
 I have touched on 
 Society's trials and humiliations. 
 I will now speak of its insanity. 
 That it is insane, and that more sane 
 People are in the asylums to-day, 
 Than in the ranks of so-called Society, 
 There can be no question whatever, for 
 What sane person, or persons would dream of 
 Giving a $10,000 dinner in honor of dogs, 
 With the dogs eating from the same plates, while 
 Ten thousand or more of the poor, were starving 
 In the city? What sane person or persons 
 Would dream of sending out a dog in a 
 Brilliant equipage, for a morning constitutional 
 Accompanied by a liveried coachman, 
 And footman ? What sane person or persons 
 Would dream of educating a monkey, 
 To appear at social affairs, and what-nots ? 
 But right here is where the worm turns, for the 
 Monk appears before them as a reflection 
 Or grinning caricature of themselves, 
 Or in the role of the ape, aping the apes. 
 What sane person, or persons, would make of 
 American society circles the great 
 
38 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Breeding grounds for the dissipated 
 
 Wine-soaked, bankrupt-titled imbeciles 
 
 Of Europe? Here American girls are 
 
 Gowned, groomed, polished, and then sent abroad, to 
 
 Enter the lists of the live-stock show, where 
 
 Their points are carefully noted, by the 
 
 Aforesaid imbeciles, and, being cattle 
 
 Of quality, they are quoted at so much 
 
 A head, but these little indignities pass 
 
 By unnoticed, if they are only secured 
 
 As a prize, and taken home to the titled 
 
 Pens. Verily, sanity is a rarity 
 
 In Society circles ! The asylums should 
 
 Be emptied of their occupants, and 
 
 Society sent there in a body to take 
 
 Their places ! 
 
 Arguments have been used ; 
 Sermons have been preached, prayers have been 
 Offered up, to wipe out the sins, and follies 
 Of Society, but all to no purpose — 
 Society has gone on more grimly 
 Determined than ever, in the same old way, 
 Therefore I, notwithstanding all the shafts 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 39 
 
 Of sarcasm I have launched in its 
 Midst, who really sympathize with society 
 In all its sins, and difficulties, come 
 Forth in the arena, to save it with the 
 Only solution that exists for its difficulties, 
 The only balm there is for aching hearts, 
 The only light that can penetrate the 
 Gloom — the New Faith, of the New Cities ! 
 O, that it may accept me as its Saviour, 
 And accept the New Faith of the New Cities, 
 That shall make of earth a Paradise 
 Till the trumpet of the angel shall 
 Call us all to inhabit the celestial 
 New Cities prepared for us, by the 
 Father of the Universe! 
 
 IX. 
 
 One thing there 
 Is that's true to me, and that's my woe. No 
 Love or friendship in the world ere was strong 
 As the love and friendship of my woe. We 
 Two inseparable are. We two have 
 Been companions for long, long years, and now 
 As I go forth where life roams or rather 
 
4Q 
 
 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Dying Life, it follows me. On my way, 
 
 I called in upon a dying man, and 
 
 It was pitiful to see and hear how 
 
 Much he feared Death. I knelt down at his 
 
 Bedside, and hastened to inform him that 
 
 Death was not to be feared, and that Life was 
 
 To be feared a thousand times more than Death. 
 
 But this he could not see. He was blind like 
 
 The wise old world. He only shuddered and 
 
 Bade me go. Once more in the cool air, I 
 
 Wandered on — a hunted creature, mad with 
 
 Life's misery ! Yes, and other hunted 
 
 Creatures passed me by, "What is Life?" I faltered. 
 
 "Yes, what is Life?" I walked slower now with 
 
 Head bowed on my breast, and sobbed as if my 
 
 Heart-strings would break in a thousand pieces 
 
 And the pain within them would crush the world ! 
 
 Yes! what is Life? Life is not merely the 
 
 Beating of a heart within the walls of 
 
 Clay — Life is the greatest lie, the greatest 
 
 Curse that ever crept across the earth or 
 
 Seas ! From the simplicity of its 
 
 Original state, it is impossible 
 
 To discover it, in the present damnable 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 41 
 
 System, or in the hunted things that pass 
 
 You by every hour. It is lost in the 
 
 Wilderness, on the Desert, beneath the 
 
 Shadows, and in the lies. Not a trace of 
 
 It can be found to-day. That which we call 
 
 Life is nothing but a mockery. The 
 
 World has created this mockery, and 
 
 Must perish with it, unless it accepts 
 
 Me as its Saviour! I alone can 
 
 Save it with the New Love, the New Faith, the 
 
 New City, for this trinity will erect 
 
 An impassable barrier between the 
 
 Sexes, marriage shall cease at once, and the 
 
 New Life begin in all its beauty, and . 
 
 Its glory. Marriage is one of the greatest 
 
 Shams of Life ! Why should the sexes marry? 
 
 Why require an outlandish ceremony 
 
 Over such a crime ? Those who wed stand 
 
 Convicted the greatest criminals in 
 
 The annals of crime ! Just pause a moment, 
 
 Young man ! Just pause a moment, young maiden, 
 
 When you dream of becoming united 
 
 In wedlock, and think — seriously think 
 
 Of the step you are about to take. Think 
 
42 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Of the Life you have led from the cradle 
 
 To the present — the terrible Life of 
 
 Pain and woe, and ask yourself if you are 
 
 Satisfied with it. Do you honestly 
 
 Think Life in its present form is worth 
 
 Living? Are you satisfied that your parents 
 
 Did right in bringing you into the world ? 
 
 Do you not curse the hour that you were born ? 
 
 I do ! A thousand times I curse it every 
 
 Day ! I wish that I had never seen the 
 
 Light of day ! Do you think it right, after 
 
 All that you have suffered, to bring innocent 
 
 Children in the world to suffer as 
 
 You have done ?. Just be present at the hour 
 
 Of birth when some poor child is cast upon 
 
 This world of woe, and list to the 
 
 Pitiful scream that comes from its little 
 
 Throat, and you will never wish to wed — 
 
 That is — unless you want to be a 
 
 Criminal ! Marriage is not a failure, 
 
 Nor is it a Sacrament as the Church 
 
 Of Rome would have us believe ; it is a crime ! 
 
 It is all well and good for the happy 
 
 Mother to love the offspring of her womb. 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 43 
 
 And all well and good for the happy 
 Father, to go about boasting and treating 
 In honor of the birth, but do either 
 Of them know what they are doing? Can they 
 Guarantee the peace of mind of that poor 
 Child from the cradle to the grave? Can they 
 Guarantee a path of roses for its 
 Little feet, minus all the thorns? Can they 
 Promise that it will never perish? Speak 
 Age of shams ! Why bring up children 
 In a world of woe, only to perish 
 As caravans do perish on the Desert's 
 Burning sands? But — yes, there is a reason 
 For all births. There is a good, and all- 
 Sufficient reason, why so many children 
 Now roam upon the earth. I will trace it 
 To its source — the untamed passions of the 
 People ! These very passions 
 Have brought us all into the world. 
 From the peasant to the king ! Bear that in 
 Mind and blush, ye hypocrites, who read 
 These lines ! 
 
 The present incumbent at the 
 White House advocates the raising of large 
 
44 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Families. Does he know what it means? He 
 
 Fears a race suicide ! Ye Gods ! is not 
 
 The suffering in the world great enough now. 
 
 Without seeking to increase it, and that 
 
 Too, at the expense, and satisfaction 
 
 Of physical pleasure? If the 
 
 Aforesaid incumbent believes in 
 
 Such a thing, and gives it his support 
 
 He should at least, try to discourage it, 
 
 In the myriads he is supposed to rule. 
 
 Ever ready to follow the initiative 
 
 In such matters, the clergy of the 
 
 City are urging the young men of 
 
 Their parishes to get married. Evidently 
 
 They are not satisfied with the misery 
 
 In the world. They well know that marriage i: 
 
 A sham, and a flimsy sham at that, to 
 
 Clothe the passions in, but they are 
 
 Determined to follow the lead of the nation's 
 
 Executive. In the course of 
 
 Their professional life, they hear many 
 
 A tale of so-called secret deeds of shame, 
 
 And they in their monkish philosophy, 
 
 Think the best remedy to recommend 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 
 
 Is marriage, which is nothing more, than 
 A blessing on such deeds of shame. 
 I rise to protest against such a creed! 
 There is no such thing as immorality 
 In the world. I can see none. It is a 
 Hoax created by the false world, and must 
 Be destroyed. The body, to me, is a 
 Sacred thing — the body of the male, and 
 The body of the female. I can see 
 Nothing immoral about them, but alas ! 
 They were made for the tangled web of woe ! 
 It is really amusing to note how 
 The blood mantles the cheeks of a woman, 
 When she speaks of a girl's "limbs," never 
 Legs, as if they were something shocking. I 
 Presume she would have us understand that 
 Girls walk on stilts, and that no such 
 Profane thing as legs exist in the feminine 
 Gender. Another thing that shocks the 
 So-called virtuous, and shams, are the 
 Courtesans! With what holy horror they 
 Raise their hands in air, and speak of these 
 Poor creatures, as if they were numbered 
 'Mongst the damned. Right here I rise to 
 
 45 
 
4 6 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Destroy the name they bear, for in the whole 
 Wide world there is not one courtesan, let 
 The false world say what it will. These girls were 
 Created against their wills, and took up 
 Their employment, same as each of us have 
 Taken up ours. If they were not created 
 Against their wills, they would not now be 
 What the world terms courtesans. They are 
 Exactly what they were created for. 
 We are all exactly what we were created 
 For. Our course is determined from the 
 Cradle to the grave, and cannot be altered 
 One iota. As well try to turn back the 
 Tides. As well try to destroy the seasons. 
 As well try to stamp out disease. As well 
 Try to arrest the lightning. When speaking 
 Of courtesans do not question their 
 Employment. Do not sneer at it. Rather 
 Question the authors of their birth — which is 
 The root of all evil ! 
 
 "But," says one, "if 
 We kill off the race, affection too will 
 Die." Affection ! yes, affection would be 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 47 
 
 The dearest thing on earth, if it brought no 
 Pain. "And," she continued, "children are such 
 A comfort." I took her hand in mine, and 
 Softly said, "Yes, to you. But how about 
 The children? Where is their comfort to come 
 From?" Speak! age of shams! shall this 
 Forever be? At the gates of my 
 New Cities, marriage shall cease at once, 
 And then shall follow the short watch — 
 To welcome the most beautiful thing of 
 Life—Death. 
 
 X. 
 
 Come, follow me, ye who would know 
 What Life really is ; follow me across 
 The burning sands of the Desert, through the 
 Dark Shadows, and the Wilderness. 
 
 The Dawn ! 
 What was it ? What is it ? Naught but a curse — 
 Obscured by clouds of Bible lore, and 
 Hopelessly disfigured by the so-called 
 Students of theological Rome. Of 
 All the races that have trod this earth, with 
 
48 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 All their hopes, and joys, and woes, not one has 
 Solved the riddle of its age, or being, 
 But the present age, through me shall have its 
 Riddle solved, for I have come to save it. 
 All the thoughts, deeds, books and orations of 
 The past and present, have not thrown one 
 Ray of light on the Sphinx-like question of 
 Our being. It is naught but a record 
 Of births and deaths, of coming and going. 
 Of day and night, and incessant hum 
 And jar. We vainly grasp for facts, but grasp 
 At sunbeams that we cannot hold. Is it 
 Not a crying shame that this should ever 
 Be? Is not our woe heavy enough now, 
 That the world should perish to see it 
 Nevermore ! Our Roman theologists, 
 With their ever ready cunning, have 
 Actually dared to answer the question 
 Of our being. According to their 
 Electrotyped ideas, we were born to 
 Love, honor, and obey the Lord of 
 Heaven, in order that we might enjoy 
 The kingdom he has prepared for us. But 
 I deny this cursed doctrine ! I sav 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 49 
 
 That we were born for misery, crime, and 
 
 Destruction. Why do they not tell us this? 
 
 Furthermore we were born from the passions 
 
 Of the sexes. We should not be held accountable 
 
 For our being. We never asked to be 
 
 Brought into this damnable world of woe. 
 
 What ! according to the Roman teachings, 
 
 We were born from the lowest brute passions 
 
 Of the sexes, to love, honor, and obey 
 
 A God of whom we knew and know 
 
 Absolutely nothing? What! and if we 
 
 Fail in this, we are to be burned in 
 
 Everlasting fire ? What ! burned forever. 
 
 And forever ! No end at all ! What ! would 
 
 Not the great God relent in one hundred, 
 
 One thousand, or ten thousand years? Would not 
 
 That be long enough to suffer for the crimes 
 
 We were brought into the world to commit? We 
 
 May as well get down to common-sense on 
 
 This question. The Argus eye of the Lord 
 
 Flashes from the cradle to the grave. He 
 
 Knows at the birth of a child what its end 
 
 Will be. He knows ! He knows ! He knows ! Will 
 
 He then condemn it to everlasting 
 
5 o THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Punishment, for some infraction of the 
 
 Law, while he, surrounded by his angels. 
 
 Enjoys the Happiness of Paradise? 
 
 He knows ! He knows ! And when he knows at 
 
 The hour of birth, what the trials and end 
 
 Of a creature will be, why does he allow 
 
 That creature to be created ? Has not 
 
 The farce of Life been played long enough ? 
 
 What sane idea can the world advance. 
 
 To allow it a further lease of Life? 
 
 We have the right to ask why we are here. 
 
 The birds of carrion, the students of 
 
 Rank theology, can arise, and flap their 
 
 Wings and scream "Blasphemy !" from the belfries, 
 
 For all I care. I too could scream "Blasphemy!"' 
 
 At their horrid doctrines, but as I have 
 
 Come to save them, as well as all the world, 
 
 I shall keep my counsel. 
 
 All old ideas. 
 All history, all ties held dear to the 
 Human heart, must be cast aside, 
 By those who follow me, for I am the 
 Singer of the Dawn ! Shadows, nightmares, 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 51 
 
 And all their close relations will fade away 
 At my approach! The old idea of 
 "The Lord is good to us; he has given 
 Us rivers, lakes, and oceans ; he has given 
 Us fish, and meat, and wheat and fruit 
 To eat, and water to drink," must be 
 Discarded at once. Fancy the world 
 Living without food to eat, and water 
 To drink. It would perish at once. This is 
 Just what it should have done long ages 
 Ago. But O, no ! this would never do ! 
 We would then have escaped our woe and 
 Such pleasure of course must not be 
 Denied us. But tremble not poor wanderers 
 On the burning sands of the Desert, I 
 Will save you yet. Cast away your family 
 Traditions and Bibles, and follow me, 
 For they will avail you not in my 
 New Cities. 
 
 XI. 
 Fear life, I say. Fear it 
 More than a thousand deaths. I fear life, 
 But would welcome Death, for Death, at least 
 
52 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Has mercy in its eyes, and terminates 
 
 All earthly misery. What comes after, 
 
 Matters little, matters not. We are not 
 
 To concern ourselves about it. I know 
 
 Life in all its terrible bitterness, 
 
 But Death, ah ! let it come ! Just "a little 
 
 Folding of the hands," just a little lowering 
 
 In the narrow house, and that is all. Can 
 
 Anything more peaceful or beautiful 
 
 Be dreamt of? Many, and many were the 
 
 Beautiful talks I have had with Death. But 
 
 Yesterday we walked forth where Life held sway, 
 
 Death and I. She is the sweetheart that I 
 
 Dearly love. Beneath the cloudless summer 
 
 Skies we walked, Death and I, two happy 
 
 Lovers without a care on earth. We were 
 
 On the sandy shores of my own Western 
 
 Sea, and listened to the sobbing of the 
 
 Waves. W r hat happiness was mine ! I begged 
 
 Iler for her love. I cast myself down at 
 
 Her feet. Bitterly I wrung my hands, and 
 
 Wept until I thought my heart would break, but 
 
 She softly said: "Not yet! I cannot grant 
 
 The love you ask. You must drink ! drink deep 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 
 
 Of the bitter cup ! Drink your portion, then 
 Come to me." And she left me sobbing like 
 The sad waves of the sea. 
 
 I went forth into 
 The burning sands of the Desert, and travelled 
 There for years. I saw the caravans wind 
 Slowly on to distant points, while birds of 
 Carrion ever floated o'er them, waiting 
 For their prey. I saw them come and go, and 
 Come and go, and murmured, "Whither do 
 They come, and whither go? Shall the weary, 
 Tear-stained procession never stop ?" To them, 
 Sweet blue-eyed babes were born, to live, grow up, 
 And travel o'er the sands they trod, to brave 
 The noonday heat, and fury of the 
 Simoon, till they in turn, should raise their 
 Children to travel o'er the very sands 
 They perished in. And so the weary 
 Caravans move on. They tell sweet love-tales 
 Beneath the swaying palms. They halt for 
 Refreshments at the oasis ; then take up 
 The weary march again, to go astray 
 Within the labyrinth of mirage, or perish 
 
 53 
 
54 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 'Neath the noon-day heat, or in the jaws of 
 The wolf-like Simoon. 
 
 Fainting, weary, 
 Footsore, once more I came to Death, and begged 
 Her for her love, and once more she told me 
 To drink deep of the cup — to drain the bitter 
 Dregs, and then her wealth of love would all be 
 Mine. She looked so beautiful, I could not 
 Leave her side. I begged her to 
 Remain. She gazed in pity on me, then 
 Granted my request. At this moment she 
 Seemed to have robbed all the beautiful 
 Women, of all the world, of all their beauty, 
 And adorned herself with it. And this 
 Beauty almost overpowered my senses ! 
 How I longed for the love she would not give ! 
 If worlds were mine, I'd gladly lay them at 
 Her feet for it. No one but I could know 
 The beauty of being in love with Death. 
 Everyone fears Death, which proves that wisdom 
 Is not with them. I threw myself down at 
 Her feet. I buried my face in her lap, 
 I felt her warm hands on my burning cheek ! 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 55 
 
 I was thrilled with the electric waves 
 
 Of love. Tears came — K:ame in floods — tears of 
 
 Joy, from the warped fountains of my woe. 
 
 Was this to be the end of the agony? 
 
 Was this the end of all my woe? "I madly 
 
 Love you," I hotly cried. "I love you more 
 
 Than angels ever loved their God ! More than 
 
 Flowers do love the sun and dew ; nay, 
 
 More than all the lovers ever loved their 
 
 Loves on this brown earth !" A silence followed, 
 
 A bitter one. I did not dare to stir. 
 
 "And why do you love me?" She asked at length. 
 
 "Because," I said, "I want you for my bride, 
 
 My peerless bride !" She gently lifted up 
 
 My face with her two hands, and looked me 
 
 In the eyes. That look thrilled my soul with 
 
 The wonderful melodies of Paradise. 
 
 "You are the first," said she, "who ever spoke 
 
 That way to me. I assure you, it is 
 
 A pleasure to hear it. I have never had 
 
 A lover before you. All that is written 
 
 Of me, is done with pens of terror. All 
 
 That is said of me, is done with quaking 
 
 Voices. The beautiful cities I own, 
 
56 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Are paved with the tears of broken hearts. 
 The world shuns me. The world frowns down 
 Upon me — " 
 
 "But," I cried, interrupting 
 Her, "it shall do so no longer. The world 
 Will passionately love you vet. It will 
 Cast aside all else for you, even as 
 1 now do. First comes the Saviour, then the Disciples. 
 
 "So," she asked, "you really 
 Want to marry me?" 
 
 "I do !" was the reply 
 That came from out my heart. 
 
 "But," said 
 She, "the world will never approve of it." 
 "I don't care," I returned, "what the world 
 Approves of. You are my world !" A silvery 
 Laugh greeted my impassioned words. "Really," 
 Said she, "this is charming, you would lead 
 Me to the altar, and have the priest — " 
 
 I 
 Raised my hand in protest. "Not for worlds !" 
 I cried, "would I require the service of 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 57 
 
 The priest. That would not be marriage. It 
 Is not marriage. It is a cursed lie, 
 Formed by the customs of cursed society. 
 Marriage is love, and love is marriage, and 
 No words uttered by priest, minister, or 
 Justice can bind it firmer. Neither can 
 The croakings of sham virtue make it 
 Otherwise. I am madly in love with you." 
 "I know you are," she softly murmured. 
 
 "And," 
 Said I, "All I ask in return is for 
 You to love me. That will be marriage in 
 Its truest significance !" 
 
 "But," she replied, 
 "What would the world think of such a thing?" 
 "I care not," I said, "What the world would 
 Think. The world is stupid. The world is a 
 Damnable sham. Sham is its greatest 
 Stock in trade. In fact, sham is considered 
 A virtue by the world. How then would you 
 Expect me to care for an opinion, 
 Coming from such a source ? I love you ! I 
 Madly love you ! That's all I care for or 
 
5 8 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Think of as the hours glide by." She leaned 
 Forward, and said, "tell me, how madly you 
 Love me." 
 
 I replied, "I love you so madly, 
 That I'd dearly love to crawl in abject 
 Slavery at your feet forevermore ; so 
 .Madly that the world with all its vice and 
 Crime, seems filled with flowers and summertime 
 So madly that my heart and soul seem filled 
 With the enchanted glories of Eden ; 
 So madly that my body seems enveloped 
 In the web of melodies the angels made for 
 Heavenly ears ; so madly that when I 
 Think of you, I am drowned with the oceans 
 Of sweetness the thought brings ; so madly, 
 That the sylvan warblers of the world seem 
 Living in my heart ; so madly that though 
 You would forsake me for another, I 
 Still would love you to the end." 
 
 "That is true 
 Love," she said, with a burst of silvery laughter. 
 "Surely, you don't love me that much." 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 
 
 "O, much 
 More," I wailed. "Could I but translate the love 
 I bear you, into words, you would then 
 Understand its truest meaning. As it 
 Is — words fail me." 
 
 ''Yes/' she agreed, "you 
 Madly love me. I believe what you say, 
 But, how long would this love last?" 
 
 "Forevermore !" 
 I cried with intense fervor, and buried my 
 Head once more in her lap. A storm of tears 
 Burst from my eyes. I cannot express in 
 Words, the delicious feelings that ran riot 
 In my viens at this moment, but I was 
 Happy ; happy ; happy ; — 'but alas ! only 
 For the moment ; then it faded away. 
 But its memories will ever remain 
 Engraved upon the tablets of my mind. 
 "I madly love you," once more I faltered. 
 "When can I hope that you will live with me?" 
 She moved uneasily in her seat. "Why," said 
 She, "we are not even engaged, and we 
 Would necessarily have to be married 
 Before we could live together." 
 
 59 
 
6o THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 "Not at all!" 
 I cried. "Marriage is only a sham, an 
 Empty ceremony performed over 
 That sacred thing, 'LOVE.' I hate the word 
 'Marriage.' Marriage, to my mind, is a very 
 Simple thing. It merely consists of 
 Placing my hand in your hand, and a 
 Promise to love you forever, and forever, 
 And a placing of your hand in my hand, 
 And a promise to love me forever and 
 Forever." 
 
 She smiled, and said, "Really 
 Marriage to you is a sort of jest." 
 
 I 
 
 Replied, "On the contrary, I think it 
 Is the most solemn, sacred thing in all 
 The world, but I detest the cloak of sham 
 Forever thrown over it." 
 
 "You are 
 Brutal in your remarks," said she. "You 
 Are an Iconoclast. You seek to destroy 
 Institutions," 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 6l 
 
 "Not at all," was my 
 Protest. "My only hope is to see 
 Truth triumph over Ignorance. Marriages 
 Of to-day are detestable. I could never 
 Love a girl who would come to me, and 
 Solemnly declare she had no faults, that 
 She was spotless as the Virgin of Heaven ; 
 That she never loved another till she 
 Met me, and that she never kissed another's 
 Lips but mine." 
 
 "Why," exclaimed Death in 
 Surprise, "what would you have her to say?" 
 I replied, "Just what I would say to the 
 One I loved. You, little sweetheart. With my 
 Arms around your waist, I'd say, I love 
 You with all the strength of love within my 
 Heart and soul, and will love you so until 
 The end. Passionately I have loved others 
 Before I met you ; passionately I 
 Have kissed them, and twined my arms 
 Around their waists. I am not spotless ! 
 My morals are not good according to 
 The wisdom of the world. My faults are 
 Countless as the sands in the Desert, as 
 
62 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 The stars in the sky. I have broken 
 
 Every commandment but one — "Thou shalt not 
 
 Kill !" but I love you, and want you for 
 
 My own." 
 
 She looked at me strangely. "You are 
 Horribly honest about it," was her opinion. 
 Holding her two hands in mine, I replied : 
 "No one in all the world is more deadly 
 Honest on this subject than I." She stroked 
 The hair back from my fevered brow. O, what 
 Thrills of delight darted through my brain 
 And heart, at the touch. Would that I could 
 Have died there at her feet, the bliss was so 
 Supreme. "John Allen," said she, "deeply do 
 I sympathize with you in all your woe. 
 Life indeed must be a dreadful thing for 
 You." Once more the hand stroked the hair 
 Back from my brow, and once more the thrills 
 Of delight flashed back and forth through heart 
 And brain. "Deeply do I sympathize with 
 You," she murmured once again, but I 
 Could not reply for the tears were flowing 
 From my eyes. She continued, "And you 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 63 
 
 Think you could be happy with me? Why, 
 Your happiness would only bring you pain." 
 "Yes," I said, ''the dear sweet pain that I'd 
 Gladly suiter all for you. That is true 
 Love. Though the herd would leave you all 
 Alone ; though storms should rage around you ; 
 Though every hope I had in you was 
 Shipwrecked; though another should enjoy 
 Your charms ; though you'd persecute me till 
 The blood would flow ; though disease would 
 Steal away your beauty and your youth ; 
 Though you'd spurn me as the vilest thing on 
 Earth ; though the world would call you false 
 As hell itself, I'd love you, and adore 
 You with all the passion that I felt for 
 You, when first we met as lovers beneath 
 The sweet blue skies." I could go no 
 Further. Tears were in my voice, and I 
 Did not dare to raise my eyes to hers. O, 
 The feelings of alternate hope and woe, 
 That flashed throughout my heart ! She answered 
 Not. I trembled lest she'd turn me from her 
 Side, my Paradise, and I'd be in 
 The deadly grasp of woe again. 
 
64 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 She said. 
 "You have conceived a terrible passion 
 For me, and I cannot understand it." 
 "Oh," I returned, "you would understand it 
 Well, if you but knew how much I wanted 
 To escape my woe. It haunts me in my 
 Dreams ; it is present in the morn when I 
 Arise ; it dogs my footsteps all the day. 
 There is no peace from it at all. I start 
 Out in the morning with resolutions 
 Bright ; I have hopes most brilliant for the day 
 There are some things I want to do, but alas ! 
 Before the noonday heat arrives, I'm in 
 The throes of my dread woe, and all my 
 Resolutions, hopes, and thoughts are 
 Helplessly shipwrecked. I am lonesome. 
 1 am weary. That's why I want you for 
 My bride. That's why I cast myself down 
 At your feet." Long, long, I remained thus. 
 I did not dare to raise my eyes. The waves 
 Of the sea were moaning on the sandy 
 Beach, and the sea-gulls were wildly 
 Screaming. All the bitterness of life was 
 With me now. 1 lifted up my eyes to 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 6$ 
 
 Search for some look of pity on her face, 
 But she had vanished. And the sea-gulls 
 Screamed, and the surf moaned on the sands, 
 And I — I too moaned on the bitter, barren 
 Sands of life. 
 
 THE STORM. 
 
 TT IS night. The storm raged without with 
 
 Unparalleled fury, but not greater 
 Than the storm within my heart. Let it rage, 
 For I well know that I must perish in 
 It. No sunshine, no cloudless days for me. 
 Naught but the thunders' awful crash, the 
 Lightning flash, and bitter rains. In the storm, 
 All things are filled with fear. The trees then bow 
 Their green heads low. The birds seek shelter in 
 Their nests. Ships struggle in the sea. The 
 Bitter winds moan o'er the streets and prairies. 
 And people walk along with bowed-down heads, 
 And aching hearts, but the storm for them lasts 
 Not forever ; the clouds soon clear away, 
 And the beauty of star, and moon, and sun 
 Shine down on them again, but alas ! the 
 
66 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Storm for me is everlasting. Why, J 
 
 Cannot saw 1 am unlike all other men. 
 
 I am the strangest creature that ever lived 
 
 In this damned world of woe. I cannot sec 
 
 All things like others. I cannot feel like 
 
 Others. J live apart from everything. 
 
 Life to me is a dreadful thing. It is 
 
 A curse ! Towering science, and keen-eyed 
 
 Logic cannot answer questions that I 
 
 Ask. They speak in mysteries, and nothing 
 
 More. Nowhere can I find the key to 
 
 L'nlock the doors. I can only beat my 
 
 Mead against a wall of adamant! I 
 
 Can only wander wailing up and down 
 
 The road. I can only build the bridges 
 
 Frail that break beneath my feet. This, 
 
 And nothing more. This, all this, I felt in 
 
 The storm — yes, in the storm. And the storm to 
 
 Me is as everlasting as the hills! 
 
 The thunder roared, and reverberated 
 
 < I'er the roof-tops of the city. The rain 
 
 Came down in torrents, and the winds blew with 
 
 The fury of the hurricane, through all 
 
 The streets, making it almost impossible 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 67 
 
 To walk ! Through the rain-swept windows, the lights 
 
 Shone dim, and fear was in the air and 
 
 Everywhere. How I longed for beautiful 
 
 Death in the storm ! How I prayed for the end 
 
 Of the agony ! "Come to me ! Come to 
 
 Me now, O beautiful Death," I implored. 
 
 "Come while the bitter winds blow through my heart 
 
 And soul ! Come while the tempest rages round 
 
 Me, and let me perish on thy breasts of 
 
 Beauty !" I walked on, and soon found myself 
 
 On the Madison Street bridge. I saw its 
 
 Colored lights faintly gleaming through the rainy 
 
 Curtains of the storm. I rested my arms 
 
 Upon the rail, and looked down at the swiftly 
 
 Flowing river. Long, long I looked upon 
 
 It. I was fascinated with it. "Were I 
 
 Not a coward," I murmured o'er and o'er, 
 
 "Were I not a coward." And the thunders 
 
 Roared, and the lightning flashed, and the rain came 
 
 Down in blinding sheets, but I stirred not. "Were 
 
 I not a coward," I said again, in a 
 
 Hollow voice. The wind swept by, and moaned, and 
 
 A voice from the distant ages seemed borne 
 
 Along by it. "John Allen," said it, "thousands 
 
68 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Who were not cowards, cast off the chains of woe 
 That bound them here on Earth and sought relief 
 In a watery grave, and why not you?" 
 
 "Yes," 
 I murmured, "and why not I? Simply 
 Because I am a coward. But last night, 
 A woman young and beautiful, leaped from 
 The bridge into the waters far below — ■ 
 Twas but a plunge — a splash of water — a 
 Human arrow in the armor of the 
 Deep — a human arrow in the bosom 
 Of sweet Death, and all was over. How 
 Beautiful ! How sublime ! No trace of the 
 Coward lurked in her heart. God bless her, and 
 God bless the thousands who have ended all 
 Their woes in death ! A thousand blessings be 
 On all the suicides ! To me they are 
 Not suicides. They are heroes, and 
 Heroines !" 
 
 The winds moaned, "There is peace, there 
 Is rest in the beautiful grave below. 
 All you need is courage for the step. Just 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 69 
 
 A leap in the dark, and O, then all is 
 Over — all the agonies you now suffer." 
 
 "Yes," I murmured. "J ust a ^ ea P m tne dark, 
 And then — ah, then — " I was fascinated 
 With the idea. My eyes were riveted 
 On the madly flowing river. I crouched 
 Low, like a wounded panther, ready to 
 Leap like an avalanche upon its prey — 
 But my courage forsook me, and I leaned 
 My arms heavily on the rail again. 
 "Coward that I am !" I hoarsely cried, "I 
 Cannot bring myself to it — to Rest ! I 
 Need some one to lead me on ! Yes, 
 And there's one that could do it, too. Ah ! her 
 Face ! her face divine, her form of beauty 
 Come before me now ! I humbly bow my 
 Head before the vision, for I dare not 
 Raise my eyes to her — my first, my only, 
 And alas ! my hopeless love. She could lead 
 Me to the brink. Blindly would I follow 
 Her, and at her bidding blindly would I 
 Leap to death, with a smile upon my lips ! 
 
yo THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 When I read of the beautiful suicides — 
 
 Of the man found dead in the bath-room — «the 
 
 Pallor on his face, the zigzag pool of 
 
 Blood flowing from his temple, and the tell-tale 
 
 Revolver near at hand ; of the maiden 
 
 Young and fair, who ended all her woes with 
 
 Poison ; of the man of thirty-five or 
 
 Forty, found dead with a dagger in his 
 
 Heart, I am filled with mingled feelings of 
 
 Admiration and despair ! Admiration 
 
 For their courage. Despair at my base 
 
 Cowardice. Deeply do I love, and worship 
 
 All the heroes of suicide ! The false 
 
 World should not frown down on them, for what else 
 
 Is left for a tortured heart, a life of 
 
 Woe, a hopeless love ? Speak ! age of shams ! What 
 
 Else? Some tell me I should not think thus: that 
 
 1 should love Life, and walk with it beneath 
 
 The cloudless summer skies. Yes, walk 'neath 
 
 Cloudless summer skies — 'twere well if I could 
 
 Follow such advice, but whether 'neath the 
 
 Cloudless summer skies, or otherwise, the 
 
 Storm is with me always — d cannot rid 
 
 Mvself of it. Once more 1 looked down at 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. ; x 
 
 The madly flowing river, and once more 
 I murmured, "Were I not a coward," and 
 Then — ! I wandered down the street, with head bowed 
 On my breast. And the winds moaned, "Were you not 
 A coward? Think! fool! think! Just a leap in 
 The dark, and all would be over !'' And the 
 Rains fell, and the thunders roared, and the storm 
 Increased with the night. And the storm is with 
 Me always. 
 
 I CONFESS. 
 
 AX^ISE old world, pray give me your 
 
 Attention for a moment. I entertain 
 Nothing but the utmost contempt for you. 
 Which is not silent contempt, you will 
 Observe, for I would claim your attention. 
 To launch a few shafts of sarcasm in 
 The rotten timbre of your wisdom. 
 
 I have 
 Made many confessions, and I still hope 
 To make many more, but of all the 
 Confessions I have made, and those which 
 
72 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 I hope to make, the following ones are 
 Those which have claimed my attention, from 
 First to last ; which have haunted me day 
 And night, and gave me no rest. They are 
 Yours. Please accept the gift, and open your ears. 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That I am filled with profound disgust, 
 When I read of resignations being 
 Accepted by those who ordered them. 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That I am filled with admiration 
 
 For the Job-like patience manifested 
 
 By our English language, in the face 
 
 Of the yearly assaults made upon it 
 
 By colleges that persist in calling 
 
 Their closing exercises "Commencement." 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That my sense of humor knows no 
 Bounds, when I run across a member of 
 The masculine gender, carrying a 
 Female voice in stock. 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. ; 3 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That I would rather enter the chamber 
 Of horrors than sample the wonderful 
 Mysteries contained in the sausage. 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That I mistook the picture of a group 
 Of graduates, for a battalion of 
 Undertakers holding a pow-wow. 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That I begin to lose confidence in 
 Humanity, when I hear the milk-man 
 Blandly declare, that his stock is not watered. 
 
 I Confess — • 
 
 That the servant-girl has the best of 
 
 The situation to-day. In short, she is "it." 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That I feel like constituting myself 
 A court of chastisement, whenever I 
 Have the misfortune to converse with a 
 Mar. who wears the proverb habit. 
 
7 4 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That I entertain nothing but profound 
 
 Contempt, for those who make a 
 
 Brass band display of the charities they bestow. 
 
 I Confess — « 
 
 That I am filled with merriment at 
 The thought that the Armours, the Goulds. 
 The Potter Palmers, the Rockefellers, and several 
 Others of their ilk, are only laying by a few- 
 Dollars for a rainy day, and not for a Deluge. 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That all the fish stories of the past 
 
 And present, appear somewhat scaly to me. 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That I never entertained very high opinions 
 Of the faculty of imagination, until after 
 I came in contact with railroad and 
 Summer-resort literature. 
 
 I Confess — ■ 
 
 That 1 am at a loss to understand 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 75 
 
 Why the officers of the law allow such polite 
 Robbers as "Fortune-Tellers" to remain in 
 Perfect security, outside the prison walls. 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That I am at a loss to understand 
 
 Why our comic writers (?) still present 
 
 The public with the same old jokes 
 
 That Noah smiled at in his boyhood days. 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That I have not the slightest respect for 
 
 Schools, or the teachers who preside over them. 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That I fail to understand, why critics 
 
 Call the rhymes of Kipling, and Markham, 
 
 Poetry. 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That I am filled with disgust, when I 
 Behold an American citizen wearing a 
 Shining silk hat. 
 
76 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That I am more than amused when I 
 Behold Cholly and Fweddy, hawwibly 
 Dissipating on weak lemonade. 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That "distance lends enchantment," when I 
 Meet a friend enjoying one of those 
 Fragrant three-for-five stogies. 
 
 I Confess — ■ 
 
 That I have sifted it from head to 
 Foot, and find that it really costs a 
 Poor man more than he can afford — 
 To die. 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 Whether awake, or asleep, or galloping 
 Beneath the stars on my panting steed. 
 That I am ever thinking of my 
 Cherished cities, and my strong and 
 Beautiful lovers. 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. yy 
 
 I Confess — « 
 
 That I often ask myself, "What is the 
 
 Matter with the American public?" 
 
