THE WORKS OF BRET HARTE. 
 
 BRET HARTE'S COLLECTED WORKS. Arrnnged and 
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 cloth extra, 6s. each. 
 Vol. I. COMPLETE POETICAL AND DRAMATIC WORKS. With 
 
 Steel Portrait, and Introduction by Author. 
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 other Sketches BOHEMIAN PAPERS SPANISH AND AME- 
 RICAN LEGENDS. 
 
 Vol. III. TALES OF THE ARGONAUTS EASTERN SKETCHES. 
 Vol. IV. GABRIEL CONROY. 
 Vol. V. STORIES CONDENSED NOVELS, &c. 
 
 THE SELECT WORKS OF BRET HARTE, in Prose 
 and Poetry. With Introductory Essay by J. M. BELLEW, 
 Portrait of the Author, and 50 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth 
 extra, 73. 6d. 
 
 GABRIEL CONROY: A Novel. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 
 
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 AN HEIRESS OF RED DOG, and other Stories. Post 8vo, 
 
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 THE TWINS OF TABLE MOUNTAIN. Fcap. 8vo, pic- 
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 BRET HARTE'S COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Author's Copyright Edition. Beautifully printed on hand- 
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 THE QUEEN OF THE PIRATE ISLE. With 25 Original 
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 CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY, W. 
 
BRET HARTE'S 
 COMPLETE POEMS. 
 
BALLANTVNE, HANSON AND CO. 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON 
 
THE 
 
 COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 BRET HARTE,is*i-if* 
 
 AUTHOR'S COPYRIGHT EDITION 
 
 CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY 
 
 1887 
 
Z3 
 -oil Library 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 NATIONAL POEMS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG 13 
 
 "HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY?" 1J 
 
 BATTLE BUNNY 19 
 
 THE REVEILLE .......... 22 
 
 OUR PRIVILEGE ......... 24 
 
 RELIEVING GUARD ..... . . 25 
 
 THE GODDESS 26 
 
 ON A PEN OF THOMAS STARR KING ...... 28 
 
 A SECOND REVIEW OF THE GRAND ARMY ..... 29 
 
 THE COPPERHEAD 32 
 
 A SANITARY MESSAGE 33 
 
 THE OLD MAJOR EXPLAINS 35 
 
 CALIFORNIA'S GREETING TO SEWARD 37 
 
 THE AGED STRANGER 39 
 
 THE IDYL OF BATTLE HOLLOW. . . . . . .4! 
 
 CALDWELL OF SPRINGFIELD 43 
 
 POEM, DELIVERED ON THE FOURTEENTH ANNIVERSARY OV 
 
 CALIFORNIA'S ADMISSION INTO THE UNION ... 45 
 
 MISS BLANCHE SAYS 48 
 
 AN ARCTIC VISION 52 
 
 ST. THOMAS 55 
 
 OFF SCARBOROUGH 58 
 
 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS. 
 
 THE MIRACLE OF PADRE JUNIPERO 65 
 
 THE WONDERFUL SPRING OF SAN JOAQUIN .... 68 
 
viii Contents. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 THEANGELUS . . . ' . ,-f I , . . -72 
 
 CONCEPCION DE ARGUELLO . . } , . . . 74 
 
 " FOR THE KING " . , . . 1 % . . . 8l 
 
 RAMON .... L .... 88 
 
 DON DIEGO OF THE SOUTH . !. . . 9 1 
 
 AT THE HACIENDA ... .... . . . . 95 
 
 FRIAR PEDRO'S RIDE ........ 96 
 
 IN THE MISSION GARDEN . . . ,~ , . , . IO2 
 
 THE LOST GALLEON . . . . , . . , IO4 
 
 POEMS IN DIALECT. 
 "JIM" . . . . . , 113 
 
 CHIQUITA . . . '.. . . . . .Il6 
 
 DOW'S FLAT . . . . . . . . . 119 
 
 IN THE TUNNEL , , . 123 
 
 "CICELY" . ', ,# .125 
 
 PENELOPE . . . . 129 
 
 PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES . . . .131 
 
 THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS . . I * *34 
 
 LUKE . . . . / . . . . .136 
 
 " THE BABES IN THE WOODS " . . . , . '4 1 
 
 THE LATEST CHINESE OUTRAGE . '. . . . .144 
 
 TRUTHFUL JAMES TO THE EDITOR . . , . . . 148 
 
 AN IDYL OF THE ROAD . . . . , . , . 151 
 
 THOMPSON OF ANGELS . . < t . * . 155 
 
 THE HAWK'S NEST . . . . , ,; . 158 
 
 HER LETTER . . .. .' . . " .. . . l6o 
 
 HIS ANSWER TO " HER LETTER " . . ''.', r6 3 
 
 " THE RETURN OF BELISARIUS " . . . . . . l66 
 
 FURTHER LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES . . . l6S 
 
 AFTER THE ACCIDENT . . ". ' . . . . 171 
 
 THE GHOST THAT JIM SAW . ' . . ' . * . 1 73 
 
 "SEVENTY-NINE" . . .'* ... . 176 
 
 THE STAGE-DRIVER'S STORY . . . . , . 179 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 A GREYPORT LEGEND . . . .' . "' . " i . 185 
 A NEWPORT ROMANCE . : . .. ,' . - ':''*. : k : * 187 
 
Contents. ix 
 
 PACK 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO . . . . . ', >. IpO 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN HEART'S-EASE . . .. ,;. -.>- . 192 
 
 GRIZZLY . . .. -. ...-* i - . 194 
 
 MADRONO 196 
 
 COYOTE 198 
 
 TO A SEA-BIRD 199 
 
 WHAT THE CHIMNEY SANG . . . . . . . 2OO 
 
 DICKENS IN CAMP . . . . . . , , .. ... 2O2 
 
 TWENTY YEARS . . . .' . . v . ,* . 2O4 
 
 FATE . 2O6 
 
 GRANDMOTHER TENTERDEN ..207 
 
 GUILD'S SIGNAL 210 
 
 ASPIRING MISS DE LAINE 212 
 
 A LEGEND OF COLOGNE 219 
 
 THE TALE OF A PONY 228 
 
 ON A CONE OF THE BIG TREES 232 
 
 LONE MOUNTAIN 235 
 
 ALNASCHAR 237 
 
 THE TWO SHIPS 239 
 
 ADDRESS DELIVERED AT THE OPENING OF THE CALIFORNIA 
 
 THEATRE, SAN FRANCISCO, JANUARY 19, 1870 . ... 240 
 
 DOLLY VARDEN 242 
 
 TEI.EMACHUS VERSUS MENTOR . . . ... . 244 
 
 WHAT THE WOLF REALLY SAID TO LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD . 248 
 
 HALF-AN-HOUR BEFORE SUPPER 249 
 
 WHAT THE BULLET SANG 252 
 
 PARODIES, ETC. 
 
 BEFORE THE CURTAIN 255 
 
 TO THE PLIOCENE SKULL ^ 256 
 
 THE BALLAD OF MR. COOKE 258 
 
 THE BALLAD OF THE EMEU . . * . . 263 
 
 MRS. JUDGE JENKINS 265 
 
 A GEOLOGICAL MADRIGAL 268 
 
 AVITOR 270 
 
 THE WILLOWS 272 
 
 NORTH BEACH 275 
 
 THE LOST TAILS OF MILETUS 276 
 
 THE RITUALIST 278 
 
 A MORAL VINDICATOR 279 
 
Contents. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 CALIFORNIA MADRIGAL ... , . . , .281 
 
 WHAT THE ENGINES SAID , . ' . . . . 283 
 
 THE LEGENDS OF THE RHINE 286 
 
 SONGS WITHOUT SENSE , 288 
 
 LITTLE POSTERITY. 
 
 MASTER JOHNNY'S NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOUR .... 293 
 
 MISS EDITH'S MODEST REQUEST 296 
 
 MISS EDITH MAKES IT PLEASANT FOR BROTHER JACK . . 300 
 
 MISS EDITH MAKES ANOTHER FRIEND 3O2 
 
 ON THE LANDING 304 
 
 CADET GREY 307 
 
NATIONAL. 
 
3|oljn QBurns of 
 
 HAVE you heard the story that gossips tell 
 Of Burns of Gettysburg? No ? Ah, well : 
 Brief is the glory that hero earns, 
 Briefer the story of poor John Burns : 
 He was the fellow who won renown, 
 The only man who didn't back down 
 When the rebels rode through his native town 
 But held his own in the fight next day, 
 When all his townsfolk ran away. 
 That was in July sixty-three, 
 The very day that General Lee, 
 Flower of Southern chivalry, 
 Baffled and beaten, backward reeled 
 From a stubborn Meade and a barren field. 
 I might tell how but the day before 
 John Burns stood at his cottage door, 
 Looking down the village street, 
 Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine, 
 He heard the low of his gathered kine, 
 And felt their breath with incense sweet ; 
 Or I might say, when the sunset burned 
 The old farm gable, he thought it turned 
 The milk that fell like a babbling flood 
 Into the milk-pail red as blood ! 
 Or how he fancied the hum of beea 
 
1 4 John Burns of Gettysburg. 
 
 Were bullets buzzing among the trees. 
 But all such fanciful thoughts as these 
 Were strange to a practical man like Burns, 
 Who minded only his own concerns, 
 Troubled no more by fancies fine 
 Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed, kine,- 
 Quite old-fashioned and matter-of-fact, 
 Slow to argue, but quick to act 
 That was the reason, as some folk say, 
 He fought so well on that terrible day. 
 
 And it was terrible. On the right 
 
 Raged for hours the heady fight, 
 
 Thundered the battery's double bass, 
 
 Difficult music for men to face ; 
 
 While on the left where now the graves 
 
 Undulate like the living waves 
 
 That all that day unceasing swept 
 
 Up to the pits the rebels kept 
 
 Round shot ploughed the upland glades, 
 
 Sown with bullets, reaped with blades ; 
 
 Shattered fences here and there 
 
 Tossed their splinters in the air ; 
 
 The very trees were stripped and bare ; 
 
 The barns that once held yellow grain 
 
 Were heaped with harvests of the slain ; 
 
 The cattle bellowed on the plain, 
 
 The turkeys screamed with might and main, 
 
 And brooding barn-fowl left their rest 
 
 With strange shells bursting in each nest. 
 
 Just where the tide of battle turns, 
 Erect and lonely stood old John Burns 
 
John Burns of Gettysburg. 1 5 
 
 How do you think the man was dressed ? 
 
 He wore an ancient long buff vest, 
 
 Yellow as saffron, but his best ; 
 
 And, buttoned over his manly breast, 
 
 Was a bright blue coat, with a rolling collar, 
 
 And large gilt buttons, size of a dollar, 
 
 With tails that the country-folk called "swaller." 
 
 He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat, 
 
 White as the locks on which it sat. 
 
 Never had such a sight been seen 
 
 For forty years on the village green, 
 
 Since old John Burns was a country beau, 
 
 And went to the "quiltings" long ago. 
 
 Close at his elbows all that day, 
 
 Veterans of the Peninsula, 
 
 Sunburnt and bearded, charged away ; 
 
 And striplings, downy of lip and chin, 
 
 Clerks that the Home Guard mustered in, 
 
 Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore, 
 
 Then at the rifle his right hand bore ; 
 
 And hailed him, from out their youthful lore, 
 
 With scraps of a slangy repertoire : 
 
 " How are you, White Hat ! " " Put her through ! w 
 
 " Your head's level ! " and " Bully for you ! " 
 
 Called him " Daddy," begged he'd disclose 
 
 The name of the tailor who made his clothes, 
 
 And what was the value he set on those ; 
 
 While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff, 
 
 Stood there picking the rebels off, 
 
 With his long brown rifle and bell-crown hat, 
 
 And the swallow-tails they were laughing at 
 
 'Twas but a moment, for that respect 
 
 Which clothes all courage their voices checked ; 
 
1 6 John Burns of Gettysburg. 
 
 And something the wildest could understand 
 Spake in the old man's strong right hand, 
 And his corded throat, and the lurking frown 
 Of his eyebrows under his old bell-crown ; 
 Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe 
 Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw, 
 In the antique vestments and long white hair, 
 The Past of the Nation in battle there ; 
 And some of the soldiers since declare 
 That the gleam of his old white hat afar, 
 Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre, 
 That day was their oriflamme of war. 
 
 So raged the battle. You know the rest : 
 How the rebels, beaten and backward pressed, 
 Broke at the final charge and ran. 
 At which John Burns a practical man 
 Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows, 
 And then went back to his bees and cows. 
 
 That is the story of old John Burns ; 
 This is the moral the reader learns : 
 In fighting the battle, the question's whether 
 You'll show a hat that's white, or a feather ! 
 
17 
 
 "Ipoto are gou, 
 
 DOWN the picket-guarded lane 
 
 Rolled the comfort-laden wain, 
 
 Cheered by shouts that shook the plain, 
 Soldier-like and merry : 
 
 Phrases such as camps may teach, 
 
 Sabre-cuts of Saxon speech, 
 
 Such as " Bully ! " " Them's the peach I* 
 "Wade in, Sanitary!" 
 
 Right and left the caissons drew 
 As the car went lumbering through, 
 Quick succeeding in review 
 
 Squadrons military ; 
 Sunburnt men with beards like frieze, 
 Smooth-faced boys, and cries like these, 
 "U. S. San. Com." "That's the cheese!" 
 
 "Pass in, Sanitary!" 
 
 In such cheer it struggled on 
 Till the battle front was won, 
 Then the car, its journey done, 
 
 Lo ! was stationary ; 
 And where bullets whistling fly, 
 Came the sadder, fainter cry, 
 " Help us, brothers, ere we die, 
 
 Save us, Sanitary ! " 
 
 VOL. I 
 
1 8 "How are you, Sanitary f* 
 
 Such the work. The phantom flies, 
 Wrapped in battle clouds that rise ; 
 But the brave whose dying eyes, 
 
 Veiled and visionary, 
 See the jasper gates swung wide, 
 See the parted throng outside 
 Hears the voice to those who ride : 
 
 "Pass in, Sanitary 1" 
 
QBattle Uunng. 
 