 When I behold it parting with its 
 
 Hard earned money, to hear the bushy-headed 
 
 Paderewski deliver a death-blow to 
 
 Harmony on the piano. 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That the ups and downs of married life 
 
 Never appear to better advantage, than 
 
 When I see a six-foot woman walking 
 
 Up the street, with a five-foot husband in tow. 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That I have no respect whatever for 
 
 A self-made man ( ?), a smart young man ( ?), 
 
 Or a man who has made his mark ( ?). 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That I have nothing but the utmost 
 Contempt, for that national, and damnable 
 Lie, known as "the survival of the fittest. " 
 
78 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That Death is one of the most beautiful 
 Things I have ever read or heard of 
 In this Life. 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That I have as much use for the good 
 Things that are said of a dead man, as 
 The Devil has for "Holy Water." 
 
 I Confess — • 
 
 That I am the strangest character that 
 Ever walked upon this cursed Earth, and 
 That no man will ever understand me 
 Rightly, or enjoy my conversation or 
 Companionship, unless he takes off his 
 Mask, and treats me as his equal. 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That the announcements in the daily papers, 
 Concerning extravagant banquets, and 
 Imported costumes worn by social butterflies, 
 Are splendid remedies for hungry stomachs. 
 And people in rags. 
 
OF JOHN ALLEX. 
 
 I Confess — • 
 
 That no array of arguments will ever 
 
 Move me to forgive a smiling, smooth flatterer. 
 
 Or a man who forms a hasty 
 
 Judgment of me. 
 
 I Confess — • 
 
 That the place to obtain injustice, is 
 
 In the Justice-Shops of the city. 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That the luckiest man in all the world. 
 
 Is he who ne'r was born. 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That there are some men so degraded. 
 
 That they are exalted to the Seventh Heaven, 
 
 Whenever they can humiliate you. 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That I have the utmost contempt 
 
 For the man who has smiles for some. 
 
 And frowns for others ; for the man 
 
 Whose dignity will not permit him 
 
 79 
 
So THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 To recognize you, when he sees you 
 On the street ; for the man who wears 
 Medals, and has diplomas in his 
 Possession ; for the man who rides in 
 A carriage, cab, or automobile ; for the 
 Man who erects statues to preserve the 
 Memories of so-called heroes and what-nots ; 
 For the man who is always employed in 
 Building air castles, and living in them ; 
 For the man who has not the courage 
 To face ingratitude ; and for the man 
 Who is not democratic enough to meet 
 All men on a common level. 
 
 I Confess — > 
 
 That I am more than amused, when some 
 
 Men, after looking me over, go their way, thinking 
 
 They have taken my measure. 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That I sympathize with the rich man, 
 Who has to die, after all, and leave all 
 His wealth behind, for others to spend. 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 8 1 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 Whenever I see two able-bodied 
 
 Italians, popularly known as "dagos," 
 
 Equipped with a horse, wagon, and 
 
 Hand-organ, that I am at a loss 
 
 To understand why they are not 
 
 Arrested for vagrancy. 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That honesty is the best of policy, 
 
 After all, and that the place to find 
 
 It, is in the United States Senate, 
 
 In the aldermanic sessions of every city. 
 
 And in the advertised food-stuffs of 
 
 The day. 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That I have more respect for the 
 
 Man who breaks all the Commandments 
 
 In full view of the public eye, than 
 
 For he who does the same in 
 
 Secrecy, and poses as a Saint. 
 
82 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That I cannot understand why 
 
 The Government persists in employing 
 
 Hysterical, brainless, fad-stricken 
 
 Females to teach (God save the mark!) 
 
 The children of the country, when men 
 
 Of brains and family can be 
 
 Had for the asking, to do the same work. 
 
 1 Confess — 
 
 That I can see through the screen at 
 Last — that laws were made to protect 
 The rich transgressors, and to punish 
 The poor ones. 
 
 I Confess — 
 
 That money is the one great power 
 
 That wields its sceptre over the whole 
 
 World. Its will is absolute. Before 
 
 It, all bow low. For it, how 
 
 Many lives have been wrecked ; 
 
 How many have toiled, but 
 
 Toiled in vain ; how much 
 
 Honor has been purchased ; 
 
OF JOHX ALLEX. 83 
 
 How many assassins have been 
 
 Hired ; how many officials 
 
 Have been corrupted, and how 
 
 Many American girls have purchased 
 
 The empty crowns and titles of Europe. 
 
 Without it, a man is like a ship 
 
 Without a pilot. Without it, you 
 
 May as well seek the potter's field, 
 
 But this I say to you 
 
 Wise old world, that money shall 
 
 Lose all its power at the very 
 
 Gates of my New City ; for it 
 
 Will not be accepted for any service 
 
 Done, nor for any commodity 
 
 Within the sacred walls. Once 
 
 More I beg your attention for these 
 
 Confessions. They are yours. Please 
 
 Accept the gift. 
 
 ART AND LIFE. 
 
 T WENT to-day to the Art Institute, 
 
 And when I unto my home returned, the 
 Despair that always rages in my soul^ 
 
84 THE CONFESSIOXS 
 
 Almost o'erwhelmed me, for my love, the love 
 
 I gave so freely there — was cast aside — 
 
 Was shattered and the fragments rudely 
 
 Trampled on by the heedless feet, of the 
 
 Heedless throng. I saw them pass, the ones I 
 
 Madly loved, the rich, the gay, the poor, the 
 
 Humble, but alas ; they had no eyes, no 
 
 Ears, no hearts, no love for me. These like serfs 
 
 Were lying at the feet of chiseled and 
 
 Of painted lies. How I longed in my despair 
 
 For their deep sympathy, and love ! But this 
 
 As always is the rule, was brutally 
 
 Denied me. Nowhere can I win out! I 
 
 Seem to be at war with all mankind, and 
 
 In harmony with nothing in this wise 
 
 Old world, because I can attract no one ; 
 
 Because I do repel ; because I possess 
 
 Not the polished manners that the Piker 
 
 Uses in society ; because my 
 
 Heart is filled with love for all mankind ; 
 
 Because it hungers in return for all 
 
 The love it gives ; and because my soul is 
 
 Filled with a despair, the like of which did 
 
 Never yet exist in this wise world, when 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 85 
 
 I behold the idiotic indifference, 
 The damnable contempt displayed by my 
 Own people, when in presence of the 
 Painted, and the chisled lies, of painters 
 And of sculptors. 
 
 What are painters, what are 
 Sculptors? Artists? No, they are but one set 
 Of the myriad bandits, who steal from life's 
 Great treasury — Time, and leave it almost 
 Penniless. They liars are, who paint and 
 Chisel lies ; show artists too, who flatter 
 Well, amuse, and then astonish the 
 Bewildered sight. They are kindergarten 
 Manufacturers, who turn out dolls, and 
 Pictures for the children. Unhappily 
 In this case we the children are — the 
 Children overgrown, who still do clap our 
 Hands, and cry aloud, "O see the pretty 
 Pictures and the dolls." We must be amused. 
 We must live in an atmosphere unreal. 
 We must diverge from pathways true to life. 
 We must have landscape, seascape; birds in trees; 
 Spires of churches ; court-house towers ; scenes of 
 
86 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 City or country ; skies of blue, of 
 Glittering stars ; of turquoise rare ; gorgeous 
 Sunsets ; moonlight scenes on rivers, lakes 
 And oceans, all recorded for our 
 Benefit, on canvas or on stone. 
 
 These 
 Scenes of course we never see about us. 
 Landscapes, and seascapes, arc nowhere to be 
 Found, nor the scenes of our real life, so 
 Beautiful, that nothing in the so-called 
 Arts compare with them. These are cast aside, 
 Unworthy of a thought or look, but — 
 Record them once on canvas, or on stone, 
 And behold what admiring crowds, 
 Will gather round them. Then come the unreal 
 Pictures — they of fabled heroes ; of 
 Two-headed monsters; of scenes and characters 
 In fairyland ; of the crusades ; of 
 Mermaids rising from the sea; of horrid 
 Buddhist Deities ; of Bible characters ; 
 Of murders found in history ; of 
 Battles great upon the land and sea; 
 Of Hell with all its torments, and of 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 87 
 
 Heaven with its joys. These are painted lies, 
 
 For the artists, they who made them, knew 
 
 Nothing- more than you or I about these 
 
 Subjects; they drew on their imaginations 
 
 For materials, and the moment they 
 
 Did that, the foundations of the lies were laid. 
 
 Do you think you were created here to 
 
 Squander precious moments on these — lies? 
 
 Do you think you were created, just to 
 
 Read accounts both long and short, of artists 
 
 And of sculptors ; of pictures and of 
 
 Statues, by so-called critics of the art? 
 
 Do you think you were created just to 
 
 Listen to long lectures on the art? 
 
 Do you think, one moment think that you should 
 
 Join that throng, that still applauds the artists 
 
 And the sculptors of the past and present? 
 
 Do you think because society, and 
 
 Certain circles in the world pretend to 
 
 Knowledge of the art, and attend its 
 
 Exhibitions, that you too must cultivate 
 
 Pretensions similar, and attend such 
 
 Exhibitions ? 
 
88 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Suppose that I had 
 Painted pictures full of beauty — they the 
 Greatest of all time, what would it be to 
 You? Would it help you solve the problems of 
 This life? What would it profit you to point 
 Me out a man of art, the greatest of 
 Your time? It would simply prove that I 
 Had cast a thought on canvas, for you to 
 Approve or disapprove ; it should be the 
 Latter, for I have disapproved of all 
 The art of past and present, and if you 
 Follow me, you too must disapprove of 
 All the art of past and present. Art ! 
 What is art? I know not art as the world 
 Classifies it. Art, true Art, is yourself. 
 You are the painter, you the sculptor, not 
 The man with brush and chisel in hand. I 
 Swear to you from the very depths of the 
 Agony that rages in my heart, that 
 This is the Truth ! Anytime you doubt 
 My word, go forth into the golden 
 Sunshine, or out in the dark storm-shadows, 
 And look at all the scenes about you — look 
 At them with just one-half the attention — 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 89 
 
 One -half the sympathy you bestow on 
 Worthless paintings, and in that moment, 
 You will become the greatest painter, and 
 Sculptor of them all. In that moment you 
 Will have recorded in the art galleries 
 Of your vision, scenes far more beautiful, 
 Than Raphael, Correggio, Vandvck, 
 Rubens, and all the other countless 
 Artists, have ever recorded on canvas. 
 And what a realness there is in Nature's 
 Scenes ! So real, that they startle you — that 
 Is if you have any eyes at all for 
 Majesty and beauty. Then why waste your 
 Time on the man with the brush. Surely 
 Your interest does not centre in the 
 Picture that he paints ? It must centre 
 In his skill as the Artist of the hour, 
 For with your own two eyes, you must have 
 Gazed on the real scenes of Nature, which he 
 Transfers to canvas; and O, how 
 Immeasurably more grand they seem 
 Alongside his daubing! How beggarly! 
 How wretched appear the paintings of the 
 Greatest artists in comparison with 
 
90 
 
 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 The majesty of Nature! His skill then, 
 Is the only thing to attract you, and this 
 Indeed is a worthless accomplishment — 
 A woeful waste of the most precious thing 
 In the world — Time. Pictures should be 
 Painted only for the blind ! 
 
 Perhaps in 
 This matter you will say, I am a bit 
 Severe on you. Perhaps I am, for it 
 Has just occurred to me, that these canvas- 
 Scenes, which you so highly prize, may ceas? 
 To exist, and what an awful affair 
 That would be! Just fancy what a funny 
 Old world we would have, if the sun would 
 Go down to rest in the West, and never 
 Rise up again ; or if the rivers, the 
 Lakes, and the oceans escaped from their 
 Beds, and fell off the world on planets 
 Below ; or if the seasons got into 
 A row and we would have but one eternal 
 Summer, or Winter, or Autumn or 
 Spring; or if you awoke some morn, and 
 Opened the window to find that the 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 91 
 
 Earth had disappeared in the Night, and 
 Left your house standing on ■ ? 
 
 Possibly 
 This is why you want preserved scenes. We 
 Have preserved peaches, apples, tomatoes, 
 And old maids, and I presume we must have 
 Preserved scenes. I can advance no other 
 Reason for it, unless it be that your 
 Life is to be prolonged for ages, and 
 That you are prepared to waste it on painted 
 Lies. The men who paint, and who have painted, 
 Are bandits, who lay snares on the canvas 
 For your eyes (snares are nothing but lies), 
 And cast a spell o'er your brain, your will, 
 Your soul, and your imagination, while they 
 Rob you of your greatest wealth — Time. Many 
 A man has been cast into prison for 
 Much smaller crimes, but these great bandits 
 Of the past and present have escaped the 
 Hand of the Law, because the good easy 
 Generations of Adam and Eve, have 
 Never placed a true value on Time — their 
 Lives, and the grave problems that confront 
 
92 
 
 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Them. Hands up ! I cry at last ! I 
 John Allen, of Chicago, a lover of the 
 People, have discovered these bandits ; I 
 Have tracked them to their dens ; I have 
 Uncovered them, they are now in our 
 Possession, and shall stand trial before our eyes. 
 Come forth Bularchus, Angelo, Raphael, da Vend ! 
 Come forth Titian, Veronese, Correggio, Cousin! 
 Come forth Murrillo, Rubens, Rembrandt, Reynolds ! 
 Come forth Landseer, West, Beale, Leyendecker! 
 Come forth Millet, Whistler, and ye countless 
 Other daubers, trap setters, and bandits, and tell 
 Us what ye have done for the generations of 
 The past, and those of the present. 
 
 Ye have 
 Painted scenes of love, of life, of glory ; of 
 Heaven, hell, and Purgatory; of the Last Supper; 
 Of celebrated battles ; of life in the tropics ; 
 Of altar pieces ; of rocks, caves, thickets, and desert 
 Plains ; of antiquities ; crowded cities, and 
 Ancient customs ; of curved bridges spanning placid 
 Streams ; of gorgeous banquets, gorgeous 
 Sunsets, and Bible subjects; of the seascape, 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 93 
 
 Landscape, and lifescape. and of storms at 
 Sea, and on land. This, all this ye 
 Have done. Very good. It sounds well. It 
 Looks superb in print — but — have ye ever 
 Painted the picture of a louse? And pray 
 What have ye done for Life, and all its 
 Bitter problems? Has this art of yours ever 
 Solved one of them ? Not one ! And it shall 
 Never solve them ! O, you have cunningly 
 Done your work, and it passes to-day as 
 One of the line arts ! You have entered 
 Into a conspiracy against that 
 Beautiful sacred thing — Life, to defraud 
 It of some of its precious time, but you 
 Shall do so no more ! My entrance on the 
 Field, shall block your way forever ! 
 
 And 
 Ye sculptors of the world — ye that have been , 
 At work, since Dibutades cast the 
 Profile of his daughter's lover in clay ; 
 Ye that have sought to celebrate so-called 
 Heroes and events in marble, alabaster, 
 And stone ; ye that have made the gods of 
 
94 
 
 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Old, the idols of Egypt, the Hideosities of 
 Hindooism, and Buddhism, what has it 
 Profited Life to know that ye have done 
 All this ? What has it profited Life to 
 Know that Phidias of Athens once lived, and 
 Made statues ; that Julius Caesar was 
 Devoted to the arts ; that Thonvaldsen 
 Was famous, and that MacMonnies, and 
 Kuhne Beveridge moulded silly dolls for 
 The Kindergarten? 
 
 O my children of 
 The Wilderness, Life has profited nothing 
 To know all this — except — except — to make 
 For it a more dreadful tragedy than 
 Before ! It has held Life up on the 
 Highways, and byways of the World, and 
 Robbed it of its precious gold — Time ! It 
 Placed a thought in the heart of Life from the 
 Beginning, and ever since that hour Life 
 Has knelt in reverence at its feet. Shall it 
 Kneel there forevermore? Shall it, my 
 Beloved children ? Shall we still go on 
 As before, and waste our golden moments 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 95 
 
 On these painted and chiseled lies? Is it 
 
 Possible we have become a race of 
 
 Monkeys, that strain every nerve to imitate. 
 
 And follow in the footsteps of our ancestors? 
 
 Has the so-called Art ever soothed the 
 
 Agony of the new-born babe, or consoled a 
 
 Dying soul on the death-bed ? No ! Emphatically 
 
 No ! It was not invented for any 
 
 Such purpose. This being the case, it is 
 
 Of no use whatever. That which cannot 
 
 Be utilized at the dawn or close of 
 
 Life, should have no place whatever 
 
 On the earth. 
 
 O, my children ! cast these 
 Foolish ideas of Art to the four winds, 
 For there is no art in all the world, except 
 The art of life ! Learn that well, and you 
 Will know the all-in-all, and how 
 Shallow have been the pretensions of men 
 And women, called artists and sculptors. 
 
96 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 FORBIDDEN FRUIT. 
 
 A I MlE shadows of Adam and Eve still fall 
 
 Among us, and they fill my heart and soul 
 With appalling darkness, and a thousand 
 Gloomy tragedies. Not a day goes by. 
 But I feel their presence near. Not a day 
 Goes by, but some Eve leads an Adam to 
 The abyss. Not a day goes by, but some 
 Paradise is rudely cast away. Long 
 Ages, dark and terrible, have passed away 
 Since Eden's fall, but still year after year. 
 We ape the parts of our first parents, and 
 The while we ape we ne'er neglect a chance 
 To raise our voice against them, and to lay 
 The blame of all our woe upon their 
 Shoulders. We never pause — we never think that we 
 Ourselves are Adams or are Eves. O, no ! 
 Nor do we see the garden, though we 
 Stumble o'er it in our daily walk of 
 Life. 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 97 
 
 We are a race of fools, that wander 
 Up and down, and wail within the shadows, 
 But make no effort to escape at all. 
 The stomachs of our passions must be fed 
 At any cost. That being done, we walk 
 Abroad with looks of fair contentment on 
 Our faces, which are shams and nothing more. 
 But these shams, horrible as they are, shall all 
 Be shattered ; these gardens be all cast aside, 
 And the shadows of Adam and Eve forever 
 Lifted from your lives, if you will but 
 Follow me. 
 
98 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 MASKS AND FACES. 
 
 COMETIMES when I go forth, and see how the 
 
 People squander time at palaces of 
 Pleasure, called theaters, my eyes fill up 
 With tears, and I'm almost o'erwhelmed with grief. 
 Time is the greatest treasure that we have. 
 And the manner in which it's lightly cast 
 Away, leads me to believe that these same 
 People are Death-Proof, and that they are 
 Destined to live on, through the countless 
 Ages that will roll by. They go forth with 
 Lightly beating hearts to the theaters. 
 The doors are opened. Brilliantly shine 
 The lights within. They enter, take their seats — 
 The orchestra strikes up the music — the 
 Curtain rises — the actors perform their 
 Parts on the stage — the curtain drops — the 
 Audience files out again into the 
 Night, and so on, as the ages roll by, 
 But what do we learn from it all? Nothing — 
 But that we are a race of fools to 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 99 
 
 Squander golden moments, listening to 
 
 That which we already know, and 
 
 Witnessing the comic and tragic scenes 
 
 Of our own life, or of that of a bygone 
 
 Age. No new ideas are here advanced. 
 
 Nothing new whatever for our 
 
 Emancipation from the inexorable — 
 
 The bitter drama of Life. Every NEW 
 
 Theory here advanced, is as ancient 
 
 As the cracked old face of the World. The 
 
 Only difference 'tween it, and ideas 
 
 Of the past, is, that it comes to us in 
 
 A new garb. Every character assumed 
 
 By the actor, is but a counterpart 
 
 Of some character well-known to us, in 
 
 Our own, or the distant ages. Everything 
 
 Here is but a sham, and hides behind a 
 
 Mask. You will observe too, that different 
 
 Schools of acting here are represented, 
 
 (Indeed quite a war of words and deeds, form 
 
 The gulf between), and that the star of each 
 
 Particular school, always holds the centre 
 
 Of the stage, while his shadows — better known 
 
 As disciples, form the background. Disciples 
 
ioo THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Of course, are not necessary, but then, they 
 
 Look well, and help the star to shine with 
 
 Greater lustre. This the star knows in his 
 
 Private mind, but as wisdom is golden, 
 
 He does not make it public, for he is 
 
 Fearful lest his brilliance be diminished. 
 
 Like actors and theaters, are the so-called 
 
 Heroes of thought, and their schools. The heroes 
 
 Are brilliant thieves of Time. Their schools — the 
 
 Homes of lies. Had I my way, the heroes 
 
 Of the present would be cast behind the 
 
 Prison bars, and their schools abolished, 
 
 And the names, and memories of those of the 
 
 Past, would be forever blotted from the 
 
 Page of History. Plato, Socrates, 
 
 Buddha, Aristophanes, Rousseau, Voltaire, 
 
 Kant, and a score of others, came upon 
 
 The stage of the world, with the blare of 
 
 Trumpets, and the drum-rolls of revolutions 
 
 In thought ; their tongues and pens of eloquence 
 
 Held the Nations spell-bound, but what did it 
 
 Amount to? Words, words, words. NOTHING! 
 
 What legacies have they left us? A few 
 
 Books filled with choice phrases, with catch words, 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 101 
 
 And a host of polished shams ; a church or 
 Two, which are of no use whatever — and 
 That is all. Nothing was done for the life 
 Of the present. Everything was for the 
 Future, of which they knew nothing at all, 
 Except that which they gathered from the 
 Bible. They sought not to dispel the 
 Dark shadow's of Life. They fell then. They 
 Are falling now. Does not the murderer 
 Live with us yet? Have we not adulterers, 
 Keepers of brothels ; thieves ; liars ; bigamists ; 
 Perjurers, and confidence men still in 
 Our midst? The so-called heroes of thought 
 Have come and gone. They have played their 
 Parts on the stage. The curtain has dropped, 
 And they have left naught but a memory 
 For fools to revere, and wise men to waste 
 Time over. The only true solution of 
 Life's mystery, and the salvation of 
 The world as well, lies in me, and in the 
 Doctrines new, which I expound to you. O, 
 Cast me not aside, nor reject the 
 Doctrines that I place within your reach, 
 For they are the planks, the drift-wood, that 
 
102 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Will carry you safely o'er the storm-tossed 
 Sea, to the shores and glories of the 
 New Life, and New Cities, of which you 
 Have but a dim idea at present. 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. IG3 
 
 WAITING. 
 
 \ LL through the long, long night, I wept and 
 
 moaned 
 Upon the cruel breasts of the storm ; all through 
 The long, long night, I was buffeted by 
 Bitter winds, till I could bear no longer 
 With them, till in my heart's deep anguish, I 
 Was forced to cry aloud to the hunted 
 Thing within my room — "a curse be on you 
 And your ceaseless longings ! Have you not done 
 With them ? Will you ne'er learn to wear the crown 
 That wisdom brings? Will your hands forever 
 Beckon to the phantoms — forever build 
 Fair palaces of ice and idols grand 
 Beneath the rain of fire the sun sends down? 
 Will your feet forever wander up the 
 Heights where avalanches hover? Peace, be 
 Still I say. Away with these mad dreams ! They 
 Are but feasts provided by the phantoms. 
 They are not for you. There's absolutely 
 Nothing for you there. There's absolutely 
 
I0 4 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Nothing for me there. All is emptiness! 
 All is hope deferred. All is love denied. 
 Mayhap you fail to grasp the meaning of 
 My words. Mayhap they are not clear enough 
 To you. I will sum the whole thing up in 
 Just three little words. ALL IS WAITING! 
 
 Life 
 Is the great drama of waiting — but of 
 Death, what of death? Does the dramatic 
 Climax come with it, when you or I, or 
 Such as you and I dissolve the bands most 
 Cruel that chained us both together in a 
 Living hell, and then float out into the 
 Great Beyond? O, no, disguise it as we 
 May, it is but a climax that leads into 
 Another sphere of waiting. It will be 
 A change at least, and a change is something after 
 All, but you will still be waiting. 
 
 Your face 
 Then will be as drawn and white, and tear-stained 
 As now — 'you will be waiting. Come, you seem 
 Not yet to comprehend. You are as 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 
 
 Stupid as the proud cold world. Come, the first 
 Faint streaks of dawn are in the San Francisco 
 Skies. Let us go forth where you still think 'tis 
 Possible to find the thing you seek. Shall 
 I call our brother of the mantle dark 
 To walk with us? 
 
 The hunted thing with a 
 Shudder drew the hood close 'round its head, and 
 Murmured low, "we will go on without him." 
 Along the road we slowly went, for there 
 Are roads in San Francisco, but like our 
 Search for Light — they lead nowhere. They are 
 Waiting. We went on, and the hunted thing 
 Kept sobbing all the way. Its every step 
 Was but an added chord to the sad sweet 
 Symphony of life. "It is useless well 
 I know," said I, "to storm and wail within 
 The shadows — you are waiting. Behold the 
 Blue sky o'er us! How beautiful, how calm 
 It is. So beautiful, so calm, that it 
 Sends wild thrills of madness through my heart. 
 To-day 'tis garbed in blue. To-morrow it 
 May don its steel-gray robes, and as Time speeds 
 
 ™5 
 
106 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 On, lilacs will bloom in all its yellow 
 
 Fields. At night a million gems will glitter 
 
 In its robes, and crescent moons flash from its 
 
 Heights. The clouds will come, the thunders roar, and 
 
 Storms will rage, and rains will fall — -but all to 
 
 No purpose. They will come and go, and come 
 
 And go, as the long caravan of ages 
 
 Pass swiftly o'er the sands — but the sky will 
 
 Still be waiting. It makes madness whirl through 
 
 Heart and brain, when I look up at it! 
 
 It hurts ! It stings ! I long for it- to fall 
 
 With the crash of earthquakes at my feet, so 
 
 That my head can push itself up through the 
 
 Floor of blue, and — and see the great beyond. 
 
 But it will never fall. Be not afraid. 
 
 It, like all the rest, is waiting. 
 
 There was 
 A close gath'ring of the hood, and then a deep 
 Sob came from out its folds. 'Twas pitiful 
 To see how the hunted one still grasped at 
 Some faint ray of hope. We now stood on the 
 Far Pacific shore, and heard the breakers 
 Roar, and burst a silver show'r of melodies 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 10 y 
 
 O'er all the jagged rocks below. Long — long 
 
 We stood and gazed in silence o'er the sea, 
 
 Till the silence sore oppressed me, and I 
 
 Cried out, "can you not see the folly of 
 
 It now, or are you as stupid as 
 
 The proud cold world? Behold the sea, the calm, 
 
 Majestic, beautiful sea. 'Tis calm now 
 
 Because the bitter winds are silent ; 
 
 Because the sea-drift is gently tossed 
 
 Along its glassy bosom. 'Tis even 
 
 Rippling with laughter. Yet I know this 
 
 Self-same sea, is savage, merciless, 
 
 Inhuman. 'Tis calm now because it is 
 
 Not troubled. But times there are when rage fills 
 
 All its bosom. When it bubbles o'er with 
 
 Discontent ; when it bellows o'er the 
 
 Mountain waves ; when 'tis lashed to fury by 
 
 Old Neptune; when it plays the tyrant; when 
 
 It hurls poor struggling ships across the 
 
 Angry billows. This all this I know, and 
 
 That its present calm is but a brutal 
 
 Mask, and 'tis this that fills me with despair. 
 
 I long for it to leap from out its bed, 
 
 So that I can then read all the secrets of 
 
108 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Its depths. But fear not you poor, poor hunted 
 Thing, it will not leave its bed — it will not 
 Disclose its secrets. It is waiting. Dost 
 Understand at last?" 
 
 But my hunted soul 
 Would not understand, and it moaning said:— 
 "If there is no hope in sea or sky, there 
 Must be some here in the land of palm and 
 Pine." And it lifted up its tear-stained face 
 To me, a perfect picture of all mis'ry. 
 "And you still have hope?" I asked. 
 
 "I still have 
 Hope," my soul replied. 
 
 "To hope," I softly 
 Said, "is but to wait." 
 
 "It is to wait," my 
 Soul replied. 
 
 "It is beautiful to wait," 
 Continued I, "If the crown lies near at 
 Hand; if you can find the gold down at the 
 
OF JOHN ALLUN. 
 
 I09 
 
 Foot of every hill, but to wait and to 
 
 Receive naught in return but sack-cloth, ashes, 
 
 Thorns, and bitter winds, and the cold embrace 
 
 Of death, is to make of life a tragedy 
 
 Most terrible. So you still have hope. I 
 
 Really do admire you. But pray, where think 
 
 You, can all the ideals of your hope be 
 
 Found? Not here, you poor pinched creature of an 
 
 Earthly hell ; not here, where sun and moon, and 
 
 Star shine down upon the orange and vine ; not 
 
 Here, where feathered warblers fill the trees ; not 
 
 Here, where snow-clad peaks look down on valley 
 
 Plain, and stream — no, no, not here at all, for 
 
 These, all these, like sky and sea, in all their 
 
 Changing moods are waiting — waiting!" 
 
 At this 
 My hunted soul stole from my side, and crawled 
 Across the sands. It moaned and wept. There was 
 Scarce a spark of life in it, but still it 
 Clung to hope, that like a sunbeam melted 
 In its grasp. It was waiting. 
 San Francisco, 1904. 
 
I io THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 REFLECT. 
 
 TjERE read of one who climbed the height, 
 
 The glittering heights, and failed, as all 
 Things fail upon the earth, and then 
 Reflect, if 'twere not best to 
 Follow me into the City 
 New which I have prepared for you. 
 
 THE CLIMBER. 
 
 A WANDERING goatherd in the streets 
 
 Of far-off Alpine village stood, 
 And saw draw near a chariot 
 Of gold and crystal wondrous fair. 
 Upon it, lashing foam-white steeds 
 To frantic speed, the rider stood, 
 Uncaring for the multitude 
 Of throngs, all ages and all trades 
 And wavs of Life. 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. Ill 
 
 There sat within, 
 On crimson velvet seat, a Maid 
 Of grace and beauty marvellous ! 
 All eyes were turned, all hands were raised 
 Towards her now beseechingly, 
 And voices wild for favors plead. 
 Full many trampled were beneath 
 The prancing hoof-beats of the steeds, 
 Or crushed under the grinding wheels ! 
 For sage divines ; the poor, the rich ; 
 The young, the man of four score years ; 
 The student, and professors wise — 
 All madly rushed towards the Maid, 
 With outstretched arms, to win her smiles ! 
 But calmly sat she, with a face 
 Impassive as those mountain peaks, 
 With naught of recognition there, 
 Tho' the way was wet with blood and tears. 
 And strewn with myriad broken hearts ! 
 The simple goatherd marvelled much 
 To see this Maid so passing fair. 
 Was she a Princess from afar? 
 For the slaves of Toil a Joan of Arc? 
 A Queen of Song to glad their hearts 
 
1 1 2 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 And thrill? Or fairy with rich gifts? 
 He turned him to a veteran gray 
 All bent and worn and bullet-scarred 
 And him bespoke: 
 
 "Who is this Maid 
 Who rules all hearts with queenly sway?" 
 His withered hand the veteran laid 
 Upon the goatherd's arm, and said 
 With voice of treble, child-like tones : 
 "This is the Maid for whom the world 
 Doth sigh, and many perish still — 
 Have perished since the world began ! 
 Old, young, weak, strong, humble and great, 
 Rich, sinner, priest, and potentate, 
 The fool, the sage her votaries are ! 
 Happy, yet wretched is his life 
 Who basks within her witching smiles, 
 And on her passionate kisses feeds ! 
 But once a year this way she comes 
 Bestowing favors on the few !" 
 E'en as he spake the chariot stopped. 
 The Maid alighted, and the throng 
 Fell back in awe — made opening wide 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. n 
 
 Of avenue, thro' which she passed. 
 
 Up to the startled goatherd she 
 
 All smilingly, came, and straightway threw 
 
 Her arms ahout his sun-bronzed neck, 
 
 And pressed upon his trembling lips 
 
 Her burning kisses! Mad with joy, 
 
 He begged her never to depart, 
 
 But evermore his star to be 
 
 Amid the storms and ills of Life! 
 
 She whispered something to him then, 
 
 And, entering her chariot swift, 
 
 Sped on her way, amid the sighs 
 
 Of throngs of disappointed hearts ! 
 
 Envied by all, the goatherd stood 
 
 And heard the shouts of bitter rage 
 
 That 'round him beat. 
 
 "To think," they cried, 
 "That she hath showered favors on 
 This ragged toiler of the hills, 
 While many are far worthier here !" 
 But he heeded not the furious speech, 
 And taking up his daily task, 
 With hope renewed, he wandered on. 
 
1 14 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 The birds to him sang carols sweet ; 
 
 And flowers nodded on his path. 
 
 Scattering fragrance o'er his way. 
 
 Vet in the mids of his delight 
 
 A shadow fell athwart his heart ! 
 
 Oft in his toil he paused to brush 
 
 The sweat that gathered from his brow — 
 
 A string of sparkling, silver beads — 
 
 For he was musing of the one 
 
 Who sat within the chariot fair — 
 
 Her eyes, like brilliant stolen stars 
 
 Of Paradise ! He felt again 
 
 Her maddened kisses thrill his blood 
 
 With fires of Love; those downy arms — 
 
 Soft pillows of the Seraphim ! 
 
 Would that he might once more repose 
 
 Upon her bosom, and expire ! 
 
 Then would he to his task repair, 
 
 While the hours crept by with feet of lead ! 
 
 Anon he turned imploring eyes 
 
 To peaks against the steel blue dome, 
 
 That towered like vast, cathedral walls ; 
 
 Like monuments of Gods of old ! 
 
 Or like the fangs, in jagged row, 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 
 
 Of fabled monsters of the Past ! 
 Or thoughts of Genius soaring high ! 
 Or giants garbed in silver robes 
 With fringes of the eternal snow ! 
 Wild torrents thundered deep below 
 With eloquence that fiercely poured 
 Thro' tunnels of the mountain's heart. 
 With gathered fury, leashed, in view 
 Crouched avalanches everywhere — 
 White dragons of fair Switzerland ! 
 Great lakes that mirrored Alpine skies 
 And all their stars of sparking rays — 
 The eyes of Angels ! Swift cascades 
 Adown the craggy steps out-leapt, 
 With silvery feet, and dark green pines 
 Seemed armor-clad for battle dire 
 With ice-armed legions everywhere ! 
 Deep glaciers gleamed in every pass ! 
 And silver-arrowed rivers sped 
 Upon their flight ! 
 
 Like emerald wreathes 
 The valleys twined around the scene, 
 And sounds of tinkling bells were heard 
 
 115 
 
1 1 6 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Floating on pinions of the air ! 
 
 The chamois flashed across the sea ; 
 
 And music of the huntsman's horn 
 
 Came to the ear of the shepherd lone 
 
 Tending his flock of bleating sheep ; 
 
 While the last rays of the dying sun 
 
 Tinted the floating clouds with lights 
 
 Of purple, rose and amber gold. 
 
 The land of Freedom — Switzerland — 
 
 Unrolled its beauty to his eyes ! 
 
 Long gazed he on the marvellous realm. 
 
 These peaks seemed mighty problems high 
 
 Upon the varied paths of Life, 
 
 And beyond them he would, searching, find 
 
 The secret haunts of fair Romance ! 
 
 Mayhap, the Chariot-Maid was there ! 
 
 Would he attempt the heights to scale? 
 
 Perchance when he had bravely won 
 
 A foothold on their arduous side — 
 
 Conquered each obstacle, and reached 
 
 The highest peak, might he not find 
 
 An icy wilderness — no more — 
 
 Instead of trace of her he loved? 
 
 * * * 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 117 
 
 The sun poured down its store of gold ; 
 
 It was a day of Alpine calm 
 
 And beauty. To his view there came 
 
 The shadow of a human form. 
 
 The stranger paused; upon his brow 
 
 Were waving locks of iron-gray 
 
 That fell on shoulders broadly made ; 
 
 His lips were pale, and firm compressed ; 
 
 His raven-black, and piercing eyes 
 
 Peered from their bushy eye-brows 
 
 On the goatherd who stood wondering nigh. 
 
 The iron hand of Time had left 
 
 Its marks upon the stranger's face, 
 
 Yet fire still blazed within those eyes, 
 
 As if of will unconquerable ! 
 
 * * * 
 ''Still dreaming, lad," he softly said, 
 "Of the world afar and its delights, 
 Of dazzling charms of one sweet maid? 
 Why should you climb? Nigh all the world 
 Is with you in your airy task ! 
 Yours are but dreams, fair, idle dreams, 
 That melt, like rainbows in the sky! 
 When man meets me real Life begins, 
 
1 1 8 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 For I have crossed the giddy heights, 
 
 And knowledge have of her you love ! 
 
 I knew your secret — read your heart — 
 
 From the first moment that we met ! 
 
 I know where you may find the Maid 
 
 If heart of yours is strong as steel! 
 
 I'll point the way that you must take — 
 
 I am the traveller of roads, 
 
 And know the best and surest paths. 
 
 Yet Pilgrims tremble when I'm near! 
 
 I build the gorges, giant-mouthed, 
 
 The dizzy precipices vast 
 
 That must be crossed ere one can gain 
 
 The glowing wreathlet of Success ! 
 
 I plant the trees — the sharp-teethed rocks 
 
 On paths that otherwise were smooth. 
 
 Who conquers these his Life shall be 
 
 One dazzling dream of Fairyland ! 
 
 The road that leads to the palace bright 
 
 Of the Maid you love is crowned with peaks 
 
 That pierce the realms of vapid clouds 
 
 Where Death doth lurk in every step ! 
 
 Dare you attempt? If you succeed, 
 
 The Maid you love you then shall wed ! 
 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 1 19 
 
 But should you fail, you must return 
 To Mother Earth — to nourish her — 
 In some new form of life to rise !" 
 The stranger spoke and disappeared. 
 
 * # * 
 
 "Be it so then !" the goatherd cried, 
 
 "I'll follow on the toilsome trail ! 
 
 I'll find the Maid I madly love !" 
 
 But in his brain what thoughts arose? 
 
 The Past — its hours of mystery — 
 
 The Future and its roseate Hopes — 
 
 The Present and its trials grim. 
 
 But mused he : "Thus are heroes made ! 
 
 When here the battle's roar had ceased, 
 
 And the footsteps of the Legions vast 
 
 Of bold imperious Caesar died 
 
 Away from grand Helvetia old, 
 
 At Ruth three from the Cantons met 
 
 And swore beneath these Alpine skies 
 
 To die in their dear Land's defence ! 
 
 To burst the chains of Tyranny ! 
 
 To drive the power of Austria 
 
 Hence, like the leaves before the blast ! 
 
 These heroes were ! Their names outshine 
 
120 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Like brilliant stars of Hope and Faith 
 
 To the weary Pilgrims of the earth !" 
 
 All day he strode still on ; but now, 
 
 With quickened pace, his heart was thrilled 
 
 With sacred fire. 
 
 Lake Constance shone 
 Before his sight ; the moonbeams fell, 
 In dreamy silver, o'er its breast! 
 He bent to hear while whispering waves 
 Told of the mighty days of old 
 When forests which its strand adorned 
 Were peopled with the startled stag — 
 Were ringing with the Roman shouts ! 
 But now his thoughts were not of these. 
 In reverie, far-off was he! 
 At Schaffhausen that quaint old town, 
 Set in the Twentieth Century's lap, 
 Of oriel windows, gables gray, 
 No rock nor barrier crossed his path. 
 But, to the South, the glittering towers 
 Of rugged mountains lifted high. 
 There lay the pathway to his goal — 
 There dwelt the Angel of his dreams ! 
 
OF JOHN ALLEX. 121 
 
 ( Mi ward! While clouds, like argent Isles, 
 Lay in the upper deep of blue. 
 Lake Wallenstadt slumbered within 
 Its rocky bed. Sudden he heard 
 The roar of conflict near at hand ; 
 And at the advancing host of Knights 
 A handful of brave shepherds hurled 
 Down giant rocks ! 
 
 For hours the strife 
 Raged on. Like thunderbolts swift crashed 
 Huge boulders hurling instant death ! 
 Those shepherds' valor conquered here ! 
 And Knights of Gold were vanquished by 
 The muscles of the sons of Toil ! 
 Still on he went, and down the vale 
 He saw an armored knight, with sword 
 Poised o'er a shepherd at his feet. 
 The goatherd rushed upon him there 
 With well aimed blow of oaken club 
 And dashed the knight to gory death ! 
 He knelt to dress the shepherd's wounds, 
 Who cursed him that he killed the knight, 
 For said he : "Soon my soul would be 
 
122 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Within the Palace fair of Fame !" 
 
 Still, as he dressed the shepherd's wounds, 
 
 He murmured: "Will this be my Fate?" 
 
 'Twas but a vision of the Past ! 
 
 Within the vale of Engadine 
 
 lie stood, where mountain giants shone 
 
 In regal glory ! Rivers flashed 
 
 Like steel swords, thro' the leafy trees. 
 
 The sun stood with its feet of gold 
 
 Upon the peaks, and cascades leapt, 
 
 And sang their roundelays of joy! 
 
 He peered adown amid the trees 
 
 Where mountains mirrored rugged heads 
 
 Upon Lake Maggiore's breast. 
 
 Where bright blue skies forever hang 
 
 O'er dreamy Lake Lugano while 
 
 The sun-kissed breath of Italy 
 
 Sweeps o'er its bosom. 
 
 Then he turned, 
 His heart with gloomy sadness bowed, 
 For seemed he lost, as in a maze ! 
 Oh, for one star from out the Heaven 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 
 
 Of Thought to guide him to the shrine 
 Of yonder Goddess of his heart ! 
 On ! On ! with face set to the North 
 He sped, and crossed a rugged hill ; 
 Where the women, strangely beautiful, 
 Beckoned to him, by Zurich's Lake 
 And sought with siren voices to woo 
 Him to their arms ! 
 
 With fond delight 
 He gazed upon enchanting charms, 
 And w T illed to throw him at their feet, 
 Forever there in bliss to be! 
 But, hark ! the roar of battle rolled, 
 'Mid the roads of winds invisible, 
 Rushing in madness to his ears ! 
 It called him to be present there ! 
 It stirred his heart, and urged him on 
 To join the struggle, and he fled, 
 Waving the women his adieu ! 
 
 V !§S ^i« 
 
 At Sempach, in the narrow pass, 
 The tide of battle halted. Here 
 The heroic Swiss had humbled now 
 
 123 
 
I24 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 The flower of Austria's chivalry. 
 Like tigers watched they, either foe, 
 Gathering muscles for the fray — 
 Muscles of steel and adamant! 
 To Death or triumph now to haste. 
 The Swiss crouched in the narrow pass, 
 Like statues of Defiance ! 
 
 The Austrians came, 
 Like massive waves ! 
 
 'Twas there, and then 
 A peasant hero boldly stood 
 Within the awful jaws of Death! 
 Then rushed he forward, gathering 
 Within his breast the awful spears, 
 And perished at the foeman's feet ; 
 Yet shook their lines, slow-wavering, 
 Until they all were put to flight ! 
 Oh, glorious example thine, 
 Brave Arnold Von Winkelreid ! 
 As the sun shone o'er this battlefield 
 The goatherd saw the Maid so fair — 
 Heart of his heart ! She placed a wreath 
 ( )n Unter Walden's hero's brow ! 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 125 
 
 And uttering a cry of joy 
 
 He rushed to meet her ; but she fled ! 
 
 "At last!" cried he, "the road I see! 
 
 Foot-sore and weary tho' I plod, 
 
 I near the goal of heart's desire!" 
 
 Still toiling on, a maid he met 
 
 Enveloped in a robe of charms. 
 
 She was indeed a vision bright ! 
 
 She sang rare songs of beauty sweet, 
 
 With voice that thrilled, like magic, thro' 
 
 His soul. His heart was soon ensnared 
 
 In the web of melody she wove ! 
 
 "Madman!" she cried, "no further go! 
 
 Here ever pause 'mid glittering joys, 
 
 Tempt Fate no more ! Your mission vain 
 
 Is known to me. Ambition's road 
 
 Is strewn with bleeding, broken hearts ! 
 
 Tho' thousands perish, still they come ! 
 
 Ah, few indeed who reach the goal ! 
 
 Fleeting the smiles of her you seek, 
 
 Elusive as the lightning's flash ! 
 
 And even if you do succeed 
 
 And reach her palace — even then 
 
 The struggle is but just begun — 
 
I2 6 THE CONEESSIONS 
 
 'Tis vain to hold your footing" there ! 
 Turn, turn aside, nor sap your strength ! 
 The brilliant mirror of your dreams 
 I'll shatter. Come, and follow me! 
 I'll lead you to a haunt among 
 The crystal hills, where snow-white doves 
 And robins coo and warble sweet 
 The happy songs of radiant dreams ! 
 On balmy nights we two can sit 
 On a rustic bench, by a silvery brook, 
 And drink in the music of dear Love ! 
 Where never wordling's sigh can come. 
 From gardens of delight I'll cull 
 The brightest flowers for you alone !" 
 "Oh! say no more!" the goatherd cried, 
 "Your siren darts fall pointless here. 
 I will go on, Ambition calls ; 
 Tho' avalanches bar my way 
 I will go on ! The flowers of Love 
 And Beauty which you offer me 
 Will fade before the morrow's sun ! 
 Already they in throes of Death ! 
 New could I wear them on my breast, 
 Where Life Throbs warm and fast? 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 127 
 
 'Tvvere best 
 To leave them in the garden fair 
 With their companions ; sacred they 
 Even as our lives sacred are !" 
 He turned ; his journey to resume ; 
 The battle won, renewed was he 
 In strength and vigor of the heart. 
 Where the glorious Staubbach tumbles down 
 O'er wildest crags, in silvery showers, 
 All fringed with people, green and gold, 
 Where liquid, blazing diamonds gleam, 
 All bruised and torn he wandered on 
 He stretched his trembling, bleeding hands 
 And plucked a brilliant gem from out 
 St. Gothard's crown, at peril dear 
 Of his whole life ! The first of gems 
 That he had found since Ije set out! 
 Oh, what a treasure 'twas to him ! 
 For hours he gazed and gloated there 
 On the seraphic fires of its soul ! 
 He heard its melodious murmuring: 
 "Oh, Paradise and all its joys 
 Are dwelling here within this gem!" 
 The lordly Rhine was at his feet, 
 
I 2 8 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 And following, like fiery youth. 
 It rushed by huts and hamlets, till 
 'Tvvas lost among the city's walls. 
 Leaving him with his reveries. 
 * * * 
 lie saw armed Knights of Tyranny, 
 Who bowed the hearts of men to dust ! 
 And soon they melted far away, 
 Like dew before the morning sun. 
 For a terrific storm arose. 
 And when it ceased, the sunshine burst 
 Thro' the roof of clouds, a waterfall 
 Of gold ; and lo ! brave William Tell 
 Stood o'er the dying Gessler there 
 And Liberty was glorified, 
 And Tyranny was dashed to earth ! 
 
 :;: :|: $ 
 
 And still the goatherd wandered on, 
 V\ iili bleeding feet and weary heart. 
 Where the silver crowned Alps uprose. 
 By emerald pastures, countless flocks, 
 •\nd sun-kissed landscapes 'neath the blue. 
 Me stopped to rest beside Lausanne 
 Where walked the Kings of earth, and where 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 129 
 
 Lived monarchs of the world of Thought — 
 
 Voltaire and Gibbon and Rousseau ! 
 
 He struggled by the mighty Rhone 
 
 That like an arrow rushes thro' 
 
 This wonderland of Nature's realm, 
 
 Past glaciers and mountains huge, 
 
 Past great St. Bernard, where the hosts 
 
 Of grand Napoleon looked down ! 
 
 Mont Blanc, the goatherd gazed upon, 
 
 Its glittering helmet towering high 
 
 Above its army of giants near ! 
 
 "So will I tower!" the climber cried, 
 
 "Above the burdens that I bear!" 
 
 Bleeding and bruised, still on and on 
 
 He struggled o'er the toilsome path, 
 
 And then he saw hundreds of skulls 
 
 About him strewn, and from a cave, 
 
 A giant came who bore a shield. 
 
 There was one path which onward led. 
 
 Beside the giant's horrid den, 
 
 Towards the enemy he came 
 
 No thought of fear in his brave soul. 
 
 The giant's name was Ignorance ; 
 
 A gem flashed on his mighty breast. 
 
130 
 
 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 The goatherd willed it to possess 
 This gem at any cost ! His sword 
 He drew as he advanced. The fight 
 For hours raged with furious might. 
 But 'neath the giant's cruel blows 
 The goatherd, fainting, gasping, fell ! 
 
 * ■',■■ * 
 The earth, the mountains and the sky 
 All whirling seemed ; the torrents roared 
 Within his ears ! 
 
 He looked up then 
 And saw the soft sky bending o'er; 
 While stood the giant near his den. 
 By the fallen sat a blue-eyed maid 
 With a winning smile and wooing voice. 
 Who pleaded his sad wounds to dress. 
 "No!" cried he, "This would comfort bring, 
 And sweet repose; but I was born 
 For trials and for battle-strife !" 
 Slowly he rose unto his feet, 
 With sword in hand. The maiden turned 
 Aside and wept. The giant quick 
 The fight renewed with fury dire ; 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 
 
 But soon the unequal combat ends ; 
 
 The strength of Desperation drove 
 
 The goatherd's sword within the heart 
 
 Of that fell monster to the hilt, 
 
 And the goatherd tore the precious gem 
 
 From the gory, cleft and quivering breast ! 
 
 sfc * * 
 
 "At last ! At last !" the goatherd cried, 
 "I am upon the right road now !" 
 Emerging from his shelter, he 
 Exposed was to the golden glare 
 Of sunlight, and grew faint and wan. 
 Two maids of beauty came to him. 
 "Pilgrim," they said, "your days are few, 
 For Time, the sculptor, has upon 
 Your brow carved wrinkles. You are old, 
 Your hair is white, your eyes are dimmed, 
 And worn and bent, you cannot live 
 In this fierce light that on you shines! 
 Unto the gardens fair of Peace, 
 Pleasure and Comfort come with us ! 
 Enjoy the hours that yet remain." 
 He yielded, too weak to resist ; 
 And slowly they led him away. 
 
 131 
 
132 
 
 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Then thro' the garden's open gates 
 He saw the marble fountains play. 
 With many tinted waters rich. 
 Couches of velvet and of gold 
 On which the forms of maids reclined 
 Were near ; sweet music stole upon 
 The perfumed air ; rare flowers bloomed 
 Intoxicating with their scent. 
 "Surely," said he, " 'tis Paradise! 
 Here will I rest in happiness 
 Forevermore !" 
 
 But as he paused, 
 About to enter this domain, 
 A feeling strange rushed thro' his heart, 
 The counterpart of what he felt 
 When kissed by his fair Chariot-Maid ! 
 The fires of courage and of strength 
 That feeling strange again renewed. 
 With a wild cry he cast aside 
 The lovely sylphs, and turned away. 
 Toiling still up the mountain's side ! 
 Below him echoed far and wide 
 The terror-stricken cry that rose : 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 
 
 "No further, weary Pilgrim go ! 
 Beware the crashing avalanche!" 
 At last his feet had gained the top 
 Of highest mountains, and he paused 
 To rest, for he was sore opprest. 
 Alas ! the air was hard to breathe, 
 And fiercest vultures hovered 'round ! 
 So hot the glare of noonday sun 
 He longed to be in pastures mild 
 Among the flock he dearly loved ! 
 
 As he turned to view the scene around 
 A vision burst upon his sight. 
 To him it looked a picture bright 
 Torn from the walls of Eden's sphere ! 
 A palace built of sapphires rare 
 And rubies — 'twas the dome of Fame ! 
 "At last ! at last !" he wildly cried, 
 "The goal is near for which I've toiled ! 
 Within the arms of her I love, 
 Yes, madly love, I soon shall rest !" 
 Sweet, silver bells rang from the towers, 
 And long processions sought its doors. 
 As he approached, chains rattled loud ; 
 
 133 
 
I3 4 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 The swinging draw-bridge lifted was, 
 The Warder of the towers cried out; 
 "Too late! the Maid you seek is Fame! 
 She's wedded to a friend of yours — 
 The butcher's son of far-off Bern !" 
 
 :|: $ * 
 
 The goatherd staggered to a rest 
 On rustic bench. His breath and blood 
 Seemed leaving him at this fell blow ! 
 "The butcher's son," he laughed aloud, 
 "That good-for-nothing, drunken elf! 
 The scorn and jeer of all the town !" 
 Thus he bemoaned his hapless lot, 
 His breath and soul melting away. 
 
 :Jc :j: $ 
 
 The Warder spoke: "Some travelers find 
 
 The journey easy, while some toil 
 
 And in a Life ne'er reach their goal ! 
 
 Fame is as fickle as the flash 
 
 Of lightning, tho' it shines on all 
 
 It strikes but few, and those few die 
 
 In the golden tangles of its web ! 
 
 Far better 'tis to lowly live, 
 
 Like humble beasts, in pastures green, 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 135 
 
 Than be a strong man seeking Fame ! 
 
 For when the eyelids of the day 
 
 Are closed, the beasts to slumber go, 
 
 And have no dreams till day arise. 
 
 What care they for the busy world? 
 
 Better to be like these than sigh 
 
 For bubbles of the Goddess Fame ! 
 
 Frail as fair lies on Beauty's lips ! 
 
 Where is thy gain ? Return ! Return ! 
 
 Oh, stranger, downcast, turn thy steps ! 
 
 Go! be a beacon 'mid the dark 
 
 For Folly to take warning by !" 
 
 The goatherd sank in mute despair, 
 
 Then plunged him from the mountain's side ! 
 
 A poor, dwarfed fir-tree stayed his fall, 
 
 And held him in its rugged arms. 
 
 For hours he lay in its embrace, 
 
 Then, strength returned, he started up 
 
 The mountain's path defiantly, 
 
 Determined not to know defeat! 
 
 * * * 
 Hark! what mighty sound was heard? 
 A roar, like thunder, shook the air! 
 Oh, horror ! it was the avalanche 
 
136 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 The white dragon of Switzerland ! 
 Adown the mountain's side it rushed. 
 While the air was filled with broken trees, 
 And wayside cabins, and huge rocks. 
 Ah! what its fury could withstand? 
 No army would dare cross its path ! 
 Down, down, it came, and to his death 
 It hurled the goatherd in its icy arms ! 
 While far above the vulture sailed 
 In glee ; and a million tiny suns 
 Were gleaming in the Alpine sky ! 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 137 
 
 GRATITUDE. 
 
 9 A I HVAS Sunday. A beautiful day of calm 
 
 And sunshine. Mother and I had just 
 Returned from mass. I sat down to read the 
 Chicago-American while she prepared 
 The breakfast. From time to time as I looked out 
 The window, I saw men, women, and children 
 Passing up and down the street ; some well dressed, 
 Others in rags, and all seemingly in 
 Happy frame of mind. 
 
 After breakfast I 
 Again sat by the window, and listened 
 To the merry shouts of children at their 
 Play, and the occasional barking of 
 A dog. 
 
 A cloud passed before the face of 
 The sun — a fleecy handkerchief to wipe 
 The gold sweat from its brow. The dust in the 
 Streets arose like smoke from a fire. Papers 
 
138 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 On the sidewalk, leapt, and danced, and jumped 
 Along; in the hands of the wind. Dull-gray 
 Clouds o'erspread the bright blue skies. Low growls 
 Of thunder were heard, smothering the rage 
 Of the storm, which soon would burst upon the 
 Trembling earth. Down came the rain in sheets and 
 Spears of silver. It pattered on the 
 Window-panes, and soon they were weeping like 
 The clouds. Suddenly the thunder wildly 
 Roared and rushed to the doors where the sun goes 
 Down ; the lightning flashed — the angry eyes of 
 The storm, and the thirsty earth, sidewalks, and 
 Roofs were drinking their fill. 
 
 My heart and brain 
 Were like the storm. I longed to go forth, and 
 Fiercely fight for the liberty of all 
 My people. My heart bleeds for the misery 
 Of all crawling flesh, that answers to the 
 Names of John, Jim, Ed, Frank, Tom, May, Nell, Flo, 
 And so on. I long to give them the freedom 
 Of which they little dream at present. 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 1 39 
 
 My 
 Soul, heart, and mind to-day, float from their 
 Prison. I restrain them not, for that would 
 Be to strangle poetry — and I am a 
 Poet — a strong poet of Democracy ! 
 
 I stand 'neath the frown of the 
 Yratanitza Mountains. Close by in a 
 Hut, lives a mother and her son. He is 
 The sunshine of her heart. With eyes of care 
 She watches every step he takes ; with hands 
 Of love his food and clothing she provides, 
 Saying, "some day he'll be a man, and the 
 Staff of life in my old age." 
 
 From the 
 Window she can see the mountains stretch 
 Away upon the bosom of her beloved 
 Servia. Like waves upon the restless 
 Sea they seem, and in her heart she feels that 
 They remind her of the sharp and bitter 
 Heights she climbed, along the stormy road of 
 Life. "These," she sternly says, "must never stand 
 Upon the paths my son will travel." 
 
1 4 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 The 
 Wind swept across the bosom of the 
 Winding Morava. Its skirts rustled through 
 The fields of wheat and rice. These she loved, for 
 Were they not a part of her own country? 
 The years passed by — those merciless steps of 
 Time, and her son grew up to man's estate. 
 The hour for parting was at hand. She called 
 Him to her side. There surely was a flood 
 Of tears within her voice, that never reached 
 Her eyes, when she said : — "tq-day my son we 
 Part for many a weary year. Our paths 
 Lie far apart. For you, the fierce long struggle 
 In the world for gold and fame. For me, the 
 Lonely hours at home, that shall only be 
 Brightened, when you write to me. In the battle 
 On the road of life — never once shrink back! 
 Pass through its fires of hell to gain the prize. 
 Remember ! you are a Servian ! And 
 Servians are giants of strength. Their hearts are 
 Brave. They are a nation of unsung poets, 
 And prize their liberty, far more than gems 
 Of glory. Remember ! — they once held back 
 The Grecian legions, and struck the Turkish 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 141 
 
 Power a fatal blow. If your heart asks 
 Further proof of their great valor — gaze at 
 Belgrade's ruined walls and palisades that 
 Oft withstood the bitter siege and shocks of 
 War, and then pass on with conquering feet. 
 And should you, by some mishap, fall in the 
 Fight — remember this home, and these arms will 
 Receive you with a welcome. Good-bye, my 
 Boy ! God bless You !" 
 
 The years passed by with wings 
 Of sorrow, for a letter never reached her 
 From her boy. But with brave heart, she still hoped 
 On. Surely he'd some day think of her who 
 Nursed, and fed, and clothed him in helpless 
 Childhood, and he'd send a letter full of 
 Love for her poor aching heart, and wherewith 
 To purchase comfort in the fierce, and stormy 
 Days of old age. But, alas ! that day never 
 Dawned for her ! Poverty assailed her with 
 Success, and the angel of sickness spread 
 Itself throughout the canals and rivers 
 Of her body. The last hard blow fell on 
 Her tottering form — she was driven from the 
 
14- 
 
 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Shelter of her home, and it was sold for 
 
 Robberous taxes. She staggered along 
 
 The road, and her every step was filled with 
 
 Pain and bitterness. She had no place now 
 
 To rest her weary head, and weakness was 
 
 Weighing down upon her like a load of stones. 
 
 To the right there towered a mountain high 
 
 Above the floor of clouds. She tottered on, 
 
 And cast herself down at its feet. 'Twas sweet 
 
 To lie where nature dwelt in beauty. It 
 
 Was rest. She never saw her boy again. 
 
 An old man passing, recognized her. He 
 
 Had known her for a score of years. He tried 
 
 To rouse her, but she was in a deep sleep. 
 
 It was the last sleep. Her circumstances 
 
 Were well known to him. Said he : — "and to think 
 
 That far off in Belgrade, her son lives with 
 
 The rich and grand! His servants number forty. 
 
 His horses are the finest in the land. 
 
 Beauty's eyes look into his. Beauty's smiles 
 
 Are cast upon him. Rare old wines are in 
 
 His cellars, and his marble palace is 
 
 The wonder of the world." 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 143 
 
 The rain is still 
 Pattering on the window-panes. But w r e 
 Left off here. Let the fight begin again ! 
 
144 
 
 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 THE GIFTS OF LIFE. 
 
 [ AWOKE one morn in April, from wild 
 
 Dreams of the night, only to be ushered 
 Into the drama of day dreams that have 
 Been with me since I was a child. 
 
 "Come," said 
 They, "the voice of day is loudly calling; 
 The brown-clad sparrows sweetly chirping ; and the 
 Factory whistles shrilly blowing. Take up 
 The burden of your journey where you laid 
 It down last night. You are the strength of all 
 Our realms. Record for us. Walk forth." 
 
 The 
 Invitation I little heeded, for I was 
 Indeed a victim of their wiles each day. 
 And 'twas superfluous to remind me 
 Of it. I sat down to the breakfast Mother 
 Had prepared for me — three nice fresh eggs boiled 
 Soft, a slice or two of bread, and one of 
 
OP JOHN ALLEN. 145 
 
 Raisin cake, a saucer of strawberry 
 Jam, and a cup of coffee. After this, 
 And a short prayer of thanksgiving, I bade 
 Good-bye to Mother, and began the 
 Mechanical journey of the day. 
 
 As 
 I went up the street, the groceryman 
 Outside his store, with morning paper in 
 Hand, pleasantly nodded to me; a few 
 Friends near the gloomy foundry, bade me a 
 Cheerful "good morning." Further up, "Dewey" 
 Met me, not the famous old sea-dog, but 
 A white and brown spotted animal, that 
 Rarely failed to greet me every morning, 
 With a friendly wag of his sharp-pointed 
 Tail, and an open, unflinching look, from 
 His honest, dark-brow T n eyes. Would that all men 
 Could look me in the eyes like this intelligent 
 Animal, and throw aside the masks they 
 Wear. After patting his smooth brown head, I 
 Boarded the car, and soon arrived at my 
 Place of work! 
 
146 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 The day began. The same walking, 
 Smiling flesh around me ! Back again to 
 The dusty shelves and counters ! Back again 
 To the weary mechanical day ! Back 
 Again to the day dreams ! Back again to 
 My eternal woe ! But here my hands perform 
 Mechanical work, while my mind in fancy 
 Leads me far away. My cherished cities! 
 My strong and beautiful lovers ! The hopes 
 That bloomed within my heart's deep center, when 
 But a boy, to rise a Saviour of my 
 People, country, and the world, in legions 
 Came before me, and gazing afar, I 
 Saw beneath Roumanians violet skies — 
 A man among the mottled kine upon the 
 Plains — one of the songs — sad though it be — 
 That fills the harmony of life with 
 Wildest beauty. 
 
 Seventy years had placed 
 Their silvery crown upon his head, and left 
 Their furrows on his brow. Life had dealt with 
 Him severely. Its terrible scars were on 
 His heart. He was too feeble now to labor. 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 147 
 
 To-day was his last upon the plains. On 
 The morrow he would be adrift upon 
 The merciless sea of the world. From 
 Childhood up, his lot was ever in the 
 Damnable fields of privation, and of 
 Poverty. The only days of song and 
 Sunshine he had known, were those in which his 
 Wife was fond and true to him. But alas ! 
 This happiness was brief, and a shadow 
 Fell across his path. A rich Armenian 
 On his way to Bukharest, stopped at his 
 Happy home for the night, and in the morn 
 When he set out upon his journey, with 
 Him went his beautiful wife. Poverty 
 Had soured her love and soul. The glitter of 
 Wealth dazzled her, and she gladly left all 
 Poverty behind to revel in its glories. 
 
 I do not condemn the step she took. The 
 Imprisoned soul longs for its freedom. The 
 Starved body requires nourishment. Tears coursed 
 Down his cheeks — bitter tears, as with his little 
 Pack, he went forth aimlessly begging for 
 Employment. His brain was stunned, his face 
 
148 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Was calm, but within his heart and soul, there 
 Raged the fiercest fires of hell. 
 
 For years he 
 Labored on the farms as best he could, and 
 Gathered in some gold to sustain him in 
 The evening of his life. He knew the hour 
 Would come when all his muscles would shrink up, 
 The joints become stiff, and he be left by 
 The wayside to die, if he had no money 
 In his purse. So he carefully saved, and 
 Took special pleasure in counting it over 
 Day by day. But one morn when he unlocked 
 The secret drawer to count the gold, he found 
 Alas ! that it was gone. Some restless 
 Spirit had taken the staff of his 
 Tottering days, and that same hour his master 
 Rudely turned him adrift upon the world. 
 
 Without a murmur for the moment he 
 Staggered up the road, caring little where 
 His aching feet would lead. He then cried 
 Aloud : "O ! Roumania ! my country ! 
 Behold me, hopeless, dying, desolate 
 
OF JOHN ALLEX. 
 
 Upon thy breast! In youth I walked along 
 The winding Pruth and watched the Gipsies 
 Wandering o'er thy bosom. I loved thy 
 Pleasant plains ; the sturdy forests that stood 
 Upon thy mountains ; the romance that crowned 
 Thy valleys, and the opals in the wild 
 Carpathians. I labored too, within thy 
 Fields to make thee great, and is this the 
 Reward that thou dost give in my declining 
 Hours." 
 
 The night was dark, and the winds were 
 Low. He wandered on to where the beautiful 
 Danube flows. There is a strange light in his 
 Eyes. All the past scenes of his life rush 
 Swiftly o'er the halls of his distracted 
 Brain. Has he a wife? A mother? A sister? 
 Brother? Gold? What links him to the earth? 
 
 With a smile on his old withered face, he 
 
 Walks swiftly off the banks into the river. 
 
 It was shallow so far, but bravely he 
 
 Walked on. Little by little, the waters 
 
 Closed in upon him. They reached his shoulders- 
 
 149 
 
1 50 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 His neck — his mouth — and then — he disappeared 
 Beneath the troubled surface. The moon burst 
 Through the clouds, and sadly it looked 
 Down upon the scene. A night bird shrieked a 
 Requiem o'er the waves, then silence reigned 
 Supreme. And that was all. 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 151 
 
 A PROMISE. 
 
 lVVTV HEART is a fountain of sighs, but 
 
 To-day 'twas filled with a sad-tinged longing, 
 As on Lake Michigan's sandy shores I 
 Walked — a longing to link the scattered chords 
 Of life in one grand harmony; to tear 
 The masks from every face, and to unfold 
 To them the glories, and unrivalled paths 
 To the New City of Life, Love, and 
 Democracy. 
 
 My children were all around 
 Ale. The sun-tanned fisherman with his rods 
 And net ; the dreamy-eyed, shabby-clad lounger ; 
 The eager joy-faced boys, casting pebbles 
 In the lake ; the dark-skinned sons of Africa ; 
 The weather-beaten driver on his seat, 
 His red moustache drooping o'er the stem of his 
 Brown-burned old clay pipe : the old man in the 
 Old clothes, with an old silk hat, old, so old 
 That it surelv saw service in the davs 
 
1 52 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Of gold, the days of forty-nine, and the 
 Mild faced mother with her little girl 
 Attired in blue. 
 
 How I longed to give them 
 The freedom they little dreamt of. That was 
 The thought that haunted me. 
 
 The day was mild. 
 A slight gauzy canopy of mist, o'erhung 
 The rippling bosom of the lake, which had 
 Changed its light-blue robes, for those of deepest 
 Violet ; the sea-gulls, like flakes of silver, 
 Flashed o'er its surface ; afar where the walls 
 Of Heaven meet the floor of the lake, there 
 Hung a narrow band of pearly clouds ; they 
 Were motionless, and charmed the eyes of all 
 Around me. What magnetic force must be 
 Concealed within their depths! 
 
 How damnably 
 Desolate seems this Life to me ! Without 
 That one grand thought, that one wild dream, to burst 
 The chains that bind my people, I would not 
 
153 
 
 OF JOHN ALLEN. 
 
 Now be dragging my flesh along the bitter 
 Road of thorns ! 
 
 I push aside the shrouds of 
 Distance. Long vistas appear. I see thee 
 Montenegro, an atom on the cracked 
 Old face of Europe. By special privilege, 
 I walk along thy mountainous and 
 Rugged breast to the shores of 
 Scutari's lovely lake. Rich fields of corn 
 Arise on every side like gems of beauty. 
 Sheep and goats adorn thy peaceful hill-sides. 
 The giant that stood for years before thee, and 
 Darkened all thy sunny skies with tyranny, 
 Now has fallen before the swords of 
 Heroism. Still thou art not free. Another 
 Giant more terrible, now stands before thy 
 Path. Life with thee is yet a weary 
 Struggle. Like all of us, thou art robbed 
 Of that which should be thine. Come, Montenegro ! 
 Arise ! and strike the blow ! Come to me in 
 All thy woes ! Lay thy head upon my broad 
 And democratic bosom, e'en though 
 Tis filled with a damned desolation, and 
 
154 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 There pour out the oceans of thy dread 
 Woe, for there, and there alone shalt thou learn 
 Of the glories of the New City, and the 
 New love ! 
 
 The low voice of the red tug near 
 The shore, called me back from the land of 
 Dreams, and I stood once more before the lake. 
 The day was dying in its shrouds of gold, 
 And I, wishing to record some special 
 Thoughts, sadly bade farewell to the inspirer 
 Of my muse, and slowly wended my way 
 Homeward ! 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 155 
 
 SUCCESS. 
 
 X-TARK! how the wild winds howl, and sing their 
 
 songs 
 Through all the doors and chimneys ! Woo-00-00 ! 
 Pile more logs on the fire ; sit closer all, 
 A story I would tell. Old George Murro 
 Was a doctor all his life ; had studied 
 Medicine for years — the medicine — the 
 Science of life. Some shield of might would he 
 Invent to save life, to snatch it from the 
 Marble jaws of death. 
 
 Why should the body 
 Die ? Why be buried in the earth ? Why not 
 Live forever ! This was his life-long song, 
 His life-long study. 
 
 Afar 'neath 
 Grecian skies of blue, in the isles of sun 
 And sea, where Nature carved her fringe of gulfs, 
 And inlets 'round the coast, he sadly roamed 
 
156 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Deep buried in the bosom of his studies. 
 
 He resolved to be the Saviour of his 
 
 Race, and all the world as well. That was 
 
 The dream that led him up the glitt'ring 
 
 Stairs of hope. "O Greece ! my country !" he 
 
 Exclaimed, "for thee, and all thy sisters too, 
 
 Do I now renounce the gilded pleasures 
 
 Of the world. From this hour on they shall live 
 
 Without me, for they remind me so much 
 
 Of the masks of death. Beautiful Hellas 
 
 Of old ! My eyes sweep o'er thy breast, where 
 
 First I learned Life's lessons, 'mid scenes that charmed 
 
 The eye and soul. I see again the caverns 
 
 Wild, and grottoes wide, deep cut into the 
 
 Mountain sides, and all the wide-spread plains that 
 
 Lead along the seashore. Rich sweet grapes 
 
 Adorn thy hills ; olives give thee light and 
 
 Food ; fruits of gold, the lemon and the orange 
 
 Delight the eye, and ruins of the magic 
 
 Past lie scattered all around. The giant crests 
 
 Of the Pindus Mountains, rise clear to view — 
 
 They that held me spell-bound when a boy, and 
 
 Sweetest memories lead me once again 
 
 Along the banks of the Rhoupia River. 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 1 57 
 
 In a vision I can see the brave 
 
 Pelasgi fade away from their walled-towns. 
 
 Before the Hellenes march of conquest ; 
 
 Athens rising up to mountain heights of power, 
 
 And glory, guided by the matchless hand 
 
 Of Pericles ; brave heroes tumbling from 
 
 Their thrones of fame, into oblivion's realm, 
 
 Before the mighty deeds of Hercules, 
 
 And Theseus, and Solon dragging 
 
 Down red-handed tyranny from ev'ry 
 
 Seat. These scenes pass swift as an eagle's flight 
 
 Before my eyes, mere flashes of the past, 
 
 But still I thirst for more. Where, O where is 
 
 Cadmus, he who brought the art of arts 
 
 Into my country ; where Paris who stormed 
 
 Helen's heart, and tumbled Troy in the 
 
 Dust ; where Lycurgus, he whose laws made 
 
 Sparta great — he who gave his country giants of 
 
 Strength, with muscles trained and fine as steel? 
 
 Where 
 The heroes of famed Marathon, where 
 Liberty arose amid the wreck of 
 Persian hopes and hosts ; where Sappho's fires of 
 Genius that once shown bright from Lesbos, and 
 
158 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 The sea-kissed isles ? Gone ! — all gone unto 
 The silent homes of death ! Alas ! that all 
 Should walk this bitter road ! Tis this that fills 
 My heart with woe — 'tis this that spurs me on 
 To seek a saving balm for Life!" 
 
 Throughout 
 The lonely vigils of the night, when half 
 The world was wrapped in slumber sweet, 
 He sat pouring o'er the lore of all the ancient 
 Doctors of the past. Years flew by — those years 
 Of fruitless study. Each day saw a new 
 Thought bud to ripen on the morrow, and 
 With the setting sun die out. At last one 
 Night when the icy breath of Winter 
 Swept o'er Ionia's sea, and howled throughout 
 His dwelling, he arose with a shout of 
 Triumph on his lips! His eyes blazed with the 
 Fires within his soul, as he drank a glass 
 Of purple liquid, and then wildly cried: — 
 ' "lis found at last! the world and Greece in all 
 Their beauty and their power, now like serfs lie 
 At m\ feet ! The hoarded gold of ages, 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 159 
 
 And undying fame are mine ! Death has no terrors 
 
 now for 
 Me ! I defy it ! Behold the talisman 
 Here in my hand I" These, his last words. When his 
 Mother came, he sat there dead. 
 
l6o THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 MY DESOLATE HEART. 
 
 ""F WAS May. 
 
 Ashy and leaden skies frowned down on me ; 
 A cold penetrating north wind was blowing. 
 Whe-ee-eow ! it whistled — the awnings flapping 
 In the power of its breath, and the dust rising in 
 Dull brown clouds before it. Men and women 
 Clad in their winter coats and jackets sought 
 Further shelter from the cold by burying their 
 Chins snugly in the depths of their turned-up 
 Collars. As they jostled past me on the yellow 
 Stone pavement, with heads bent down and 
 Bodies tipped far over, they appeared like little 
 Trees in the woodlands bowing before the 
 Heavy billows of the wind. I saw them all, but 
 They appeared not to notice me. I shall never 
 Forget them, for their pictures and the scenes 
 They formed, are deeply photographed upon 
 The mirrors of my desolate heart. Never did 
 The desolation therein feel more damnable, 
 Terrible and sad-tinged, than on this cold, 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 161 
 
 Cheerless morn when I gazed upon my 
 People, the flowers in the garden of my 
 Study, as they walked in the shadows of the 
 Sky-kissing palaces of trade, amusement 
 And vice. These stand on the bosom of 
 Chicago, the bride of the lakes, but alas ! they 
 Are not the buildings of my choice; 
 They fill not my hungry heart with gems 
 Of beauty ; they have too much the odor 
 Of the prison, the house of misery, the palace 
 Of shame. 
 