 (MALVERN HILL, 1864.) 
 
 [" After the men were ordered to lie down, a. white rabbit, which had 
 been hopping hither and thither over the field swept by grape and 
 musketry, took refuge among the skirmishers, in the breast of a cor- 
 poral." Report of the Battle of Malvern Hill.~\ 
 
 BUNNY, lying in the grass, 
 Saw the shining column pass ; 
 Saw the starry banner fly, 
 Saw the chargers fret and fume, 
 Saw the flapping hat and plume 
 Saw them with his moist and shy 
 Most unspeculative eye, 
 Thinking only, in the dew, 
 That it was a fine review 
 Till a flash, not all of steel, 
 Where the rolling caissons wheel, 
 Brought a rumble and a roar 
 Rolling down that velvet floor, 
 And like blows of autumn flail 
 Sharply threshed the iron hail. 
 
 Bunny, thrilled by unknown fears, 
 Raised his soft and pointed ears, 
 Mumbled his prehensile lip, 
 Quivered his pulsating hip, 
 
2O Battle Bunny. 
 
 As the sharp vindictive yell 
 Rose above the screaming shell ; 
 Thought the world and all its men 
 All the charging squadrons meant 
 All were rabbit-hunters then, 
 All to capture him intent. 
 Bunny was not much to blame : 
 Wiser folk have thought the same 
 Wiser folk who think they spy 
 Every ill begins with " I." 
 
 Wildly panting here and there, 
 Bunny sought the freer air, 
 Till he hopped below the hill, 
 And saw, lying close and still, 
 Men with muskets in their hands. 
 (Never Bunny understands 
 That hypocrisy of sleep, 
 In the vigils grim they keep, 
 As recumbent on that spot 
 They elude the level shot.) 
 
 One a grave and quiet man, 
 Thinking of his wife and child 
 Far beyond the Rapidan, 
 Where the Androsaggin smiled 
 Felt the little rabbit creep, 
 Nestling by his arm and side, 
 Wakened from strategic sleep, 
 To that soft appeal replied, 
 Drew him to his blackened breast, 
 And 
 
 But you have guessed the rest. 
 Softly o'er that chosen pair 
 Omnipresent Love and Care 
 
Battle B.unny. 
 
 Drew a mightier Hand and Arm, 
 Shielding them from every harm ; 
 Right and left the bullets waved, 
 Saved the saviour for the saved. 
 
 Who believes that equal grace 
 God extends in every place, 
 Little difference he scans 
 'Twixt a rabbit's God and man's. 
 
 21 
 
Cfje BefcetUe, 
 
 HARK ! I hear the tramp of thousands, 
 
 And of armed men the hum ; 
 Lo ! a nation's hosts have gathered 
 Round the quick alarming drum, 
 Saying, "Come, 
 Freemen, come ! 
 Ere your heritage be wasted," said the quick alarming drum. 
 
 " Let me of my heart take counsel : 
 
 War is not of life the sum ; 
 Who shall stay and reap the harvest 
 When the autumn days shall come ? " 
 But the drum 
 Echoed, " Come ! 
 
 Death shall reap the braver harvest," said the solemn- 
 sounding drum. 
 
 " But when won the coming battle, 
 
 What of profit springs therefrom ? 
 What if conquest, subjugation, 
 Even greater ills become ? " 
 But the drum 
 Answered, " Come ! 
 
 You must do the sum to prove it," said the Yankee-answer 
 ing drum. 
 
The Reveille. 23 
 
 " What if, 'mid the cannons' thunder, 
 
 Whistling shot and bursting bomb, 
 When my brothers fall around me, 
 
 Should my heart grow cold and numb ? " 
 But the drum 
 Answered, " Come ! 
 
 Better there in death united, than in life a recreant, 
 Come!" 
 
 Thus they answered, hoping, fearing, 
 
 Some in faith, and doubting some, 
 Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming, 
 Said, " My chosen people, come ! " 
 Then the drum, 
 Lo ! was dumb, 
 
 For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, answered 
 "Lord, we come!" 
 
flDur 
 
 NOT ours, where battle smoke upcurls, 
 
 And battle dews lie wet, 
 To meet the charge that treason hurls 
 
 By sword and bayonet 
 
 Not ours to guide the fatal scythe 
 The fleshless Reaper wields ; 
 
 The harvest moon looks calmly down 
 Upon our peaceful fields. 
 
 The long grass dimples on the hill, 
 
 The pines sing by the sea, 
 And Plenty, from her golden horn. 
 
 Is pouring far and free. 
 
 O brothers by the farther sea ! 
 
 Think still our faith is warm ; 
 The same bright flag above us waves 
 
 That swathed our baby form. 
 
 The same red blood that dyes your fields 
 Here throbs in patriot pride 
 
 The blood that flowed when Lander fell, 
 And Baker's crimson tide. 
 
 And thus apart our hearts keep time 
 
 With every pulse ye feel, 
 And Mercy's ringing gold shall chime 
 
 With Valour's clashing steel 
 
Beltetoing (0uarO, 
 
 T. S. K. OBIIT MARCH 4, 1864. 
 
 CAME the relief. " What, sentry, ho ! 
 
 How passed the night through thy long waking ? " 
 
 " Cold, cheerless, dark, as may befit 
 
 The hour before the dawn is breaking." 
 
 " No sight ? no sound ? " " No ; nothing save 
 The plover from the marches calling, 
 And in yon western sky, about 
 An hour ago, a star was falling." 
 
 "A star? There's nothing strange in that" 
 " No, nothing ; but, above the thicket, 
 Somehow it seemed to me that God 
 Somewhere had just relieved a picket" 
 
 
( 26 ) 
 
 Cfje 
 
 FOR THE SANITARY FAIR. 
 
 " WHO comes ? " The sentry's warning cry 
 Rings sharply on the evening air : 
 
 Who comes ? The challenge : no reply, 
 Yet something motions there. 
 
 A woman, by those graceful folds ; 
 
 A soldier, by that martial tread : 
 " Advance three paces. Halt 1 until 
 
 Thy name and rank be said." 
 
 " My name ? Her name, in ancient song 
 Who fearless from Olympus came : 
 
 Look on me ! Mortals know me best 
 In battle and in flame." 
 
 " Enough ! I know that clarion voice ; 
 
 I know that gleaming eye and helm ; 
 Those crimson lips, and in their dew 
 
 The best blood of the realm. 
 
 " The young, the brave, the good and wise, 
 Have fallen in thy curst embrace : 
 
 The juices of the grapes of wrath 
 Still stain thy guilty face. 
 
The Goddess. 27 
 
 " My brother lies in yonder field, 
 Face downward to the quiet grass : 
 
 Go back ! he cannot see thee now ; 
 But here thou shalt not pass." 
 
 A crack upon the evening air, 
 
 A wakened echo from the hill : 
 The watchdog on the distant shore 
 
 Gives mouth, and all is stilL 
 
 The sentry with his brother lies 
 Face downward on the quiet grass ; 
 
 And by him, in the pale moonshine, 
 A shadow seems to pass. 
 
 No lance or warlike shield it bears : 
 
 A helmet in its pitying hands 
 Brings water from the nearest brook, 
 
 To meet his last demands. 
 
 Can this be she of haughty mien, 
 
 The goddess of the sword and shield ? 
 
 Ah, yes ! The Grecian poet's myth 
 Sways still each battlefield. 
 
 For not alone that rugged War 
 
 Some grace or charm from Beauty gains ; 
 But, when the goddess' work is done, 
 
 The woman's still remains. 
 
Dn a pen of Cfiomag tare Eing, 
 
 THIS is the reed the dead musician dropped, 
 With tuneful magic in its sheath still hidden ; 
 
 The prompt allegro of its music stopped, 
 Its melodies unbidden. 
 
 But who shall finish the unfinished strain, 
 Or wake the instrument to awe and wonder, 
 
 And bid the slender barrel breathe again, 
 An organ-pipe of thunder ! 
 
 His pen ! what humbler memories cling about 
 
 Its golden curves ! what shapes and laughing graces 
 
 Slipped from its point, when his full heart went out 
 In smiles and courtly phrases ? 
 
 The truth, half jesting,, half in earnest flung ; 
 
 The word of cheer, with recognition in it ; 
 The note of alms, whose golden speech outrung 
 
 The golden gift within it. 
 
 But all in vain the enchanter's wand we wave : 
 No stroke of ours recalls his magic vision : 
 
 The incantation that its power gave 
 Sleeps with the dead magician. 
 
econD Beirieto of tfie dUrant) 
 
 I READ last night of the grand review 
 In Washington's chiefest avenue, 
 Two hundred thousand men in blue, 
 
 I think they said was the number, 
 Till I seemed to hear their trampling feet, 
 The bugle blast and the drum's quick beat, 
 The clatter of hoofs in the stony street, 
 . The cheers of people who came to greet, 
 And the thousand details that to repeat 
 
 Would only my verse encumber, 
 Till I fell in a reverie, sad and sweet, 
 
 And then to a fitful slumber. 
 
 When, lo ! in a vision I seemed to stand 
 In the lonely Capitol. On each hand 
 Far stretched the portico, dim and grand 
 Its columns ranged like a martial band 
 Of sheeted spectres, whom some command 
 
 Had called to a last reviewing. 
 And the streets of the city were white and bare 
 No footfall echoed across the square ; 
 But out of the misty midnight air 
 I heard in the distance a trumpet blare, 
 And the wandering night-winds seemed to bear 
 
 The sound of a far tattooing. 
 
3<D A Second Review of the Grand Army. 
 
 Then I held my breath with fear and dread ; 
 For into the square, with a brazen tread, 
 There rode a figure whose stately head 
 
 O'erlooked the review that morning, 
 That never bowed from its firm-set seat 
 When the living column passed its feet, 
 Yet now rode steadily up the street 
 
 To the phantom bugle's warning. 
 
 Till it reached the Capitol square, and wheeled, 
 And there in the moonlight stood revealed 
 A well-known form that in State and field 
 
 Had led our patriot sires : 
 Whose face was turned to the sleeping camp, 
 Afar through the river's fog and damp, 
 That showed no flicker, nor waning lamp, 
 
 Nor wasted bivouac fires. 
 
 And I saw a phantom army come, 
 With never a sound of fife or drum, 
 But keeping time to a throbbing hum 
 
 Of wailing and lamentation : 
 The martyred heroes of Malvern Hill, 
 Of Gettysburg and Chancellors ville, 
 The men whose wasted figures fill 
 
 The patriot graves of the nation. 
 
 And there came the nameless dead, the men 
 Who perished in fever swamp and fen, 
 The slowly-starved of the prison pen ; 
 
 And, marching beside the others, 
 Came the dusky martyrs of Pillow's fight, 
 With limbs enfranchised and bearing bright ; 
 I thought perhaps 'twas the pale moonlight 
 
 They looked as white as their brothers ! 
 
A Second Review of the Grand Army. 31 
 
 And so all night marched the nation's dead, 
 With never a banner above them spread, 
 Nor a badge, nor a motto brandished ; 
 No mark save the bare uncovered head 
 
 Of the silent bronze Reviewer ; 
 With never an arch save the vaulted sky ; 
 With never a flower save those that lie 
 On the distant graves for love could buy 
 
 No gift that was purer or truer. 
 
 So all night long swept the strange array, 
 So all night long till the morning gray 
 I watched for one who had passed away, 
 
 With a reverent awe and wonder, 
 Till a blue cap waved in the lengthening line, 
 And I knew that one who was kin of mine 
 Had come ; and I spake and lo ! that sign 
 
 Awakened me from my slumber. 
 
Copperfjealx 
 
 THERE is peace in the swamp where the Copperhead 
 
 sleeps, 
 
 Where the waters are stagnant, the white vapour creeps, 
 Where the musk of Magnolia hangs thick in the air, 
 And the lilies' phylacteries broaden in prayer. 
 There is peace in the swamp, though the quiet is death, 
 Though the mist is miasma, the upas-tree's breath, 
 Though no echo awakes to the cooing of doves, 
 There is peace : yes, the peace that the Copperhead loves ! 
 
 Go seek him : he coils in the ooze and the drip, 
 Like a thong idly flung from the slave-driver's whip ; 
 But beware the false footstep, the stumble that brings 
 A deadlier lash than the overseer swings. 
 Never arrow so true, never bullet so dread, 
 As the straight steady stroke of that hammer-shaped head ; 
 Whether slave or proud panther, who braves that dull crest, 
 Woe to him who shall trouble the Copperhead's rest ! 
 
 Then why waste your labours, brave hearts and strong men, 
 In tracking a trail to the Copperhead's den ? 
 Lay your axe to the cypress, hew open the shade 
 To the free sky and sunshine Jehovah has made ; 
 Let the breeze of the North sweep the vapours away, 
 Till the stagnant lake ripples, the freed waters play ; 
 And then to your heel can you righteously doom 
 The Copperhead born of its shadow and gloom ! 
 
( 33 ) 
 
 Sanitary 
 
 LAST night, above the whistling wind, 
 
 I heard the welcome rain, 
 A fusillade upon the roof, 
 
 A tattoo on the pane : 
 The keyhole piped ; the chimney-top 
 
 A warlike trumpet blew ; 
 Yet, mingling with these sounds of strife, 
 
 A softer voice stole through. 
 
 " Give thanks, O brothers ! " said the voice, 
 
 " That He who sent the rains 
 Hath spared your fields the scarlet dew 
 
 That drips from patriot veins : 
 I've seen the grass on Eastern graves 
 
 In brighter verdure rise ; 
 But, oh ! the rain that gave it life 
 
 Sprang first from human eyes. 
 
 " I come to wash away no stain 
 
 Upon your wasted lea j 
 I raise no banners, save the ones 
 
 The forest waves to me : 
 Upon the mountain side, where Spring 
 
 Her farthest picket sets, 
 My reVeille awakes a host 
 
 Of grassy bayonets, 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
34 A Sanitary Message. 
 
 u I visit every humble roof; 
 
 I mingle with the low : 
 Only upon the highest peaks 
 
 My blessings fall in snow ; 
 Until, in tricklings of the stream 
 
 And drainings of the lea, 
 My unspent bounty comes at last 
 
 To mingle with the sea." 
 
 And thus all night, above the wind, 
 
 I heard the welcome rain, 
 A fusillade upon the roof, 
 
 A tattoo on the pane : 
 The keyhole piped ; the chimney- top 
 
 A warlike trumpet blew ; 
 But, mingling with these sounds of strife, 
 
 This hymn of peace stole through. 
 
QTfie >to Sjgajor <ZErplain& 
 
 (RE-UNION, ARMY OF THE POTOMAC, I2TH MAY 1871.) 
 
 WELL, you see, the fact is, Colonel, I don't know as I can 
 
 come : 
 For the farm is not half planted, and there's work to do at 
 
 home; 
 
 And my leg is getting troublesome, it laid me up last Fall, 
 And the doctors, they have cut and hacked, and never 
 
 found the ball. 
 
 And then, for an old man like me, it's not exactly right, 
 This kind o' playing soldier with no enemy in sight. 
 " The Union," that was well enough way up to '66 ; 
 But this "Re-Union," maybe now it's mixed with politics? 
 
 No ? Well, you understand it best ; but then, you see, my 
 
 lad, 
 I'm deacon now, and some might think that the example's 
 
 bad. 
 And week from next is Conference. . . . You said the twelfth 
 
 of May ? 
 Why, that's the day we broke their line at Spottsyl- 
 
 van-i-a ! 
 
36 The Old Major Explains. 
 
 Hot work ; eh, Colonel, wasn't it ? Ye mind that narrow 
 
 front : 
 They called it the " Death-Angle ! " Well, well, my lad, we 
 
 won't 
 
 Fight that old battle over now : I only meant to say 
 I really can't engage to come upon the twelfth of May. 
 
 How's Thompson ? What ! will he be there ? Well, now 
 
 I wan't to know ! 
 The first man in the rebel works ! they called him " Swearing 
 
 Joe." 
 
 A wild young fellow, sir, I fear the rascal was ; but then 
 Well, short of heaven, there wa'n't a place he dursn't lead 
 
 his men. 
 
 And Dick, you say, is coming too. And Billy ? ah ! it's 
 true 
 
 We buried him at Gettysburg : I mind the spot ; do you ? 
 
 A little field below the hill, it must be green this May ; 
 
 Perhaps that's why the fields about bring him to me to- 
 day. 
 
 Well, well, excuse me, Colonel ! but there are some things 
 
 that drop 
 The tail-board out one's feelings ; and the only way's to 
 
 stop. 
 So they want to see the old man ; ah, the rascals ! do they, 
 
 eh? 
 Well, I've business down in Boston about the twelfth of 
 
 May. 
 
( 37 ) 
 
 California'^ (Greeting to etoarti. 
 
 (1869) 
 
 WE know him well : no need of praise 
 
 Or bonfire from the windy hill 
 To light to softer paths and ways 
 
 The world-worn man we honour still 
 
 No need to quote those truths he spoke 
 
 That burned through years of war and shame, 
 
 While History carves with surer stroke 
 Across our map his noonday fame. 
 
 No need to bid him show the scars 
 Or blows dealt by the Scaean gate, 
 
 Who lived to pass its shattered bars, 
 And see the foe capitulate : 
 
 Who lived to turn his slower feet 
 
 Toward the western setting sun, 
 To see his harvest all complete, 
 
 His dream fulfilled, his duty done, 
 
 The one flag streaming from the pole, 
 The one faith borne from sea to sea : 
 
 For such a triumph, and such goal, 
 Poor must our human greeting be. 
 
38 California's Greeting to Seward. 
 
 Ah ! rather that the conscious land 
 In simpler ways salute the Man, 
 
 The tall pines bowing where they stand, 
 The bared head of El Capitan, 
 
 The tumult of the waterfalls, 
 Pohono's kerchief in the breeze, 
 
 The waving from the rocky walls, 
 The stir and rustle of the trees ; 
 
 Till, lapped in sunset skies of hope, 
 In sunset lands by sunset seas, 
 
 The Young World's Premier treads the slope 
 Of sunset years in calm and peace. 
 
Cfie Hgeti Stranger* 
 
 AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 
 
 " I WAS with Grant " the stranger said ; 
 
 Said the farmer, " Say no more, 
 But rest thee here at my cottage porch, 
 
 For thy feet are weary and sore." 
 
 " I was with Grant " the stranger said ; 
 
 Said the farmer, " Nay, no more, 
 I prithee sit at my frugal board, 
 
 And eat of my humble store. 
 
 " How fares my boy, my soldier boy, 
 Of the old Ninth Army Corps ? 
 
 I warrant he bore him gallantly 
 
 In the smoke and the battle's roar,!" 
 
 " I know him not," said the aged man, 
 " And, as I remarked before, 
 
 I was with Grant " " Nay, nay, I know,* 
 Said the farmer, " say no more : 
 
 " He fell in battle, I see, alas ! 
 
 Thou'dst smooth these tidings o'er, 
 Nay, speak the truth, whatever it be, 
 
 Though it rend my bosom's core. 
 
46 The Aged Stranger. 
 
 " How fell he ? with his face to the foe, 
 Upholding the flag he bore ? 
 
 Oh, say not that my boy disgraced 
 The uniform that he wore ! " 
 
 " I cannot tell," said the aged man, 
 " And should have remarked before, 
 
 That I was with Grant, in Illinois, 
 Some three years before the war." 
 
 Then the farmer spake him never a word, 
 
 But beat with his fist full sore 
 That aged man, who had worked fcr Grant 
 
 Some three years before the war. 
 
Cfie 31$ of TBattfe 
 
 (WAR OF THE REBELLION, 1864,) 
 
 No, I won't thar, now, so ! And it ain't nothin', no ! 
 And thar's nary to tell that you folks yer don't know ; 
 And it's Belle, tell us, do !" and it's "Belle, is it true?" 
 And " Wot's this yer yarn of the Major and you ? " 
 Till I'm sick of it all, so I am, but I s'pose 
 Thet is nothin' to you Well, then, listen ! yer goes ! 
 
 It was after the fight, and around us all night 
 Thar was poppin' and shootin' a powerful sight ; 
 And the niggers had fled, and Aunt Chlo was abed, 
 And Pinky and Milly were hid in the shed : 
 And I ran out at daybreak and nothin' was nigh 
 But the growlin' of cannon low down in the sky. 
 
 And I saw not a thing as I ran to the spring, 
 But a splintered fence rail and a broken-down swing, 
 And a bird said " Kerchee ! " as it sat on a tree, 
 As if it was lonesome and glad to see me ; 
 And I filled up my pail and was risin' to go, 
 When up comes the Major a canterin' slow. 
 
 When he saw me, he drew in his reins, and then threw 
 On the gate-post his bridle, and what does he do 
 
4 2 The Idyl of Battle Hollow. 
 
 But come down where I sat ; and he lifted his hat, 
 And he says well, thar ain't any need to tell that 
 'Twas some foolishness, sure, but it 'mounted to this, 
 Thet he asked for a drink, and he wanted a kiss. 
 
 Then I said (I was mad), " For the water, my lad, 
 You're too big and must stoop ; for a kiss, it's as bad 
 You ain't near big enough." And I turned in a huff, 
 When that Major he laid his white hand on my cuff, 
 And he says, " You're a trump ! Take my pistol, don't fear ! 
 But shoot the next man that insults you, my dear." 
 
 Then he stooped to the pool, very quiet and cool, 
 Leavin' me with that pistol stuck there like a fool, 
 When thar flashed on my sight a quick glimmer of light 
 From the top of the little stone-fence on the right, 
 And I knew 'twas a rifle, and back of it all 
 Rose the face of that bushwhacker, Cherokee Hall ! 
 
 Then I felt in my dread that the moment the head 
 Of the Major was lifted, the Major was dead ; 
 And I stood still and white, but Lord ! gals, in spite 
 Of my care, that derned pistol went off in my fright ! 
 Went off true as gospil ! and, strangest of all, 
 It actooally injured that Cherokee Hall. 
 
 Thet's all now, go long. Yes, some folks thinks it's wrong 
 And thar's some wants to know to what side I belong ; 
 But I says, " Served him right ! " and I go, all my might, 
 In love or in war, for a fair stand-up fight ; 
 And as for the Major Sho ! gals, don't you know 
 Thet Lord ! thar's his step in the garden below. 
 
( 43 ) 
 
 CalDtoefl of 
 
 (NEW JERSEY, 1780.) 
 
 HERE'S the spot. Look around you. Above on the height 
 Lay the Hessians encamped. By that church on the right 
 Stood the gaunt Jersey farmers. And here ran a wall 
 You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball 
 Nothing more. Grasses spring, waters run, flowers blow, 
 Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago. 
 
 Nothing more, did I say ? Stay one moment ; you've heard 
 Of Caldwell, the parson, who once preached the word 
 Down at Springfield? What, No? Come that's bad. Why 
 
 he had 
 
 All the Jerseys aflame ! And they gave him the name 
 Of the " rebel high priest." He stuck in their gorge, 
 For he loved the Lord God and he hated King George ! 
 
 He had cause, you might say ! When the Hessians that 
 
 day 
 
 Marched up with Knyphausen, they stopped on their way 
 At the " farms," where his wife, with a child in her arms, 
 Sat alone in the house. How it happened none knew 
 But God and that one of the hireling crew 
 Who fired the shot ! Enough ! there she lay, 
 And Caldwell, the chaplain, her husband, away 1 
 
44 Caldwell of Springfield 
 
 Did he preach did he pray ? Think of him as you stand 
 By the old church to-day : think of him and that band 
 Of militant ploughboys ! See the smoke and the heat 
 Of that reckless advance of that straggling retreat ! 
 Keep the ghost of that wife, foully slain, in your view 
 And what could you, what should you, what would you do ? 
 
 Why, just what he did ! They were left in the lurch 
 For the want of more wadding. He ran to the church, 
 Broke the door, stripped the pews, and dashed out in the 
 
 road 
 
 With his arms full of hymn-books, and threw down his load 
 At their feet ! Then above all the shouting and shots 
 Rang his yoice "Put Watts into 'em Boys, give 'em 
 
 Watts 1" 
 
 And they did. That is all Grasses spring, flowers blow, 
 Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago. 
 You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball 
 But not always a hero like this and that's all. 
 
( 45 ) 
 
 poem 
 
 DELIVERED ON THE FOURTEENTH ANNIVERSARY OF CALI- 
 FORNIA'S ADMISSION INTO THE UNION. 
 
 September 9, 1864. 
 
 WE meet in peace, though from our native East 
 The sun that sparkles on our birthday feast 
 Glanced as he rose in fields whose dews were red 
 With darker tints than those Aurora spread. 
 Though shorn his rays his welcome disc concealed 
 In the dim smoke that veiled each battlefield, 
 Still striving upward, in meridian pride, 
 He climbed the walls that East and West divide 
 Saw his bright face flashed back from golden sand, 
 And sapphire seas that lave the Western land. 
 
 Strange was the contrast that such scenes disclose 
 From his high vantage o'er eternal snows j 
 There War's alarm the brazen trumpet rings 
 Here his love-song the mailed cicala sings ; 
 There bayonets glitter through the forest glades 
 Here yellow cornfields stack their peaceful blades \ 
 There the deep trench where Valour finds a grave- - 
 Here the long ditch that curbs the peaceful wave ; 
 There the bold sapper with his lighted train 
 Here the dark tunnel and its stores of gain ; 
 Here the full harvest and the wain's advance 
 There the Grim Reaper and the ambulance. 
 
46 Poem. 
 
 With scenes so adverse, what mysterious bond 
 Links our fair fortunes to the shores beyond ? 
 Why come we here last of a scattered fold 
 To pour new metal in the broken mould ? 
 To yield our tribute, stamped with Caesar's face, 
 To Caesar, stricken in the market-place ? 
 
 Ah ! love of country is the secret tie 
 That joins these contrasts 'neath one arching sky ; 
 Though brighter paths our peaceful steps explore 
 We meet together at the Nation's door. 
 War winds her horn, and giant cliffs go down 
 Like the high walls that girt the sacred town, 
 And bares the pathway to her throbbing heart, 
 From clustered village and from crowded mart. 
 
 Part of God's providence it was to found 
 A Nation's bulwark on this chosen ground 
 Not Jesuit's zeal nor pioneer's unrest 
 Planted these pickets in the distant West ; 
 But He who first the Nation's fate forecast 
 Placed here His fountains sealed for ages past, 
 Rock-ribbed and guarded till the coming time 
 Should fit the people for their work sublime ; 
 When a new Moses with his rod of steel 
 Smote the tall cliffs with one wide-ringing peal, 
 And the old miracle in record told 
 To the new Nation was revealed in gold. 
 
 Judge not too idly that our toils are mean, 
 Though no new levies marshal on our green ; 
 Nor deem too rashly that our gains are small, 
 Weighed with the prizes for which heroes fall 
 
Poem. 47 
 
 See, where thick vapour wreathes the battle-line ; 
 There Mercy follows with her oil and wine ; 
 Or when brown Labour with its peaceful charm 
 Stiffens the sinews of the Nation's arm. 
 
 What nerves its hands to strike a deadlier blow 
 And hurl its legions on the rebel foe ? 
 Lo ! for each town new rising o'er our State 
 See the foe's hamlet waste and desolate, 
 While each new factory lifts its chimney tall, 
 Like a fresh mortar trained on Richmond's wall 
 
 For this, oh ! brothers, swings the fruitful vine, 
 Spread our broad pastures with their countless kine ; 
 For this o'erhead the arching vault springs clear, 
 Sunlit and cloudless for one half the year ; 
 For this no snowflake, e'er so lightly pressed, 
 Chills the warm impulse of our mother's breast. 
 
 Quick to reply, from meadows brown and sere, 
 She thrills responsive to Spring's earliest tear ; 
 Breaks into blossom, flings her loveliest rose 
 Ere the white crocus mounts Atlantic snows ; 
 And the example of her liberal creed 
 Teaches the lesson that to-day we need. 
 