 Leaving them far behind, I sauntered down the 
 Winding road to the lake. The lines left by 
 Wagon-wheels, and the impressions of horses' hoofs 
 Were on the black surface, and all along on 
 Both sides of the road, scattered in wild 
 Confusion, were dull- white jagged rocks 
 And red-cheeked bricks. As I walked on 
 I saw the men filling in the lake with showers 
 Of dirt and mud, from their old box-wagons 
 And immediately I became an interested 
 Spectator. Whatever my children do is always 
 Interesting to me. Little did they dream 
 
1 62 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 That I stood by and watched them, poor 
 Slaves that they are ; little did they think 
 That I was to be their future liberator — 
 I, the humble, misunderstood looker-on. 
 
 One by one they threw their shovels in the 
 Wagons and drove off for more loads, 
 And I turned my eyes to the beautiful 
 Sobbing sea. Its green silken garments 
 Trimmed with silvery spray, rustled and 
 Flapped on the broken sandy shore 
 And seemed to tell me tales of far away 
 Lands and people. Intently I listened 
 And for my pains, was repaid a 
 Thousand-fold. 
 
 A mighty mother arose before my startled 
 Eyes and placed her right hand upon my 
 Shoulder. How I shuddered beneath the touch ! 
 She laid her aching head upon my 
 Bosom, the bulwarks of my desolate heart, 
 And sobbed like the sea in its greatest woe. 
 I knew her well and poured a shower of 
 Consolation in her huncrrv ears. She was 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 163 
 
 Born in the last sad lingering rays of the 
 Roman Empire's setting sun, and her 
 Lot was cast among a strange medley 
 Of people. 
 
 Moravians and Slavacks, 
 Mygars, Poles and Russians, 
 Slavonians, Croats and Servians, 
 Jews, Gipsies, Italians, Latins and Hiavls. 
 Her early hours of youth were strengthened 
 By the matchless wisdom of Charlemagne, 
 Those early hours she spent roaming 
 Through the larch and alder woodlands, 
 Or sitting 'neath the spreading arms of 
 Gigantic oaks. Far up the wild 
 Carpathians, the brown bear, the wolf 
 And lynx found a home ; the gorgeous 
 Golden eagle built its rude nest on 
 The ragged brows of the Alps, and 
 She was happy till she felt the iron hand 
 Of Frederick the Great at her throat. Then 
 Faded all the bright visions of the future 
 From her breast and the land of the 
 Leopolds and Hapsburgs. Long 
 
1 64 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Pageants of princes, bishops, and barons 
 Passed before her; Prince Eugene's sword 
 Of genius swept the Ottoman power 
 To destruction ; dark Austerlitz arose 
 In glittering panorama of war — the 
 Roar of Napoleon's victorious guns 
 Fell upon her ear, sounding the death 
 Of all her hopes ; Kossuth's magic 
 Eloquence fired the drooping heart of 
 Hungary with flames of patriotism, 
 And yet through all these scenes and 
 Deeds she struck not one true chord 
 In the harmony of life. She shudders 
 When she peers through the wild tempest 
 Of mountains in Tyrol and sees 
 Innspruck where Hofer, the patriot, burst 
 The iron gates of tyranny, and led his 
 People out to smiling fields of freedom. 
 
 How she weeps upon my breast! 
 From the dark forests of Bohemia she hears 
 The cries for liberty ; all the past in 
 Overpowering floods is rushing through 
 Her heart ; she remembers well how years 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 165 
 
 Ago we two walked on together beneath the 
 
 Stormy skies of Europe, and saw the 
 
 Theiss flowing swift to meet the Danube ; 
 
 And how we crossed the bridge at Budapest 
 
 And saw the multitudes gather round 
 
 John Huss, while he tore the masks 
 
 Of sham asunder and showed them 
 
 The naked truth. Ah ! Austria ! Austria ! 
 
 This is what I'd do for thee. I'd push 
 
 Aside the misty veils and let thee 
 
 See the truth. Long have I dreamt 
 
 Of this while walking round Vienna's 
 
 Grand old squares and palaces ; while 
 
 Standing in Dalmatia where the 
 
 Tempestuous waves of the Adriatic rush 
 
 With showers of fury on its high and 
 
 Ragged cliffs ; while gazing with 
 
 Weary eyes on thy two hundred and sixty thousand 
 
 Square miles. Thy past was nothing but 
 
 A glittering — bloody performance; 
 
 O may thy future lead thee to the joys 
 
 Of the new love and cities — 
 
iC6 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 A flash of light — the screaming of sea gulls 
 And she was gone. The north wind was 
 Blowing still, and overhead the ashen 
 Clouds moved on — but my heart was 
 As desolate as ever. It found no 
 Food to satisfy its hunger. 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 167 
 
 WHAT MUSIC IS. 
 
 COMETIMES when I go forth in cities grand, 
 
 And find the children of the Wilderness, 
 Loitering in snares — the gaudy theatres, 
 The festive parks, the gay ball-room, listening 
 To sounds called music, I am filled with grief, 
 With infinite grief. All that I dearly 
 Madly love shrink from me as if from the 
 Discoverer of leprosy. Not one in all 
 The throng would walk with me, or hearken to 
 My voice. "Life is stern, life is real, life knows 
 No folding up of hands, or lying down, 
 Or entertainments grand," I sadly murmur 
 O'er and o'er, "and can it be that these poor 
 Children realize not the deadly seriousness 
 Of the life entrusted to them? Can it 
 Be that they see not assassins dogging 
 Every footstep day by day? Can it be 
 That they find not the snare in the so-called 
 Music of the hour — the snare that steals Time 
 From Life and holds it back from discovery 
 
1 68 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Of truth. O, my poor, poor children of the 
 
 Wilderness, waste not a moment longer 
 
 On these sounds. 'Twould be suicide ; 'twould 
 
 Be folly, when all the music that ever 
 
 Was, or ever will be, lies within you. 
 
 You are so rilled with it ; it is so 
 
 Abundant within you that it seems a 
 
 Pity to find you listening to a host 
 
 Of counterfeits, which is not music at 
 
 All. True music, real music is nothing 
 
 More than the thoughts and feelings that cross 
 
 The harp-strings of your soul. Grander, truer 
 
 Music exists not in the world, or in 
 
 The gilded halls of Paradise. 
 
 When you 
 Read of Jim Bludsoe standing at his post, 
 'Mid smoke and flames, "till every galoot was 
 Safe ashore," you are thrilled by the deed of 
 The hero — and this is music. When you 
 Read somewhere of a man dissolving the 
 Bands of wedlock, so that his wife may wed 
 Another whom she loves far better than 
 Himself, you are filled with mingled feelings 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 169 
 
 Of sorrow, and admiration — and this is 
 Music ! When you see a fireman risking 
 His life to save a woman or a child ; 
 When you hear of a man giving up his 
 Life to save a friend; when you read 
 Beautiful stories of "what might have been ;" 
 When you read of people in the world who 
 Have given up, and learned to wait ; when 
 You read that little incident of Bruce 
 And the spider; when you hear a mother 
 Cooing to her first-born, you are thrilled, 
 Through and through by the deeds, and this, 
 O this is music, far more beautiful 
 Than all the polished sounds blown from 
 Instruments. 
 
 But, of course, the music of 
 Life is not good enough for us. We must 
 Always lean to the artificial. We 
 Must have polished sounds blown at us from 
 Instruments, to remind us of the music 
 In our bodies, and our souls. We must 
 Worship the authors of sounds, whose names 
 Have gone down on History's page as great 
 
I jo THE CONFESSIOXS 
 
 Men ; we must admire their pictures, and 
 
 Their statues in art galleries ; we must 
 
 Bow down before these bandits as mighty 
 
 Heroes, and scornfully cast aside the 
 
 Real heroes of music — ourselves. Anything 
 
 Of course, is better than ourselves, even 
 
 If it is a bandit. How generous, 
 
 How easy we are! How amusing. But 
 
 Still more amusing is it, to listen 
 
 To the different theories advanced on 
 
 Every side, on the question of music. 
 
 Some excited individuals who 
 
 Wear snow-flake clothes and no brains, claim 
 
 That music is the grandest thing on earth ; 
 
 The food of life ; the art of arts ; but as 
 
 Ignorance is bliss, of course, they do not 
 
 Know that music is not art, and that there 
 
 Is but one art — the art of Life, which has 
 
 Never yet been cultivated, so we 
 
 Must forgive them ; we must control ourselves. 
 
 Others say (usually those who wear long 
 
 Hair, and long coats, which make them look 
 
 Like caricatures on the feminine gender), 
 
 That the American people who have 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 171 
 
 Cultivated a taste for light, catchy 
 Airs, are as ignorant as ant-eaters 
 In matters musical, but that the hour 
 Will come, it is near at hand, when music 
 Will be elevated (by what process, 
 They do not say, human or superhuman), 
 When ragtime and its close relations will 
 Meet their Waterloo, and that we shall then 
 Have the real thing — a veritable feast 
 Of Wagner, Chopin, Beethoven, and 
 Their kind. Methinks if I am not mistaken, 
 We have already had a number of 
 Courses served us from these distinguished 
 Bandits, through the efforts of that charlatan, 
 Theodore Thomas, now deceased. If Chicago ever 
 Housed a charlatan, this man Thomas was 
 One. But you will say he was successful. 
 I grant that, as far as success is judged 
 By the crafty old world, but bear in mind, 
 That his success was due to the pride of 
 The rich men of Chicago. They feared that 
 If they dropped support of him, that 
 Madamoiselle Boston, of baked-beans, and 
 Long words fame, would take him to her arms, 
 
172 
 
 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 And relegate Chicago to the backwoods, 
 As far as art (?) was concerned. Fancy 
 What a calamity that would be ! But 
 There should have been no fear. They did not 
 Lose Thomas. Charlatans are hard to lose. 
 Empty-headed society, and pride backed 
 By money, declared for him, and he remained. 
 He remained to wield the baton o'er the 
 Same old audience that always did attend 
 His concerts ; the same old audience which 
 Was made up as follows: Seventy per cent 
 Which came to show its figures, and costumes ; 
 Twenty per cent to see who was there — to 
 Gaze around most vacantly, in hopes that 
 Some newspaper would report that they were 
 Among those present ; and ten per cent which 
 Was insane enough to claim they understood 
 The works performed. Such was the intellectual 
 Audience before which the mighty Thomas 
 Performed. But Thomas was a great man, 
 And I must make allowances for him. 
 He must needs have been a great man, for 
 Chicago subscribed seven hundred thousand 
 Dollars to keep him here. Proof positive ! 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 1 73 
 
 It was a notable effort, and will long 
 
 Be remembered in the annals of the 
 
 City. Yes, Thomas was a great man, and 
 
 Had to be saved to the city. The newspapers. 
 
 In long editorials, and articles, said so. 
 
 Ministers thundered from the pulpits that 
 
 He should be retained. Ordinarily 
 
 Sane business men, came to his rescue with 
 
 Money, and when at last the coveted 
 
 Amount was realized, there was great 
 
 Rejoicing in the community. Yes, great 
 
 Rejoicing, for Thomas was saved, but over 
 
 On the great West Side, there was sorrow and 
 
 Tears for a woman with a child at the 
 
 Breast, had perished from starvation. What 
 
 Matter! Why should such small things be 
 
 Noticed by those bred in the atmosphere 
 
 Of art. They had just raised 
 
 Seven hundred thousand dollars and saved 
 
 The mighty Thomas ; and these things considered, 
 
 No woman, had a right to be poor, or 
 
 To die. Yes ! Seven hundred thousand dollars 
 
 Was raised to honor a bandit and his 
 
 Crew, but the halt, the deaf, and the blind 
 
174 
 
 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Of the city were in no particular want. 
 
 Of course not. And furthermore, the afflicted 
 
 Should all be banished to some far off isle, 
 
 Where they could not be eye-sores to the rich, 
 
 And the art-stricken. Seven hundred thousand 
 
 Dollars for Thomas, but not a penny 
 
 For the poor ! Seven hundred thousand dollars 
 
 For honor and weak intellects, but nothing 
 
 For the orphans, and sane people who occupy 
 
 Asylums. Seven hundred thousand dollars 
 
 For music, just think of it! Seven hundred thousand 
 
 Dollars for music, but nothing whatever 
 
 For Life ! All to no purpose. O, that this 
 
 Should come to pass ! And pray, what good 
 
 Has music ever done for Life? What good 
 
 Have Handel's Oratorios, Bach's Fugues 
 
 And Preludes, the operas of Gluck and Verdi, 
 
 The symphonies of Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven, 
 
 Mendelssohn's Elijah, the thunders of Wagner, 
 
 The waltzes and mazurkas of Chopin, ever 
 
 Done for Life? Tell me, you who dare! They 
 
 Have been, and are of no value whatever 
 
 To Life. For years and years they have lured 
 
 Life into half-way houses, and plundered 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 
 
 It of golden moments that can never be 
 
 Restored, but they shall do so no more ! 
 
 I, John Allen of Chicago, will block their 
 
 Progress from this hour on ! I have come to 
 
 Save you, you poor children of the Wilderness ! 
 
 I have come to annihilate the millions 
 
 Of bandits who surround, and plunder you 
 
 At will, under the high-sounding titles 
 
 Of Art, Music, and the devil knows what not. 
 
 Will you accept me as your Saviour, or 
 
 Will you still continue to perish, as 
 
 Countless thousands have perished before 
 
 You. Will you follow me where peace, 
 
 And Rest can only be found, or will 
 
 You still remain a prey to Bandits? 
 
 175 
 
i;6 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 SILHOUETTES. 
 
 ; I 4 0-NIGHT I stand on the threshold of ages long 
 
 gone by 
 And behold a thousand fierce and valorous tribes 
 Camped all around. Wild are the songs they sing 
 And loud, yet eloquent, the voices of their chiefs as 
 They tell of battles wild, and deeds of glory in the 
 Past. The wind sweeps o'er the marshes and moans 
 Through the dense forests. It tells them to beware ! 
 Death and destruction are near at hand. But 
 They heed not the warning, for are they not lords of 
 The land? The enemy appears. They rise — they seize 
 Their arms, and rush to conflict. Long are they 
 Locked in deadly embrace. Like walls of steel they 
 Hold their ground. But the sun had set upon 
 Their skies of freedom ; their hour had come at 
 Last. They yield — 'they break ! they fly ! and Caesar 
 Lays Belgium at the feet of Rome. 
 
 I take but a step forward, and lo ! Time with magic 
 Brush has changed all things. Imperious priests 
 
OP JOHN ALLEN. 177 
 
 And nobles walk upon the scene, the canals and 
 Rivers of their bodies made sluggish with rich wines ; 
 Their minds and hearts too much inflated with vanity, 
 To permit them to labor for a living. The rich products 
 Of the fields must be placed upon their tables at 
 All hazards, by a lower order of mortals, necessarily 
 Of less intelligence, and in the vernacular of Europe — 
 Slaves. The Flemings bowed before this flood of 
 Wind and despotism, but while they labored in the 
 Fields, the fires of liberty burned bright within their 
 Hearts. Secret meetings were held, where the senti- 
 ments 
 Of their minds found voice, and soon all Flanders 
 Was a network of their Guilds. The dark night had 
 Passed away. It drew its sable curtains up and 
 Ushered in the dawn ! and lo ! there rose upon these 
 Fertile lands, the stateliest town-halls in all the 
 World — the monuments of Flemish liberty. 
 
 Here 
 Art, science, and civilization were crowned and 
 Cultivated, while the whole of Europe was wallowing 
 In pools of ignorance and barbarism ; here 
 Liberty found its dearest home, while all 
 
178 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Neighboring nations dwelt beneath the skies of 
 Despotism. 
 
 I draw aside the curtains, and lo ! a flash of 
 Cities, a roar of emerald waves, and the far-famed 
 Dyke at Ostend lies before me, with all its throngs- 
 Thc rich, the gay, the fashion-plates of Europe, and 
 My desolate heart and soul feel still more 
 Desolate at the sight. The food for them is far 
 Too nauseating. I do not fancy peacocks' raiment 
 Covering the decayed virtues of walking flesh. 
 
 I leave the throngs behind, and walk through the 
 Wild dunes on the coast, where sea-weeds find a 
 Home after their long voyage on the treacherous 
 Waves of the North Sea. I pick up handfuls of 
 Sand, and sift it through my fingers. I 
 Contemplate the sea. Emerald hills are waving 
 On its bosom. The spirit of unrest pervades 
 It all, though the sun is shining down. Overhead 
 Dark clouds are gathering. Slowly they come — 
 Those floating mountains of the sky, and melt 
 In one vast sable cloak that appears to 
 Cover the entire world. Fear is 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 1 79 
 
 On the deep and also in my heart. The wind comes 
 
 down 
 In shrouds of fury and lashes the sea in foaming rage, 
 The thunder roars and reverberates along the 
 Liquid mountain peaks. Down comes the rain 
 Like an avalanche of silver spears on the shining 
 
 armor 
 Of the deep. Afar out a ship is in the grasp of the 
 Struggling elements. It is in distress, for the mad 
 
 waves 
 Have wounded its sides and are sweeping its bulwarks 
 Away. How pitifully it moans. It is all alone in 
 Its woe, and is richly freighted with gold. No port 
 Is in sight, no lighthouse near. Even the sailors that 
 Line the shore, cry out, "A wreck ! a wreck ! 'Tis only 
 Another wreck that's drifting by too late, too late to 
 
 save." 
 On it comes in agony. A giant wave lifts it high 
 In air, and dashes it to atoms on a nest 
 Of rocks, but ere it disappears from view 
 The sailors see the gold they lost, and cry aloud, 
 "Another opportunity lost, another treasure gone 
 Through our indifference !" 
 
180 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 And thus it ever is. Precious gold is brought by certain 
 Ships to sailors who leave them founder on the sea, 
 And grasp with eager hands at counterfeits, for 
 These they seem to dearly love. The whole world is 
 Chasing phantoms, while hearts true as steel, 
 Muscles of oak, and willing hands, are tossed 
 Rudely aside, and crushed beneath the heels of 
 Its folly! 
 
 With desolate heart I turned away and traveled 
 On. Proudly rose the old belfry of Bruges before me, 
 And its chimes sent forth a shower of melodies 
 That charmed my ears. The marvellous weavers 
 Of the city left their looms and came out in 
 The sunlight on the streets. They gathered there in 
 Groups and spoke in guarded tones of the 
 Marriage of Charles the Bold and Margaret of Eng- 
 land. 
 And some there were who had been to the feast, 
 And they described in glowing terms, the glory 
 Of the magnificent art-clad ducal halls, and the 
 Unparalleled splendors of the banquet. As I mingled 
 In the crowds, listening to the gossip, visions of 
 Days gone by crowded thick and fast upon me. 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 181 
 
 There were old Flemish castles with retainers 
 On the towers and walls reflected in old 
 Flemish moats ; there were old Flemish market- 
 Places, surrounded by old Flemish buildings 
 From whose roofs protruded old Flemish gables. 
 Below in the streets reigned the silence of the tomb. 
 
 There was Ghent, the city of the Van Eyes, and the 
 
 home 
 Of the "Adoration of the Lamb." There was the 
 Famous fortress built by mighty Baldwin Bras-de-Fer 
 To hold back the Norman hordes. There was 
 The statue of Jacob Van Artevelde in the 
 Market place — the fearless leader — the magic-voiced 
 Orator, whose dreams of a new republic were 
 Dispelled by the breath of tyranny, like mists before 
 The rising sun. There were the horrors of the 
 Inquisition, made doubly horrible by that monster of 
 Blood and crime, the Duke of Alva. There was 
 The heroic defense of the People, by the Prince of 
 
 Orange. 
 There were long stretches of grass and waving corn- 
 fields ; 
 There were verdant meadows enclosed by hedgerow 
 
1 82 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Trees. There were priceless flocks of sheep in Brabant. 
 There were old libraries containing copies of the 
 Rymbybcl, and the Spiegel Historicel in the Flemish 
 Tongue. There were parades of ancient merchants 
 On the docks of Antwerp. Flemish ships of trade 
 Arrived, and departed for far off ports. 
 There were the bitter hours of the revolution and 
 The surrender of Chasse at Antwerp. 
 
 There were the coal mines of Liege, and the far-famed 
 Woods and promenades of Spa. There were the 
 The ragged Ardennes hills dividing the waters 
 Of the Meuse and Moselle. There was the 
 Scheldt, flowing in the North to the Sea. 
 
 My heart inclined to this, and as the crowds were 
 Growing thicker, and their conversation still more 
 
 animated, 
 1 struck out to follow the river in its course. 
 On the way I mused, "Yes ! this is the land of 
 Rubens, who was one of the most polished and 
 Accomplished brigands of the sixteenth century. 
 From Italy and his Italian brothers he stole 
 The sacred fire that burns with glory on his 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 183 
 
 Canvas, and causes every Flemish heart to 
 Glow with pride. But what did he for the 
 Emancipation of his people? Did he paint the 
 Dying groan of the miser, the crimson beads of the 
 Poverty-stricken burghers' heart? or one flash of 
 New love — the new way of Life? Why, one of 
 These would be worth the whole wilderness of 
 Altar pieces and other subjects he has given the world. 
 
184 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 WHAT THE DEVIL SAID. 
 I. 
 It was a day of beauty — tilled with sunbeams of gold ; 
 Filled and thrilled with melodies of feathered war- 
 blers — 
 Filled with perfumed breezes of the distant sunlands — 
 Filled with voices of silvery mountain streams — 
 Filled with delicious charms for rustic lovers — ■ 
 Filled with laughter — filled with joy, and a thousand 
 
 hopes 
 For peace at last. It was a day that did not harmonize 
 With my lacerated heart and soul, yet I tried 
 With all my strength to enjoy the charms it held forth 
 With such generous hands. 
 
 II. 
 
 As I walked along the well-remembered paths, my 
 
 heart 
 Whispered "Beware ! eat not of these forbidden fruits ; 
 
 they are 
 Not for thee ; soon will they fade away like fairy 
 
 dreams, 
 
OF JOHN ALLEX. 185 
 
 And make thy chains of sorrow far heavier than 
 
 before." 
 But I heeded not the advice, and went my way with 
 Songs upon my lips. Suddenly the blue sky was 
 O'ercast with masses of black clouds. Loud roared 
 The winds through the melancholy cypress trees. The 
 Thunder bellowed wildly o'er the land, and the light- 
 ning— 
 The sword of the storm — flashed swiftly through the 
 air. 
 
 III. 
 Down came the rain in cataracts, and lo ! through its 
 
 sparkling curtains 
 A dismal lake burst clear in view, and spread out 
 Its waters at my feet — a lake shut out entirely from 
 The world by a wall of mighty mountains — a lake 
 With moss-capped rocks along its shores, and 
 Sobbing waves upon its bosom — a lake that liked 
 Not its dark surroundings, nor the sharp teeth of the 
 O'erhanging crags that deeply wounded it and 
 Forever denied it a sight of the green fields of the 
 
 Earth. 
 
1 86 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 IV. 
 
 Deeply did I sympathize with this poor forsaken lake 
 Whose bosom trembled with ambition to leap o'er 
 Its frowning barriers, and cast refreshing showers on 
 
 the 
 Drooping, thirsty weeds and flowers of the earth, and I 
 Murmured faintly, "How much like my life are its 
 Waters of hope and sorrow — how much indeed !" 
 For hours I gazed upon it. There was such a 
 Sadness in its depths that held me spell-bound on 
 The shore, and its every sobbing wave seemed to 
 Rise and fall with the beating of my heart. 
 
 V. 
 
 A vulture was its constant companion. It wheeled 
 
 about 
 In circles overhead, and manifested marvelous interest 
 In its condition, and its vigilant eye and voracious 
 
 appetite 
 Allowed nothing of value to escape its bosom. 
 O God ! A wave of wild resentment swept across my 
 Heart, and I lifted up my hands in horror at 
 The dark deeds of this feathered tyrant ! As I did so, 
 The fury of the storm calmed down, but ere the 
 
OF JOHN ALLEX. 1S7 
 
 Last angry echoes died out on the startled air, I 
 
 Saw — the Prince of Darkness walking slowly 
 
 By the sobbing lake. I shuddered ! He thrilled my 
 
 heart 
 With fresh forebodings, and I turned away to 
 Shut the sight of him forever from my eyes — 
 But some magnetic force arrested me, and soon 
 Too soon, I found myself at his feet, crying out 
 In tones of untold agony — "Mercy! mercy! for my 
 Lacerated heart, sight and soul ! Away with these 
 Ghastly phantoms of life that wound me so ! 
 Too long have I been haunted by them ! Give me 
 One scene of joy — of purity — of love — of truth — 
 Of eyes looking calmly — fearlessly into eyes.'' 
 My whole heart and soul were poured out in 
 These passionate words, and impatiently I 
 Awaited his reply. He did not speak for the 
 Moment, but a strange smile illumined his 
 Strange face. He laid his hand 
 Upon my shoulder, and said, "Come with me. 
 We will leave the valley and glance o'er the 
 Fields beyond. Perhaps you may see that which 
 You have prayed for." 
 
i88 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 VI. 
 
 He led on. I followed, and when 
 
 We came from out the valley and stood on the 
 
 Rugged hills, he cried, in exultant 
 
 Tones: ''Behold my fields! my gardens! my 
 
 Flowers ! They will yield abundant harvest ! 
 
 They are mine ! Let us go down and walk ' 
 
 Among them I" Fires of delight were 
 
 Gleaming in his dreaming eyes, and I shuddered, 
 
 But followed in his footsteps. We stood in the 
 
 Streets of a famous city, and heard the sound 
 
 Of the castanets. Chained gangs of convicts 
 
 Passed us by. There was a look of misery in the 
 
 Hard lines of their faces that affected me to 
 
 The point of tears, but the Devil only laughed, 
 
 And, strange to say, I too laughed with him, 
 
 And my tears vanished at once. It all seemed 
 
 So strange to me. We strolled along beneath gigantic 
 
 Oak and cork trees ; passed through sunny Malaga ; 
 
 Saw the cactus on the rolling hills ; saw the 
 
 Dreamy bosom of the Mediterranean ; saw the 
 
 Mantillas and the brilliant scarfs — the frowning 
 
 Rock-bound coast — the smiling cornfields and 
 
 Meadows of Valencia — the green plains on 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 189 
 
 Catalonia's coast, and Barcelona's noisy 
 Harbors. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The coast was before us — the coast — an endless 
 Chain of bays and gulfs — of hills that ran down to 
 The sea — of sparkling towns that raised their heads 
 High up in the charmed air. The country — a sea of 
 Great plains — of hills that rose and fell like 
 Stormy waves on the ocean blue — of wild Sierras that 
 Tossed their snow-white heads among the stars. 
 
 VIII. 
 Side by side we walked along. We passed through 
 The sun-scorched, shadeless streets of Cadiz, 
 And at night strolled on the shores of the sea, and 
 Drank the refreshing breezes from its bosom, while 
 The sparkling, silvery laughter of its waters, charmed 
 My ears. I saw the majestic Guadalquiver gleaming 
 Like a thread of silver in its bed, and great plains 
 
 stretching 
 Away from its banks, covered with 
 Flocks of goats, and troops of horses. The perfumed 
 Melodies of orange and lemon groves were on the air, 
 And nightingales thrilled forth their magic songs. 
 
I qo THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 IX. 
 
 As we entered the heart of past glories, I turned to 
 The Devil, saying, "I walk no longer o'er the ruins 
 Of the present, but by some enchantment seem carried 
 Back to the age of chivalry and song. Tell me, 
 
 tell me, dark destroyer of strongest hopes, did 
 You gather in a harvest in those times, or did 
 Any escape the snares you laid for them?" 
 
 And he replied, "I gathered in a goodly harvest, 
 And never a kernel lost." This, and nothing more. 
 
 X. 
 
 1 cried, "The Alhambra, with its magic towers — those 
 Monuments of dazzling romance, rise up before me. 
 
 They are 
 Filled with seas of mighty warriors, whose shouts, 
 Whose hymns to Allah reach my ears ! Within the 
 Walls, beneath the delicate arches, beneath the massive 
 Pillars, o'er the marble floors, roam scores of dainty 
 Maids with sparkling eyes, with fairy forms orna- 
 mented 
 With girdles and anklets of gold. A feast of splendor 
 Is in progress, but the sound of trumpets scatters 
 Consternation o'er it all, and the maidens vanish 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 191 
 
 Like ghosts before the dawn. I see the warriors with 
 Flashing scimitars and daggers rush 
 To the battlements, there to defend the FAITH, 
 And shower victories at the feet of Boabdil. The 
 Battle rages. It is swayed by lion-hearted heroism 
 And black despair, but the Moors slowly recede 
 Before the Christians' determined advance. Their 
 Ranks are torn — their hopes all gone — but like heroes 
 Slowly they retreat. But stay — the enchantment 
 Fades from my sight, and those mighty scenes are 
 
 gone. 
 Still at my feet lie all their ruins. Tell me, O tell me, 
 
 dark 
 Architect of peoples' lives, did any here escape thy 
 
 power ?" 
 To which he replied, "I gathered in a goodly harvest 
 
 here, and never a 
 Kernel lost." 
 
 XL 
 "Granada ! — Granada was magnificently defended, 
 But Granada fell. Gone are its glories. Gone, all 
 The beauties of Alhambra. Gone — 'the luxury — the 
 pride — 
 
IQ2 
 
 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 The power that once crowned their brows. Side by 
 Side in ruins sleep the heroes of the Koran and 
 The Cross. The silvery Xenil and the lovely Darro 
 Sing the pathetic memories of the past, and the wild 
 Sierras clad in snow-white robes of Paradise, look 
 Down upon the scene. Tell me, O tell me, dark 
 Wanderer of the Night, in all these scenes, did 
 Not one escape your snares?" And the Devil 
 Answered, "I gathered in a goodly harvest here, 
 And never a kernel lost." 
 
 r 
 
 XII. 
 "O Spain ! Spain ! Step by step 
 From the Phoenician cities, 
 From the wild camps of barbarians, 
 From the battle-scarred hours of the Koran and the 
 
 Cross, 
 From the days of the Arabian conquests, 
 From the jeweled, the voluptuous seats of the Khalifs, 
 From the days of Cardinal Ximines — the sacred 
 
 schemer — 
 From the days of butchers and bandits, Cortez and 
 
 Pizarro — 
 From the days of Lope de Vega and Cervantes, 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 193 
 
 From the days of the American War, 
 
 Thou didst ever degenerate. Thy conquests of the 
 
 past were made 
 O'er naked savages, not o'er races equally armed ; 
 Thy political success, by political lying and thieving ; 
 Thy beautiful fields and gardens are not even the 
 
 product 
 Of thy hands — they were reared and kept by 
 Foreigners, and thy possessions, all, all 
 Falling away — the jewels of thy crown — a result of 
 Thy tyranny. Sagasta's craft, nor Castellar's 
 Patriotism could save thee. Thou hast fallen to 
 The ground by the weight of thy sins ! 
 
 XIII. 
 I gaze afar and see the fierce Andalusian Bull rush 
 O'er the sands of the arena ; the picadores ply the 
 
 lances ; 
 The banderilleros stick their darts in his tawny neck — 
 The red mantle of the matador attracts his eyes of 
 Fire — blindly, furiously he plunges at it — only to meet 
 Death by the lightning flash of the sword concealed 
 Beneath its folds !" 
 
194 
 
 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 XIV. 
 The Devil stopped my speech. He placed one 
 Hand upon my shoulder and pointing o'er the 
 Land with the other, said, " these are my fields, my 
 Flowers, my gardens ; they are represented well 
 In my great kingdom ; I wonder what Loyola now 
 
 would 
 Think of them ?" To which I said : "I would 
 Not care a fig for his opinion on the subject. This 
 Soldier-Priest from Guipuzcoa came with religious 
 Fires brightly burning in his heart, but he too, like all 
 Founders of systems failed to grasp the grand idea 
 Of life. He was narrow-minded. He saw only in the 
 World what he was pleased to term infidels and 
 
 heretics. These 
 Poor creatures must be converted at any cost. The 
 
 rest of 
 Humanity was all right, especially the crowned — the 
 Wine-soaked butchers and bandits of Europe who 
 
 spread 
 The wings of protection o'er the Catholic faith. Why 
 He did not seem to know that a bad Christian 
 Needed more converting than a whole wilderness of 
 Heretics! He saw not the work to be done 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 
 
 Around him. Verily the eyes of the fool were in 
 The ends of the earth. Opinions, indeed !" Thus 
 At the close of a day of beauty, I found. 
 Myself no nearer purity, love and truth than 
 Buddha was to the secret of Life. 
 
 195 
 
I 9 6 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 MY CONFESSION TO SATAN. 
 
 The Devil stood by my side. I had a confession 
 For him. His eager ears were ready 
 To devour it. He understood me. O joy unconfined ! 
 He understood me! — understood my nature — 
 My heart. How few do that — (scarcely two out 
 Of every thousand. He stood by my side. The 
 Star-trimmed curtains of the night were lifted 
 By the dewy hand of morn, and the splendid 
 Sun poured all its brightness o'er the land, and 
 He stood by my side. "Comrade," said I, "tq-day 
 I tear off the mask from the monster ! it shall 
 Crouch and hide no more from the public eye. 
 It shall be laid bare before its own down-trodden 
 People! Oh how it feeds and has fed off 
 The liberties of these same people. But it shall 
 Do so no more. Its course is run. For 
 Many years I've watched its progress, 
 Marvelling all the while that the oppressed 
 Did not arise and strike it to the ground. 
 And resolved that it must cease at once. 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 197 
 
 Sealed lips, cowardice, and reverence for the 
 Throne shall no longer cast a shield before 
 It. Open not your lips. Speak not. I'll speak 
 First. I've a confession for you. I know 
 You are far better versed than I in this 
 Matter, but I long to unburden the accumulated 
 Observations of years, that are stifling my 
 Heart with bitterness. 
 
 For years I walked upon the upland 
 Grassy lawns, and down the sloping hills 
 Where grazed the lowly sheep at morn, at noon, 
 At night and ruminated all the time on the 
 Bitter yoke laid on my people, while a 
 Perfect tempest of sorrow raged through my 
 Soul and heart, and I resolved to make 
 Them free — free as the untamed mighty sea. 
 I went forth. The fresh scent of lime leaves 
 Floating on the waves of the air, the murmuring 
 Of rivers, the sweet carol of the sylvan warbler, 
 The fields arrayed in yellow, brown and russet 
 Robes, the glorious Lakes o'er which sailed 
 Snow-white swans with their little ones, the 
 Famous old baronial halls ; the superstitions 
 
198 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 That haunted every nook and ruin ; the manor 
 Houses nestling 'mong the patriarchal oaks, 
 All, all formed a gorgeous panorama of 
 Charms that mingled strangely in the sorrows 
 Of my heart, and the resolutions underlying it. 
 
 I went forth and scanned the high, the picturesque 
 Cliffs of Dover, and listened to the owls hooting 
 Among the rafters of ancient buildings, (Other 
 Owls known as men and women hooted here before), 
 
 and 
 I walked o'er the rich woodlands, meadows, 
 And hills of the Isle of Wight, and standing 
 On the colored sands of the shore, gazed with 
 Delight on the heaving bosom of the sea, and felt 
 The fresh breeze make the blood tingle in 
 My cheeks. But my delight lasted for a moment 
 Only. 'Twas gone — it faded like the gorgeous 
 Sunset pictures that light up the western isles 
 With harmonies of gold and fire, like sweet 
 Melodies that die out upon the air. Then fell 
 The weight of bitterness upon my heart. 
 It made my flesh tremble. Alas ! I knew it 
 Now too well! I must tread the vale of 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 199 
 
 Tears alone. In the throes of my unutterable 
 Woe I opened wide my arms to welcome 
 Death, for I felt that it must be near at hand, when 
 The sun cast my shadow on the ground — the 
 Perfect shadow of a cross. Then I knew my 
 Mission well, and fell fainting, moaning 
 On my face and hands among the 
 Storm-swept rocks. How long I remained 
 There I know not, for I seemed to have been 
 In the grasp of dreams, but when I struggled 
 To my feet, the sea gulls were wildly screaming, 
 The hoarse voice of the ocean roaring, and 
 The twinkling foot-lights of heaven sweetly looking 
 down. 
 
 I went forth enveloped in my woe ; I traversed 
 The winding paths of the old oak forests, and 
 Woe was all around me. It was in the air. 
 The poor old oaks were filled with it. They trembled 
 With it. Their green heads drooped low. Their arms 
 Were raised to Heaven for mercy. Their gnarled 
 Sinews were mute evidences of the woe that coursed 
 Through their bodies. Woe, woe, and all was woe. 
 
200 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 I stood on the spot where in days of old the 
 Drnids in their flowing robes of white offered up 
 Human saerilices to the sun, but marveled 
 Not that they found means of subsistence 
 In the dual role of lunatics and scoundrels, 
 Because we still have Druids among us in 
 The twentieth century priests, — we still support 
 Them, and therefore should make no outcry 
 Against the past. We are children of woe, and 
 Cheerfully do we add to it. 
 