 Thus ours the lot with peaceful, generous hand 
 To spread our bounty o'er the suffering land ; 
 As the deep cleft in Mariposa's wall 
 Hurls a vast river splintering in its fall 
 Though the rapt soul who stands in awe below 
 Sees but the arching of the promised bow 
 Lo ! the far streamlet drinks its dews unseen, 
 And the whole valley makes a brighter green. 
 
QBlancfje 
 
 AND you are the poet, and so you want 
 
 Something what is it ? a theme, a fancy ? 
 Something or other the Muse won't grant 
 
 In your old poetical necromancy ; 
 Why one half your poets you can't deny 
 
 Don't know the Muse when you chance to meet her, 
 But sit in your attics and mope and sigh 
 For a faineant goddess to drop from the sky, 
 When flesh and blood may be standing by 
 
 Quite at your service, should you but greet her. 
 
 What if I told you my own romance ? 
 
 Women are poets, if you so take them, 
 One-third poet the rest what chance 
 
 Of man and marriage may choose to make them. 
 Give me ten minutes before you go, 
 
 Here at the window we'll sit together, 
 Watching the currents that ebb and flow ; 
 Watching the world as it drifts below 
 Up to the hot Avenue's dusty glow : 
 
 Isn't it pleasant this bright June weather ? 
 
 Well, it was after the war broke out, 
 
 And I was a school-girl fresh from Paris ; 
 
 Papa had contracts, and roamed about, 
 And I did nothing for I was an heiress. 
 
Miss Blanche Says. 49 
 
 Picked some lint, now I think ; perhaps 
 Knitted some stocking a dozen nearly; 
 
 Havelocks made for the soldiers' caps ; 
 
 Stood at fair tables and peddled traps 
 
 Quite at a profit. The " shoulder-straps " 
 
 Thought I was pretty. Ah, thank you ! really ? 
 
 Still it was stupid. Rata-tat-tat ! 
 
 Those were the sounds of that battle summer, 
 Till the earth seemed a parchment round and flat, 
 
 And every footfall the tap of a drummer ; 
 And day by day down the Avenue went 
 
 Cavalry, infantry, all together, 
 Till my pitying angel one day sent 
 My fate in the shape of a regiment, 
 That halted, just as the day was spent, 
 
 Here at our door in the bright June weather. 
 
 None of your dandy warriors they, 
 
 Men from the West, but where I know not ; 
 Haggard and travel-stained, worn and grey, 
 
 With never a ribbon or lace or bow-knot : 
 And I opened the window, and leaning there, 
 
 I felt in their presence the free winds blowing ; 
 My neck and shoulders and arms were bare 
 I did not dream that they might think me fair, 
 But I had some flowers that night in my hair, 
 
 And here, on my bosom, a red rose glowing. 
 
 And I looked from the window along the line, 
 
 Dusty and dirty and grim and solemn, 
 Till an eye like a bayonet flash met mine, 
 
 And a dark face grew from the darkening column, 
 
 VOL. L D 
 
5O Miss Blanche Says. 
 
 And a quick flame leaped to my eyes and hair, 
 
 Till cheeks and shoulders burned all together, 
 And the next I found myself standing there 
 With my eyelids wet and my cheeks less fair, 
 And the rose from my bosom tossed high in air, 
 Like a blood-drop falling on plume and feather. 
 
 Then I drew back quickly : there came a cheer, 
 
 A rush of figures, a noise and tussle, 
 And then it was over, and high and clear 
 
 My red rose bloomed on his gun's black muzzle. 
 Then far in the darkness a sharp voice cried, 
 
 And slowly and steadily, all together, 
 Shoulder to shoulder and side to side, 
 Rising and falling, and swaying wide, 
 But bearing above them the rose, my pride, 
 
 They marched away in the twilight weather. 
 
 And I leaned from my window and watched my rose 
 
 Tossed on the waves of the surging column, 
 Warmed from above in the sunset glows, 
 
 Borne from below by an impulse solemn. 
 Then I shut the window. I heard no more 
 
 Of my soldier friend, my flower neither, 
 But lived my life as I did before. 
 I did not go as a nurse to the war 
 Sick folks to me are a dreadful bore 
 
 So I didn't go to the hospital either. 
 
 You smile, O poet, and what do you ? 
 
 You lean from your window, and watch life's column 
 Trampling and struggling through dust and dew, 
 
 Filled with its purposes grave and solemn ; 
 
Miss Blanche Says. 5 1 
 
 An act, a gesture, a face who knows ? 
 Touches your fancy to thrill and haunt you, 
 
 And you pluck from your bosom the verse that grows, 
 
 And down it flies like my red, red rose, 
 
 And you sit and dream as away it goes, 
 
 And think that your duty is done now don't you ? 
 
 I know your answer. I'm not yet through. 
 
 Look at this photograph " In the Trenches ! " 
 That dead man in the coat of blue 
 
 Holds a withered rose in his hand. That clenches 
 Nothing ! except that the sun paints true, 
 
 And a woman is sometimes prophetic-minded. 
 And that's my romance. And, poet, you 
 Take it and mould it to suit your view ; 
 And who knows but you may find it too 
 
 Come to your heart once more, as mine did 
 
3n arctic Ufetom 
 
 WHERE the short-legged Esquimaux 
 Waddle in the ice and snow, 
 And the playful Polar bear 
 Nips the hunter unaware ; 
 Where by day they track the ermine, 
 And by night another vermin, 
 Segment of the frigid zone, 
 Where the temperature alone 
 Warms on St. Ellas' cone ; 
 Polar dock, where Nature slips 
 From the ways her icy ships ; 
 Land of fox and deer and sable, 
 Shore end of our western cable, 
 Let the news that flying goes 
 Thrill through all your arctic floes, 
 And reverberate the boast 
 From the cliffs off Beechey's coast, 
 Till the tidings, circling round 
 Every bay of Norton Sound, 
 Throw the vocal tide-wave back 
 To the isles of Kodiac. 
 Let the stately Polar bears 
 Waltz around the pole in pairs, 
 And the walrus, in his glee, 
 Bare his tusk of ivory ; 
 
An Arctic Vision. 53 
 
 While the bold sea-unicorn 
 Calmly takes an extra horn ; 
 All ye Polar skies, reveal your 
 Very rarest of parhelia ; 
 Trip it all ye merry dancers, 
 In the airiest of " Lancers ; " 
 Slide, ye solemn glaciers, slide, 
 One inch farther to the tide, 
 Nor in rash precipitation 
 Upset TyndalFs calculation. 
 Know you not what fate awaits you, 
 Or to whom the future mates you ? 
 All ye icebergs make salaam, 
 You belong to Uncle Sam ! 
 
 On the spot where Eugene Sue 
 Led his wretched Wandering Jew, 
 Stands a form whose features strike 
 Russ and Esquimaux alike. 
 He it is whom Skalds of old 
 In their Runic rhymes foretold ; 
 Lean of flank and lank of jaw, 
 See the real Northern Thor ! 
 See the awful Yankee leering 
 Just across the Straits of Behring ; 
 On the drifted snow, too plain, 
 Sinks his fresh tobacco stain, 
 Just beside the deep inden- 
 Tation of his Number 10. 
 
 Leaning on his icy hammer 
 Stands the hero of this drama, 
 And above the wild-duck's clamour, 
 In his own peculiar grammar, 
 
54 An Arctic Vision. 
 
 With its linguistic disguises, 
 
 Lo ! the Arctic prologue rises : 
 
 "Wa'll, I reckon 'tain't so bad, 
 
 Seein' ez 'twas all they had ; 
 
 True, the Springs are rather late, 
 
 And early Falls predominate ; 
 
 But the ice crop 's pretty sure, 
 
 And the air is kind o' pure ; 
 
 'Tain't so very mean a trade, 
 
 When the land is all surveyed 
 
 There's a right smart chance for fur-chase 
 
 All along this recent purchase, 
 
 And, unless the stories fail, 
 
 Every fish from cod to whale ; 
 
 Rocks, too ; mebbe quartz ; let's see, 
 
 'Twould be strange if there should be, 
 
 Seems I've heerd such stories told ; 
 
 Eh ! why, bless us, yes, it's gold ! " 
 
 While the blows are falling thick 
 From his California pick, 
 You may recognise the Thor 
 Of the vision that I saw, 
 Freed from legendary glamour, 
 See the real magician's hammer. 
 
( 55 ) 
 
 (A GEOGRAPHICAL SURVEY, 1 86 8.) 
 
 VERY fair and full of promise 
 Lay the island of St. Thomas : 
 Ocean o'er its reefs and bars 
 Hid its elemental scars ; 
 Groves of cocoanut and guava 
 Grew above its fields of lava. 
 So the gem of the Antilles, 
 " Isles of Eden," where no ill is, 
 Like a great green turtle slumbered 
 On the sea that it encumbered. 
 Then said William Henry Seward, 
 As he cast his eye to leeward, 
 " Quite important to our commerce 
 Is this island of St. Thomas." 
 
 Said the Mountain ranges, " Thank'ee, 
 But we cannot stand the Yankee 
 O'er our scars and fissures poring, 
 In our very vitals boring, 
 In our sacred caverns prying, 
 All our secret problems trying, 
 Digging, blasting, with dynamit 
 Mocking all our thunders ! Damn it ! 
 
5 ^ -SV. Thomas. 
 
 Other lands may be more civil, 
 Bust our lava crust if we will ! " 
 
 Said the Sea, its white teeth gnashing 
 Through its coral-reef lips flashing, 
 " Shall I let this scheming mortal 
 Shut with stone my shining portal, 
 Curb my tide and check my play, 
 Fence with wharves my shining bay ? 
 Rather let me be drawn out 
 In one awful waterspout ! " 
 
 Said the black-browed Hurricane, 
 Brooding down the Spanish Main, 
 " Shall I see my forces, zounds ! 
 Measured by square inch and pounds, 
 With detectives at my back 
 When I double on my track, 
 And my secret paths made clear, 
 Published o'er the hemisphere 
 To each gaping, prying crew ? 
 ^Shall I ? Blow me if I do ! " 
 
 So the Mountains shook and thundered, 
 And the Hurricane came sweeping, 
 And the people stared and wondered 
 As the Sea came on them leaping : 
 Each, according to his promise, 
 Made things lively at St. Thomas. 
 
 Till one morn, when Mr. Seward 
 Cast his weather eye to leeward, 
 There was not an inch of dry land 
 Left to mark his recent island. 
 
6V. Thomas. 
 
 Not a flagstaff or a sentry, 
 Not a wharf or port of entry, 
 Only to cut matters shorter 
 Just a patch of muddy water 
 In the open ocean lying, 
 And a gull above it flying. 
 
 57 
 
Dff 
 
 (SEPTEMBER 1779.) 
 
 " HAVE a care I" the bailiffs cried 
 From their cockleshell that lay 
 Off the frigate's yellow side, 
 
 Tossing on Scarborough Bay, 
 While the forty sail it convoyed on a bowline stretched 
 
 away; 
 
 " Take your chicks beneath your wings, 
 And your claws and feathers spread, 
 Ere the hawk upon them springs 
 Ere around Flamborough Head 
 
 Swoops Paul Jones, the Yankee falcon, with his beak and 
 talons red." 
 
 IL 
 
 How we laughed ! my mate and i 
 
 On the " Bon Homme Richard's " deck, 
 As we saw that convoy fly 
 
 Like a snow squall, till each fleck 
 Melted in the twilight shadows of the coast-line, speck by 
 
 speck ; 
 
 And scuffling back to shore 
 The Scarborough bailiffs sped, 
 
Off Scar dot ough. 5 9 
 
 As the " Richard," with a roar 
 
 Of her cannon round the Head, 
 
 Crossed her royal yards and signalled to her consort 
 "Chase ahead!" 
 
 ill. 
 
 But the devil seize Landais 
 
 In that consort ship of France ! 
 For the shabby, lubber way 
 
 That he worked the " Alliance " 
 
 In the offing, nor a broadside fired save to our mis- 
 chance ! 
 When tumbling to the van, 
 
 With his battle-lanterns set, 
 Rose the burly Englishman 
 
 'Gainst our hull as black as jet 
 Rode the yellow-sided " Serapis," and all alone we met 1 
 
 IV. 
 
 All alone though far at sea 
 
 Hung his consort, rounding to ; 
 All alone though on our lee 
 
 Fought our " Pallas," stanch and true ! 
 For the first broadside around us both a smoky circle 
 
 drew: 
 And, like champions in a ring, 
 
 There was cleared a little space 
 Scarce a cable's length to swing 
 
 Ere we grappled in embrace, 
 
 All the world shut out around us, and we only face to 
 face! 
 
60 Off Scarborough. 
 
 v. 
 
 Then awoke all hell below 
 
 From that broadside, doubly curst, 
 For our long eighteens in row 
 
 Leaped the first discharge and burst ! 
 And on deck our men came pouring, fearing their own 
 
 guns the worst. 
 
 And as dumb we lay, till, through 
 Smoke and flame and bitter cry, 
 Hailed the " Serapis " " Have you 
 Struck your colours ? " Our reply, 
 
 "We have not yet begun to fight!" went shouting to the 
 sky! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Roux of Brest, old fisher, lay 
 
 Like a herring gasping here; 
 Bunker of Nan tucket Bay, 
 
 Blown from out the port, dropped sheer 
 Half a cable's length to leeward; yet we faintly raised a cheer 
 As with his own right hand, 
 
 Our Commodore made fast 
 The foeman's head-gear and 
 
 The " Richard's" mizzen-mast, 
 
 And in that death-lock clinging held us there from first to 
 last! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Yet the foeman, gun on gun, 
 
 Through the " Richard " tore a road 
 
Off Scarborough. 6 1 
 
 With his gunners' rammers run 
 
 Through our ports at every load, 
 Till clear the blue beyond us through our yawning timbers 
 
 showed. 
 