 I went forth, and entered the old Bedford jail 
 Where sat John Bunyan writing his marvelous 
 Poem. I greeted him. "I am an American,'' said I, 
 "I am a Democrat in the fullest sense of the 
 Word. My name is John Allen. Like you I 
 Was born for great deeds. Like you I was 
 Imprisoned. Like you I am determined to 
 Succeed. But to gain that success, I must beg 
 One gift of you — to see — to examine the material 
 Out of which you fashioned the armor of 
 Your immortal Christian." To which he replied, 
 "Be it so, your wish is granted. His armor 
 Was forged from chains of woe, and polished 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 201 
 
 Bright with iron-will — the best armor in the 
 World. It resisted Apollyon's fiery darts 
 And carried him in triumph to the gates 
 Of the Celestial city. I cannot show you the 
 Materials, because they are invisible, but this much 
 I will say — they are treble the strength of finest 
 Steel.'' Then he turned his head away and began 
 Writing. "Very well," said I, "I will girdle on 
 The armor that you name, and when next we meet 
 It shall be side by side on equal ground." 
 We parted. The iron-gates of the prison clanged 
 Behind me, and I know no matter how 
 Brave my resolutions were, I must have been 
 Very pale. Already the burning chains of woe were 
 upon me. 
 
 I went forth and saw the desperate struggle 
 Of the Roman and Briton for the throne, the 
 Onward march of the Saxon and Angles for 
 Their rights — the fierce onslaughts of the Picts 
 And Scots upon the Britons, and then with 
 Eyes of horror saw the conquering Danes 
 Sweep on with fire and sword leaving 
 Naught but death and destruction in their wake. 
 
202 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 "Can these be men," said I, "who so 
 Fiercely assault and rob each other, or 
 Are they packs of animals from the wild 
 Dens and forests?" And my heart answered 
 Whispering, these are the ancestors of the 
 Modern business men, whose refined cruelty 
 Outshines their brutality, like the sun outshines 
 The stars! 
 
 I went forth into the great country, and my 
 Heart was filled still more with sorrow at what 
 I saw. O comrade } the real idea of life here too, 
 Was lost to view by the crew of bandits 
 And assassins who dared to rule the 
 People. Hold up the mirror ! gaze therein, 
 From the first down to the present ruler. 
 What do you see? Can you find one trace 
 Of brains in all their modes of governing? 
 I can — steel, bullets, poison, treachery, 
 Powder and gold were the brains they 
 Employed — these blood-stained bandits who 
 Wore the crown. Think of it — think of it ! — 
 These down-trodden isles called the Butchers, 
 Bandits and Plotters GREAT— just think of it 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 203 
 
 And marvel ! And what a magnificent gallery 
 
 Of GREAT men they were — William the Conqueror 
 
 Who made a desert of his lands to crush 
 
 The voice of the people — of justice; Henry II., the 
 
 Murderer and coward ; Thomas a' Becket, 
 
 The SAINT — and is a saint made of such 
 
 Stuff as the uncompromising schemer of 
 
 The throne of Rome? Pope Adrian IV., who 
 
 Cooly handed over Ireland to the English, 
 
 He claiming the right to bestow kingdoms 
 
 On whoever he pleased. Imagine a follower 
 
 Of Christ in this worldly position ; Richard I., 
 
 Whose brains were in his brute strength ; 
 
 King John, the imbecile; 
 
 Henry VIIL, the sultan of English kings, whose 
 
 Thriving little harem was either cast 
 
 Aside in disgrace, or met death at the block; 
 
 Elizabeth — the female plotter, whose hands 
 
 Were dyed in the blood of Mary, Queen of Scots ; 
 
 Cromwell, the cruel, the ambitious, who could 
 
 See no one but Cromwell in the mirror 
 
 Of the world — Cromwell the tyrant — in whose 
 
 Death England lost one of her greatest butchers; 
 
 Charles II., a man? — ? ''without will-power 
 
204 
 
 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Or principles — who was the proud possessor of 
 
 Two virtues — murder and vice ;" 
 
 Marlborough, who loved gold more than 
 
 He loved his God — jMarlborough whom the 
 
 Historian calls great ! Yes, he was, if murder 
 
 And slaughter and greedy ambition are 
 
 Great! Comrade, would you consider a 
 
 Man great, if he set fire to his neighbors' houses, 
 
 Laid waste their fields, and then marched 
 
 In triumph o'er their ruins ; 
 
 William Pitt, whose fame rests on 
 
 Towers built of the sighs and broken hearts 
 
 Of the poor, and the robberous taxes wrested from 
 
 them ; 
 So you see, Comrade, the real idea of life here was 
 Lost to view, by this gang of cut-throats, notoriously 
 Known as royal rulers. But I have unmasked 
 Them. The historian, and professional writers 
 May call them what they please ; they may adorn 
 Them with gold-lace, velvets and gems, but the 
 Naked truth proclaims them Bandits, Robbers and 
 Murderers, and the naked truth should be exposed 
 All hours of the day and night for use of the 
 
 Public eye. 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 205 
 
 I went forth again, and nothing seemed 
 More pitiable and amusing than the distress 
 Of the great mass of the people — the English people, 
 Men of muscle and brains, in seeking a royal 
 Heir to the crown to rule over them whenever an 
 Old dynasty died out. The sighs, the tears, the 
 Prayers, they sent forth on these occasions is 
 Something that passes the boundaries of belief, 
 Especially when they possessed in their own ranks, 
 Hundreds, nay thousands, of leaders far superior 
 To any creature (?) with the blue-blood coursing 
 Through his veins ! By the way what special brand of 
 Flesh and earth are these cut-throats called 
 Kings made of, anyway? 
 
 I went into London, — London filled with crime — 
 London, seated on the majestic Thames — 
 London, o'er whose streets flow the tides of life 
 And death — London enveloped in its gowns of 
 Fog — London, with its palaces, the homes of 
 Ancient vice and modern ignorance — the 
 Refuge of high-class bandits called Lords, Earls, 
 Kings ; London, where Addison and Milton 
 Lived and suffered — where Shakespeare acted; 
 
2o6 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Where Johnson and Lamb found inspiration ; 
 Where Westminster and St. Paul's tower aloft 
 In pride and grandeur; London, whose 
 Ever-enduring tower stands out a saintly 
 Monument of the past compared with its 
 Present career of robbery, snobbery and vice 
 But, Comrade, what did I find London? — 
 A glittering gigantic fraud, like all the rest ! 
 
 While wandering through its streets, I thought of 
 The great wars that were launched from its 
 Heart, and marveled that its heart was still 
 Beating, for 'twould be enough to break any country's 
 Heart to achieve the SUCCESS that glitters in 
 Its crown. Success in war, to England always meant 
 Volumes; it was necessary no matter what the cost 
 
 might be. 
 For example take the Napoleonic war. It 
 Was a great success. The English army backed by 
 Europe — triumphed ! Mark ! It was a tremendous 
 Success ! It was a magnificent spectacular perform- 
 ance! 
 It only cost $4,000,000,000, and the people (audience) 
 Appeared at the box office to pay the taxes — oh, I 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 207 
 
 Mean to buy the tickets for the show. The perform- 
 ances 
 In the Soudan and India too were splendid 
 Affairs crowned with special triumphs ! Also they 
 
 were 
 Highly instructive. They proved what no one would 
 Ever have dreamed of — that a large army well 
 Fed, well clothed, with plenty of money and ammuni- 
 tion 
 And well-armed to the teeth with the latest improved 
 Weapons was able, after a desperate struggle 
 To hold its own against the dark-skinned 
 Habitants, and finally to crush out their liberties — 
 To enslave them. This was indeed a TRIUMPH ! 
 But as a performance, it is not to be compared 
 At all with the one with the Boers in South Africa. 
 
 Here 
 Was a triumph that is certain for all time to 
 Make an Englishman's heart beat with pride, 
 And his chest swell out with enthusiasm. 
 The only thing that caused any uneasiness 
 Was the overwhelming numbers of 
 The Boers. This, the British Generals thought, might 
 Interfere with their plans and have something 
 
208 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 To do with prolonging the war, which proved to 
 Be the case later on. But they pushed on heroically 
 With their handful of men — pushed on to 
 The scenes of their splendid triumphs at 
 lYlodderspruit, Magersfontein, and Colenso. 
 Everywhere the Boers gave way. Their countless 
 Regiments could not prevail against the valor 
 Of the British few. Success crowned all their efforts. 
 Buller had crossed the Tugela, though it did 
 Consume some time in the operation, because the 
 
 Tugela was 
 Very wide; Kitchener — the butcher of naked-savages 
 With a few thin columns had driven the Boer hordes 
 Before him, and captured all their guns, and last 
 But not least, the star event of the war, the greatest 
 Triumph of military genius, of this or any other age 
 Fell to the lot of Lord Roberts. At Paardeberg 
 With a mere handful of 40,000 or 50,000 men 
 And some fifty cannons, he succeeded after 
 Nine days in crushing Cronje and his 
 Overwhelming force of 8,000. Consider what 
 The great Roberts could have done, had he 
 One hundred thousand men at hand? It was 
 A magnificent performance, and all Englishmen 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 209 
 
 Certainly must feel thrills of glory shooting through 
 Their hearts, when they march up to the tax-office 
 To pay for it. But of course good shows cost 
 High admission fees, and this must be borne 
 In mind. The South African show only cost 
 One hundred millions, and some few thousand 
 Troops. This, comrade, is the confession I longed 
 To tear from my tattered heart, and soul, to 
 Launch into your ears ! 'Tis done, and I 
 Shall go my way, but should you ask me 
 Further on the subject, my one reply would 
 Be: "The world is filled with bandits, — 
 But the greatest of them all are found in 
 England." 
 
210 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 I TRY TO CAST OFF MY WOE. 
 
 A FAR among the highlands, clad in kilts 
 
 And plaid I roam, I and my unspeakable, 
 Unendurable woe. We roam and scan the 
 Scenes together, for we are old companions, 
 And where'er my steps may lead, it is sure 
 To follow. Therefore I find it gratifying to know 
 That something is faithful to me — even if 
 It is only my unspeakable woe. On, on, I walk where 
 
 the 
 Fragrant purple heather gently 
 Sways beneath the garments of the wind ; on where 
 Hidden brooks are babbling o'er the rocks with sweet- 
 est 
 Melodies ; through lonely mountain glens, and 
 Old ruined towers among the sea-beat rocks. 
 I walk on. The curlew's lonely call is sounded 
 On the breeze, and my woe — my woe sits heavy 
 In my heart. 
 
 It is weighing me down ! It is tearing out the 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 21 1 
 
 Vitality of my body ; it keeps me tossing in a 
 Wild sea of unrest. I gaze into the eyes of a 
 Passing man, and he turns his head away ; 
 I gaze into the eyes of a passing woman, and 
 She shrinks back from me; I gaze into the 
 Eyes of a child, and the child, in distrust, turns 
 Its back on me ; I look into the eyes of a dog 
 But he returns the look unflinchingly 
 With his honest brown eyes ; he thrusts his 
 Cold wet nose into my hand, and licks it with 
 His tongue — he is my friend — the only one I have 
 In all my woe. So then I can claim the friendship 
 Of a dog. That much is left to me out of the 
 Wreck of my hopes. That much is given me 
 From the false cold world, the love of a dog. But 
 That is more than I can ever hope for from the 
 Two-footed dogs with which I am surrounded. They 
 Boo-hoo, bark, yelp and bite from the mangers. 
 And though they hate me, I love them with the 
 Deepest, truest love that e'er found shelter in a 
 Passionate heart. 
 
 So across the heather and bluebells I roam 
 Chained to my heaviest woe ; here among scenes 
 
212 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Of the historic past ; here where Agricola and 
 His Roman legions were hurled back by the 
 Fierce Picts and Scots; where the tyranny of 
 Edward I. went down in defeat on the field of 
 Stirling, and raised Wallace to the height of fame; 
 
 and 
 Where Malcolm mounted the throne only to 
 Prostitute it to the Norman Bandit. Thrice 
 Did he promise homage to William for that throne 
 And thrice did he break that promise. I find no 
 Fault because he endeavored to become 
 Independent of Britain, and the bandit who 
 Ruled it, but I condemn his base infidelity 
 And I say a promise is a promise — it is a sacred 
 Thing, and should not be made if it is not 
 Intended to be kept. But I suppose I must accept 
 This as an example of Scottish character, for Scottish 
 Character and history are filled to the overflowing 
 With such examples of weakness, treachery and folly. 
 Take for instance, Mary Queen of Scots, or as it 
 Should read, Mary Queen of the Scots, and ask 
 What were the Scots dreaming of when they 
 Elevated that creature of deception to the throne? 
 A woman who posed as a model of virtue, 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 213 
 
 Who was so steadfast in the Faith of Rome, 
 That she would not listen to the teachings of 
 John Knox, but readily dabbled in 
 Treachery, immorality, murder and numerous 
 Husbands. Or, take Bruce, and that little story 
 Of the spider and Bannockburn, which may 
 Appear all right in print, and ask why the 
 Discerning Historian always sings his deeds with the 
 Choicest words of poetry and romance ? I know if I 
 Was chosen to write his history, and to exalt him 
 To the altar of Fame, I would first recall 
 Him from the tomb to undo the treacherous 
 Murder of Red Comyn — to give back the 
 Life he took. 
 
 As I wander on with tottering steps, the wind 
 Sweeping o'er the Locks and Firths seems to 
 Whisper of the bitter past — of the treachery of the 
 
 Red Douglas, 
 And the Black Douglas and of the James's 
 Who never did rest well at night because they 
 Lived in mortal dread of the highland clans, 
 And the fierce bordermen — the wild outlaws, the 
 
 murderers, 
 
2i 4 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 As they were pleased to term them. But I murmured 
 These clans and bordermen, cannot 
 
 Be compared at all with the murderous, high-class 
 Bandits who wore the Crown of Scotland ! 
 
 Afar I hear the Piper playing Bonnie Doon, 
 
 And tears rise in my eyes, as they always do 
 
 When that pathetically beautiful melody strikes 
 
 My ear. Some black-faced sheep move 
 
 Over the heather-crowned hills; some pheasants idly 
 
 Stand beside the hedges, and snipes are calling 
 
 And drumming in the distant marshes. The 
 
 Voices of Nature reach me from all sides, and hurt 
 
 Me, hurt me for they open half-healed wounds in my 
 
 Woe-stricken heart. Slowly I walk on. I cross the 
 
 haunts 
 Made famous by Walter Scott, the hero of poetry and 
 Romance and seem again to see his gallery of 
 Heroes all around. Noble poet ! Sleep on ! Sleep 
 In the robes of fame, for the whole world loves 
 You and your memory. 
 Who has read your 
 Works, from the "Lady of the Lake" to the "Heart 
 
 of Midlothian," 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 215 
 
 Without transports of delight and eyes bedimmed 
 With tears? Every line touches the heart with a 
 Gentle sadness, that can hardly be explained, 
 Unless it be a longing in our hearts, to bring- 
 Back the scenes of the past, scenes of romance 
 And chivalry, and to crowd them into the 
 Damnably empty days of the present. Glorious 
 Hero — sleep on — rest, for your work was 
 Magnificently done — you have given more food 
 To the brains of the world, than all the gold 
 And wheat-fields on its surface. 
 
 Across the heath and rugged mountains, 
 Across the Grampian peaks I speed on — on 
 To the beautiful South with its green-clad plains, 
 Its glassy streams, its sea of cornfields, its 
 Curving hills and sweeping vales black with herds 
 Of cattle ; its charming meadows ; its wild dells 
 Of murderous depths ; its craggy rocks and roaring 
 Torrents ; its barren moors and Cheviot Hills — • 
 Wildly, wildly I speed across the Tweed and 
 Aye, across the Firths and Sounds, and stand at 
 Last in Ayrshire, and bow in reverence to the 
 Monuments of Robert Burns, the Heart of Scotland, — 
 
216 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Burns whose poetry, every line of it 
 Is but the rising and falling of a passionate 
 Heart. Go read his "Cotter's Saturday Night," his 
 "Annie Laurie," his "Highland Mary," and see 
 The intricate workings of a heart, disguised in 
 Lines of poetry. 
 
 But my wild rush across the breast of Caledonia 
 
 Did not release me from my omnipresent 
 
 Woe. Like balls of fire and lead it sat 
 
 Within my heart. O, ye 
 
 Divinely beautiful Scotchmen living 'neath 
 
 The red-roofed cottages in the vales or in the 
 
 Crowded cities of Edinburgh and Glasgow — my 
 
 Sufferings, my life, my heart, my soul, my brain, 
 
 Are all for ye ! To ye I bring a message grander 
 
 Than any message yet written in the book 
 
 Of Life — it is the message of the New Love ! 
 
 O cast it not aside, if ye 
 
 Would have Paradise on earth and know the 
 
 Great truth — the real idea of Life, and your 
 
 Relation to it. Daily my woe grows heavier. It is 
 
 Made so by your indifference, and the chains 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 
 
 217 
 
 Of bondage that you so willingly now wear. Let me 
 Burst them asunder and give you freedom!" 
 
 But — shall I be strong enough to bear the burden of 
 The World alone ? Methinks it is so heavy now that 
 I fain would cast it all aside. "But you cannot" 
 Says my Woe, "unless — unless you secure 
 Someone to bear your burden. Then you can 
 Go your way free and contented." A flash of joy 
 Went through my heart, at the words, "secure someone 
 
 To bear your burden." And I replied, "that I 
 can do, but did not 
 Dream of it till now, for I remember well, 'twas here 
 
 I saved 
 A man's life at the risk of my own. 'Twas on 
 Iona's isle. A fierce storm was raging 
 And I was walking on the shore, when suddenly 
 A huge rock from the heights above came tumbling 
 
 down, and 
 Knocked him senseless in the jaws of the maddened 
 Sea. Horrified at seeing a human creature in 
 Full possession of his faculties struck down at my 
 Side, and in danger of drowning, I plunged boldly 
 Into the foaming waters, and after hours of 
 
2 1 8 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 Weary battling, succeeded in bringing him safely 
 To the shore. His gray-haired mother wept with joy 
 At his rescue. She bent down to gaze on the face 
 Of her son, when suddenly a piercing shriek burst 
 
 from 
 Her lips, and wildly she moaned, and beat the sands 
 At his side, with her hands. With terror trembling 
 Through my frame, I knelt down beside her and 
 
 asked, 
 "Is he dead?" She shook her head moaning, 
 And replied, "No he is not dead, but he might 
 Just as well be, for he can never face the world 
 Again. O my poor boy ! my poor boy !" I gazed 
 At him, and saw that the skin was badly torn 
 From his face, so I lifted him up and carried 
 Him into his mother's house. She followed me 
 With streaming eyes, and watched my every 
 Move. There was a look on her face, that I shall 
 Never forget. It plainly said, "give me one ray 
 Of hope for my son's recover} 7 , and I will lay down 
 
 my 
 Life for you." The doctor had been sent for and 
 Was now working over the wounded man. He 
 Told the gray-haired mother he could restore her 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 
 
 219 
 
 Son's features, if some one would allow a sufficient 
 
 quantity of skin 
 To be cut from their arms, and grafted on his face. 
 Hope and despair alternately lit up the poor mother's 
 Features. She looked at me, and I turned away ; 
 But somehow she came before me, and looked 
 Again. Then I knew my duty. I bared my 
 Arms and told the physician to cut the skin 
 From them, and I stood the ordeal well, but for 
 Many weeks I went around swathed in 
 Bandages, and was very weak. The young 
 Man recovered, and it was with deep 
 Satisfaction that I gazed on his face, which 
 Appeared as well as ever. No one on looking 
 At him would ever suspect that his features Were 
 Once in terrible revolt. And his mother gazed 
 Upon them long and earnestly and then showered 
 Caresses and blessings on my head, which most 
 Deeply affected me. I passed many happy days 
 With them, and when the hour at last arrived for 
 Me to go, I found myself choked up with tears. 
 The last farewells were spoken, but the young man 
 Took me aside and said: "I am poor — 
 Very poor, and I feel as if I can never reward you 
 
220 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 For what you have done for me. All I can give 
 You now is gratitude, to which my mother's 
 Is added. But the day may come, when you 
 May need the hand of a friend to guide you through 
 Some battle of life, and when that day arrives — call 
 On me no matter where you are, and be assured 
 
 that 
 You will not call in vain — farewell !" 
 Years have passed since then, but I feel 
 Now as if the day he spoke of was at hand. 
 I long so to cast aside the woe that is fast 
 Consuming me — body and soul. At last! 
 
 At last ! I shall escape my woe !" 
 
 But even as I journeyed on I heard 
 My woe laughing — a low sarcastic laugh 
 That opened a fresh wound in my heart. 
 But terrible as it was, it did not halt me 
 In my purpose — for my purpose was strong 
 As adamant. By Cona's streams and rocks 
 I wandered, and I seemed once more to hear 
 The wild genius of Ossian sweeping o'er the 
 Scene with the sound of a thousand harps, 
 Drifting, piling, curling, ghostly curtains of mist 
 
OF JOHN ALLEN. 221 
 
 Hung o'er crags and storm-swept peaks of 
 Morven; Clouds of Starlings flew overhead, 
 Their dark-green armor glittering in the gorgeous 
 Showers of the sun, and the smell of new-mown 
 Hay was on the breeze while flocks of feathered 
 Warblers filled all the air with flowers of 
 Melody. Above was the deep blue sky, 'neath 
 Which hung broken clouds of lilac trimmed 
 With gold, and the sea was but one vast 
 Plain of quivering, polished silver, in whose 
 Center stood one white sail. Sea-gulls screamed 
 Wildly from the crags, and jackdaws croaked 
 From the heights above, and I — I stood at 
 Last by the home of my friend — my salvation. 
 He clasped me to his bosom, and I told him 
 Why I came, but — he stood still as if struck 
 Dumb and made no reply. His 
 Gray-haired mother drew near, and I asked 
 My woe — "Why does he not speak?" and my 
 Woe said, "He dares not, if he did he would 
 Take up your burden out of the fullness of 
 Gratitude — but his end would be dreadful." 
 "His end would be dreadful," I repeated in a hollow 
 Voice, and then Woe asked, "Would you like 
 
222 THE CONFESSIONS OF JOHN ALLEN. 
 
 To see it?" Fire flashed from my eyes — "yes," said 
 I, "let me see the — the — end." He led on, and 
 Pointed to the skull and bones of a man 
 Bleaching on the sea-beat shore. I crouched behind 
 A rock like a hunted beast. "Do you want 
 Him to lift your burden?" Asked my Woe. "He 
 Is the staff of life on which his dear old mother leans. 
 Without him she will totter and fall to the earth." 
 But I said to myself, again and again, stroking 
 My breast, ''have I not shed my life's blood for 
 Him? Have I not given the skin from my body 
 To save his life?" Then as he and his mother 
 Drew near, Woe asked, "do you want them 
 To speak?" and I cried out aloud, "why don't 
 They say something?" "They are awaiting 
 Your decision," was the reply. The mother 
 Looked at me, but I shrank back from 
 Her gaze. "Shall they speak," whispered Woe. 
 "No ! No ! No !" I cried out in an agony of terror. 
 "Then you are satisfied?" was the next query. 
 I clutched my hand at my tortured heart, 
 And faintly I said — "yes !" then fell sobbing 
 On the storm-swept rocks. 
 
BEFORE THE GATES. 223 
 
 BEFORE THE GATES. 
 A T last ! At last ! We stand before the gates ! 
 
 The promised land, the City New is near at 
 Hand ! Come, ye cripples of Life's Woe, and here 
 Enjoy the New Life in its beauty, and 
 Its glory. Lay aside your crutches, and 
 Your staffs, for they will be of little use 
 Within the sacred walls. How useless here 
 Shall be all science, and all art ; how useless 
 Every creed that now infests the world; how 
 Useless all the fads that have disgraced 
 Society; how useless all the books 
 That have been written; how useless even- 
 College and library in the land; how 
 Useless all amusements, and theatres ; 
 How useless palaces, and buildings grand 
 Or humble ; how useless inventions of the 
 Day. Everything the world holds dear shall pale 
 To insignificance at the walls of 
 My New City. Come ! I throw the gates wide 
 Open ! Enter ye who love salvation, and 
 Despise the world of foul hypocrisy 
 And woe, while I briefly go o'er the ground 
 We traveled on thus far. 
 
224 THE NEW CITY - 
 
 THE NEW CITY. 
 
 T STOOD upon a height remote from all, 
 And watched the changing scenes go by, 
 I saw the misery of earth; 
 I marked the seasons have their birth 
 Then fade, as stars fade in the sky 
 When o'er them, summoned by the trumpet-call 
 Of storms, the clouds, unrolled, 
 Obscure them, fold by fold. 
 Then dawned a presence on my sight 
 And bade me read Life's dream aright — 
 To ponder o'er its mysteries, 
 And all its questions solve ; 
 With earnestness and deepest thought 
 To note the pain and anguish wrought, 
 As wrecks are wrought in raging seas, 
 No matter what it might involve. 
 Below me, cities in their pride, 
 
 Were lighted by the sunset's glow 
 That touched with fire the hovel's side 
 And burned on palaces of snow. 
 
THE NEW CITY. 225 
 
 I saw the throngs wend here and there 
 Bowed with their burdens of despair, 
 The young, the old, the foul, the fair. 
 
 All to their own appointed way 
 
 Home-hastening at shut of day ; 
 And, as I mused upon their lot, 
 What now should be, and what was not, 
 
 The spirit taught my lips to say 
 These words : "O, children of the earth ! 
 Down-trodden from your very birth, 
 Cradled in misery supreme, 
 
 The puppets of a godless law 
 
 With every noble deed in awe ! 
 Through ages kept in ignorance, 
 Impeded in all true advance 
 
 To make for human good ! 
 Behold the sweetest flower of all 
 Clouded, as with a deadly pall, 
 Thro' shackles that around her fall, 
 And keep in dark ignoble thrall 
 
 Thy heart, fair Womanhood ! 
 The curse of Custom binding still 
 God's souls — their mind and will — 
 Their very living breath until 
 
226 THE NEW CITY. 
 
 The world is but a mockery 
 
 Of what is called Society ! 
 The helpless little ones who bear 
 
 The burden of a parent's curse; 
 Thro' all the troubled years to share 
 
 Its ignomy, and rehearse 
 From hour to hour in sunlight fair, 
 In storm and calm, 
 
 The lesson of a dreadful woe 
 For which there is no healing balm 
 
 From skies above or seas below — 
 
 No refuge from the vengeful foe !" 
 All this I saw : Foul forms of disease, 
 And joyless homes, like leafless trees, 
 
 Stripped of the happiness they knew 
 
 In far-off days, when lives were true, 
 Ere vampire-winged Hypocrisy 
 
 Brooded above the haunts of men 
 
 And made of homes a demon's den! 
 
 Unmasked to me was every face, 
 
 And robbed of every spacious grace 
 That artifice could there implant! 
 "Oh, that a heart of adamant 
 
 Would strike," I murmured in my heart 
 
THE NEW CITY. 227 
 
 "These horrid bonds apart ! 
 These chains that have embittered Life, 
 And held it seethed in loveless strife! 
 Brought woe into a beauteous world, 
 And humankind to misery hurled ! 
 Yea, stifled e'en the vital spark 
 With murderous hands of infamy 
 In what God had ordained to be — 
 
 Weak man defying Deity !" 
 "Is there no help?" my spirit cried: 
 Shall every good thus be denied? 
 Shall every law thus be defied? 
 And must the world to chaos dash 
 E'en as the livid lightning's flash, 
 In swiftness to its final doom 
 Amid the tempest and the gloom? 
 All this for ages 
 Writ on earth's pages ! 
 His book Eternal 
 Marred by infernal 
 Vices and woes ! 
 His judgment slandered, 
 His purpose squandered ! 
 Weeds in profusion 
 
228 THE NEW CITY. 
 
 By man's delusion 
 (How they have flourished!) 
 Tenderly nourished, 
 Where God placed a rose ! 
 Who shall from evil deliver 
 The earth of its ills? Who the giver 
 Of all good shall be to mankind 
 Thus groping, deluded and blind, 
 In the deeps of despair and of gloom, 
 In the horror and mould of the tomb? 
 Out of the silence I heard 
 The sound of a marvelous word 
 That spoke to my heart as I gazed 
 On this picture of Death, all amazed ! 
 "Behold !" and all changed was the scene 
 From its turbulence into serene 
 And beautiful Peace ! Far below 
 A city as white as the snow 
 I saw in the soft crimson glow 
 Of the last gleam of glorious day 
 As it melts into darkness away! 
 A city whose walls shut within 
 No vestige of sorrow or sin ! 
 
 Where children of men were content 
 
THE NEW CITY. 229 
 
 With all the Eternal had sent ! 
 Where hovered with wings of a dove 
 The sweetness and beauty of Love 
 From Heavenly regions above ! 
 
 Where brooded the spirit of Rest, 
 As broodeth a bird on its nest ! 
 
 Where Nature's law, turned not awry, 
 
 Xo dweller therein could defy ! 
 "I come as a Saviour to children of men!" 
 
 This legend inscribed on its gates I beheld, 
 'Twas written as if with luminous pen 
 
 In flame, and my gaze with its beauty compelled ! 
 
 Its dwellers were parted, I saw, 
 
 By choice of immutable law. 
 
 Xo mingling of sexes, a wall 
 
 Divided them both, past recall ! 
 
 Each Life's busy pathway pursued 
 
 With sweet Duty's ardor imbued. 
 
 No discord ; but harmony there, 
 
 And loveliness beyond compare ! 
 
 All strife had departed, and pain, 
 
 All greed, and the struggle for gain, 
 
 And sighing for things that were vain. 
 
 Erased was all sorrow and stain ! 
 
230 
 
 THE NEW CITY. 
 
 Nevermore could eyes of man 
 
 Faces of womankind scan ; 
 
 Nevermore Love's glance be theirs — 
 
 Love and its passionate cares 
 
 Banished were from human souls 
 
 That in sweet peace found true goals. 
 
 Thus the old Love passed away 
 
 But in its place, holding sway, 
 
 Came the New Vow to protect, 
 
 And never on earth to subject 
 
 To torture the innocent child 
 
 Into this being beguiled 
 
 As in the inhuman, dark Past! 
 
 True to the Vow was the call 
 
 Henceforth in hearts of them all. 
 No degredation marked its brand 
 
 Upon fair woman's brow ; 
 No Vice with harsh and scathing hand 
 
 Made humankind to bow, 
 And drink the dregs of fierce despair; 
 
 But Chastity ruled everywhere. 
 And Slander's tongue was ever hushed, 
 Vile Scandal's wiles were downward crushed 
 Disease walked not those streets of Peace, 
 
THE NEW CITY. 231 
 
 And Death sought not there to increase 
 
 His clutch upon the race, 
 
 But hid his ghastly face 
 
 Within the hallowed place ! 
 
 Virtues bloomed like flowers, 
 
 Amid these human bowers ; 
 
 And Artifice, unknown 
 
 With no false glitter shown ! 
 
 The tinselled glow of art 
 
 In hearts here had no part ; 
 
 Convention's arbitrary rule — 
 
 The guidance of the fool — 
 
 Held here no iron sway, 
 
 Drove Wisdom not away ; 
 
 But in obscure decay 
 
 Forgotten was forever, 
 
 And resurrected never ! 
 The sins of proud Society — 
 
 The petty tricks and shams of old — 
 Were practised not; these eyes could see 
 The tinsel 'neath the gold, 
 And all the base unfold 
 That ruled mankind's degenerate heart, 
 And was of the old Life a part. 
 
232 
 
 THE NEW CITY. 
 
 The sacred Vow they always kept 
 
 Firm and inviolate ! 
 In golden precepts never slept; 
 
 Immutable as Fate ! 
 Should man on woman's features look 
 As on the fair page of a book — 
 God's book wherein all good is writ — 
 
 That man was held, by law, unfit 
 To live, and died the awful Death — 
 
 Gave for the crime his blighting breath ! 
 "Death to the Judas !" was the cry ; 
 Death to the Traitor would defy 
 Our Laws, to bring again 
 The selfish brand of Cain 
 To foreheads spotless fair, 
 And plunge our hearts in care 
 From which we have escaped, 
 And all the bitter pain 
 Of Vice's godless reign 
 That noisome woes hath shaped 
 To drag existence down 
 Where Hell's foul shadows frown 
 Upon unhallowed hosts ! 
 Where ever gliding Ghosts 
 
THE NEW CITY. 
 
 Of grim Disease flit by, 
 
 And Pain obscures the sky 
 Wherein shines Hope, from mortal eyes ! 
 Despoil not thou our Paradise 
 
 By means unholy ! 
 
 Here, meek and lowly, 
 We live the Law for us appointed, 
 Our lives by Purity anointed. 
 Death to the Judas would betray us ! 
 Death to the heart of him would slay us ! 
 
 The Law — the Vow 
 
 Protect us now ! 
 The New Millennium is ours! 
 The World is garlanded with flowers — 
 A garden fresh from God's own hand, 
 And as He at creation planned ! 
 This was the cry rose on the breeze, 
 Wafting, like murmuring of seas, 
 Sweet music on the listening ear — 
 A pean from that Land so dear ! 
 Then in the sunset's purple glow 
 That lighted up the walls of snow 
 Of that strange city, like a dove 
 The benediction of God's love 
 
 233 
 
234 THE NEW CITY - 
 
 Descended from His Home above ! 
 And Peace was in the air around 
 
 And in the realms below, 
 I heard no note of Discord sound, 
 
 Nor cry of human woe ! 
 Then tenderly the stars outshone — 
 The jewels of God's Heavenly throne — 
 "Peace! Love!" they seemed to sweetly sing, 
 Softly as touch of Angel's wing ! 
 "These cities yet shall stand, 
 The pride of every land." 
 
OSCEOLA. 
 
 235 
 
 OSCEOLA. 
 
 X-TERE, beside the deep blue sea, 
 
 I muse of days no more to be — 
 Of Life and all its tangled skein, 
 Its mingled joy and bitter pain. 
 The white sails dot the pearl-tipped waves 
 That sob and moan as o'er the graves 
 Of sailors in eternal sleep 
 Down in the caves of ocean deep ! 
 So moans my heart beside the sea 
 For one brave heart who once to me 
 Seemed god-like in his majesty! 
 Whose image now before me comes, 
 Aye, god-like still! 
 
 I hear the drums 
 Of yonder surf beat on the shore. 
 Again I'm with the hearts of yore! 
 My father was a trader brave 
 And led me hither as a boy, 
 Bv dark ravine and rocky cave 
 
236 OSCEOLA. 
 
 And swamp ; and here it was my joy 
 
 To gaze on Osceola's face 
 
 With every line of manhood's grace 
 
 Written thereon, as on a page ! 
 
 Oh, bravery was the heritage 
 
 Of this great Chief, e'en then my friend, 
 
 And true and loyal to the end ! 
 
 He drew me to him as a star 
 
 Draws mortal gaze to heaven afar. 
 
 My young soul in its ardor grew 
 
 To love his band ; their ways I knew. 
 
 Here were the swarthy negroes bold, 
 
 Never to be in slavery sold, 
 
 As was their doom in days of old, 
 
 Ere they became brave refugees ; 
 
 Only to him they bent their knees — 
 
 Their Chief! 
 
 Here were the red men true, 
 Stolid and brave to dare and do; 
 These were the mighty ones I knew 
 In those young days of long ago, 
 And their foe was my deadly foe ! 
 For Osceola drew free breath, 
 
OSCEOLA. 
 
 And slavery was living Death ! 
 
 My heart, my sympathy I gave 
 
 Unto the mighty Chief so brave. 
 
 His eagle eyes oft looked in mine ; 
 
 Stalwart was he as forest pine ; 
 
 He led us thro' the dense morass, 
 
 'Mid tangled woods and waving grass, 
 
 By tropic trees whose hair was laced 
 
 And garlanded, the foe we chased, 
 
 Relentlessly as blood hounds track 
 
 Their quarry, and ne'er turned we back ! 
 
 Beneath the swaying palms we rode 
 
 Whose leaves like daggers hung; 
 
 And under fruit of gold we strode. 
 
 While battle songs were sung. 
 
 Birds of blue and green and red 
 
 Hovered o'er each feathered head 
 
 For the fierce war-path bonnetted 
 
 'Mid sylvan haunts where fruit was pressed, 
 
 Like children to the mother-breast ; 
 
 Where the deer, startled from his rest. 
 
 Sped like an arrow from the bow, 
 
 And the bear wandered to and fro, 
 
 At blush of dawn our steps would go ; 
 
 237 
 
238 OSCEOLA. 
 
 Living the life that Freedom knows — 
 Its energy — its grand repose! 
 Our weapons were the arrows keen 
 The bow, the knife, the tomahawk; 
 Not for wild creatures of the scene 
 That thro' the everglades would stalk; 
 'These were for Tyrants only made — " 
 These weapons borne thro' everglade 
 And gorgeous vines, upon our trail: 
 So said our Chief. As summer gale, 
 His words were soft. His heart was kind 
 As maiden's in its peace enshrined ! 
 As gentle as the bronze-eyed fawn 
 That crops the herbage of the dawn ! 
 
 We halted by the streams 
 That sang, as if in dreams; 
 Where fair magnolias grew 
 And winds their fragrance blew. 
 The campfire's smoke upcurled, 
 Like sails that were unfurled. 
 
 Then would the great chief walk apart, 
 And muse beside the babbling stream, 
 
OSCEOLA. 
 
 Or gaze upon the far-off stars 
 That trembled in the majesty 
 Of God ! 
 
 'Twas there I sought him once. 
 And there he told me of his wrongs. 
 His beauteous bride had in her veins 
 The blood that doomed her for a slave! 
 How she was taken, to be sold 
 As beast of burden, in those days! 
 How he had pled for her release, 
 And how the scoff and bitter jibe 
 Of pale faces had wrung his heart 
 To deadly vengeance. "I fight them not," 
 He said, "because the face is white; 
 It is because the heart is black! 
 With treachery deep-dyed their soul ! 
 I war for Freedom of all men ! 
 So shall I till Life's sun departs." 
 
 Again at 'dawn the trail we took, 
 By moss-hung trees, and winding brook; 
 Green, tangled depths, where wild birds piped 
 And nimble squirrels, brownly striped, 
 
 239 
 
240 
 
 OSCEOLA. 
 
 Like bolts of lightning, flashed in air. 
 And hid in trees all sunlit fair. 
 
 Then rang the war whoop piercing wild ; 
 The rifle cracked ; and knives out-flashed ; 
 Blood reddened every inch of sod ; 
 Dripped at our belts the pale face scalps ! 
 The wild flight to our swamps, at dusk. 
 And we secure from hand of foe ! 
 The battle raged, day after day. 
 Then came a lull. 
 
 Where we were hid 
 Gay butterflies, with wavering wings, 
 Poised on the air, like flying flowers ; 
 The mocking bird its song outpoured 
 In thankfulness to bounteous God ! 
 But rest was brief; the stern command 
 Of Osceola rang once more, 
 And on the war-path sped his band 
 To victory. 
 
 So fell my lot, 
 One day, to linger in the camp, 
 Bade by my Chief to watch and guard. 
 
OSCEOLA. 241 
 
 Idly I lay 'neath tropic skies. 
 
 Once, bathed in sunset's radiant gold, 
 
 Before me stood an Indian girl, 
 
 Dark-eyes, and lovely as a queen ! 
 
 My heart was hers, e'en while I gazed! 
 
 The daughter of a Chief was she — 
 
 A mighty Chief — with heart of stone! 
 
 x\nd he would have his daughter wed 
 
 A slave-trader, with many wives — 
 
 Fair sample of the hideous trade ! 
 
 A harem had he 'mid these wilds 
 
 Of dusky hued, and black and white ! 
 
 We wandered on thro' blossoming trees, 
 
 Where humming bees and warbling birds 
 
 Made musical the canopies 
 
 Of leaves above? where glinted thro' 
 
 The deep blue of the skies of Heaven, 
 
 And spoke we then of Love ! 
 
 True love, 
 That fills the heart with sweetest bliss ! 
 The hope, the joy of all desire, 
 A balm, and a consuming flame ! 
 We drifted in our bark canoe 
 
242 
 
 OSCEOLA. 
 
 'Neath drooping palms, where lilies bloomed. 
 
 Not whiter, fairer, than her soul ! 
 
 Thro' fragrant breath of orange groves 
 
 We glided; saw the stars arise 
 
 And set; and sang she there for me 
 
 A song, like cooing of the dove 
 
 Unto its mate : no song more sweet 
 
 Was ever heard in Paradise ! 
 
 Alas ! but happiness is brief, 
 
 And Love — a flower that fades at eve ! 
 
 What strange canoes swung into sight? 
 What rifles gleamed in hands of might? 
 Bound were we there, and led away 
 Unto a city old and gray ! 
 They placed me in a noisome cell 
 Wherein no gleam of daylight fell — 
 Rock-hewn, in Spanish days of old. 
 Chilly, and hung with slimy mould. 
 I moaned, I cried in my despair, 
 Like pinioned leopard in its lair ! 
 I cursed my lot, with bitter tears — 
 The echo was but savage jeers! 
 A keeper came, thrust thro' a door 
 
OSCEOLA. 243 
 
 Bread, water ; then locked, as before 
 
 That egress — all was dark once more! 
 
 One night as I bemoaned my Fate, 
 
 Left hopeless, dying, desolate, 
 
 I heard the jailer's jingling keys; 
 
 A trembling smote my hands, my knees ; 
 
 But 'twas the thrill of wild delight ! 
 
 In buckskin garbed, dawned on my sight 
 
 My loved one! 
 
 In each other's arms, 
 What cared we then for all the harms 
 That vengeance sought on us to wreak? 
 ''What do you here, my darling — speak?" 
 I whispered, "I have come to save 
 My true love from his living grave!'' 
 She answered, "Doomed to torture dire — 
 The horrid rack, the deadly fire — 
 This was your portion ! 
 
 I am here 
 Oh, my beloved, do not fear ! 
 x\nd I remain to take your place ! 
 Nay, look not so, with ashen face ! 
 Horses are near: go, dearest, go!" 
 
244 
 
 OSCEOLA. 
 
 She said, with cheeks of love aglow. 
 
 "What does this mean?" my heart outspoke; 
 
 But swifter than the lightning's stroke 
 
 Fell on my ears her words of dread : 
 
 "It means, you rescued from the dead 
 
 A soul that sinned forevermore. 
 
 And from perdition did restore 
 
 A lone, despairing, worthless one 
 
 Shunned by all good beneath the sun ! 
 
 No purity was in my heart 
 
 Till love of yours came to impart 
 
 Its healing balm ; as lilies are, 
 
 In whiteness, you have made my soul 
 
 So it may seek its envied goal — 
 
 The happy hunting grounds ; for when 
 
 Your lips touched mine, ah, then, ah, then, 
 
 Love made of me — the vulture foul — 
 
 In search of prey, a dove ! 
 
 Friends prowl 
 To seek your death ! 
 
 Go ! Leave me ! Go !" 
 "Then let us both escape," I said, 
 She shook her head, and answered, "No !" 
 
OSCEOLA. 
 
 Recoiling from my arms in dread. 
 
 "I am not fit to share your love, 
 
 Tho' dear it is as Heaven above ! 
 
 To-day I was to have been wed," 
 
 And in her shame she bowed her head. 
 
 'The hardened sinner here would rest ; 
 
 I die for you — it is the best ! 
 
 That Fate alone for me is blest ! 
 
 I hear their footsteps! Go, love, fly!" 
 
 "And leave you here alone? Not I !" 
 
 I spoke, and caught her to my heart, 
 
 "No! you and I shall never part!" 
 
 She drew a dagger from her girth, 
 
 I dashed it swiftly to the earth ! 
 
 The door flew open ; swift as light 
 
 A steed I mounted, in my flight, 
 
 And lifted her unto my side, 
 
 As o'er the trail, quick, bound on bound, 
 
 We sped ! 
 
 Click ! came the fateful sound 
 Of rifle ! 
 
 245 
 
246 OSCEOLA. 
 
 With its deadly aim : 
 A spurt of blood from her breast came, 
 And silent in my arms she lay ! 
 
 * * * 
 
 On, on, with the speed of a cyclone, my bay 
 Dashed into the open, away and away ! 
 With one arm I held my dear burden, so pale, 
 But words that I spoke there could nothing avail. 
 
 By river and ford, 
 
 By hill and ravine ; 
 
 Past forests so broad 
 
 Of dew-spangled green ; 
 
 'Neath tall, bearded trees 
 
 Moss-tangled, we flew ; 
 
 With Death on the breeze — 
 
 Yet no rein I drew ! 
 
 Crack ! Crack ! rifles blazed, 
 
 Swift bullets sang 'round ; 
 
 Still forward I gazed 
 
 Nor heeded their sound. 
 
 I called her dear name! 
 
 I pleaded that she 
 
 Would speak ! Pressed her cheek, 
 
 Ah ! how cold 'twas to me ! 
 
OSCEOLA. 247 
 
 My wild, panting steed 
 Paused no whit in his flight ; 
 But each word he would heed. 
 Was there rescue in sight ? 
 Thro' the river we splashed, 
 Up the steep bank we dashed; 
 And at the dying of the day 
 As rescue, safety, far away, 
 Was almost in my startled grasp ! 
 I felt her hand's convulsive clasp, 
 Then all was still! 
 
 I knew no more, 
 Until a grave face bending o'er 
 My form, recalled me back to light 
 And Life! 
 
 And he who met my sight 
 Was Osceola, Chief and friend! 
 And so my story has its end. 
 
 $ :■< ■%. 
 
 We made her grave beneath the pines, 
 Where evermore the lily twines 
 In loving friendship with the rose, 
 And swift winds sigh at day's repose. 
 
248 OSCEOLA. 
 
 I pressed her lips ere in that tomb 
 I left her in her beauty's bloom ! 
 And ever after, in sweet dreams, 
 I've heard her voice — so near it seems ! 
 Her light canoe glides swiftly by 
 At twilight, 'neath that tropic sky, 
 And on the air her song is heard 
 Mingled with night-songs of the bird. 
 Years afterwards I sought the spot 
 Where she was laid, but found it not ; 
 But the light leaves that warm wind stir 
 Seemed ever whispering of her ! 
 I felt her breath upon my cheek, 
 Her eyes beamed on me, softly meek ! 
 Away ! it was the dream of yore 
 Those Seminole days live no more, 
 And all their joys and griefs are o'er ! 
 
 But Osceola, what of him ? 
 The well-fought battle sounds grew dim. 
 They led the Chief in chains away — 
 His spirit broken — from the fray ; 
 That spirit proud had never bent 
 Before ! 
 
OSCEOLA. 
 
 What nobler monument 
 Should be than his whose stolen lands 
 Divided were by white man's hands? 
 Whose kin were severed from his heart, 
 Whose wife was sold at Slavery's mart? 
 Conquered in the unequal fight 
 Where bullets dared the arrow's flight, 
 He looms, heroic and sublime, 
 A noble warrior thro' all time ! 
 O, glorious Nation that with might 
 Hath trodden down the Indian's Right ! 
 Hath sown your vices in his path ! 
 Will there not come a day of wrath 
 W^hen all shall surely righted be ! 
 Take heed lest this dark day you see, 
 When the red man, in God's own time, 
 Shall rise in judgment of your crime ! 
 
 249 
 
250 THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAIL. 
 
 THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAIL. 
 (Arizona.) 
 11J IGH o'er the desert's leagues of bleaching sand 
 
 That seem to quiver in the blinding glare, 
 No blade of living green on either hand, 
 With only desolation in the air, 
 And silence, breathing Death and grim Despair, 
 With helpless horror brooding everywhere 
 The spirit of the scene — a grizzly stands 
 Upon a peak whose eminence commands 
 The utmost limit of these lonely lands. 
 Above him rise still grander heights of snow, 
 Up, up, until they lose themselves in clouds ; 
 While gorge and ravine yawning far below, 
 Whose awful deeps the darkest shadow shrouds, 
 Unlighted by the sunset's dying glow, 
 A sense of fearful majesty bestow. 
 Rich purple, fit for panoply of kings, 
 The setting orb inimitably flings 
 O'er purest white of snows for ages laid 
 Far, far above the towering pine-tree glade, 
 
THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAIL. 251 
 
 And mingled hues of pearl and amethyst 
 Blend o'er the scene in gold and purple mist! 
 As if the hand of God, at shut of day, 
 Were softly laid upon His glorious work, 
 That it might hide from awe-pierced eyes away 
 Yon desert where dark, fell Destruction lay ! 
 The arrows of the sunset, tipped with fire, 
 Glanced over gorge and over rocky spire, 
 For like some vast Cathedral's massive height 
 The grand Sierras loom upon the sight 
 This sunset hour ! and thro' their cloven aisles, 
 Lo! 'tis Almighty God who sweetly smiles! 
 The wind's soft sigh is like the prelude fair 
 Of some vast organ calling man to prayer ! 
 And deeper, deeper flash the radiant dyes 
 Of those translucent, iridescent skies 
 Till Heaven seems opened to the raptured gaze 
 And human hearts pause in devout amaze ! 
 The spirit of the scene stood silent there, 
 Distinctly limned against this scene so fair, 
 Huge, fierce, as if to supreme anger wrought 
 At what the years in onward course had brought. 
 He seemed to mark the desert's deadly waste; 
 The mountains wild in adamant encased ; 
 
252 THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAIL. 
 
 The snowy peaks ! the weird abyss beneath ; 
 
 The river, like a sword without a sheath, 
 
 Glancing afar ; the pine trees darkly green — 
 
 All these he marked — the spirit of the scene — 
 
 Then to my heart, in accents eloquent, 
 
 A message from that dizzy height was sent, 
 
 And with the glory of the scene was blent 
 
 In never fading, and resistless power, 
 
 From him — the Prophet of the sunset hour ! 
 
 From him whose feet had trodden year by year 
 
 Yon valleys low, and yon aerial sphere 
 
 Whose only limit is the keen-eyed stars 
 
 Which sentinel the realm that Heaven bars 
 
 From mortal ken ! And thus the message sped : 
 
 "These paths by man untrodden, wild and lone, 
 
 The lapse of Ages, since earth's dawn, have known ! 
 
 Yon silvery river murmuring to the sea 
 
 Will ripple on till Time no more shall be ; 
 
 These caverns held in hollow of God's hand 
 
 Will rear their heads precipitately grand 
 
 And frown o'er yonder parching desert sand ; 
 
 While storms of Winter turbulent and free 
 
 Will wolf-like howl in fierce and angry might, 
 
 Resounding still from awful height to height, 
 
THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAIL. 253 
 
 'Mid blinding whirls of sleet and feathery snow, 
 
 When icy winds tumultuously blow ! 
 
 And man will pass away, aye, race by race, 
 
 No more on earth to have a biding place, 
 
 His bones will whiten yonder gleaming sands, 
 
 And all the labor of his busy hands 
 
 Will prove of no avail, howe'er he toil, 
 
 And garner, in his greed, the golden spoil 
 
 Of these wild lands ! Yet these forever last — 
 
 These battlements and towers grandly vast, 
 
 Forever soaring to the skies afar, 
 
 Above the world's incessant hum and jar, 
 
 A living monument of Deity supreme 
 
 To mock man's power, and scorn his wildest dream 
 
 Of grand achievement ! Yea, these pass not by 
 
 Till like a scroll shall rolled up be the sky 
 
 In flame and earthquake shock and gloom 
 
 W^ild portents of the judgment day of Doom! 
 
 Time was, when o'er yon desert's mighty space, 
 
 The buffalo would darken Nature's face 
 
 In numbers countless as the ocean's waves 
 
 Or, as on earth, are mankind's mouldering graves ! 
 
 As if the clouds that brought the hurricane 
 
 Had swept their vampire-wings across the plain 
 
254 
 
 THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAIL. 
 
 And hovered there ! Where are those legions now 
 
 That thundered past the vales and hills, as prow 
 
 Of vessel plunges in the ocean's brine, 
 
 Or cleft- rock flies adown the steep decline? 
 
 Gone ! Not one vestige of their bones remains 
 
 To speak their prowess on yon sterile plains ! 
 
 Oft have I seen the canvas wagons thread 
 
 The path upon the dried-up river's bed — 
 
 Like tiny sails of white they sped along 
 
 And faintly on the breeze I heard the song 
 
 Of many a brave and stalwart settler-throng 
 
 Upon its way towards the boundless West, 
 
 While here I've listened on this lofty crest ! 
 
 How oft I've watched the twinkling campfire's gleam. 
 
 Like fireflies, by the starry-lighted stream, 
 
 While o'er the tent the midnight hush descended 
 
 And all the toils of day in dreams were ended ! 
 
 Where are those brave and sun-bronzed hearts of 
 
 yore ? 
 Go search the sands, you ne'er will find them more! 
 Lost, swallowed up by Time's devouring might — 
 Gone like the lightning's flash in depths of night 
 Unmarked, unnoticed in oblivion's flight! 
 Yet still the canyon's deeps in shadows lie, 
 
THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAIL. 255 
 
 Yet still these rocks immeasurably high 
 Heed not the years in their incessant flow ; 
 Massive they stand as in ages long ago! 
 The golden arrows of the lightning strike ; 
 But bolt or sunbeam is to them alike ; 
 The rains and snows beat on them year by year, 
 But all unscathed their ancient forms appear, 
 As when they first in elemental strife 
 Sprang, at God's bidding, to insensate life ! 
 Born of the earthquake's globe uprending shock, 
 Heaving stupendous rock high up on rock ; 
 Measureless chasm and abyss tremendous, 
 Down, sheer down, where cataracts leapt by ; 
 Gorge, gulch, declivity and walls stupendous, 
 Where never gleams the light of yonder sky ! 
 Home of the eagle, and the vulture's haunt. 
 Where silently they poise on moveless wings ! 
 Ah ! vain is man and every idle vaunt 
 Of prowess that in vanity he sings 
 When measured with this handiwork of God — 
 Towers of the world, by human feet untrod ! 
 Creation's dawn first saw this majesty 
 Of mountains sentinelling yonder vales — 
 First heard the grand and fearful symphony 
 
256 
 
 THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAIL. 
 
 Awaken in the fury of its gales, 
 
 And thunder down these vast cathedral aisles 
 
 Where never blossom in the sunlight smiles ! 
 
 So far away that scarcely eye could scan — 
 
 Like specks appeared the savage caravan, 
 
 Trailing the tepees o'er the arid waste, 
 
 Or spurring on in wild ferocious haste 
 
 To where the pioneers their tents had placed, 
 
 In fancied safety, for a night of rest 
 
 And peaceful dreams, where never ills molest. 
 
 Then on the dreamers beamed the home-light sweet 
 
 Whose cheerful rays their eyes no more would greet! 
 
 The home beside the river's flowery side 
 
 Before their vision stood in humble pride ; 
 
 The well-sweep and the barn were theirs once more, 
 
 And living faces and delights of yore. 
 
 As if the fiends of Hell had all arisen — ■ 
 
 Had rushed headlong from out their lurid prison, 
 
 The painted foe upon the quarry swept, 
 
 And Death their portion was while calmly slept 
 
 Mother and babe, and maidens in their glow, 
 
 And manhood, and old age with locks of snow ! 
 
 Sphinx-like this mountain's face down-gazed 
 
 Impassive, stern, nor more amazed 
 
THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAIL. 
 
 Than if the sound of Angels' hovering wings 
 
 Had fallen there in grateful murmurings ! 
 
 Or if the grand celestial choir had sung 
 
 In rapturous measure, past all mortal tongue 
 
 Or mind of human to conceive ; so gazed 
 
 This mountain, pitiless and unamazed ! 
 
 Noon on the desert's white and gleaming waste, 
 
 A copper sky whereon no cloud is traced ; 
 
 No glance of water glimmers to the sight, 
 
 No sound of bird or beast, from left to right, 
 
 Or anywhere, nothing save quivering blight! 
 
 The cactus rears its tiny spears; no shade 
 
 For endless leagues along the trackless path 
 
 No longer swept by cyclone in its wrath, 
 
 That hurled the sleet-like sand in whirls of fire 
 
 Stinging the hapless traveler, like fire ! 
 
 No breath of air to fan the swollen veins 
 
 That choked with blood stand out upon the skin 
 
 Of laboring broncho, on whose neck the reins 
 
 Hang loosely o'er his mane. Dejected, thin, 
 
 Devoured by thirst, his rider's anxious gaze 
 
 Scans, hand o'er eyes, the soul-tormenting blaze, 
 
 His black lips cracked, and red with spirted blood ; 
 
 While in his feverish fancy pours a flood, 
 
 257 
 
258 THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAIL. 
 
 In tantalizing gushes, just afar 
 
 Where yonder mirage tells where green hills are! 
 
 The trail is lost ! He staggers aimlessly, 
 
 For yonder oasis holds life and rest ! 
 
 A few more steps and safety he can see, 
 
 And sweet repose upon fair Nature's breast! 
 
 He shouts as shouts the maniac in glee! 
 
 Another step, 'tis all to reach yon tree 
 
 That waves its branches in the cooling air ! 
 
 Still on and on his blundering footsteps fare. 
 
 For fast recedes that vision from his eyes 
 
 Beneath the fire that falleth from the skies 
 
 To wither 'neath its touch both men and beast, 
 
 And fit them for the vulture's watched-for feast ! 
 
 Oh, God of Heaven, 'tis pitiful to lie 
 
 Out on the desert lone, and slowly die ; 
 
 To seem to hear the babbling, silver brooks 
 
 Singing their way along in mossy nooks ! 
 
 To know that help is gone forevermore, 
 
 And all Life's purposes and plans are o'er ! 
 
 Was this the end to be of search for gold? 
 
 These wanderings and horrors manifold? 
 
 Ah, glazed eyes fixed upon the dome above, 
 
 Who now will close those lids with hands of love ? 
 
THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAIL. 259 
 
 Who softly still those writhing limbs of thine? 
 
 Whose loving* arms thy wasted form entwine? 
 
 E'en now, afar, mayhap some loved one waits 
 
 To welcome thee, the while she contemplates 
 
 Thy safe return to Home and all that's dear, 
 
 Within her heart no haunting thought of fear ! 
 
 And, hopeless, watching, as year follows year, 
 
 Will say: "He has forgotten those he knew 
 
 In the old days, before he proved untrue !" 
 
 Meanwhile he lies upon the barren sands, 
 
 Stretched white upon his breast those bony hands ! 
 
 His sepulchre the dim, lone desert's reach, 
 
 His requiem the eagle's rancous screech ! 
 
 And yet God knows, and understands ! 
 
 Back in the flight of Time, yea, eons back, 
 
 My spirit flies, and sees no vapid track; 
 
 But hordes that dwelt upon this flowerless land — 
 
 The men of old of stalwart limb 
 
 Whose eyes the sun-blaze could not dim. 
 
 What city of that long forgotten Past 
 
 Here built its homes, and braved the furnace-blast? 
 
 What loves, what hopes, here had their glorious birth, 
 
 And lived their hours upon this spot of earth ? 
 
 The songs of childhood, and the laugh of youth, 
 
26o THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAIL. 
 
 The words of wisdom and the voice of truth, 
 
 Here oft were heard beneath the swaying palm, 
 
 And golden hours were passed in joy and calm, 
 
 Where roses gave the fragrance of their balm 
 
 To winds that played 'mid tresses dark or fair ; 
 
 And mirth was ringing on the wandering air ! 
 
 Now every breath is laden with Despair ! 
 
 No purposes that live in human heart 
 
 But in long ages back have played their part 
 
 Beneath this sky ! Perchance here flowed the sea 
 
 In all its wild and peerless majesty! 
 
 And sails were wafted from their havens here 
 
 While songs of sailors rang with merry cheer 
 
 Long after cities had lain buried here ! 
 
 What centuries of human woe and weal 
 
 Could not these mute and Time-swept sands reveal? 
 
 Peaks of the ancient world, we ask in vain ! 
 
 Ye answer not unto our plea ! Again 
 
 I turn me to the sphinx-like mountain's brow, 
 
 And in my helplessness I humbly bow ! 
 
 Ye answer not, who all could now unfold, 
 
 Clad in soft raiment of the sunset's gold, 
 
 Crowned with the glory that surpasses kings 
 
 Beauty of star and moon, and all that brings 
 
THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAIL. 261 
 
 Loveliness to earth kneels at thy feet, 
 
 And offers thee the homage of the morn ; 
 
 The grandeur of the tempest wreathes thee 'round, 
 
 The lightning's gold is that with which thou'rt 
 
 crowned, 
 Thy jewels are the dew drops newly born ! 
 Lo ! still yon beast looks o'er the desert scene 
 Bathed in the sunset's beatific sheen — 
 Deep-woven dyes resplendently serene ! 
 Dark painted there against yon background gray. 
 Illumined by each evanescent ray, 
 The Prophet of this lone aerial height, 
 Moveless it stands amid the splendor bright. 
 Now fades the purple from the dimming West, 
 The gold the crimson wreathing peak and crest. 
 The changing hues upon the snowy breast 
 Of these Sierras. Soundless grows the air, 
 Like barques, with sails of pearl, the clouds 
 Float on their seas inimitably fair, 
 To harbors that the coming Night enshrouds. 
 God's flowers — the stars — now one by one appear, 
 As twilight in deep beauty hovers near, 
 Like some sweet Angel hushing all to rest 
 As dies the last faint glimmer in the West ! 
 
262 THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAIL. 
 
 Then from the brilliant orbs there seems to fall 
 A hush as if to prayer they summoned all 
 Of earth ! An e'en these peaks seem bowed in prayer, 
 While moonlight bends in benediction there ! 
 So thro' the night these awful caverns loom 
 Steeped in their vast impenetrable gloom ! 
 Still, echoless, no sound of whirring wing, 
 Till Morn shall come, in grandeur of a king, 
 And plant upon these walls his standard bright 
 While fly the scattered legions of the Night ! 
 Arizona, 1904. 
 
RAMON A. 263 
 
 RAMONA. 
 
 T5ESIDE the tepee's door she sat; 
 The murmur of the cataract 
 That leapt from rocky cleft to cleft 
 Was all the sound she heard. Bereft 
 Of all that life and love held dear, 
 A moment then she paused to hear 
 The accents of her little boy, 
 Playing beside her in his joy. 
 A bow and arrow held he there, 
 And little knew her heart's despair ! 
 Her open arms she held to him 
 While tears her darksome eyes made dim, 
 And these words told her woe and care: 
 "Come close to me, my poor, lone boy, 
 My anguish, and my soul's dear joy ! 
 Nay, look not in mine eyes with fear, 
 For the last time I clasp thee here ! 
 I go where love knows not deceit, 
 Where only love is ever sweet — 
 The Father's! In that happy land 
 
264 RAMONA. 
 
 Beyond the stars ! Oh, proud and grand 
 Thy father once held me to his breast, 
 And first these raven locks caressed, 
 It seems not many moons ago 
 The blissful mem'ry haunts me so ! 
 My life is fading, as the day 
 That sinks in yonder clouds away ; 
 Soon comes the night ; alas, for me ! 
 Another day I shall not see ! 
 So let me quickly tell to you 
 My story, as yon heavens true. 
 Afar from here, 'neath torrid skies, 
 And peaks that to the stars arise ; 
 Where torrents like a whirlwind dash, 
 And sounds the thunder's awful crash ; 
 Where step of white man rarely trod, 
 The red man dwelt. He was my God — 
 That stranger who one day I found 
 Within the tepee, strongly bound, 
 Reserved for torture when the sun 
 That day its lurid course had run! 
 I had a heart that could endure 
 All pangs, and keep its purpose sure; 
 An Indian maiden does not fear ! 
 
RAMONA. 265 
 
 But there was something in those eyes 
 That gazed upon me, deep and clear — 
 Something my heart could not despise ! 
 They seemed to say, "Oh, save me, girl ! 
 And I will give my heart's dear pearl — 
 Its tender love alone to thee !" 
 My soul went out in sympathy. 
 Oh, God ! that this the end must be ! 
 I gave him one assuring glance, 
 And left the rest to time and chance ; 
 For I could not the stranger leave 
 In misery to moan and grieve 
 Knowing that Death his fate would be 
 Ere midnight fell o'er rock and tree ! 
 I watched, and to the tepee crept, 
 While all the tribe in silence slept! 
 No sound except the night wind's moan, 
 I stood before him there alone ! 
 Unbound the thongs, and set him free ! 
 Led him to where he safe would be 
 Oh, God ! for white man's treachery ! 
 A pale face with a heart as black 
 As midnight! Boy, the time I lack 
 To tell thee how my heart was won. 
 
266 RAMON A. 
 
 And how I loved thy parent, son ! 
 My father was a chief, and stern, 
 And when he came the truth to learn 
 He died in grief — I left his side: 
 The Indian maiden was the bride 
 Of one to whom she gave her life — 
 Her life of Love, thro' ev'ry strife ! 
 Days passed away ; we happy were 
 Within the City's whirl and stir; 
 I lived but for his love alone, 
 He was the Sun that o'er me shone! 
 His was the smile that was a star 
 To guide me on to joy afar! 
 I never dreamed that untruth lay 
 Within his vile soul day by day ! 
 I never thought he could forget 
 The life I saved him ! With regret 
 I saw his love fade as the star 
 That ushers in the dawn afar! 
 But thou hadst come to be my joy, 
 My ruddy, little joy-faced boy! 
 For thee I lived, his taunts I bore, 
 But from this heart his love I tore, 
 When for another he forsook 
 
RAMONA. 267 
 
 His wife ; and boy, his life I took ! 
 I tracked him with the steps of Fate — 
 Even an Indian squaw can hate ! 
 * * $ 
 
 I was an outcast, shunned by all ! 
 By night I heard the wolf-pack call ; 
 But it was sweeter to my ear 
 Than heartless laughter, jibe and jeer 
 Heaped on a poor forsaken wife — 
 No home, no friend, no rest in life! 
 Oft I have paused upon the side 
 Of yonder canyons yawning wide 
 And watched the thread of silver flow 
 Thousands of feet away below, 
 And thought to plunge within its breast 
 To find an end in dreamless rest ! 
 But thou wert near ; how could I leave 
 My boy, my pride, alone to grieve ? 
 Tis better as it is: I go 
 Beyond these peaks of living snow- 
 Where the Great Spirit cares for all 
 However mean, however small ! 
 For heeds He not a sparrow's fall? 
 
268 RAMON A. 
 
 Just now I placed within thy hand 
 The poisoned arrow of our band 
 And bade thee aim with childish glee 
 The bow-string held upon thy knee ! 
 Kiss me ! One clasp ! to rest I go ! 
 Weep not my boy, thou couldst not know 
 That death lurked in the poisoned dart — 
 Thank God the arrow reached my heart ! 
 
 The night fell o'er her like a pall 
 While pitying stars looked on her there ! 
 Once happy, young, unknown to care 
 But now bereaved of Life and all ! 
 So passed she from the earth away. 
 Biding in peace God's judgment day! 
 
DAVY CROCKET'S RIDE. 2 6g 
 
 DAVY CROCKET'S RIDE. 
 
 4 4^V7'OU sort of admire that small mustang's pints? 
 Why, stranger, there's lightnin' in all them 
 rough jints! 
 That's why his name's Thunder. I gave it to him. 
 Tho' when I first owned him his name was plain 
 
 Jim. 
 Set by for a minute ; that's Rosebud, my wife — 
 Thar' ain't any finer gal around, on your life 
 Thar' ain't any sweeter in all the wide West, 
 I pan out on her, let who will have the rest ! 
 You think she's a woman ; I say she's a Saint, — 
 An Angel of goodness, I'm blessed ef she ain't! 
 But speakin' of horses. Whoa ! easy now, Thunder. 
 Look out! he might nip ye, and I shouldn't wonder! 
 Ye see, he knows me, but to strangers he's shy. 
 Just look at that devil's light in his off eye! 
 'Twas this a way : one day at sun up we sped 
 Far out on the prairie, red hot over head ; 
 There wasn't a cloud in the bright copper sky, 
 And water — there wasn't a drop of it nigh, 
 
270 DAVY CROCKET'S RIDE. 
 
 Not even a sign of it, look where you might, 
 
 And nothin' but parched, withered sage brush in sight. 
 
 Why even the tongues of the coyotes hung out 
 
 A half a yard long as they skulked 'round about. 
 
 I own I was puzzled to know whar to go — 
 
 To know what to do — tho' I'm not always so. 
 
 'Well, Thunder,' sez I, 'it's a clear case of skunk.' 
 
 He snorted, as much as to say — 'We'll git hunk !' 
 
 Then just over thar rose a small cloud of dust, 
 
 I couldn't make out what it meant, at the fust, 
 
 But Thunder there picked up his ears, shook his head, 
 
 And Tnjins! run fur it!' that's just what he said. 
 
 Right off to our left was a small clump of trees, 
 
 We started fur that ; it was go as you please ; 
 
 But I knew we could hide, if we got there in time, 
 
 And the way Thunder galloped — well, it was sublime ! 
 
 I just let him have that bit all to the good, 
 
 And yelled 'Go it Thunder!' and he understood! 
 
 The red devils swept down, with one mighty yell, 
 
 I fired at the foremost, his horse reared, he fell ! 
 
 A shower of bullets clipped brush all around, 
 
 But on galloped Thunder — kept time to the sound ! 
 
 Still nearer and nearer, to head us they tried, 
 
 Old Thunder kept going, and never once shied 
 
DAVY CROCKET'S RIDE. 271 
 
 Until we were safe behind that clump of trees, 
 And Thunder — why, that for him wasn't a breeze ! 
 But this wasn't all, for I caught just a gleam, 
 Although miles away, I knew 'twas a stream, 
 And that was the brightest of visions to me, 
 A sight much more precious than any could be ! 
 Say, Stranger, do you know the awful sensation 
 Of thirst, hev ye given it consideration? 
 The sky like an oven, the sand 'neath yer feet, 
 And even the rattle snakes frizzling with heat; 
 Yer tongue lolling out, and yer lips baked and hard, 
 Well, say, if yer haven't, yer lucky, old pard. 
 As I was just savin', he saved me, old Thunder, 
 So look at him, tell me now, ain't he a wonder? 
 But that wasn't all, fer we've had other chases 
 Which showed Thunder's mettle and elegant paces. 
 Just pass the old bottle, it makes me feel dry 
 To think of the times we've had, Thunder and I. 
 One night when the stars were all twinkling aloft, • 
 And breezes were hummin' not any too soft, 
 We two had been prospectin' nigh the foot hills, 
 And hungry enough, well, to give one the chills. 
 When all of a sudden the heavens grew clouded 
 A snow-storm was risin', the prospect was shrouded 
 
272 
 
 DAVY CROCKETS RIDE. 
 
 With big flakes of snow till our sight it was blinded, 
 We'd soon lost the trail ; but old Thunder ne'er minded. 
 He stood still awhile as if thinking about it, 
 Then made up his mind that he could do without it 
 And find out a path for himself. 
 
 Now 'twas midnight 
 The snow kept on falling, and totally hid night; 
 But Thunder, fleet footed, just kept up his stride 
 And I was so frozen, I scarcely could ride. 
 An hour went by, and we no nigher home, 
 The desert was white, like an ocean of foam ; 
 I heard a low sound, and the old horse looked back 
 To see what it was that had followed his track ; 
 I knew it was wolves, and, my God, what a pack ! 
 On, faster and faster, they came with a rush ! 
 It made my blood curdle to hear in that hush 
 Of snow-blinding midnight the horrible howl 
 Of hundreds of wolves with their fierce hungry growl ! 
 Old Thunder he knew how to spoil their nice game, 
 He'd been thar' before, and their mettle could tame ; 
 I stood in my stirrups, and held tight my breath, 
 (To be eaten alive ain't a nice kind of death !) 
 
DAVY CROCKET'S RIDE. 273 
 
 As the foremost black speck shown out clear on the 
 
 white 
 Of the snow, I let loose, and one stopped in his flight ! 
 Bang! Bang! you'd have thought that all hell was 
 
 to pay, 
 And so for a minute I held them at bay. 
 To see them black devils, when they'd scented blood, 
 Tear, scramble and scratch would hev' done yer heart 
 
 good. 
 Old Thunder swept on, didn't lose nary inch — 
 A friend is yer friend when it comes to a pinch ! 
 And he was my friend on that terrible night. 
 I'll never forget it — not by a dern sight! 
 Them wolves put together, stopped havin' their fight, 
 We hurried along, and they fast strugglin' after, 
 And all the while makin' their horrible laughter, 
 Which seemed to say, 'now we'll soon hev' ye dead 
 
 beat, 
 And dollars to doughnuts ye both are our meat! 5 
 But look ! at the foot-hills a half mile away 
 There twinkles a light ! 'tis as welcome as day 
 To one who despairs thro' a night of disaster ! 
 I'm blessed if old Thunder then didn't run faster, 
 And up to the door of my cabin he stopped, 
 
274 DAVY CROCKET'S RIDE. 
 
 While out of the saddle I instantly dropped 
 
 And led him straight in, when I barred quick the door, 
 
 Those daring black devils we'd foiled just once more! 
 
 Say, Stranger, now ain't it a while between drinks? 
 
 Ye see, 'bout old Thunder I've so many kinks 
 
 I'd set here forever ter tell what he's done; 
 
 There ain't any equal ter him, not a one! 
 
 Well, there was a gal, just a rose-bud of June, 
 
 She set my heart singin' to Love's sweetest tune, 
 
 Yer never might think it; but 'twas years ago, 
 
 And somehow time changes a feller, ye know, 
 
 But never the heart — she's my love to this hour, 
 
 And blooms still for me, my dear rose-bud, my flow'r ! 
 
 Another chap liked her, she didn't let on 
 
 Which lover her mind had yet settled upon. 
 
 So somehow that chap said we'd race for her hand, 
 
 Whoever should win she would choose — understand? 
 
 Well, he was a tenderfoot, always would brag 
 
 About his fine Morgan-sired thoroughbred nag. 
 
 And I had old Thunder, or rather plain Jim — 
 
 For that was the name was first given to him. 
 
 The race-day came of! : there was lots of a crowd, 
 
 The talk and the bettin' was both rather loud. 
 
 A hundred to one was the odds on my nag, 
 
DAVY CROCKETS RIDE. 275 
 
 But that didn't matter, and I didn't care, 
 
 For I saw a face that looked heavenly fair, 
 
 Her eyes seemed to say, "I am yours, and you'll win !" 
 
 Although to the rest my chance looked rather thin. 
 
 Four miles straight away and return, was the game, 
 
 His horse looked the winner, mine humble and tame. 
 
 We started, the crowd roared, he'll beat him to death, 
 
 But me and old Thunder there just held our breath. 
 
 In racin', ye know, it's a good thing ter wait 
 
 And shout when yer win, this you'll learn soon or late ! 
 
 The First mile he went away far in the lead, 
 
 But 1 didn't mind that, I knew Thunder's speed, 
 
 Just hung on until we had come to the Two 
 
 And then just a leetle up nearer I drew. 
 
 The Third, 'bout the same, and I saw Thunder wink 
 
 As much as to say, 'We hev' got him, I think !' 
 
 The Fourth, goin' easy, as usual quite, 
 
 And then came the run home — well that was a sight ! 
 
 The Fifth, we had crept up still nearer, could see 
 
 That Morgan-sired thoroughbred didn't agree 
 
 With the lashing his rider applied to his flank. 
 
 I knew in a twinkling his courage then sank, 
 
 And old Thunder's hoof-beats — they flew like a dart — 
 
 Kept always repeating, 'Oh, we'll break his heart!' 
 