 Yet with entrails torn we clung 
 Like the Spartan to our fox, 
 And on deck no coward tongue 
 
 Wailed the enemy's hard knocks, 
 Nor that all below us trembled like a wreck upon the rocks. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Then a thought rose in my brain, 
 
 As through Channel mists the sun. 
 From our tops a fire like rain 
 
 Drove below decks every one 
 
 Of the enemy's ship's company to hide or work a gun, 
 And that thought took shape as I 
 
 On the " Richard's " yard lay out, 
 That a man might do and die, 
 If the doing brought about 
 
 Freedom for his home and country, and his messmates' 
 cheering shout 1 
 
 IX. 
 
 Then I crept out in the dark 
 
 Till I hung above the hatch 
 Of the " Serapis "a mark 
 
 For her marksmen ! with a match 
 And a hand-grenade, but lingered just a moment more to 
 
 snatch 
 
 One last look at sea and sky ! 
 At the lighthouse on the hill I 
 
62 Off Scarborough. 
 
 At the harvest-moon on high ! 
 
 And our pine flag fluttering still ; 
 
 Then turned and down her yawning throat I launched that 
 devil's pill ! 
 
 Then a blank was all between 
 
 As the flames around me spun ! 
 Had I fired the magazine ? 
 
 Was the victory lost or won ? 
 Nor knew I till the fight was o'er but half my work was 
 
 done: 
 For I lay among the dead 
 
 In the cockpit of our foe, 
 With a roar above my head 
 Till a trampling to and fro, 
 
 And a lantern showed my mate's face, and I knew what 
 now you know ! 
 
SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS. 
 
65 
 
 Cfje 9@ttacle of UpaDire 3[unipero. 
 
 THIS is the tale that the Chronicle 
 Tells of the wonderful miracle 
 Wrought by the pious Padre Serro, 
 The very reverend Junipero. 
 
 The heathen stood on his ancient mound, 
 
 Looking over the desert bound 
 
 Into the distant, hazy South, 
 
 Over the dusty and broad champaign, 
 
 Where, with many a gaping mouth 
 
 And fissure, cracked by the fervid drouth, 
 
 For seven months had the wasted plain 
 
 Known no moisture of dew or rain. 
 
 The wells were empty and choked with sand ; 
 
 The rivers had perished from the land ; 
 
 Only the sea-fogs to and fro 
 
 Slipped like ghosts of the streams below. 
 
 Deep in its bed lay the river's bones, 
 
 Bleaching in pebbles and milk-white stones, 
 
 And tracked o'er the desert faint and far, 
 
 Its ribs shone bright on each sandy bar. 
 
 Thus they stood as the sun went down 
 Over the foot-hills bare and brown ; 
 
 VOL. I. E 
 
66 The Miracle of Padre Junipero. 
 
 Thus they looked to the South, wherefrom 
 
 The pale-face medicine-man should come, 
 
 Not in anger or in strife, 
 
 But to bring so ran the tale 
 
 The welcome springs of eternal life, 
 
 The living waters that should not fail 
 
 Said one, " He will come like Manitou, 
 Unseen, unheard, in the falling dew." 
 Said another, " He will come full soon 
 Out of the round-faced watery moon." 
 And another said, " He is here ! " and lo, 
 Faltering, staggering, feeble and slow, 
 Out from the desert's blinding heat 
 The Padre dropped at the heathen's feet. 
 They stood and gazed for a little space 
 Down on his pallid and careworn face, 
 And a smile of scorn went round the band 
 As they touched alternate with foot and hand 
 This mortal waif, that the outer space 
 Of dim mysterious sky and sand 
 Flung with so little of Christian grace 
 Down on their barren, sterile strand. 
 
 Said one to him : " It seems thy God 
 
 Is a very pitiful kind of God ; 
 
 He could not shield thine aching eyes 
 
 From the blowing desert sands that rise, 
 
 Nor turn aside from thy old grey head 
 
 The glittering blade that is brandished 
 
 By the sun He set in the heavens high ; 
 
 He could not moisten thy lips when dry ; 
 
 The desert fire is in thy brain ; 
 
 Thy limbs are racked with the fever-pain : 
 
The Miracle of Padre Juniper o. 6 7 
 
 If this be the grace He showeth thee 
 
 Who art His servant, what may we, 
 
 Strange to His ways and His commands, 
 
 Seek at His unforgiving hands ? " 
 
 " Drink but this cup," said the Padre, straight, 
 
 " And thou shalt know whose mercy bore 
 
 These aching limbs to your heathen door, 
 
 And purged my soul of its gross estate. 
 
 Drink in His name, and thou shalt see 
 
 The hidden depths of this mystery. 
 
 Drink ! " and he held the cup. One blow 
 
 From the heathen dashed to the ground below 
 
 The sacred cup that the Padre bore, 
 
 And the thirsty soil drank the precious store 
 
 Of sacramental and holy wine, 
 
 That emblem and consecrated sign 
 
 And blessed symbol of blood divine. 
 
 Then, says the legend (and they who doubt 
 
 The same as heretics be accurst), 
 
 From the dry and feverish soil leaped out 
 
 A living fountain ; a well-spring burst 
 
 Over the dusty and broad champaign, 
 
 Over the sandy and sterile plain, 
 
 Till the granite ribs and the milk-white stones 
 
 That lay in the valley the scattered bones 
 
 Moved in the river and lived again ! 
 
 Such was the wonderful miracle 
 
 Wrought by the cup of wine that fell 
 
 From the hands of the pious Padre Serro, 
 
 The very reverend Junipero. 
 
Cfje ffiHonDerful Spring of an 
 Sfoaquin, 
 
 OF all the fountains that poets sing, 
 
 Crystal, thermal, or mineral spring ; 
 
 Ponce de Leon's Fount of Youth ; 
 
 Wells with bottoms of doubtful truth ; 
 
 In short, of all the springs of Time 
 
 That ever were flowing in fact or rhyme, 
 
 That ever were tasted, felt, or seen, 
 
 There were none like the Spring of San Joaquia 
 
 Anno Domini Eighteen-seven, 
 
 Father Dominguez (now in heaven, 
 
 Obtit, Eighteen twenty-seven) 
 
 Found the spring, and found it, too, 
 
 By his mule's miraculous cast of a shoe ; 
 
 For his beast a descendant of Balaam's ass 
 
 Stopped on the instant, and would not pass. 
 
 The Padre thought the omen good, 
 
 And bent his lips to the trickling flood ; 
 
 Then as the Chronicles declare, 
 
 On the honest faith of a true believer 
 
 His cheeks, though wasted, lank, and bare, 
 
 Filled like a withered russet-pear 
 
 In the vacuum of a glass receiver, 
 
The Wonderful Spring of San Joaquin. 69 
 
 And the snows that seventy winters bring 
 Melted away in that magic spring. 
 
 Such, at least, was the wondrous news 
 The Padre brought into Santa Cruz. 
 The Church, of course, had its own views 
 Of who were worthiest to use 
 The magic spring ; but the prior claim 
 Fell to the aged, sick, and lame. 
 Far and wide the people came : 
 Some from the healthful Aptos Creek 
 Hastened to bring their helpless sick ; 
 Even the fishers oi rude Sequel 
 Suddenly found they were far from well ; 
 The brawny dwellers of San Lorenzo 
 Said, in fact, they had never been so : 
 And all were ailing, strange to say, 
 From Pescadero to Monterey. 
 
 Over the mountain they poured in, 
 With leathern bottles and bags of skin ; 
 Through the canons a motley throng 
 Trotted, hobbled, and limped along. 
 The Fathers gazed at the moving scene 
 With pious joy and with souls serene ; 
 And then a result perhaps foreseen 
 They laid out the Mission of San Joaquin. 
 
 Not in the eyes of faith alone 
 The good effects of the water shone ; 
 But skins grew rosy, eyes waxed clear, 
 Of rough vaquero and muleteer ; 
 
70 The Wonderful Spring of San Joaquin. 
 
 Angular forms were rounded out, 
 Limbs grew supple and waists grew stout ; 
 And as for the girls for miles about 
 They had no equal ! To this day, 
 From Pescadero to Monterey, 
 You'll still find eyes in which are seen 
 The liquid graces of San Joaquin. 
 
 There is a limit to human bliss, 
 
 And the Mission of San Joaquin had this ; 
 
 None went abroad to roam or stay, 
 
 But they fell sick in the queerest way, 
 
 A singular maladie du pays, 
 
 With gastric symptoms : so they spent 
 
 Their days in a sensuous content, 
 
 Caring little for things unseen 
 
 Beyond their bowers of living green, 
 
 Beyond the mountains that lay between 
 
 The world and the Mission of San Joaquin. 
 
 Winter passed and the summer came ; 
 The trunks of madrono, all aflame, 
 Here and there through the underwood 
 Like pillars of fire starkly stood. 
 All of the breezy solitude 
 
 Was filled with the spicing of pine and bay 
 And resinous odours mixed and blended, 
 
 And dim and ghost-like, far away, 
 The smoke of the burning woods ascended. 
 Then of a sudden the mountains swam, 
 The rivers piled their floods in a dam, 
 The ridge above Los Gatos Creek 
 
The Wonderful Spring of San Joaquin. 7 1 
 
 Arched its spine in a feline fashion ; 
 The forests waltzed till they grew sick, 
 
 And Nature shook in a speechless passion ; 
 And, swallowed up in the earthquake's spleen, 
 The wonderful Spring of San Joaquin 
 Vanished, and never more was seen ! 
 
 Two days passed : the Mission folk 
 
 Out of their rosy dream awoke ; 
 
 Some of them looked a trifle white, 
 
 But that, no doubt, was from earthquake fright 
 
 Three days : there was sore distress, 
 
 Headache, nausea, giddiness. 
 
 Four days : faintings, tenderness 
 
 Of the mouth and fauces ; and in less 
 
 Than one week, here the story closes ; 
 
 We won't continue the prognosis, 
 
 Enough that now no trace is seen 
 
 Of Spring or Mission of San Joaquin. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 You see the point ? Don't be too quick 
 To break bad habits : better stick, 
 Like the Mission folk, to your arsenic. 
 
Cfje 
 
 (HEARD AT THE MISSION DOLORES, 1868.) 
 
 BELLS of the Past, whose long-forgotten music 
 Still fills the wide expanse, 
 
 Tingeing the sober twilight of the Present 
 With colour of romance ! 
 
 I hear your call, and see the sun descending 
 On rock and wave and sand, 
 
 As down the coast the Mission voices, blending, 
 Girdle the heathen land. 
 
 Within the circle of your incantation 
 No blight nor mildew falls ; 
 
 Nor fierce unrest, nor lust, nor low ambition 
 Passes those airy walls. 
 
 Borne on the swell of your long waves receding, 
 I touch the farther Past, 
 
 I see the dying glow of Spanish glory, 
 The sunset dream and last ! 
 
 Before me rise the dome-shaped Mission towers, 
 
 The white Presidio ; 
 The swart commander in his leathern jerkin, 
 
 The priest in stole of snow. 
 
The Angelus. 73 
 
 Once more I see Portala's cross uplifting 
 
 Above the setting sun ; 
 And past the headland, northward, slowly drifting 
 
 The freighted galleon. 
 
 O solemn bells ! whose consecrated masses 
 
 Recall the faith of old, 
 O tinkling bells ! that lulled with twilight music 
 
 The spiritual fold ! 
 
 Your voices break and falter in the darkness, 
 
 Break, falter, and are still ; 
 And veiled and mystic, like the Host descending, 
 
 The sun sinks from the hill ! 
 
( 74 ) 
 
 Conception He rgueflo* 
 
 (PRESIDIO DE SAN FRANCISCO, 1800.) 
 
 i. 
 
 LOOKING seaward, o'er the sandhills stands the fortress, 
 
 old and quaint, 
 By the San Francisco friars lifted to their patron saint, 
 
 Sponsor to that wondrous city, now apostate to the creed, 
 On whose youthful walls the Padre saw the angel's golden 
 reed ; 
 
 All its trophies long since scattered, all its blazon brushed 
 
 away; 
 And the flag that flies above it but a triumph of to-day. 
 
 Never scar of siege or battle challenges the wandering 
 
 eye 
 Never breach of warlike onset holds the curious passer-by ; 
 
 Only one sweet human fancy interweaves its threads of gold 
 With the plain and home-spun present, and a love that ne'er 
 grows old : 
 
Conception de Arguello. 75 
 
 Only one thing holds its crumbling walls above the meaner 
 
 dust, 
 Listen to the simple story of a woman's love and trust 
 
 II. 
 
 Count von Resanoff, the Russian, envoy of the mighty Czar, 
 Stood beside the deep embrasures where the brazen cannon 
 are; 
 
 He with grave provincial magnates long had held serene 
 
 debate 
 On the Treaty of Alliance and the high affairs of state ; 
 
 He from grave provincial magnates oft had turned to talk 
 
 apart 
 With the Commandante's daughter on the questions of the 
 
 heart, 
 
 Until points of gravest import yielded slowly one by one, 
 And by Love was consummated what Diplomacy begun ; 
 
 Till beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon 
 
 are, 
 He received the twofold contract for approval of the Czar ; 
 
 Till beside the brazen cannon the betrothed bade adieu, 
 And, from sallyport and gateway, north the Russian eagles 
 flew. 
 
76 Conception de Arguello. 
 
 IIL 
 
 Long beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon 
 
 are, 
 Did they wait the promised bridegroom and the answer of 
 
 the Czar ; 
 
 Day by day on wall and bistion beat the hollow, empty 
 
 breeze, 
 Day by day the sunlight glittered on the vacant, smiling 
 
 seas ; 
 
 Week by week the near hills whitened in their dusty leather 
 
 cloaks, 
 Week by week the far hills darkened from the fringing plain 
 
 of oaks , 
 
 Till the rains came, and far-breaking, on the fierce south- 
 wester tost, 
 
 Dashed the whole long coast with colour, and then vanished 
 and were lost. 
 
 So each year the seasons shifted, wet and warm and drear 
 
 and dry ; 
 Half a year of clouds and flowers, half a year of dust and 
 
 sky. 
 
 Still it brought no ship nor message, brought no tidings, ill 
 
 or meet, 
 For the statesmanlike Commander, for the daughter fair 
 
 and sweet. 
 
Conception de Arguello. 77 
 
 Yet she heard the varying message, voiceless to all ears 
 
 beside : 
 " He will come," the flowers whispered ; " Come no more," 
 
 the dry hills sighed. 
 
 Still she found him with the waters lifted by the morning 
 
 breeze, 
 Still she lost him with the folding of the great white-tented 
 
 Until hollows chased the dimples from her cheeks of olive 
 
 brown, 
 And at times a swift, shy moisture dragged the long sweet 
 
 lashes down ; 
 
 Or the small mouth curved and quivered as for some denied 
 
 caress, 
 And the fair young brow was knitted in an infantine distress. 
 
 Then the grim Commander, pacing where the brazen cannon 
 
 are, 
 Comforted the maid with proverbs, wisdom gathered from 
 
 afar; 
 
 Bits of ancient observation by his fathers garnered, each 
 As a pebble worn and polished in the current of his speech : 
 
 u< Those who wait the coming rider travel twice as fai 
 
 as he;' 
 ' Tired wench and coming butter never did in time agree ; ' 
 
78 Concepcion de Argue Ho. 
 
 " * He that getteth himself honey, though a clown, he shall 
 
 have flies ; ' 
 1 In the end God grinds the miller ; ' ' In the dark the mole 
 
 has eyes ; ' 
 
 " ' He whose father is Alcalde of his trial hath no fear/ 
 And be sure the Count has reasons that will make his con- 
 duct clear." 
 
 Then the voice sententious faltered, and the wisdom it would 
 
 teach 
 Lost itself in fondest trifles of his soft Castilian speech ; 
 
 And on " Concha," " Conchitita," and " Conchita " he would 
 
 dwell 
 With the fond reiteration which the Spaniard knows so well. 
 
 So with proverbs and caresses, half in faith and half in doubt, 
 Every day some hope was kindled, flickered, faded, and 
 went out. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yearly, down the hillside sweeping, came the stately caval- 
 cade, 
 Bringing revel to vaquero, joy and comfort to each maid ; 
 
 Bringing days of formal visit, social feast and rustic sport ; 
 Of bull-baiting on the plaza, of love-making in the court 
 
 Vainly then at Concha's lattice, vainly as the idle wind, 
 Rose the thin high Spanish tenor that bespoke the youth 
 too kind ; 
 
Conception de Arguello. 79 
 
 Vainly, leaning from their saddles, caballeros, bold and 
 
 fleet, 
 Plucked for her the buried chicken from beneath their 
 
 mustang's feet ; 
 
 So in vain the barren hillsides with their gay scrapes blazed, 
 Blazed and vanished in the dust- cloud that their flying hoofs 
 had raised. 
 
 Then the drum called from the rampart, and once more, with 
 
 patient mien, 
 The Commander and his daughter each took up the dull 
 
 routine, 
 
 Each took up the petty duties of a life apart and lone, 
 Till the slow years wrought a music in its dreary monotone. 
 
 v. 
 
 Forty years on wall and bastion swept the hollow idle 
 
 breeze, 
 Since the Russian eagle fluttered from the California seas ; 
 
 Forty years on wall and bastion wrought its slow but sure 
 
 decay, 
 And St. George's cross was lifted in the port of Monterey ; 
 
 And the citadel was lighted, and the hall was gaily drest, 
 All to honour Sir George Simpson, famous traveller and 
 guest 
 
 Far and near the people gathered to the costly banquet set, 
 And exchanged congratulations with the English baronet ; 
 
8o Concepcion de Argue Ho. 
 
 Till, the formal speeches ended, and amidst the laugh and 
 
 wine, 
 Some one spoke of Concha's lover, heedless of the warning 
 
 sign. 
 
 Quickly then cried Sir George Simpson : " Speak no ill of 
 
 him, I pray 
 He is dead He died, poor fellow, forty years ago this day. 
 
 " Died while speeding home to Russia, falling from a frac- 
 tious horse. 
 
 Left a sweetheart, too, they tell me. Married, I suppose, of 
 course ! 
 
 "Lives she yet?" A death-like silence fell on banquet, 
 
 guests, and hall, 
 And a trembling figure rising fixed the awestruck gaze of 
 
 all 
 
 Two black eyes in darkened orbits gleamed beneath the 
 
 nun's white hood ; 
 Black serge hid the wasted figure, bowed and stricken where 
 
 it stood. 
 
 " Lives she yet ? " Sir George repeated. All were hushed as 
 
 Concha drew 
 Closer yet her nun's attire. " Sefior, pardon, she died too ! " 
 
( 8i 
 
 "JTor t&e mtng." 
 
 (NORTHERN MEXICO, 1640.) 
 
 As you look from the plaza at Leon west 
 
 You can see her house, but the view is best 
 
 From the porch of the church where she lies at rest, 
 
 Where much of her past still lives, I think, 
 In the scowling brows and sidelong blink 
 Of the worshipping throng that rise or sink 
 
 To the waxen saints that, yellow and lank, 
 Lean out from their niches, rank on rank, 
 With a bloodless Saviour on either flank ; 
 
 In the gouty pillars, whose cracks begin 
 
 To show the adobe core within, 
 
 A soul of earth in a whitewashed skin. 
 
 And I think that the moral of all, you'll say, 
 Is the sculptured legend that molds away 
 On a tomb in the choir : " For el Rey." 
 
 " For el Rey ! " Well, the king is gone 
 Ages ago, and the Hapsburg one 
 Shot but the Rock of the Church lives on. 
 VOL. i. r 
 
82 "For the King." 
 
 " For el Rey ! " What matters, indeed, 
 
 If king or president succeed 
 
 To a country haggard with sloth and greed, 
 
 As long as one granary is fat, 
 
 And yonder priest, in a shovel hat, 
 
 Peeps out from the bin like a sleek brown rat ? 
 
 What matters ? Nought, if it serves to bring 
 The legend nearer, no other thing, 
 We'll spare the moral, " Live the king ! " 
 
 Two hundred years ago, they say, 
 The Viceroy, Marquis of Monte-Rey, 
 Rode with his retinue that way ; 
 
 Grave, as befitted Spain's grandee, 
 Grave, as the substitute should be 
 Of His Most Catholic Majesty ; 
 
 Yet, from his black plume's curving grace 
 To his slim black gauntlet's smaller space, 
 Exquisite as a piece of lace ! 
 
 Two hundred years ago e'en so 
 
 The Marquis stopped where the lime-trees blow, 
 
 While Leon's seneschal bent him low, 
 
 And begged that the Marquis would that night take 
 
 His humble roof for the royal sake, 
 
 And then, as the custom demanded, spake 
 
 The usual wish, that his guest would hold 
 
 The house, and all that it might enfold, 
 
 As his with the bride scarce three days old. 
 
"For the King? 83 
 
 Be sure that the Marquis, in his place, 
 Replied to all with the measured grace 
 Of chosen speech and unmoved face ; 
 
 Nor raised his head till his black plume swept 
 The hem of the lady's robe, who kept 
 Her place, as her husband backward stept. 
 
 And then (I know not how nor why) 
 A subtle flame in the lady's eye 
 Unseen by the courtiers standing by 
 
 Burned through his lace and titled wreath, 
 Burned through his body's jewelled sheath. 
 Till it touched the steel of the man beneath ! 
 
 (And yet, mayhap, no more was meant 
 Than to point a well-worn compliment, 
 And the lady's beauty, her worst intent) 
 
 Howbeit, the Marquis bowed again : 
 " Who rules with awe well serveth Spain, 
 But best whose law is love made plain." 
 
 Be sure that night no pillow pressed 
 The seneschal, but with the rest 
 Watched, as was due a royal guest, 
 
 Watched from the wall till he saw the square 
 Fill with the moonlight, white and bare, 
 Watched till he saw two shadows fare 
 
 Out from his garden, where the shade 
 That the old church tower and belfry made 
 Like a benedictory hand was laid. 
 
84 "for the King" 
 
 Few words spoke the seneschal as he turned 
 
 To his nearest sentry : " These monks have learned 
 
 That stolen fruit is sweetly earned 
 
 " Myself shall punish yon acolyte 
 
 Who gathers my garden grapes by night ; 
 
 Meanwhile, wait thou till the morning light." 
 
 Yet not till the sun was riding high 
 
 Did the sentry meet his commander's eye, 
 
 Nor then till the Viceroy stood by. 
 
 To the lovers of grave formalities 
 
 No greeting was ever so fine, I wis, 
 
 As this host's and guest's high courtesies ! 
 
 The seneschal feared, as the wind was west, 
 A blast from Morena had chilled his rest ; 
 The Viceroy languidly confessed 
 
 That cares of state, and he dared to say 
 Some fears that the King could not repay 
 The thoughtful zeal of his host, some way 
 
 Had marred his rest. Yet he trusted much 
 None shared his wakefulness ; though such 
 Indeed might be ! If he dared to touch 
 
 A theme so fine the bride, perchance, 
 Still slept ! At least, they missed her glance 
 To give this greeting countenance. 
 
 Be sure that the seneschal, in turn, 
 
 Was deeply bowed with the grave concern 
 
 Of the painful news his guest should learn : 
 
"For the King" 85 
 
 "Last night, to her father's dying bed 
 By a priest was the lady summoned ; 
 Nor know we yet how well she sped, 
 
 " But hope for the best." The grave Viceroy 
 (Though grieved his visit had such alloy) 
 Must still wish the seneschal great joy 
 
 Of a bride so true to her filial trust ! 
 Yet now, as the day waxed on, they must 
 To horse, if they'd 'scape the noonday dust. 
 
 " Nay," said the seneschal, " at least, 
 To mend the news of this funeral priest, 
 Myself shall ride as your escort east." 
 
 The Viceroy bowed. Then turned aside 
 To his nearest follower : " With me ride 
 You and Felipe on either side. 
 
 " And list ! Should anything me befall, 
 Mischance of ambush or musket-ball, 
 Cleave to his saddle yon seneschal ! 
 
 " No more." Then gravely in accents clear 
 Took formal leave of his late good cheer ; 
 Whiles the seneschal whispered a musketeer, 
 
 Carelessly stroking his pommel top : 
 " If from the saddle ye see me drop, 
 Riddle me quickly yon solemn fop ! " 
 
 So these, with many a compliment, 
 Each on his own dark thought intent, 
 With grave politeness onward went, 
 
86 "For the King" 
 
 Riding high, and in sight of all, 
 Viceroy, escort, and seneschal, 
 Under the shade of the Almandral ; 
 
 Holding their secret hard and fast, 
 Silent and grave they ride at last 
 Into the dusty travelled Past. 
 
 Even like this they passed away 
 Two hundred years ago to-day. 
 What of the lady ? Who shall say ? 
 
 Do the souls of the dying ever yearn 
 
 To some favoured spot for the dust's return- 
 
 For the homely peace of the family urn ? 
 
 I know not. Yet did the seneschal, 
 Chancing in after years to fall 
 Pierced by a Flemish musket-ball, 
 
 Call to his side a trusty friar, 
 
 And bid him s t wear, as his last desire, 
 
 To bear his corse to San Pedro's choir 
 
 At Leon, where 'neath a shield azure 
 Should his mortal frame find sepulture ; 
 This much, for the pains Christ did endure. 
 
 Be sure that the friar loyally 
 Fulfilled his trust by land and sea, 
 Till the spires of Leon silently 
 
 Rose through the green of the Almandral, 
 
 As if to beckon the seneschal 
 
 To his kindred dust 'neath the choir wall. 
 
"For the King." 87 
 
 I wot that the saints on either side 
 
 Leaned from their niches open-eyed 
 
 To see the doors of the church swing wide 
 
 That the wounds of the Saviour on either flank 
 Bled fresh, as the mourners, rank by rank, 
 Went by with the coffin, clank on clank. 
 
 For why ? When they raised the marble door 
 Of the tomb, untouched for years before, 
 The friar swooned on the choir floor ; 
 
 For there, in her laces and festal dress, 
 Lay the dead man's wife, her loveliness 
 Scarcely changed by her long duress; 
 
 As on the night she had passed away 
 
 Only that near her a dagger lay, 
 
 With the written legend, "For el Rey." 
 
 What was their greeting the groom and bride, 
 They whom that steel and the years divide ? 
 I know not. Here they lie side by side. 
 
 Side by side ! Though the king has his way, 
 Even the dead at last have their day. 
 Make you the moral. " For el Rey 1 " 
 
88 ) 
 
 IRamon, 
 
 (REFUGIO MINE, NORTHERN MEXICO.) 
 
 DRUNK and senseless in his place, 
 Prone and sprawling on his face, 
 More like brute than any man 
 
 Alive or dead, 
 By his great pump out of gear, 
 Lay the peon engineer, 
 Waking only just to hear, 
 
 Overhead, 
 
 Angry tones that called his name, 
 Oaths and cries of bitter blame 
 Woke to hear all this, and, waking, turned and fled ! 
 
 "To the man who'll bring to me," 
 
 Cried Intendant Harry Lee, 
 Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine, 
 
 " Bring the sot alive or dead, 
 
 I will give to him," he said, 
 
 " Fifteen hundred pesos down, 
 
 Just to set the rascal's crown 
 Underneath this heel of mine : 
 Since but death 
 
 Deserves the man whose deed, 
 
 Be it vice or want of heed, 
 
Ramon. 89 
 
 Stops the pumps that give us breath, 
 Stops the pumps that suck the death 
 From the poisoned lower levels of the mine ! " 
 
 No one answered j for a cry 
 From the shaft rose up on high, 
 And shuffling, scrambling, tumbling from below, 
 Came the miners each, the bolder 
 Mounting on the weaker's shoulder, 
 Grappling, clinging to their hold or 
 
 Letting go, 
 
 As the weaker gasped and fell 
 From the ladder to the well, 
 To the poisoned pit of hell 
 
 Down below ! 
 