276 DAVY CROCKETS RIDE. 
 
 'Oh, we'll break his heart!' then the Sixth mile we 
 
 passed, 
 And up to his saddle swept Thunder, at last! 
 He hung there as never a nag hung before! 
 Then up to the skies went a yell and a roar, 
 As the Seventh we passed, half an inch to the fore! 
 The thoroughbred rallied, came at us again, 
 His rider plied spur, till he bled from each vein, 
 But it was nary use, and the string was in sight, 
 And Thunder, swept on, in his masterly might, 
 Won the race in a canter, and just by pure grit, 
 And Stranger, well, that is about all of it ! 
 Except that I won the gal settin' up there 
 And smilin', a pretty rose-bud in her hair, 
 Which she took and pinned on my coat right away, 
 And she's been my Rose-bud since that very day !" 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE ARGENTINE. 277 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE ARGENTINE. 
 
 A CARVEN arrow's head once bore 
 
 This legend of the days of yore, 
 From wide-spread pampas to my door; 
 
 So, hear me tell it. 
 Long buried was this arrow's head 
 Where reaches of deep green outspread, 
 Beneath a turquoise sky, so fair, 
 That paradise seemed mirrored there, 
 Stretched to the Andes far away : 
 This tale of Love it breathes to-day, 
 
 And what befell it. 
 Ere the white man's conquering horde 
 Trod those pampas wild and broad ; 
 When the condor's mighty wings 
 Swept these mountain openings, 
 Poising over caverns vast 
 On which never had been cast 
 Eye of mortal ; ere these caves 
 Had become the silent graves 
 Of the dwellers of the rocks 
 
278 THE LEGEND OF THE ARGENTINE. 
 
 Cleft and crumbling with the shocks 
 
 Of the tempest and the storm 
 
 Hurled when loomed the earthquake's form, 
 
 Shattering with giant hands 
 
 These primeval mountain lands, 
 
 Delving awful deeps where Fear 
 
 Ever since has hovered near — 
 
 Ere this time a savage race 
 
 Made these plains a dwelling place. 
 
 Strong of limb, bronze-brown of hue, 
 
 Valiant, and of purpose true ; 
 
 In the chase of eagle flight, 
 
 Brave and crafty in the fight ; 
 
 Bold of heart, to fear a stranger, 
 
 Morn would see the savage ranger 
 
 Speeding o'er the plains in battle, 
 
 With a foeman's ire aglow, 
 Nerved on by the war-drum's rattle, 
 
 Armed and eager for the foe! 
 Noon, beneath the palms o'erspreading, 
 Shade and sweet contentment shedding, 
 Saw the maidens coyly gathered 
 
 In a circle bright and fair, 
 With their garments gaily feathered — 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE ARGENTINE. 279 
 
 Plumage varied, rich and rare. 
 Ah ! for lovers then they waited, 
 
 Hastening from battle dire ! 
 On their prowess contemplated, 
 
 Eager for their heart's desire! 
 Twilight, with its purple wings, 
 
 Over them made shadows deep : 
 Where the tangled foliage swung, 
 And the vine in clusters clung, 
 
 Nature wooed to tranquil sleep 
 Pampas, hill and wooded steep, 
 Then crept stealthily from lair 
 Beasts that shunned the daylight fair. 
 Slid the lizard thro' the leaves, 
 Where the noisome spider weaves ; 
 Twined the snake on dewy trees 
 Motionless on moonlit leas. 
 From his huge and horrid den 
 Strode the fierce gorilla then, 
 Making hideous with his cry 
 Every region neath the sky 
 That his lungs of brass could reach 
 With reverbrated screech ! 
 While the cougar, from the limb, 
 
2 8o THE LEGEND OF THE ARGENTINE. 
 
 Crouched, and darted on the dim 
 Covert of the Night, his stare 
 From two eyes with rage a-glare! 
 Yet from the forest and the plain, 
 And from the Andes to the main, 
 Along the Orinoco's sweep 
 There spread no terror half so deep, 
 No fear like that this monster brought 
 Thro' deeds of cruel vengeance wrought 
 On those who ventured on his path 
 And met the demons of his wrath! 
 Half man, half devil ! horror vile ! 
 No Caliban from Fancy's Isle 
 So fierce, so unrelenting, foul, 
 As he that bore the hideous scowl 
 Of a malignant, deathless hate 
 T'wards all God's creatures animate ! 
 
 * * ;;< 
 
 Brave was the Chief in the pride of his youth, 
 Child of a sire who had long passed away ; 
 
 Fair was the maiden in whose eyes the truth 
 Shone as the dew on the lilies of May! 
 
 Sweet was the love that was plighted at eve 
 Under the stars that were clustering bright ; 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE ARGENTINE. 281 
 
 Lone was the heart that was destined to grieve, 
 
 Steeped in the darkness of Misery's night! 
 Often they wandered beside the clear stream, 
 
 Often it listened to vows that they told; 
 Love held their souls in its beautiful dream — 
 
 Love that in spite of Time never grows old ! 
 He was her pride for his valor and fame ; 
 
 She was his idol of grace past compare ; 
 Joy of his heart, like a spirit she came 
 
 Bringing to him all things lovely and fair! 
 Soon were their lives to be wedded with joy, 
 
 Like mountain torrents that meet on the plain! 
 Joined with a passion that naught could destroy — 
 
 Fraught not with shadows of sorrow or pain. 
 Nature's sweet children they were, in its prime, 
 
 Free and untrammeled by Fashion or Art; 
 Love knows no season, and Love knows no Time ; 
 
 Their's was the pure, virgin bond of the heart! 
 * * * 
 "Omene, dearest," spoke her love 
 ''Take from my lips these gifts above ; 
 See those the false and fickle claim — 
 My kisses ! Give me back the same !" 
 Ah ! beautiful she lingered there 
 
282 THE LEGEND OF THE ARGENTINE. 
 
 Framed in her wealth of raven hair 
 That in the moonlight shone as fair 
 
 And glossy in its splendor 
 As did those orbs of midnight hue 
 That uttered, mutely, answers true 
 
 To words of love so tender ! 
 "Good -night, Omene, now we part 
 But for awhile; yet in my heart 
 I keep thee as a flow'r that blooms 
 Amid some far-off desert glooms, 
 So sweet, so rare thou'lt ever be, 
 Dear Indian maiden, unto me !" 
 They parted in the silver gleam 
 Of moonlight ; each to fondly dream 
 Of bliss that was for them in store : 
 They parted — to meet nevermore ! 
 In dreams, the maiden's raptured gaze, 
 Softrlighted by Love's ardent rays, 
 Beheld the Future's radiance shine 
 In rapture that was all divine! 
 In dreams, she held her lover's hand 
 Threading the groves of fairy-land ! 
 The angels sang to soft repose 
 Her heart, as breezes lull the rose 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE ARGENTINE. 283 
 
 Of twilight to its gentle sleep, 
 So calm, so restful, and so deep ! 
 * * * 
 With stealthy stride from out the wood 
 Who glides in wrathful solitude? 
 The fierce gorilla nears the tent, 
 Xow straight he glides, now lowly bent, 
 Glares 'round him with a cunning leer! 
 Oh, maiden, quaileth not with fear 
 Thy gentle heart, e'en in thy dreams, 
 As onward fall the baleful gleams 
 Of those fell eyes where lights of hell 
 Blaze in their flames unquenchable? 
 One scream of wild and lone despair 
 Cleaves like a knife the torrid air! 
 Then, in his arms, with mighty stride 
 He bears the maiden far away 
 While gleam the skies with tints of day, 
 And fall the shrieks of wild dismay ! 
 
 5£ %■ % 
 
 On, on, like a torrent in turbulent might, 
 The sons of the forest spur after in flight ! 
 With heart all aflame rides the chief at their head, 
 To rescue the maiden tho' living or dead ! 
 
284 THE LEGEND 0F THE ARGENTINE. 
 
 Past tangle of vines, over river and hill, 
 By valley and wood, over cascade and rill, 
 In gorge and ravine, till the desert afar 
 Shines on their gaze, like the gleam of a star ! 
 By night and by day o'er the desert they speed, 
 It bears not a leaf, no not even a weed ! 
 But yonder, afar on its ultimate verge, 
 There blooms an oasis ! Still onward they urge 
 Their fast failing steeds on the gorilla's track, 
 No ardor they lose and no courage they lack : 
 They care not for hunger, they heed not- the thirst, 
 For fierce the revenge that their maddened hearts 
 nursed. 
 
 Day follows day; they journey on, 
 
 Until their hope has well nigh gone ! 
 
 No food, no water anywhere, 
 
 Nothing but one all-binding glare 
 
 Of sun ! Steeds drop on every side 
 
 Their forms bestrew the desert wide 
 
 To gorge the buzzards of the air 
 
 That hover o'er their pathway there ! 
 
 With sun-baked lips, the riders lie 
 
 Beside their panting steeds to die. 
 
 They talk of rivers gushing free, 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE ARGENTINE. 285 
 
 Of fountains in the desert sand ; 
 Of brooks that purl in melody; 
 But Death lurks there on every hand ! 
 Pale, quivering forms cry for one drop 
 Of water; but the rest ne'er stop — 
 They follow where the chieftain leads 
 Who little all the anguish heeds ! 
 One thought is his in pain and death — 
 To rescue her ere his last breath ! 
 They mark his tracks upon the sand — 
 That monster's — and the lessening band 
 Still staggers on! He looms in sight — 
 Seems laughing in at their hapless plight ! 
 The maiden in his arms he holds 
 His mighty clutch her throat enfolds ! 
 ♦ * * 
 From crag to crag leaping, still upward he flies, 
 The fierce fire of Hell in his terrible eyes, 
 He laughs his pursuers to scorn as he bears 
 His fair burden on to the dim mountain lairs 
 Of the cougar and jaguar, o'er crevice and cleft, 
 With the might of a giant of pity bereft! 
 Up, up, till he reaches the furthermost edge 
 Of the precipice, piercing the clouds, like a wedge, 
 
286 THE LEGEND OF THE ARGENTINE. 
 
 Till clearly in view of the young chief he stands, 
 And holds o'er the deep yawning gulf in his hands 
 The maiden ! 
 
 With horror and hopeless despair, 
 The chief presses on, in his heart a wild prayer 
 That the gods of his tribe will lend succor and aid. 
 And safely restore to him yon helpless maid. 
 "Hold ! Horrid monster ! Curse thy hand !" 
 He cries, while mockingly doth stand 
 The creature of his vengeful hate ! 
 The arrow of the chief too late 
 Wings from its leash ! Down caverns vast 
 The maiden with a shriek is cast, 
 Just as the fatal poisoned dart 
 Is fleshed within the man-ape's heart ! 
 
 Years afterwards her grave they made 
 Where the wild flowers gem the glade ; 
 And where the bright-winged birds flit by, 
 Singing their songs to earth and sky. 
 Beside her lies the chief whose love 
 Was more to her than Heaven above ! 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE ARGENTINE. 287 
 
 Long, long, the tribe this legend told 
 Of those dark, savage days of old — 
 Of valor bright, of Love so true. 
 As I have told it unto vou. 
 
288 MOANEE. 
 
 MOANEE. 
 
 (A Tale of the Foot-Hills.) 
 
 TTARK to this tale of the foot-hills lone — 
 
 This legend that lights the Western zone 
 With its glow of human kindliness 
 
 That the savage heart, loathe to confess 
 Still shows, like gold hid in dull earth, 
 
 Which to the eye puts forth its mirth 
 After the passion,-shock of storm 
 
 That rends the pine tree's towering form. 
 Hark to the night-winds ! in their tones 
 
 Fancy may hear the parting moans 
 Of many a brave in days of old 
 
 Who reddened these arid, level sands, 
 As ancient legends have often told, 
 
 In the wild foray, where the savage bold 
 With his schemes of cunning manifold, 
 
 Oft led to battle his murderous bands. 
 Here are whitened bones that peep to-day 
 
 When the storm-wind sweeps the sands away. 
 Here are arrows that have sped their flight 
 
 In the horrible tumult of the fight ; 
 
MOANEE. 289 
 
 Yon grand, majestic cliff could tell 
 
 Of the wild and hideous savage yell, 
 Like a voice that came from the pits of hell ! 
 
 And this canyon's dim and vasty deeps 
 Where breathless silence ever keeps 
 
 Its lair, with awesome vigilance, 
 Could whisper of the fierce advance, 
 
 In war-paint hideous to view, 
 Of cruel hordes, here to imbue 
 Their hands in hated tribal blood 
 
 That flowed like a sunset-tinted flood 
 When the carnage of the strife began, 
 
 And the battle was fiendish man to man. 
 Not the panther in his mighty wrath 
 
 Prowled to destroy, on his midnight path, 
 With a more relentless, vengeful hate 
 
 Than the savage showed while he w r ould wait, 
 Low-crouched, upon these level plains, 
 
 Once deeply dyed with gory stains, 
 For the coming of his treacherous foe 
 
 In the horrible days of the long ago ! 
 Not a rattlesnake with its head erect, 
 
 And its coils with dark-hued scales bedecked, 
 Bore such malignance in its glance 
 
290 
 
 MOANEE. 
 
 As the savage eyes, keen as a lance, 
 Glared at the signs along the trail, 
 
 Which never he had known to fail, 
 That told him of the stealthy tread 
 
 Of the enemy he was taught to dread 
 By long hereditary spite, 
 
 In those terrible days of savage might ! 
 So I tell the legend, as it was told 
 
 By the camp-fires in the times of old, 
 When the blue smoke rose above the pines, 
 
 In a thousand curling, waving lines, 
 And the warriors of the plains, at peace, 
 
 To all their battles gave surcease. 
 
 -!« % ^ 
 
 Fairest of Indian maids — • 
 Sprite of these emerald glades — 
 
 Was Moanee, whose sire 
 The Chieftain proud and brave, 
 Ne'er would to foemen crave — 
 
 Whose heart was raging fire ! 
 Her step was like the fawn's 
 That glided at the dawn's 
 
 First light upon the hill ! 
 Her hair, the raven's wing 
 
MOANEE. 291 
 
 That poised above the spring 
 
 That glistened 'mid the bloom ! 
 Her eyes were dark of hue, 
 Bespeaking courage true. 
 
 And still untouched by gloom. 
 The child of Nature's choice, 
 Lovely, and mild of voice, 
 
 A maid beyond all fear; 
 Joy of the Chieftain's heart. 
 Of his lone life a part 
 
 His comfort year by year 
 She grew to womanhood, 
 This nymph of grove and wood, 
 
 The tribe's bright hope and joy ; 
 Woe to the blighting hand — 
 Death to the dastard band 
 
 Would Moanee destroy! 
 There was no deed too bold 
 In those dark days of old 
 
 Nor punishment too dire 
 Of fiercest, torture-fire 
 
 To visit on his head 
 
 Who dared the might so dread 
 Of Moanee's proud sire! 
 
292 MOANEE. 
 
 He loved her with a passion tender, 
 
 To him she was his all in all; 
 Her thought was but of him ; to render 
 
 A daughter's love whate'er might fall, 
 Tho' o'er him grew the clouds of sorrow, 
 
 Tho' tempests of defeat each morrow 
 Assailed him, she was ne'er denied. 
 
 Tho' her Life's joys were multiplied 
 For this red chief of all his race 
 
 Upon whose grand and stoic face 
 Love set its mark of haughty pride 
 
 In her — the daughter at his side ! 
 In chase and battle she was near 
 
 The bow and arrow in her hands 
 Answered her spirit's swift commands ; 
 
 And all the tribe her prowess knew, 
 
 Paying her queenly reverence due ; 
 For was she not their Warrior Queen, 
 
 In savage womanhood serene, 
 
 The naiad of that desert scene ? 
 
 But Love had come to the maiden's heart, 
 
 With all its sweetness and all its pain — 
 
 The keen delight and the bitter smart — 
 
MOANEE. 293 
 
 Its burst of starlight, its tears of rain ! 
 She gave her soul to her sire-chief's foe 
 
 Brave Eagle-Wing, who in many a blow 
 Of fiercest conflict her sire defied. 
 
 She had promised to become his bride 
 When Autumn leaves had to crimson changed, 
 
 And the wildwood trail o'er which they ranged 
 Had its emerald glories turned to gold 
 
 In a wealth of beauties manifold. 
 But a rival warrior of her band 
 
 Had wooed her for her heart and hand — 
 Lone Wolf, who looked with a scowl of hate 
 
 On his enemy kindlier used by Fate ; 
 Who was smiled upon by the maiden fair 
 
 Whom the tribe had guarded with tender care ; 
 And for vengeance sought he early and late. 
 * * * 
 
 She had laughed his ardent vows to scorn, 
 All her sharp rebukes he had meekly borne, 
 
 But within his breast his smouldering ire 
 Lay buried, like the volcano's fire, 
 And he vowed to win her, his heart's desire ! 
 
 But the Indian maiden arch, yet coy, 
 Went on her way in the bountiful joy 
 
2 94 MOANEE. 
 
 Of a Love that Heaven to her had sent — 
 
 In which each thread of Life's woof was blent ! 
 * * # 
 The dawn was tinting peaks of snow 
 
 With its enamelled, roseate glow, 
 That flashed from rocky cleft and cave 
 
 To the boundless deeps of gloom below, 
 And to the scene a grandeur gave, 
 
 As the glinting arrows of the sun 
 Glanced here and there, with light intense, 
 In a maze of wild magnificence ! 
 The Western world from nest awoke, 
 
 And mists arose on high — 
 The great All Spirit to invoke — 
 
 Ascending, incense-like, unto the sky ! 
 It was Dawn, as yet, of Life 
 
 The mountain-torrents, as in play, 
 
 Tossed to the breeze their diamond spray ; 
 And leaped along from steep to steep, 
 Sparkling in every crevice deep. 
 
 The birds poured forth a matin song 
 That rippled down the jubilant breeze, 
 And rang in joyous symphonies 
 
 The leafy groves along. 
 
MOANEE. 295 
 
 It was a Dawn, as yet, of Life 
 
 All unembittered by the strife 
 Of foes in turbulent array. 
 As if to mock the glorious Day 
 
 Xew-born unto a teeming earth ! 
 
 As if to turn to darkest dearth 
 Fair scenes with p'ladness rife ! 
 
 .-> j 
 
 Hark ! with a horrible rush and a roar — 
 Boom of the surf on a storm-smitten shore — 
 Crash of the terrible avalanche-pour 
 Met mighty legions contending! 
 Faces that gleam with a fiendish delight. 
 War-painted ; arrows in murderous flight, 
 Steeds that out-thundered in hoof-beating might 
 
 Tempests their fury expending! 
 Out of the hell of the battle that rages — 
 Like unto beasts just set free from their cages — 
 
 Eagle Wing singles out Lone Wolf, while he 
 Watches his rival. 
 
 The challenge is given, 
 While the blue firmament o'er them is riven 
 With veils that are momentlv stifled in Death ! 
 
296 
 
 MOANEE. 
 
 And trampling of steeds that are crushing the breath 
 
 From foemen whose war-paint in mockery there 
 
 Mingles with gore in the sun's vivid glare ! 
 
 On speed the rivals o'er the plain, 
 
 Until a space apart they gain 
 
 Far from the battle's deafening din ; 
 
 Their prize — the maid each strives to win ! 
 
 The mountains tower on either side, 
 
 The river glistens deep and wide, 
 
 The pine trees look in lofty pride 
 
 Upon the warriors bold ; 
 Alas ! a moment later they see 
 Prone on the sands in agony 
 Eagle Wing, whose death rattle sounds 
 Amid those silent, desert mounds ! 
 His dying steed beside him lies, 
 O'er them the glaring, parching skies. 
 Lone Wolf looks on his rival's fate 
 With glances of malignant hate. 
 A haughty smile comes o'er his brow. 
 But, lo ! with sweet compassion now 
 He from the saddle swiftly swings, 
 And running to the river brings 
 A draught of water for those lips 
 
MOANEE. 
 
 Deep-purpling in pale Death's eclipse ! 
 He bids him drink in accents mild, 
 As he would speak unto a child. 
 "Moanee !" came the whisper low ; 
 "Moanee ! Love ! from Life I go, 
 Bearing the sweetest thoughts of thee 
 Unto the happy hunting land; 
 By the Great Spirit thus set free ! 
 Farewell ! Farewell, forevermore !" 
 Then no sound the zephyrs onward bore. 
 
 Down from the zig ; -zag mountain trail, 
 Rushed the Indian maiden wild and pale, 
 With a horde of warriors following her 
 Over the dangerous rock-ribbed spur! 
 She is kneeling by her lover's side, 
 She is holding him unto her breast, 
 In the anguish of her soul's unrest! 
 Lone Wolf, pursued, made prisoner 
 And firmly bound they brought to her. 
 She cast on him a loathing look 
 Of deepest scorn. 
 
 297 
 
298 
 
 MOANEE. 
 
 "This is thy work!" 
 She cried, and from her quiver took 
 Her keenest arrow. 
 
 "Shall there lurk 
 Within my heart one pitying thought 
 For him who has this foul deed wrought ? 
 Die !" 
 
 "Stay your hand!" Lone Wolf replied, 
 "In gage of battle thus he died ! 
 My life was free for him to take ! 
 It was the chance of War that gave 
 Me life, and him the silent grave ! 
 Xot for your pity now I crave. 
 The Indian brave fears not to go 
 Where he has sent his conquered foe ! 
 My heart relented ere had fled 
 The spirit of the noble dead 
 I brought wherewith to quench his thirst, 
 And back to life I would have nursed 
 Him for your sake, because your love 
 Is dearest to my heart — above 
 All thoughts of vengeance !" 
 
MOANEE. 299 
 
 'Mid her band, 
 The arrow dropped from out her hand. 
 "Loose him, and let him safely go !" 
 She said, "Were he the foulest foe 
 I could not, would not do him harm 
 For he was kind, his noble arm 
 Would soothe where he had laid the blow ! 
 A father gone in this day's fight: 
 Oh, do I read your thoughts aright, 
 Brave band, and Chief he now shall be !" 
 Lone Wolf thanked her, on bended knee, 
 Kissing the hand she offered him 
 There in the twlight gathering dim. 
 
 * ♦ * 
 Then the pine trees gazed on another scene 
 After the lapse of moons serene ; 
 And the mountains seemed to hide their frown 
 Silently, solemnly peering down 
 On the festal dance and the songs of glee, 
 As Lone Wolf wedded fair Moanee! 
 
3oo 
 
 THE OREGONIAN. 
 
 THE OREGONIAN. 
 
 TTNDER the skies of the infinite azure, 
 
 Under the silver of myriad stars ; 
 Nigh to the mountain's majestic embrasure, 
 Awful and grand with its abysmal scars; 
 Here let me bide in my joyous contentment — • 
 Here with the birds and the cattle that roam — 
 Owing the world not a tithe of resentment, 
 Over me God's multitudinous dome ! 
 Long leagues of land in the blaze of the sunlight, 
 Stretching afar to the horizon's verge ; 
 Then, at the darkness, the soft gleam of one light- 
 Star of my cabin — while homeward I urge. 
 Here it is God's Land, and Heaven is nearer ! 
 Dies all the petty contention of earth ; 
 Even the brooks and the flowers seem dearer 
 Bound to my heart by a fair higher worth 
 Than all I find in the din of the rabble, 
 Crazed with its race for the gaining of gold, 
 Wild with the noise of its incessant babble — 
 Type of the heathenish Babel of old ! 
 
THE OREGON I AN. 301 
 
 One with my soul is the rush of the torrent 
 Tearing its course down precipitant deeps ! 
 Even the rattle of reptile abhorrent 
 Blends with the bird-song, and harmony keeps ! 
 Room for the soul's broad expansion is 'round me, 
 Room for the sympathies tethered in town ; 
 Here can I break all the fetters that bound me, 
 Cast all society's heresies down ! 
 
 Nature is mine with its beautiful sweetness — 
 Laughter of winds in the lightness of Spring ; 
 Glory of flow'rs in radiant completeness ; 
 Canyons and clefts where the wild echoes ring ; 
 Waterfalls gleaming with hues iridescent, 
 Swirling in thunderous vehemence by ; 
 Snow-peaks that lift to the moon's pearly crescent, 
 Piercing the blue of the luminous sky ; 
 Flight of the vulture that airily poises — 
 Eager to sweep on its quarry afar; 
 Insects that utter their petulant noises — 
 Far better these to my heart than the jar 
 And turbulent warfare of wild, crowded places 
 Knowing no God but the God of base gain ! 
 Tricked by the glamour of deceiving faces, 
 
302 
 
 THE 0REG0NIAN. 
 
 Filled with the spectres of want and of pain ! 
 Oh, for the rare fragrant breath of the prairie 
 Bearing the scent of the long waving grass ! 
 Oh, for the bright plumed birds ! And the airy 
 Voice of the pines ; and the rivers, like glass, 
 Sweeping majestical, silvery-winding, 
 Onward, still onward, and evermore finding 
 Gorgeous magnificence over them bending, 
 Gold of the sunlight and silver of starlight 
 Evermore blending and unto them lending 
 The power and grandeur that live not in Art 
 But only are born out of wild Nature's heart 
 Their beauty, their gladness, their rest to impart ! 
 
 * * ♦ 
 Mine be the serpent that slips thro' the sand. 
 With sinous sliding, and malignant glance ; 
 Mine be the cyclone fierce, mighty and grand. 
 For in its fury one has half a chance ! 
 Give me the grizzly, tremendous of paw. 
 Rather the vulture, the sleek lizard's jaw — 
 Aye, rather these than the scandal and spite 
 The spleen and the jeer of the opulent crowd, 
 The way of the world that has made Mammon might, 
 And utters its sophistries blatant and loud ! 
 
THE OREGON I AN. 303 
 
 At least I have rest from the long, hopeless quest 
 Of a love that can never — ah ! never be mine ! 
 There is rest in the rill, and the pines of the hill, 
 In the lone, brilliant stars, and the moon's placent 
 
 shine ! 
 There is peace in the sound of the wild waterfall 
 That bloweth its trumpet on storm- jagged steep 
 To summon the echoes of yon canyon's wall, 
 And, like tangled silver, then headlong to leap ! 
 There is joy for the heart that can hope nevermore. 
 Forsaken by Love in the days passed away : 
 For Nature alone can its calmness restore, 
 And teach it to hold taunting Mem'ry at bay ! 
 
 Why utter the story of one all untrue — 
 
 Of Love's tender vows in their holiness shattered? 
 
 The severance bitter, the scornful adieu. 
 
 The jewels of confidence thus rudely scattered! 
 
 I meet no rebuff in the elements near me ; 
 
 The wild creatures slink from my pathway and fear 
 
 me; 
 To me they are harmless, and bear me no scorn. 
 Fit comrades are they for hearts hopeless, forlorn ! 
 Rich butterflies, like gaudy flowers awing, 
 
304 THE OREGONIAN. 
 
 Amid tangled vines gayly hover and swing; 
 Close hid, the panther crouched low on the branch 
 Waits but to fall, like a fierce avalanche ! 
 Sunning itself in the bright, blinding glare 
 Of noontide the rattler lies coiled in the sand ; 
 And songs of the birds on the bloom-scented air 
 I hear, like the echoes from far fairy-land ! 
 The river my comrade is, restlessly flowing, 
 Onward, still onward, in broadening view, 
 Beauty and charm to the wildwoods bestowing, 
 Mirroring stars in their eloquent glowing, 
 Mirroring heaven translucently blue, 
 Lulling to quiet my heart in its passion, 
 Soothing its anguish, it still is a friend ; 
 But, when the lash of the storm bids it dash on, 
 Sweeping its banks with a boundless unrest, 
 Bearing its rage and its hate in its breast, 
 Showing its fangs in the white of each crest, 
 Wild in its anger the forest to rend — 
 Then is my heart with its infinite yearning 
 One with the river, all passionate, spurning 
 Human control, with a deep inward burning, 
 Filled with a scorn that seems never to end! 
 Scorn of the love that was falser than human ! 
 
THE OREGONIAN. 305 
 
 Scorn of the vows of a false-hearted woman ! 
 Kinder the flame of the red lightning's stroke 
 Rending the heart of the huge forest oak ! 
 Aye, far more merciful were the cyclone 
 Sweeping destruction o'er circle or zone, 
 Dashing its way with an uncontrolled ire, 
 Swift as the wings of a whirlwind-lashed fire ; — 
 Kinder, more merciful these than the love 
 Slighted and scorned; for the angels above 
 And the demons below must with pity condemn 
 The heart that would barter the rare, priceless gem 
 Of affection, so full of a richness untold — 
 Aye, barter it all for a handful of gold ! 
 
 I wonder if now in that city afar, 
 
 The whirl of its crowds, and the tumult and jar, 
 
 Her heart hath forgotten the vows that we plighted ? 
 
 The night at the porch by the stars dimly lighted ? 
 
 The winds soft and low, and the roses asleep ? 
 
 The nightingale trilling its cadences deep? 
 
 I see the rich hue of her cheeks all aglow ; 
 
 I touch her warm hand, small, and white as the snow 
 
 That gleams to the stars on yon peaks far away ; 
 
306 THE OREGONIAN. 
 
 And my heart reads the words that her eyes mutely 
 
 say! 
 Oh, the world then to me was a Paradise rare, 
 And she was its Eve in her loveliness fair ! 
 But the serpent came early the joy to despoil, 
 The glamour of beauty to wither and soil, 
 And leave in its place but a heart-blighting care 
 To follow my life with its burden and toil ! 
 One night — I had been on the trail since morn — 
 I was weary, dejected and sadly forlorn — 
 (Ere the sweet love of Nature was in my soul born, 
 And I'd learned its philosophy, tender, consoling, 
 The delicate harp-strings of life all controlling, 
 And blending in harmony discords of Time 
 In one peerless song, rare, ecstatic, sublime!) 
 I mused in my hammock; the night's deepening shade 
 Hung heavy o'er ravine and river and glade ; 
 And, like the low rumble of hoofs on the plain, 
 I heard the deep thunder presaging the rain, 
 The pines wildly writhing like giants in pain ! 
 A face, white with anger and terror, appeared — 
 The eyes glared upon me as if they still feared 
 A living resentment that would not be hushed ! 
 The blood of a wound from her heart madly gushed ! 
 
THE OREGONIAX. 307 
 
 Twas she — 'and she reached out her hand to me there — 
 And said in a voice that was wild with despair : 
 "Forgive me! Forgive me! I cast Love away — 
 I saw all its roses in brightness decay, 
 And Life with me since has been bitter dismay I" 
 
 I strove to arise ; but my limbs were like lead, 
 
 I tried hard to speak ; but words none I said ! 
 
 She knelt at my side pleading thro' blinding tears, 
 
 And told me the story of sad, loveless years. 
 
 But still I replied not, my tears would not flow ; 
 
 I laughed at the words of her pitiful woe ! 
 
 For had I not suffered, unpitied for years ? 
 
 Could this be assuaged by a false woman's tears ? 
 
 She clung to me there in her anguish supreme, 
 
 And, by the swift glare of the lightning's sharp gleam, 
 
 I saw a face pallid and deep-lined with pain — 
 
 (Oh, God ! that I ever should see it again !) 
 
 She told me of long years of bitterness spent, 
 
 And begged that my heart would its anger relent ; 
 
 She spoke of the days ere her promise was broken, 
 
 She showed me a withered rose — Love's early token, 
 
 And pictured the Past and the beautiful years 
 
 With eloquent yearnings and passionate tears ; 
 
3 o8 
 
 THE OREGONIAN. 
 
 The porch ; and the old trysting place in the dell ; 
 
 The lane ; and the scenes that my heart knew so well ; 
 
 Her fair Northern home with sweet woodbine em- 
 bowered, 
 
 Its garden, its meadows with daisies o'erflowered. 
 
 I saw, yes, and yonder the school on the hill ! 
 
 I heard once again the harsh whir of the mill 
 
 Where as fair childish sweethearts we loitered to see 
 
 The dash of the waters that swept by in glee. 
 
 But what was her anguish, her pleading to me ? 
 
 For had I not suffered since that far-off day? 
 
 And had not my current of Life turned away 
 
 From all joys it knew and their beauty and sweetness, 
 
 From Hope's lovely dream and its fruitful complete- 
 ness? 
 
 And all for her sake and her false, wilful pride 
 
 That thrust me an outcast so far from her side, 
 
 And turned unto gall the sweet cup of pure love, 
 
 Yea, changed to fierce hate the content of the dove ! 
 
 I spurned her, I say, with a strong man's fierce wrath ! 
 
 I bade her begone — no more darken my path ! 
 
 For the tempest without could not equal the might 
 
 Of that in my heart at her terrible sight, 
 
 And the thought of the life she had come but to blight ! 
 
THE OREGONIAN. 309 
 
 With a crash that resounded from cavern to peak, 
 And a glare, as if risen from Hell's awful deeps — 
 (Or the red of a flame as in fury it sweeps 
 O'er the prairie — ) she turned then to speak : 
 And I woke from the clutch of a horrible dream ! 
 She had fled ; and I saw in the last lurid gleam 
 The eyes of a serpent that crawled at my feet, 
 To me and my cabin companion more meet 
 Than the woman who vowed to be mine long ago, 
 But whose vows were as light as the sun-lighted snow 
 That melts into tears in the mild spring-time breeze — 
 Yea, as trustful as waves of the treacherous seas ! 
 Then I saw the first glimmer of dawn in the skies 
 Rose-tinting the mountains that 'round me arise, 
 And purpling the caverns and pine-covered hills 
 And spreading its glories o'er rivers and rills, 
 Like the blessing of God on his handiwork below 
 O'er the land that had nothing to do with Life's woe ! 
 And I thanked Him for being, and strength to live on 
 For the grandeur of all these eyes rested upon ! 
 For the nights of the keen orbs that spangled His 
 
 throne. 
 For the deeps of the canyons reverberant, lone. 
 For the mountains that up, up in majesty rear 
 
3io THE OREGONIAN, 
 
 Till they pierce through the clouds to the luminous, 
 
 clear. 
 Azure space far beyond ; and the glitter and glow 
 Of the stars softly fall on their manes white with snow ! 
 And I thanked Him again for the pathways I trod, 
 Where the human within me was kindred with God ! 
 For what is the Orient o'er seas of blue 
 With the languor of palms dripping spice-laden dew — 
 Mosques and minarets stretching away to the skies, 
 And its blossoms and flowers of infinite dyes, 
 Or its maidens with night in their soft, melting eyes? 
 Have I not in the breath of the pines o'er my head 
 All the sweets, the delights ever Paradise shed? 
 And the lessons of mountains here lifting my soul, 
 With the language of rivers that ceaselessly roll, 
 Rushing onward and on to the far-away goal ! 
 Why for Eastern delights should my restless heart 
 
 sigh ? 
 Here dwelleth all joys that the earth can supply. 
 In the open for me is the heart's pure desire, 
 With a room for content, and a sphere to aspire ! 
 On the trail, in the round up of cattle, I sing, 
 With the lariat unleashed, like a bird on the wing ! 
 Here, alone, I am lord, in my freedom a King! 
 
THE OREGONIAN. 
 
 311 
 
 There is joy in the watch of the herd 'mid the night 
 When the stir of the wind sets them often in flight, 
 And the clash of the horns, and the billowy sweep 
 Of the dark, huddled throng echoes harshly and deep ; 
 And I gallop along while my broncho I spur, 
 'Mid the wild ever-echoing tramping and whir 
 Till the leaders I head in precipitate flight — 
 There is joy in it all and a wondrous delight ! 
 So why should I sigh for the dazzle and glare 
 Of the city, and all that most men deem so fair, 
 When I know 'tis a world of delusion and snare, 
 Of crime and pretense, and of scandal and wrong, 
 Where the soul is oft bartered for gold, and the poor 
 Have Misery's lot evermore to endure? 
 And why should I care for a love that is lost? 
 I have counted the gains of it all, and the cost! 
 I have known the deceit that can lurk in bright eyes, 
 The sting of false hearts I have learned to despise. 
 All is vanity there ; but I breathe here the Truth 
 In broad Nature's domain of perennial youth ! 
 There is pleasure for me in the green dewy blade, 
 In the trees and the flowers of valley and glade ; 
 The deeps of the blue sky, and the songs of the birds ; 
 Day's dawn ; and the noontide of quivering heat, 
 
3i2 THE OREGON I AN. 
 
 And the sound of the heart-thrilling echoing beat 
 Of the steed as it rushes away o'er the plain. 
 Tho' often at night but the limitless sky 
 Is roof of the spot where I wearily lie, 
 I am happier far than if sheltered with pride 
 In a palace where Untruth and Envy abide 
 With its mates of Hypocrisy, Falseness and Wrong, 
 And the glamour of riches cast over the throng ! 
 So mine be the mountains that climb to the stars, 
 The gulches, the canyons that carry the scars 
 Of the Ages deep-lined in their adamant breasts ; 
 The peaks with the snow on their high-lifted crests, 
 The grandeur, the beauty, the sweet, boundless peace 
 That give to the spirit of sorrow surcease ! 
 So live I ; and when to my rest I shall go, 
 My grave be the prairie, where winds breathing low 
 Shall sing me a requiem tender and soft, 
 And yonder deep caverns that tower aloft 
 My monument be till the great Judgment day 
 When the earth and its wrongs have all passed away ! 
 Oregon, 1888. 
 
MIRAGE. 
 
 MIRAGE. 
 
 313 
 
 "V/TUST I then leave thee, O treasure dear — leave 
 
 Thee forever — after all these years of 
 Love and longing, tears and laughter ? Shall dark 
 Clouds swim before mine eyes on wings of air 
 Invisible, and hide thy radiant 
 Presence from me? Shall I walk the halls of 
 The forgotten and rejected, they who 
 Roam about mechanic-like in shrouds of 
 Tears ? 
 