 " To the man who sets them free," 
 Cried the foreman, Harry Lee, 
 
 Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine, 
 " Brings them out and sets them free, 
 I will give that man," said he, 
 " Twice that sum, who with a rope 
 Face to face with Death shall cope. 
 Let him come who dares to hope ! " 
 " Hold your peace ! " some one replied, 
 Standing by the foreman's side ; 
 
 "There has one already gone, whoe'er he be !" 
 
 Then they held their breath with awe, 
 Pulling on the rope, and saw 
 Fainting figures reappear, 
 On the black rope swinging clear, 
 Fastened by some skilful hand from below ; 
 
9O Ramon. 
 
 Till a score the level gained, 
 And but one alone remained, 
 He the hero and the last, 
 He whose skilful hand made fast 
 The long line that brought them back to hope and 
 cheer ! 
 
 Haggard, gasping, down dropped he 
 At the feet of Harry Lee, 
 Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine. 
 " I have come," he gasped, " to claim 
 Both rewards. Senor, my name 
 
 Is Ramon ! 
 
 I'm the drunken engineer, 
 I'm the coward, Senor " Here 
 He fell over, by that sign, 
 Dead as stone I 
 
I 91 ) 
 
 Don Diego of tfje outfu 
 
 (REFECTORY, MISSION SAN GABRIEL, 1869.) 
 
 GOOD ! said the Padre, believe me still, 
 " Don Giovanni," or what you will, 
 The type s eternal ! We knew him here 
 As Don Diego del Sud. I fear 
 The story's no new one ! Will you hear ? 
 
 One of those spirits you can't tell why 
 
 God has permitted. Therein I 
 
 Have the advantage, for / hold 
 
 That wolves are sent to the purest fold, 
 
 And we'd save the wolf if we'd get the lamb. 
 
 You're no believer ? Good ! I am. 
 
 Well, for some purpose, I grant you dim, 
 The Don loved women, and they loved him. 
 Each thought herself his last love ! Worst, 
 Many believed that they were \usfirst! 
 And, such are these creatures since the Fall, 
 The very doubt had a charm for all ! 
 
 You laugh ! You are young, but /indeed 
 I have no patience ... To proceed 
 You saw, as you passed through the upper town, 
 The Eucinal where the road goes down 
 
92 Don Diego of the South,. 
 
 To San Felipe ! There one morn 
 
 They found Diego, his mouth torn, 
 
 And as many hole? through his doublet's band 
 
 As there were wronged husbands you understand ! 
 
 " Dying," so said the gossips. " Dead " 
 
 Was what the friars who found him said. 
 
 Maybe. Qutensabe? Who else should know 
 
 It was a hundred years ago. 
 
 There was a funeral. Small indeed 
 
 Private. What would you ? To proceed : 
 
 Scarcely the year had flown. One night 
 The Commandante awoke in fright, 
 Hearing below his casement's bar 
 The well-known twang of the Don's guitar ; 
 And rushed to the window, just to see 
 His wife a-swoon on the balcony. 
 
 One week later, Don Juan Ramirez 
 Found his own daughter, the Dona Inez, 
 Pale as a ghost, leaning out to hear 
 The song of that phantom cavalier. 
 Even Alcalde Pedro Bias 
 Saw, it was said, through his niece's glass, 
 The shade of Diego twice repass. 
 
 What these gentlemen each confessed 
 Heaven and the Church only knows. At best 
 The case was a bad one. How to deal 
 With Sin as a Ghost, they couldn't but feel 
 Was an awful thing. Till a certain Fray 
 Humbly offered to show the way. 
 
Don Diego of the South. 93 
 
 And the way was this. Did I say before 
 That the Fray was a stranger ? No, Sefior ? 
 Strange ! very strange ! I should have said 
 That the very week that the Don lay dead 
 He came among us. Bread he broke 
 Silent, nor ever to one he spoke. 
 So he had vowed it ! Below his brows 
 His face was hidden. There are such vows ! 
 
 Strange ! are they not ? You do not use 
 Snuff? A bad habit! 
 
 Well, the views 
 
 Of the Fray was this : That the penance done 
 By the caballeros was right ; but one 
 Was due from the cause, and that, in brief, 
 Was Donna Dolores Gomez, chief, 
 And Inez, Sanchicha, Concepcion, 
 And Carmen Well, half the girls in town 
 On his tablets the Friar had written down. 
 
 These were to come on a certain day 
 And ask at the hands of the pious Fray 
 For absolution. That done, small fear 
 But the shade of Diego would disappear. 
 
 They came ; each knelt in her turn and place 
 To the pious Fray with his hidden face 
 And voiceless lips, and each again 
 Took back her soul freed from spot or stain, 
 Till the Dona Inez, with eyes downcast 
 And a tear on their fringes, knelt her last 
 
94 Don Diego of the South. 
 
 And then perhaps that her voice was low 
 From fear or from shame the monks said so 
 But the Fray leaned forward, when, presto ! all 
 Were thrilled by a scream, and saw her fall 
 Fainting beside the confessional 
 
 And so was the ghost of Diego laid 
 
 As the Fray had said. Never more his shade 
 
 Was seen at San Gabriel's Mission. Ah ! 
 
 The girl interests you ? I dare say ! 
 
 " Nothing," said she, when they brought her to- 
 
 " Only a faintness ! " They spoke more true 
 
 Who said 'twas a stubborn soul. But then 
 
 Women are women and men are men ! 
 
 So, to return. As I said before, 
 
 Having got the wolf, by the same high law 
 
 We saved the lamb in the wolfs own jaw, 
 
 And that's my moral. The tale, I fear, 
 
 But poorly told. Yet it strikes me here 
 
 Is stuff for a moral What's your view ? 
 
 You smile, Don Pancho, Ah ! that's like you 1 
 
95 > 
 
 3t tfte 
 
 KNOW I not whom thou mayst he 
 Carved upon this olive tree 
 
 " Manuela of La Torre," 
 For around on broken walls 
 Summer sun and Spring rain falls, 
 And in vain the low wind calls 
 "Manuela of La Torre." 
 
 Of that song no words remain 
 
 But the musical refrain : 
 
 " Manuela of La Torre." 
 Yet at night, when winds are still, 
 Tinkles on the distant hill 
 A guitar, and words that thrill 
 
 Tell to me the old, old story 
 Old when first thy charms were sung, 
 Old when these old walls were young, 
 " Manuela of La Torre," 
 
JTrfar peDro'0 UttOe, 
 
 IT was the morning season of the year ; 
 
 It was the morning era of the land ; 
 The watercourses rang full loud and clear ; 
 
 Portala's cross stood where Portala's hand 
 Had planted it when Faith was taught by Fear ; 
 
 When monks and missions held the sole command 
 Of all that shore beside the peaceful sea, 
 Where spring-tides beat their long-drawn reveille. 
 
 Out of the Mission of San Luis Rey, 
 
 All in that brisk, tumultuous spring weather, 
 
 Rode Friar Pedro, in a pious way, 
 
 With six dragoons in cuirasses of leather, 
 
 Each armed alike for either prayer or fray, 
 
 Handcuffs and missals they had slung together ; 
 
 And as in aid the gospel truth to scatter 
 
 Each swung a lasso alias a "riata." 
 
 In sooth, that year the harvest had been slack, 
 The crop of converts scarce worth computation ; 
 
 Some souls were lost, whose owners had turned back 
 To save their bodies frequent flagellation ; 
 
 And some preferred the songs of birds, alack ! 
 To Latin matins and their soul's salvation, 
 
 And thought their own wild whoopings were less dreary 
 
 Than Father Pedro's droning miserere. 
 
Friar Pedro's Ride. 97 
 
 To bring them back to matins and to prime, 
 To pious works and secular submission, 
 
 To prove to them that liberty was crime, 
 This was, in fact, the Padre's present mission ; 
 
 To get new souls perchance at the same time, 
 And bring them to a " sense their condition " 
 
 That easy phrase, which, in the past and present, 
 
 Means making that condition most unpleasant. 
 
 He saw the glebe land guiltless of a furrow ; 
 
 He saw the wild oats wrestle on the hill ; 
 He saw the gopher working in his burrow : 
 
 He saw the squirrel scampering at his will ; 
 He saw all this and felt no doubt a thorough 
 
 And deep conviction of God's goodness ; stili 
 He failed to see that in His glory He 
 Yet left the humblest of His creatures free. 
 
 He saw the flapping crow, whose frequent note 
 Voiced the monotony of land and sky, 
 
 Mocking with graceless wing and rusty coat 
 His priestly presence as he trotted by. 
 
 He would have cursed the bird by bell and rote, 
 But other game just then was in his eye 
 
 A savage camp, whose occupants preferred 
 
 Their heathen darkness to the living Word. 
 
 He rang his bell, and at the martial sound 
 
 Twelve silver spurs their jingling rowels clashed ; 
 
 Six horses sprang across the level ground 
 As six dragoons in open order dashed ; 
 
 Above their heads the lassos circled round, 
 In every eye a pious fervour flashed ; 
 
 VOL. I. O 
 
98 Friar Pedro s Ride. 
 
 They charged the camp, and in one moment more 
 They lassoed six and reconverted four. 
 
 The Friar saw the conflict from a knoll, 
 
 And sang Laus Deo and cheered on his men : 
 
 " Well thrown, Bautista that's another soul ; 
 After him, Gomez try it once again ; 
 
 This way, Felipe there the heathen stole ; 
 Bones of St. Francis ! surely that makes ten ; 
 
 Te deum laudamus but they're very wild ; 
 
 Non nobts dominus all right, my child ! " 
 
 When at that moment as the story goes 
 A certain squaw, who had her foes eluded, 
 
 Ran past the Friar just before his nose. 
 
 He stared a moment, and in silence brooded, 
 
 Then in his breast a pious frenzy rose 
 
 And every other prudent thought excluded ; 
 
 He caught a lasso, and dashed in a canter 
 
 After that Occidental Atalanta. 
 
 High o'er his head he swirled the dreadful noose, 
 But, as the practice was quite unfamiliar, 
 
 His first cast tore Felipe's captive loose 
 And almost choked Tiburcio Camilla, 
 
 And might have interfered with that brave youth's 
 Ability to gorge the tough tortilla ; 
 
 But all things come by practice, and at last 
 
 His flying slip-knot caught the maiden fast 
 
 Then rose above the plain a mingled yell 
 Of rage and triumph a demoniac whoop ; 
 
 The Padre heard it like a passing knell, 
 And would have loosened his unchristian loop : 
 
Friar Pedros Ride. 99 
 
 But the tough raw-hide held the captive well, 
 And held, alas ! too well the captor-dupe ; 
 For with one bound the savage fled amain, 
 Dragging horse, Friar, down the lonely plaia 
 
 Down the arroyo, out across the mead, 
 By heath and hollow, sped the flying maid, 
 
 Dragging behind her still the panting steed 
 And helpless Friar, who in vain essayed 
 
 To cut the lasso or to check his speed. 
 He felt himself beyond all human aid, 
 
 And trusted to the saints and, for that matter, 
 
 To some weak spot in Felipe's riata. 
 
 Alas ! the lasso had been duly blessed, 
 
 And, like baptism, held the flying wretch 
 
 A doctrine that the priest had oft expressed 
 Which, like the lasso, might be made to stretch 
 
 But would not break ; so neither could divest 
 Themselves of it, but, like some awful fetch, 
 
 The holy Friar had to recognise 
 
 The image of his fate in heathen guise. 
 
 He saw the glebe land guiltless of a furrow ; 
 
 He saw the wild oats wrestle on the hill ; 
 He saw the gopher standing in his burrow ; 
 
 He saw the squirrel scampering at his will; 
 He saw all this, and felt no doubt how thorough 
 
 The contrast was to his condition ; still 
 The squaw kept onward to the sea, till night 
 And the cold sea-fog hid them both from sight. 
 
 The morning came above the serried coast, 
 Lighting the snow-peaks with its beacon fires, 
 
ioo Friar Pedro s Ride. 
 
 Driving before it all the fleet-winged host 
 Of chattering birds above the Mission spires, 
 
 Filling the land with light and joy but most 
 The savage woods with all their leafy lyres ; 
 
 In pearly tints and opal flame and fire 
 
 The morning came, but not the holy Friar. 
 
 Weeks passed away. In vain the Fathers sought 
 Some trace or token that might tell his story; 
 
 Some thought him dead, or, like Elijah, caught 
 Up to the heavens in a blaze of glory. 
 
 In this surmise some miracles were wrought 
 On his account, and souls in purgatory 
 
 Were thought to profit from his intercession ; 
 
 In brief, his absence made a "deep impression." 
 
 A twelvemonth passed ; the welcome Spring once more 
 Made green the hills beside the white-faced Mission, 
 
 Spread her bright dais by the western shore, 
 And sat enthroned a most resplendent vision. 
 
 The heathen converts thronged the chapel door 
 At morning mass, when, says the old tradition, 
 
 A frightful whoop throughout the church resounded, 
 
 And to their feet the congregation bounded 
 
 A tramp of hoofs upon the beaten course, 
 
 Then came a sight that made the bravest quail : 
 
 A phantom Friar on a spectre horse, 
 
 Dragged by a cieature decked with horns and tail. 
 
 By the lone Mission, with the whirlwind's force, 
 They madly swept, and left a sulphurous trail 
 
 And that was all enough to tell the story 
 
 And leave unblessed those souls in purgatory. 
 
Friar Pedro s Ride. 101 
 
 And ever after, on that fatal day 
 
 That Friar Pedro rode abroad lassoing, 
 
 A ghostly couple came and went away 
 
 With savage whoop and heathenish hallooing, 
 
 Which brought discredit on San Luis Rey, 
 And proved the Mission's ruin and undoing ; 
 
 For ere ten years had passed, the squaw and Friar 
 
 Performed to empty walls and fallen spire. 
 
 The Mission is no more ; upon its walls 
 The golden lizards slip, or breathless pause 
 
 Still as the sunshine brokenly that falls 
 
 Through crannied roof and spider-webs of gauze j 
 
 No more the bell its solemn warning calls 
 A holier silence thrills and overawes ; 
 
 And the sharp lights and shadows of to-day 
 
 Outline the Mission of San Luis Rey. 
 