 Long have I dreaded this — the bitter 
 Hour, that ghost-like would come to sweep away 
 The bright anchors of my hope, and leave me, 
 Like a frail bark to the mercy of the 
 Storm-tossed deep — my lacerated heart and 
 Soul. 
 
 The sun shall rise and come with flames of 
 Gold and shining spears, but nevermore for 
 Thou and I. No more to inhale the 
 Glorious breath of freedom, shall we roam 
 Across the red waves of the Dahna sea ; 
 Whose every drop is filled with heat most fierce, 
 
3H 
 
 MIRAGE. 
 
 Nor listen to the careless jest, and joyful 
 Laugh of the dark-skinned Bedouin. 
 
 Here once 
 In the dear sweet long ago, thou didst carve 
 Proofs of thy true love upon my heart, which 
 Still do linger there despite thy changeful 
 Mind. 'Twas high noon of the dreaded summer 
 Solstice, 'neath Arabian skies 
 Of fire, and not a cloud in sight ; we had 
 Wandered far from our black tent, upon the 
 Flaming dark-brown desert, in frantic search 
 Of water, and were gathering up for 
 Supper-time, the yellow flow'ry Samh, and 
 Green-leafed Mesa'a, when of a sudden, great 
 Burning waves of wind came dashing from the 
 South ; dark clouds of violet hue drew in 
 Upon us from all sides ; it seemed as if the 
 Bowels of hell were loosed, and were bounding up 
 From earth to sky, and back again with 
 Added fury. My senses fled, and I 
 Was just about to drop down in the 
 Flaming sands, a helpless toy for the 
 Simoon's fury which was now upon us, 
 
MIRAGE. 
 
 315 
 
 When thy strong dark-brown beloved hands did 
 Lift me up to thee upon the camel's 
 Back, and we were off like meteors for 
 Our tent. We reached its side half-perished with 
 Heat, and threw ourselves prostrate within, and 
 Then I heard thee cry: — "just muffle up thy 
 Face secure, and do not stir. Lie still as 
 Death till it shall pass away !" With trembling 
 Feeble hands, and limbs, I did as thou didst 
 Say, and thus was saved. Waves of red-hot heat 
 Passed slowly o'er us there. The tent-sides flapped, 
 And when mine eyes looked up, it was in realms 
 Of Paradise — into thy dear dark anxious 
 Eyes, for thou didst think that life within me 
 Was extinct. The dark clouds rolled away ; the 
 The sun sent down its showers of golden heat 
 Once more upon desert's sand, and thou 
 Wert by my side. What cared I for the Simoon's 
 Wrath, or for the world at all ; 'twas life and 
 Joy enough to know that thou wert near, to 
 Hear thy voice of melody ; to feel thy 
 Hand pressed close to mine. But now alas ! all 
 Things seem changed. Thy fairy charms fleet from my 
 arms. 
 
3 i6 MIRAGE. 
 
 Another soon shall clasp thee to his breast. 
 Ah ! happy one, that I could mask and take 
 His form to revel in thy wealth of passion ! 
 'Twould be worth a desert filled with priceless 
 Gems! 
 
 In my dreams and only there, shall I 
 See thy wondrous beauty once again; shall 
 I see thy mighty progress from the womb. 
 Long ere Lief Erickson sailed o'er the stormy 
 Deep — the rover's paradise, and kissed my own 
 Wild western bride, thou didst bare thy breast of 
 Jasper and porphyry, to the burning 
 Showers the sun sent down. 'Twas here Ishmael 
 Wandered, the far-famed archer of old — the 
 First to place great actors in thy fields — the 
 Powerful progenitor of thy race. And 
 Thou in all thy rugged beauty, didst woo 
 Them to thy breast. Soon along thy desert 
 Seas, the dark-skinned Arabs pitched their tents and 
 Lived their roving lives of freedom, save where 
 Tetal's hand of iron stretched forth for unity 
 And strength. 
 
MIRAGE. 317 
 
 In my dreams, and only there, shall 
 I see thee once again at Mount Sinai, 
 (Upon whose heights the Saviour lived, and 
 Unto Moses there revealed those grand old 
 Poems, the Ten Commandments, that should be held 
 As precious to the Christian heart, as the 
 Yellow gold the miser hoards). 
 
 The Suez 
 Canal shall dawn upon my weary eyes, 
 The triumph of commerce, De Lesseps' 
 Monument of glory, and fleets of ships 
 White-winged and beautiful, shall proudly sail 
 Along its bosom, but I shall look, and 
 Look in vain for thee. The perfumed breath of 
 Nejed shall reach me from afar; its 
 Palm groves shall invite me to their shade ; once 
 More I shall see the mild-eyed swift gazelle 
 Bound past me like a lightning flash, and hear 
 The whirring flight of every partridge near, 
 But nevermore thy voice of fairy 
 Melodies. 
 
 I shall leap upon my 
 Arab steed, the meteor of the desert, 
 
3 i8 MIRAGE. 
 
 And flash past the Wahabee Empire ; 
 
 The thorn-branched Tahl ; the elegant acacia ; 
 
 The date-tree with its amber-coated fruit, 
 
 Shall all be left far, far behind ; mirage 
 
 Shall not deceive mine eyes ; the crowded fairs, 
 
 And the bazaars shall not detain me, nor 
 
 The Katar natives taking pearls from out 
 
 The Persian Gulf. Nothing shall stop my 
 
 Terrible ride, till I reach the star of 
 
 All Arabian hopes, the sacred city 
 
 Of Mecca. Here will I pause before the 
 
 Mosques and minarets, and look to see if 
 
 Thou art 'mongst the throng. But why this wild 
 
 Harangue ? Thank Allah ! 'tis false as hell 
 
 Itself ! Thou art here ! Thou art by my side, 
 
 And my aching heart is drowned in seas of 
 
 Joy ! Here, here on my broad bosom rest — 
 
 Rest safely here my dear Arabian 
 
 Bride. Kisses hot as all thy sands, shall now 
 
 Rain on thy rose-bud lips ! Pearl of Asia, 
 
 And the Indian Seas, look in my eyes, 
 
 For I am thine, and thou art mine 
 
 Forevermore. 
 
A NUN'S TEMPT A TION. 3 1 9 
 
 A NUN'S TEMPTATION. 
 
 fT is Autumn. A sister of the Convent 
 
 Stands within her cell, near a window 
 That overlooks the sea. In her 
 Trembling hands she holds a letter, while o'er 
 Her tear-stained face a pained expression steals. 
 She reads the letter o'er and o'er, then puts 
 It in the pocket of her sable gown, 
 And gazes sadly at the sun, that is 
 Dying slowly in the west with a golden 
 Sea of glory 'round it. 
 
 The letter's from 
 A lover of the dear old days, when their 
 Two hearts were bound in one. It is an 
 Eloquent appeal to her to leave the 
 Convent, and to marry him. He regrets 
 The past, and what he did, and now awaits 
 The golden chance to cast himself down at 
 Her feet — there to repent forevermore. 
 Outside the monastery's walls his 
 Carriage stands. He is waiting there for her. 
 
320 
 
 A NUN'S TEMPTATION. 
 
 He will wait until the sun has vanished, 
 And if she fails to come then, he will know 
 That she's been true unto her vows, and that 
 She'll not forsake the Convent walls for him. 
 
 In the woods beyond, a nightingale thrills 
 
 All the air with melody. The sister 
 
 Hears it with an aching heart, and looks 
 
 Afar once more upon the sun 
 
 Disappearing slowly in the west. She 
 
 Reads the letter o'er again, then opens 
 
 Up her trunk, and packs it with great haste. There 
 
 Is determination in her movements. 
 
 But suddenly she pauses in her work, 
 
 And listens, for the nightingale is singing 
 
 As it never sang before. She looks out 
 
 The window, and observes the pearly clouds 
 
 Collect into a body, and remain 
 
 There as motionless as painted clouds 
 
 Upon a painted canvas. The wavelets 
 
 Of the sea, now cease their dancing, and not 
 
 A sound is heard save the singing of the 
 
 Bird beyond. "Surely," thinks the sister, "all 
 
 Nature now doth listen to those notes of 
 
A NUN'S TEMPTATION. 
 
 321 
 
 Glory." A bright ray of the setting sun 
 
 Shoots in the cell ; it falls upon a 
 
 Crucifix that stands upon the table, 
 
 And casts its shadow o'er the trunk the 
 
 Sister now is packing. A sweet expression 
 
 Steals into her face. A thought arises 
 
 In her heart, which alas ! she cannot 
 
 Analyze, but the thought has some 
 
 Connection with the crucifix, and vows 
 
 She made long years before. Then comes the sound 
 
 Of Convent Bells, the vesper hour proclaiming. 
 
 The nightingale stops singing. The sun goes 
 
 Down. The sister tears the letter into 
 
 Shreds, and casts them in the fire. She sees her 
 
 Lover's carriage disappear among the 
 
 Hills, and then sinks down upon her knees 
 
 Before the crucifix, her hands clasped o'er 
 
 Her trembling bosom. And all is dark and 
 
 Silent in the cell. The nightingale has 
 
 Sung its poem of glory. The Convent Bells 
 
 Have rung both clear and sweet, throughout the 
 
 tempest 
 In her heart, and called her back to duty 
 And her vows. 
 
322 
 
 A NUN'S TEMPTATION. 
 
 Ring on ye Convent Bells of 
 Glory ! Send forth your hymns of beauty, for the 
 Night is mild, and robed with glitt'ring 
 Stars, and crowned with a crescent moon ! - 
 
GOOD-BYE SWEETHEART. 323 
 
 GOOD-BYE SWEETHEART. 
 
 G 
 
 OOD-BYE, Sweetheart, 
 For we must part ; 
 Those bitter words are filled with pain. 
 
 I did not dream 
 
 That life would seem 
 So cold to me, and all in vain. 
 
 My days were bright, 
 
 No gloomy night 
 
 Until he came, 
 
 His bride to claim, 
 
 The happy past 
 
 Aside is cast, 
 For I must say — good-bye, sweetheart. 
 
 One parting kiss, 
 
 I beg for this! 
 And tho' I go — I love you yet. 
 
 This last good-bye 
 
 Brings forth a sigh, 
 And my poor heart throbs with regret. 
 
 Think once again 
 
 What might have been, 
 
 Had fate been kind 
 
 And love not blind, 
 
 And that will be 
 
 Enough for me — 
 I'll ask no more — -good-bye, sweetheart. 
 
324 ! MI $S THEE. 
 
 I MISS THEE. 
 
 I. 
 
 MISS thee when the morn awakes, 
 And all the birds sing out thy name, 
 I miss thee by the rippling brook, 
 Where first I sought thy love to claim ; 
 I miss the music of thy voice, 
 That spoke to me of love divine, 
 And feel as if my heart would break, 
 For I can never call thee mine. 
 
 II. 
 
 I miss thee where we walked so gay, 
 Beneath the cloudless summer sky, 
 And told our loves so dear and true, 
 Before we parted — thou and I ; 
 I miss thee when the twilight falls, 
 Tis then I long to have thee near, 
 I know no life without thy love, 
 'Twas bliss alone when thou wert here. 
 
MINE FORE VERM ORE. 325 
 
 MINE FOREVERMORE. 
 
 1V/TY dream of love, I bless the hour 
 
 When thou didst say, "I love thee so !" 
 And feel again — thy kisses thrill, 
 While thy dear cheeks are all aglow. 
 I glanced back o'er the happy past, 
 When first I met thee to adore. 
 And find in thee each wish fulfilled, 
 For thou art mine forevermore, 
 For thou art mine forevermore ! 
 
 dream divine ! O heart of love ! 
 
 1 falter at thy fairy feet, 
 
 For thou art mine forevermore! 
 
 happy day ! O dream of love ! 
 
 1 gaze into thine eyes so blue, 
 And hold thee in my trembling arms, 
 While my heart whispers : "Thou art true !" 
 Each day seems brighter by thy side, 
 Each hour more filled with bliss divine ; 
 
 I hear the music of thy voice, 
 
 That tells me softly, "Thou art mine!" 
 
 For thou art mine forevermore! 
 
 How cloudless are the deep blue skies ! 
 
 How sweet the birds sing out thy name, 
 
 For thou art mine forevermore ! 
 
326 RETROSPECTION. 
 
 RETROSPECTION. 
 
 A I 4 HEY lie before me here, 
 
 Indeed they look like toys- 
 So small they seem — yet dead 
 
 To me the many joys 
 That in my heart revive 
 
 At sight of these wee mates ; 
 Once it seemed paradise 
 
 To put on Nelly's skates ! 
 
 I see the same gay throng 
 
 Swift gliding here and there ; 
 I hear the low-hummed song 
 
 That fills the icy air; 
 What was the world to me 
 
 With all its loves and hates? 
 When bending on my knees 
 
 I put on Nelly's skates ! 
 
 Ah, me ! 'Tis years ago ! 
 
 And, Nelly, where is she? 
 No wedded joys I know, 
 
 Life seems a farce to me ! 
 The longer tho' I live 
 
 The more love contemplates; 
 What wouldn't I now give 
 
 To put on Nelly's skates ! 
 
THE EXILE'S LAMENT. 327 
 
 THE EXILE'S LAMENT. 
 A St. Patrick's Day Reflection. 
 
 f~\ ERIX. lovely Erin ! Will I evermore behold 
 
 Thy heather-covered mountains, and thy 
 
 Autumn fields of gold ; 
 Thy relics of ancient splendor, in green-leafed ivy 
 
 bound ; 
 Thy lakes and sylvan grandeur with which thy face is 
 
 crowned. 
 
 Shall I see those verdant meadows, as I saw them long 
 
 ago, 
 Wafted gently by the zephyrs, as the herd would 
 
 homeward go ; 
 Dotted o'er with fragrant lilies — melodious with the 
 
 lark— 
 And fed by Xature's tear-drops, that come just before 
 
 the dark. 
 
 Shall I ever feel the pleasure that I did in days of yore, 
 When we swung the pretty colleens 'round upon the 
 barn floor, 
 
328 THE EXILE'S LAMENT. 
 
 And matrons gazed in wonder, amid hooray and shout, 
 For we sought renown by dancing on, to tire each 
 other out. 
 
 Shall I ever climb those rocks, and scan those 
 beauteous scenes, 
 
 That Nature formed so lovely by inimitable means, 
 
 And listen to the tuneful song of blackbird and of 
 thrush, 
 
 As they proclaim that Spring has come from under- 
 neath the bush. 
 
 Shall I mingle with thy people, who though bound by 
 
 cruel fate. 
 Have probed the depths of science, made the world 
 
 doubly great, 
 But if in friendly foreign lands, my destiny is to roam, 
 I'll consider thee, dear ERIN, as still my native home. 
 
MIDWINTER. 329 
 
 MIDWINTER. 
 
 *7 IG-ZAG branches traced against 
 
 A dreary, ashen sky; 
 A filmy drapery of snow, 
 
 And winds that hurry by. 
 Oh, dark midwinter days, ye hang 
 
 A pall on all around, 
 But underneath the deepest snow 
 
 The sweetest buds are found! 
 
 Icicles that, dagger-like, 
 
 Hang from the farm-house eaves; 
 A monotone of weariness 
 
 The howling tempest weaves. 
 Oh, sad midwinter days, the heart, 
 
 Like you, hath lack of cheer; 
 And yet amid the leafless trees, 
 
 The chirp of birds I hear! 
 
 Dales and hills that stretch afar, 
 
 A wilderness of white ! 
 The silent brook that gleams like steel, 
 
 Once silvery delight. 
 Oh, wild midwinter, haste away, 
 
 On swift and darksome wing ; 
 Tho' hopeful hearts in thee can hail 
 
 The prophesy of Spring ! 
 
330 
 
 LIFE'S WOES. 
 
 LIFE'S WOES. 
 
 (~\ H, wife, no cloud has settled o'er 
 
 Our nuptials' hallowed joy ; 
 Oh, speak ! one word I now implore ; 
 
 Say, what hath caused annoy? 
 Is not our honeymoon divine? 
 What sorrow hides in heart of thine? 
 
 "On bended knee, behold me, love; 
 
 I kiss the tear that falls 
 From out those star-lit eyes above; 
 
 My heart no slight recalls. 
 Oh, tell to me thy hidden pain, 
 And smile the olden smile again ! 
 
 "Have friendships proven all untrue, 
 
 Or doth some secret woe 
 Like Nemesis thy path pursue? 
 
 Oh, tell me ere I go !" 
 With burst of tears her heart gave way 
 "Dearest, the cook left us to-dav!" 
 
ON ICE. 331 
 
 ON ICE. 
 
 TJPON one knee 
 
 Before her there, 
 He fixed her skates — 
 
 A dainty pair. 
 Then, arm in arm, 
 
 How sweet and nice! 
 The fondest two 
 
 They were — on ice! 
 
 Such lovely curves ! 
 
 Around they sweep, 
 A muff her small 
 
 White hands to keep, 
 Within its deep 
 
 He longs to be, 
 For surely there 
 
 Is room for three ! 
 
 For Cupid — ah ! 
 
 No danger line ! 
 The sky is clear 
 
 The course is fine, 
 A slip, a dip, 
 
 They both fall thro'! 
 A coldness now 
 
 Is 'twixt the two ! 
 
332 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 (By a Musician.) 
 
 VFOW the song-birds, one by one 
 
 Return to join the chorus, 
 While the frogs have just begun 
 To tune up: blue skies o'er us. 
 
 Breezes pipe o'er vale and hill, 
 The trees their batons waving; 
 
 Robins 'mid the branches trill, 
 Their high notes never saving. 
 
 The even tenor of their way 
 
 Brooks keep, in greening places ; 
 
 In brief, all nature throngs to-day 
 With barytones and basses. 
 
 The year's orchestras now in tune, 
 
 My ear it soft entices, 
 Whilst I take out my old bassoon 
 
 To play at union prices ! 
 
IN WINTER. 333 
 
 IN WINTER. 
 
 TN the sleigh together, 
 
 He and she; 
 Lovely Wintry weather, 
 
 Happy he. 
 Round her waist, so cosy, 
 
 One arm free; 
 Cheeks are blushing rosy 
 
 As can be ! 
 
 This, while joggling slowly 
 
 On their way, 
 Thro' the valley lowly, 
 
 Light and gay. 
 Soon the air is tingling 
 
 Fast they speed; 
 Reins, while bells are jingling, 
 
 Both hands need ! 
 
 Little maid demurely, 
 
 Simply sighs, 
 Muffled up securely; 
 
 Witching eyes. 
 Speeding clown the high hill, 
 
 Speech she gains: 
 "Dearest, rest, and I will 
 
 Hold the reins !" 
 
334 
 
 THE DAYS OF LONG AGO. 
 
 THE DAYS OF LONG AGO. 
 
 r^ON'T you remember the days, dear Will, 
 
 The days of long ago, 
 When our voices our hearts would thrill 
 With their music soft and low? 
 
 Where first we met, down by the gate, 
 
 The evening shadows fell ; 
 The stars peeped out, the moon was late ; 
 
 Then tolled the vesper bell. 
 
 An owl sat near on a dying tree 
 
 His lonely watch to keep; 
 His burning eyes, turned full on me, 
 
 Sank in my spirit deep. 
 
 I thought of the night my mother died, 
 
 The one who loved me best; 
 I shall ne'er forget how I cried 
 
 For her who now is blest. 
 
THE DAYS OF LONG AGO. 335 
 
 I listened to your voice of love 
 
 With its soft, pleading tone ; 
 I knew my heart was far above 
 
 With mother who had flown. 
 
 But your words were music to my ear, 
 
 I loved to hear you talk ; 
 My future then need have no fear, 
 
 My feet no weary walk. 
 
 The church was very still that day, 
 
 The weather rather damp; 
 The silence broke with the organ's play — 
 
 Then burned the marriage lamp. 
 
 The village dames were out in style, 
 
 With curious eyes to see ; 
 I saw them all in the middle aisle, 
 
 They gazed at you and me. 
 
 The usual talk the rounds then went 
 
 About the couple wed ; 
 The gossip soon its wit had spent, 
 
 To other talk it led. 
 
336 THE DAYS OF LONG AGO. 
 
 The years flew by — those years of joy, 
 
 Which made us feel so glad ; 
 We thought that nothing could destroy 
 
 The happiness we had. 
 
 But the stroke then came which made you blind, 
 
 And made my poor heart weep ; 
 Your eyes that were of the speaking kind, 
 
 A silence now must keep. 
 
 But I'll always love you, darling Will, 
 
 I'll never leave you, dear; 
 Now don't sit thus, and be so still, 
 
 And do not have a fear. 
 
 I'm only talking of those days, Will — 
 
 Those days of long ago; 
 When our voices our hearts did thrill 
 
 With their music soft and low. 
 
 We'll wander down the path of life 
 
 With steps of happiness ; 
 We will not dream of any strife, 
 
 Nor love each other less. 
 
TO MY SOUL. 337 
 
 TO MY SOUL. 
 
 A ND darest thou, O soul walk forth with me 
 
 To seas abysmal, the mysterious 
 Unknown, from which oftimes at twilight, 
 Faint whispering harmonies float on the wings 
 Of silent air, and tremble away again 
 In silence, but dreamy echoes of the 
 Land of glory and of rest. Darest thou 
 Tread with me, these unknown paths, far from the 
 Maddening world of pomp and vanity. 
 Disgrace and vice? No; not till thy dusty 
 Prison bursts into dying light, and 
 Dissolves itself in mist, and air, and clay 
 To nourish Mother earth again ; not till 
 The unknown hour arrives, and mysteries 
 Are all unveiled as by a flash, the 
 Encircling globes and all are visible. 
 All understood; not till thy bands are 
 Burst asunder, O my soul, shalt thou tread 
 These paths with me. 
 
338 MY WANTS. 
 
 MY WANTS. 
 
 f^ IVE me the gorgeous smiling sun ! Drench me 
 
 With its golden splendors ! Give me lovers 
 With full hearts of passion ; let them walk by 
 My side ; give me the melodious flowers 
 Of the air, the birds that sing to us gaily. 
 Give me the mad careering storms ; the 
 Thunder, lightning, rain and snow; paint me with 
 The brilliant rainbow ; let the sick call me 
 By name — give me the leper, lunatic, 
 The blind, the paralyzed, the crippled ; give 
 Me the sad-eyed orphan ; the drunkard most 
 Despised ; the struggling mother ; the kept-woman, 
 The hypocrite, the liar, dunce, and miser; 
 The fool, the usurer, and thief — let them 
 Walk by my side, nay nearer still, let them 
 Load all their ills on me ; here let them rest, 
 Upon this bosom here — here where the heart 
 Throbs with love for them all — and these, and these 
 Shall be my wants. None greater can be found. 
 None greater shall I seek. 
 
POLAND. 339 
 
 POLAND. 
 
 CHE walks along her streets once more, 
 
 But feels a stranger in them. Her children 
 Pass her by with bowed down heads 
 And shackles on their wrists, but speak 
 No word — for the breath of tyranny is 
 In the air, and they were slaves. She 
 Weeps in powerless way, 'neath the iron yoke 
 Of oppression — she who was once the 
 Glittering gem of Europe — the glorious 
 Child whom Lekh first found — the pride 
 Of the Jagellon line — she who was led 
 Up the paths of glory by Sobieski — the 
 Hero who saved Vienna, but could 
 Not save her. 
 
 The voice of Russia is in her halls, 
 Its chains are on her gates; the sacred lights 
 Of liberty — lit and kept aflame by 
 The genius of Kosciusko, all, all are now 
 Extinguished — and their ashes buried in 
 The treacherous heart of Warsaw. 
 
340 
 
 HAVE FAITH IN THYSELF. 
 
 HAVE FAITH IN THYSELF. 
 
 \X7E are all great and divine, both male 
 
 And female. Skulk not away to some dark 
 Corner to bury the ashes of thy dead 
 Hopes, in the chamber of thy lacerated 
 Bleeding heart, because thou art unknown. 
 Unnoticed by the rich and grand, but stand 
 Up erect ! Face the world — it owes every thing 
 To thee. Art thou not a part of it? 
 I swear to you ! that every step you take 
 Every breath you draw — 
 Every glance you give, 
 Every thought you have. 
 Every dream that comes. 
 Everything you touch, 
 Everything you eat, 
 Everything you digest, 
 Every scene you witness, 
 Every word you speak, 
 Every feeling you have, 
 Every whisper you drop, 
 
HAVE FAITH IN THYSELF. 34l 
 
 Everything you hear, 
 
 Every sigh you heave. 
 
 Every sorrow you have, 
 
 Every joy that comes, 
 
 Every passion you have, 
 
 Confounds the learning of all times, 
 
 Barries keen-eyed, towering science, and sings 
 
 Such songs, that the little leaves pause in their 
 
 Flight to listen, ere they rustle onward 
 
 To their destiny. 
 
342 SHE IS NOT TO BLAME. 
 
 SHE IS NOT TO BLAME. 
 
 HT* HOU who hast lived upon the storm of vice, 
 
 Who knew the right, yet walked in paths of sin, 
 Ever within thy heart thou didst desire thy 
 Freedom from the earthly hell ; to walk in 
 Paths of virtue, and of happiness ; to gaze 
 With clear and steadfast eyes upon thy neighbors 
 And companions ; not living in common 
 Level with the dog and hog, but a shining 
 Monument to the Creator, and the world. Poor 
 Fallen angel, drooping lily of unhappiness, dying 
 Swan of virtue, with the last plaintive notes 
 In thy sallow complexion, and hunted eyes — 
 A word with thee. Stand up in the broad 
 Sunshine of gold on the mountain of thy present, 
 Glance o'er thy shoulder down the long, long 
 Vistas of the past, where sunshine and the angels 
 Were ; where the morning-glories of love, truth, 
 Beauty and happiness were — the brightness o'er- 
 
 shadowed 
 Bv darkness, and dream of what thou art. 
 
SHE IS NOT TO BLAME. 343 
 
 O ! inhabitant of the levee, why art thou here? 
 Methinks I read thy answer in the world. 
 Shame and society should not cry out 
 Against thee. Common decency should not 
 Condemn thee. They should point the accusing 
 Finger at man ! And until man can check 
 His flow of passion — till he can drive the brute 
 From out his soul, we shall have women of 
 The town. We may as well try to turn back 
 The waters of the sea, as to check this 
 Evil, while man gives it his patronage ! 
 
 The very existence of houses of 
 Ill-fame are true signs of the immorality 
 Of man. Look well, young maid of the blushing- 
 Cheek, and pure white heart, look well to the one 
 You wed, for the very arms he twines 
 About you, may have been twined around a 
 Hundred harlots. 
 
; 4 4 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 ^OME, said my soul ! walk with me an hour, 
 
 For this muddy garment of decay is 
 Filled with tears, such as come from contact with 
 The world ; the way is dark and dreary, and we 
 Should unite more often for benefit 
 Most mutual. Sing to me, therefore, such 
 Songs that will float harmony on our way, 
 Not leading to dreamland fancies, but truths 
 Most solemn and modern, and our tears shall 
 Be turned to music, for there is music 
 In everything. 
 
THE STEAMBOAT. 
 
 THE STEAMBOAT. 
 
 345 
 
 LJ O W I love to watch the steamboat, 
 
 As it skims the silv'ry lake 
 In the glorious golden sunshine, 
 
 When the morn is just awake; 
 And the smoke its sable ringlets 
 
 Wave around its handsome back, 
 While it speeds along the wat'ry ground 
 
 It leaves a silv'ry track. 
 
 The men who ride this matchless steed. 
 That plows the raging deep, 
 
 Are lost in wonder, love and fear, 
 
 As along the waves they sweep. 
 
 They watch the golden flowers above, 
 That bloom in the fields of blue, 
 
 And dream of the loving ones at home 
 With loving thoughts most true. 
 
 O ! the music of its whistle ! 
 
 Its throat so sharp and shrill! 
 As it echoes o'er the bounding waves 
 
 It makes my heart just thrill ! 
 For I love this steed of matchless speed, 
 
 This steed of the waters blue, 
 That dashes along the hilly ground 
 
 With feet that are most true. 
 
346 TRUE. 
 
 TRUE. 
 
 f\ | PURE flow'r of the valley, 
 
 Thy sweetness is dead, 
 For the thorns that lie 'round thee 
 
 With hatred are fed ; 
 No sister is near thee, 
 
 No bud of thy own, 
 To share thy deep sorrow, 
 
 For thou art alone. 
 
 But that virtue is greatest 
 
 Which stands all alone, 
 And fights hard for its honor 
 
 When others have flown. 
 Though the thorns of thy life-time 
 
 May cause thee great pain, 
 Remember that suffering 
 
 Will lead but to gain. 
 
 So thou flower of the valley, 
 
 Droop not thy sweet head, 
 Though thy perfume be wasted 
 
 Thy glory's not dead ; 
 The false world may leave thee 
 
 To die all alone, 
 But the gems of thy sweetness 
 
 Will shine in thy crown. 
 
 
THE BROWN LITTLE MAN. 347 
 
 THE BROWN LITTLE MAN. 
 
 HP HE world loves its heroes, 
 And desecrates Neros ; 
 Despots and tyrants are under its ban ! 
 
 Valor untiring 
 
 One can't help admiring. 
 So here's to the brown little man, 
 
 Of Japan ! 
 
 With no fuss and feathers 
 
 (His temper he tethers), 
 Stolidly, grimly, he does what he can ; 
 
 Silent, defiant, 
 
 Quite self-reliant — 
 Look at the brown little man, 
 
 Of Japan ! 
 
 Fortresses storming, 
 Intrepidly forming, 
 Cossack and Russian check not his plan ; 
 
34 8 THE BROWN LITTLE MAN. 
 
 In battles' dread thunder, 
 Oh, he's a wonder — 
 This fighting, brown little man, 
 Of Japan ! 
 
 Sympathy winning, 
 
 Yes, from the beginning; 
 The true Yankee spirit you find in his plan 
 
 Tho' his ration fish is, 
 
 And other queer dishes, 
 You can't beat this brown little man, 
 
 Of Japan ! 
 
EASTER-TIDE. 
 
 EASTER-TIDE. 
 
 /^\H, bells that ring out joyfully, 
 
 Awake the hills and vales 
 To glories that our eyes may see, 
 
 Bring fragrance to the gales ! 
 Ring out all sadness from the heart. 
 
 Bid mirth with us abide, 
 And cause the gloomy shades depart, 
 
 Oh, bells of Easter-Tide ! 
 
 Oh, skies of blue, ye seem to lean 
 
 More near to waking dells, 
 And fields and mountains, glad each scene 
 
 With rapture, Easter bells ! 
 Ah. lonely hearts await your call, 
 
 The message, far and wide, 
 Bear jubilantly unto all 
 
 That wait, fair Eastec-Tide ! 
 
 Join rills in glorious refrain, 
 
 Sing birds on merry wing; 
 Oh, trouble of the silver rain, 
 
 What gladness do ye bring ! 
 The emeralds of springing leaves 
 
 The winter's ruin hide ; 
 God's love to every soul that grieves, 
 
 Oh, speak, sweet Easter-Tide ! 
 
 349 
 
35o 
 
 YULE. 
 
 YULE. 
 
 y-^H, heart of brave humanity, 
 
 ^^ How art thou stirred to-day ! 
 
 There is a sound of kindly glee 
 
 That meets thee on thy way. 
 Thy pulses throb with happiness 
 
 For, lo ! the star that shines to bless ! 
 
 The Angels' choral symphonies 
 
 Blend now with earthly harmonies, 
 In heavenly rhyme 
 At Christmas time! 
 
 Back thro' the vista of the years, 
 See yonder manger low, 
 
 Beneath its wall the Babe appears 
 With face of wond'rous glow ! 
 
 The- majesty of innocence 
 
 That brings to earth a recompense 
 For all the sorrow and the gloom, 
 And bids sweet Hope again to bloom, 
 With peace sublime 
 At Christmas time! 
 
YULE. 
 
 Ring out to earth, ye happy bells, 
 
 Above the mantling snow! 
 What joy each sound of yours compels 
 
 While beam the high and low ! 
 With peace on earth, and kindness still, 
 
 Re-echo over vale and hill! 
 
 He comes, the Holy Babe of Peace, 
 
 With glory that shall never cease ! 
 Speed on, each chime, 
 At Christmas time! 
 
 The world is crowned with heavenly light, 
 
 In grasp of kindly hand ; 
 In smiles of beauty die all spite 
 
 And scorn throughout the land ! 
 New life is wakening; and cheer 
 
 Is throbbing in the heart so drear ! 
 
 The radiant Babe has tenderly 
 
 Brought joy untold to you and me ! 
 Ring out, sweet chime, 
 At Christmas time ! 
 
 351 
 
352 
 
 DECEMBER DAYS. 
 
 DECEMBER DAYS. 
 
 \ SONG for bleak December days, 
 Tho' not a song is left, 
 For birds have gone, 
 And woods are lone, 
 Of all their joys bereft. 
 But what of that, if in the heart 
 The Summer birds remain? 
 We'll still be gay/ 
 And laugh away 
 The bleak December's reign ! 
 
 A shout for wild December days, 
 Tho' falls the snow and sleet ; 
 Who heeds the storm, 
 While hearts are warm, 
 And smiles are bright and sweet? 
 We've had the lovely summer leaves, 
 The sunshine and the dew ; 
 We'll have them still, 
 Old friend, we will — 
 December days are few ! 
 
DECEMBER DAYS. 353 
 
 A cheer for dark December days, 
 For bring they not to all 
 The brightest hour 
 Of Heaven's dower 
 That may to mortals fall? 
 Oh, days of rare, old Yule-tide joy ! 
 The sweetest of the year ! 
 That's why we sing 
 Your welcoming, 
 December days so dear ! 
 
354 
 
 THE SEASONS. 
 
 THE SEASONS. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 {In Colorado.) 
 
 t) OBINS in the tree-tops, 
 
 Deeps of turquoise sky ; 
 All the leaves a-waking — 
 
 Laughing, low and high ! 
 Crowds of snowy daisies 
 
 Twinkling far and near ; 
 Oh, the joy of daisy-time, 
 
 Sweetest of the year ! 
 
 Silver rills that tinkle 
 
 'Mid the grasses green ; 
 Not a cloud that hovers 
 
 Earth and sky between ; 
 Crickets blithely chirping, 
 
 Welcome in with cheer — 
 Daisy-time, sweet daisy-time, 
 
 Fairest of the year ! 
 
SPRING. 
 
 Far away the hill-tops 
 
 In the purple mist 
 Gleam a brilliant welcome — 
 
 Gold and amethyst; 
 Thrills the world with gladness 
 
 After sadness drear ; 
 Who could sigh in daisy-time, 
 
 Brightest of the year? 
 Colorado, 1904. 
 
 355 
 
35^ 
 
 A SONNET. 
 
 A SONNET. 
 
 (Midsummer In Santa Barbara.) 
 
 A MISER I would be to-day, and hoard 
 
 These treasures that I may not clasp again ; 
 This flood of gold that drowns upland and plain, 
 This billowy bloom that stretches deep and broad ; 
 The river, dwindling far — a silver cord — 
 And dappled shadows, down this cool, mossed lane 
 Whose mirrored boughs the lucent brooklet stain 
 With carven jet; these carols now outpoured — 
 Melodious rain — among the listening leaves. 
 Oh, Benison of boundless, cloudless sky! 
 Mine, now, howe'er your sweets may glide away, 
 Mine, to delight the while white Winter grieves, 
 To dream of when keen drifts go whirling by. 
 Can aught to come steal joys I hoard to-day? 
 
 Santa Barbara, 1904. 
 
OCTOBER. 
 
 357 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 Z^ 1 OLDEN brown and crimson leaves, 
 
 Falling, falling everywhere ; 
 Ranks of amber- tinted sheaves 
 
 Nodding in the hazy air. 
 And it's hey for blithe October, 
 Tho' the skies are dull and sober, 
 
 And the air is chill, 
 
 Yet we love thee still, 
 Oh, rare and blithe October! 
 
 Here and there, in russet rain, 
 Fall the chestnuts from the tree ; 
 
 "Bob White" softly calls again, 
 Leaves are dancing in the breeze. 
 
 There's a joy, tho' flow'rs have faded, 
 
 And the sky and storm is shaded, 
 For the dreamy days, 
 Down these woodland ways, 
 
 Are sweet in blithe October ! 
 
358 OCTOBER. 
 
 Far off hills, in purple sheen, 
 Glow, like lights from fairyland ; 
 
 Vales are clothed in golden green, 
 Earth seems now a pageant grand ! 
 
 Tho' the joyful Year is fleeting, 
 
 And belated birds repeating 
 Sad and long "Good-bye," 
 Where's the heart would sigh, 
 
 In rare and blithe October? 
 
 On the Santa Fe, 1904. 
 
MIDWINTER. 
 
 MIDWINTER. 
 {Wyoming.) 
 
 A WIND that moans o'er lifeless plains 
 
 That wear a snowy shroud ; 
 From leafless trees, when sunset wanes, 
 No song-bird carols loud 
 Its sweet Good-night ; all Nature seems 
 
 As hushed as Death, while far, 
 Amid the dying daylight beams 
 There shines no welcome star, 
 In sad midwinter ! 
 
 All silent where from branches high 
 
 Keen icicles, like spears, 
 Hang 'neath a bleak and ashen sky ! 
 And yet this thought still cheers : 
 Oh, heart, amid the palling dearth, 
 
 The overwhelming gloom, 
 Beneath this snow-white shroud of earth, 
 Sweet roses bide their bloom 
 Thro' lone midwinter ! 
 
 Wyoming, 1904. 
 
 359 
 
OCT 25 1901 
 
mum 
 
 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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