IO2 ) 
 
 3[n tfje 
 
 (1865.) 
 
 FATHER FELIPE. 
 
 I SPEAK not the English well, but Pachita 
 She speak for me ; is it not so, my Pancha ? 
 Eh, little rogue ? Come, salute me the stranger 
 
 Americano. 
 
 Sir, in my country we say, " Where the heart is, 
 There live the speech." Ah ! you not understand? So! 
 Pardon an old man, what you call " ol fogy," 
 
 Padre Felipe ! 
 
 Old, Senor, old ! just so old as the Mission. 
 
 You see that pear-tree ? How old you think, Senor ? 
 
 Fifteen year ? Twenty ? Ah, Senor, just Jiffy 
 
 Gone since I plant him ! 
 
 You like the wine? It is some at the Mission, 
 Made from the grape of the year Eighteen Hundred ; 
 All the same time when the earthquake he come to 
 
 San Juan Bautista. 
 
 But Pancha is twelve, and she is the rose-tree ; 
 And I am the olive, and this is the garden : 
 And Pancha we say ; but her name is Francisca, 
 
 Same like her mother. 
 
In the Mission Garden. 103 
 
 Eh, you knew her? No? Ah! it is a story; 
 But I speak not, like Pachita, the English : 
 So ! if I try, you will sit here beside me, 
 
 And shall not laugh, eh ? 
 
 When the American come to the Mission, 
 Many arrive at the house of Francisca : 
 One, he was fine man, he buy the cattle 
 
 Of Josd Castro. 
 
 So ! he came much, and Francisca she saw him : 
 And it was love, and a very dry season ; 
 And the pears bake on the tree, and the rain come, 
 
 But not Francisca. 
 
 Not for one year ; and one night I have walk much 
 Under the olive-tree, when comes Francisca, 
 Comes to me here, with her child, this Francisca, 
 
 Under the olive-tree. 
 
 Sir, it was sad ; . . . but I speak not the English ; 
 So ! . . . she stay here, and she wait for her husband : 
 He come no more, and she sleep on the hillside ; 
 
 There stands Pachita. 
 
 Ah 1 there's the Angelus. Will you not enter ? 
 Or shall you walk in the garden with Pancha ? 
 Go, little rogue sit attend to the stranger. 
 
 Adios, Senor. 
 
 PACHITA (briskly). 
 
 So, he's been telling that yarn about mother I 
 Bless you 1 he tells it to every stranger : 
 Folks about yer say the old man's my father; 
 
 What's your opinion ^ 
 
Cfie lost (Btofleon, 
 
 In sixteen hundred and forty-one, 
 The regular yearly galleon, 
 Laden with odorous gums and spice, 
 India cottons and India rice, 
 And the richest silks of far Cathay, 
 Was due at Acapulco Bay. 
 Due she was, and over- due, 
 Galleon, merchandise, and crew, 
 Creeping along through rain and shine, 
 Through the tropics, under the line. 
 The trains were waiting outside the walls, 
 The wives of sailors thronged the town, 
 The traders sat by their empty stalls, 
 And the Viceroy himself came down ; 
 The bells in the tower were all a-trip, 
 Te Deums were on each Father's lip, 
 The limes were ripening in the sun 
 For the sick of the coming galleon. 
 
 All in vain. Weeks passed away, 
 And yet no galleon saw the bay : 
 India goods advanced in price ; 
 The Governor missed his favourite spice ; 
 The Senoritas mourned for sandal 
 And the famous cottons of Coromandel ; 
 
The Lost Galleon. 105 
 
 And some for an absent lover lost, 
 And one for a husband, Donna Julia, 
 Wife of the captain tempest-tossed, 
 In circumstances so peculiar : 
 Even the Fathers, unawares, 
 Grumbled a little at their prayers ; 
 And all along the coast that year 
 Votive candles were scarce and dear. 
 
 Never a tear bedims the eye 
 That time and patience will not dry ; 
 Never a lip is curved with pain 
 That can't be kissed into smiles again ; 
 And these same truths, as far as I know, 
 Obtained on the coast of Mexico 
 More than two hundred years ago, 
 In sixteen hundred and fifty-one, 
 Ten years after the deed was done, 
 And folks had forgotten the galleon : 
 The divers plunged in the gulf for pearls, 
 White as the teeth of the Indian girls ; 
 The traders sat by their full bazaars ; 
 The mules with many a weary load, 
 And oxen, dragging their creaking cars, 
 Came and went on the mountain road. 
 
 Where was the galleon all this while ? 
 Wrecked on some lonely coral isle, 
 Burnt by the roving sea-marauders, 
 Or sailing north under secret orders ? 
 Had she found the Anian passage famed, 
 By lying Moldonado claimed, 
 And sailed through the sixty-fifth degree 
 Direct to the North Atlantic Sea ? 
 
io6 The Lost Galleon. 
 
 Or had she found the " River of Kings," 
 Of which De Fonte told such strange things ? 
 
 In sixteen forty ! Never a sign, 
 
 East or west or under the line, 
 
 They saw of the missing galleon ; 
 
 Never a sail or plank or chip 
 
 They found of the long-lost treasure-ship, 
 
 Or enough to build a tale upon. 
 
 But when she was lost, and where and how, 
 
 Are the facts we're coming to just now. 
 
 Take, if you please, the chart of that day, 
 Published at Madrid, /0r el Rey ; 
 Look for a spot in the old South Sea, 
 The hundred and eightieth degree 
 Longitude west of Madrid : there, 
 Under the equatorial glare, 
 Just where the east and west are one, 
 You'll find the missing galleon, 
 You'll find the " San Gregorio," yet 
 Riding the seas, with sails all set, 
 Fresh as upon the very day 
 She sailed from Acapulco Bay. 
 
 How did she get there ? What strange spell 
 
 Kept her two hundred years so well, 
 
 Free from decay and mortal taint ? 
 
 What but the prayers of a patron saint ! 
 
 A hundred leagues from Manilla town, 
 
 The " San Gregorio's " helm came down ; 
 
 Round she went on her heel, and not 
 
 A cable's length from a galliot 
 
 That rocked on the waters just abreast 
 
 Of the galleon's course, which was west-sou-west 
 
The Lost Galleon. 107 
 
 Then said the galleon's commandante, 
 
 General Pedro Sobriente 
 
 (That was his rank on land and main, 
 
 A regular custom of Old Spain), 
 
 " My pilot is dead of scurvy : may 
 
 I ask the longitude, time, and day ? " 
 
 The first two given and compared ; 
 
 The third, the commandante stared ! 
 
 " The first of June ? I make it second." 
 
 Said the stranger, " Then you've wrongly-reckoned \ 
 
 I make \\. first : as you came this way, 
 
 You should have lost, d'ye see, a day ; 
 
 Lost a day, as plainly see, 
 
 On the hundred and eightieth degree." 
 
 " Lost a day ? " " Yes ; if not rude, 
 
 When did you make east longitude ? " 
 
 " On the ninth of May, our patron's day." 
 
 " On the ninth ? you had no ninth of May f 
 
 Eighth and tenth was there ; but stay " 
 
 Too late j for the galleon bore away. 
 
 Lost was the day they should have kept, 
 Lost unheeded and lost unwept ; 
 Lost in a way that made search vain, 
 Lost in a trackless and boundless main ; 
 Lost like the day of Job's awful curse, 
 In his third chapter, third and fourth verse ; 
 Wrecked was their patron's only day, 
 What would the holy Fathers say ? 
 
 Said the Fray Antonio Estavan, 
 
 The galleon's chaplain, a learned man, 
 
io8 The Lost Galleon. 
 
 " Nothing is lost that you can regain ; 
 And the way to look for a thing is plain, 
 To go where you lost it, back again. 
 Back with your galleon till you see 
 The hundred and eightieth degree. 
 Wait till the rolling year goes round, 
 And there will the missing day be found ; 
 For you'll find if computation's true 
 That sailing east will give to you 
 Not only one ninth of May, but two, 
 One for the good saint's present cheer, 
 And one for the day we lost last year." 
 
 Back to the spot sailed the galleon ; 
 
 Where, for a twelvemonth, off and on 
 
 The hundred and eightieth degree 
 
 She rose and fell on a tropic sea. 
 
 But lo ! when it came to the ninth of May, 
 
 All of a sudden becalmed she lay 
 
 One degree from that fatal spot, 
 
 Without the power to move a knot ; 
 
 And of course the moment she lost her way, 
 
 Gone was her chance to save that day. 
 
 To cut a lengthening story short, 
 She never saved it. Made the sport 
 Of evil spirits and baffling wind, 
 She was always before or just behind, 
 One day too soon, or one day too late, 
 And the sun, meanwhile, would never wait. 
 She had two eighths, as she idly lay, 
 Two tenths, but never a ninth of May ; 
 
The Lost Galleon. 109 
 
 And there she rides through two hundred years 
 Of dreary penance and anxious fears ; 
 Yet, through the grace of the saint she served, 
 Captain and crew are still preserved. 
 
 By a computation that still holds good, 
 
 Made by the Holy Brotherhoodj 
 
 The " San Gregorio " will cross that line 
 
 In nineteen hundred and thirty-nine : 
 
 Just three hundred years to a day 
 
 From the time she lost the ninth of May. 
 
 And the folk in Acapulco town, 
 
 Over the waters looking down, 
 
 Will see in the glow of the setting sun 
 
 The sails of the missing galleon, 
 
 And the royal standard of Philip Rey, 
 
 The gleaming mast and glistening spar, 
 
 As she nears the surf of the outer bar. 
 
 A Te Deum sung on her crowded deck, 
 
 An odour of spice along the shore, 
 
 A crash, a cry from a shattered wreck, 
 
 And the yearly galleon sails no more 
 
 In or out of the olden bay ; 
 
 For the blessed patron has found his day 
 
 Such is the legend. Hear this truth : 
 Over the trackless past, somewhere, 
 
 Lie the lost days of our tropic youth, 
 Only regained by faith and prayer, 
 
 Only recalled by prayer and plaint : 
 
 Each lost day has its patron saint ! 
 
IN DIALECT. 
 
SAY there ! P'r'aps 
 Some on you chaps 
 
 Might know Jim Wild ? 
 Well, no offence : 
 Thar ain't no sense 
 
 In gittin' riled 1 
 
 Jim was my chum 
 
 Up on the Bar : 
 That's why I come 
 
 Down from up yar, 
 Lookin' for Jim. 
 Thank ye, sir ! You 
 Ain't of that crew, 
 
 Blest if you are ! 
 
 Money ? Not much : 
 That ain't my kind : 
 
 I ain't no such. 
 Rum ? I don't mind, 
 
 Seein' it's you. 
 
 Well, this yer Jim, 
 Did you know him ? 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 H 
 
H4 "Jim. 
 
 Jess 'bout your size ; 
 
 Same kind of eyes ; 
 
 Well, that is strange : 
 Why, it's two year 
 Since he came here, 
 
 Sick, for a change. 
 
 Well, here's to us : 
 
 Eh? 
 The h you say ! 
 
 Dead? 
 That little cuss ? 
 
 What makes you star,* 
 You over thar ? 
 Can't a man drop 
 's glass in yer shop 
 But you must rar' ? 
 It wouldn't take 
 
 D much to break 
 
 You and your bar. 
 
 Dead! 
 
 Poor little Jim ! 
 Why, thar was me, 
 Jones, and Bob Lee, 
 Harry and Ben, 
 No-account men : 
 Then to take him t 
 
 Well, thar Good by, 
 No more, sir, I 
 
 Eh? 
 What's that you say? 
 
"Jim" 11 5 
 
 Why, dern it ! sho ! 
 No? Yes! By Joe! 
 
 Sold! 
 
 Sold ! Why, you limb, 
 You ornery, 
 
 Derned old 
 Long-legged Jim ! 
 
BEAUTIFUL ! Sir, you may say so. Thar isn't her match 
 
 in the county. 
 
 Is thar, old gal, Chiquita, my darling, my beauty ? 
 Feel of that neck, sir, thar's velvet ! Whoa ! steady, ah, 
 
 will you, you vixen ! 
 Whoa ! I say. Jack, trot her out ; let the gentleman look 
 
 at her paces. 
 
 Morgan ! she ain't nothing else, and I've got the papers to 
 
 prove it. 
 Sired by Chippewa Chief, and twelve hundred dollars won't 
 
 buy her. 
 Briggs of Tuolumne owned her. Did you know Briggs of 
 
 Tuolumne ? 
 Busted hisself in White Pine, and blew out his brains down 
 
 in 'Frisco ? 
 
 Hedn't no savey hed Briggs. Thar, Jack ! that'll do, 
 
 quit that foolin' ! 
 Nothin' to what she kin do, when she's got her work cut out 
 
 before her. 
 Hosses is hosses, you know, and likewise, too, jockeys is 
 
 jockeys : 
 And 'tain't ev'ry man as can ride as knows what a hoss has 
 
 got in him. 
 
Chiquita. 117 
 
 Know the old ford on the Fork, that nearly got Flanigan's 
 
 leaders ? 
 Nasty in daylight, you bet, and a mighty rough ford in low 
 
 water ! 
 Well, it ain't six weeks ago that me and the Jedge and his 
 
 nevey 
 Struck for that ford in the night, in the rain, and the water 
 
 all round us ; 
 
 Up to our flanks in the gulch, and Rattlesnake Creek just a 
 
 bilin', 
 
 Not a plank left in the dam, and nary a bridge on the river. 
 I had the grey, and the Jedge had his roan, and his nevey, 
 
 Chiquita ; 
 And after us trundled the rocks jest loosed from the top of 
 
 the canon. 
 
 Lickity, lickity, switch, we came to the ford, and Chiquita 
 Buckled right down to her work, and afore I could yell to 
 
 her rider, 
 Took water jest at the ford, and there was the Jedge and 
 
 me standing, 
 And twelve hundred dollars of hoss-flesh afloat, and a 
 
 driftin' to thunder I 
 
 Would ye b'lieve it? that night that boss, that ar 1 filly, 
 
 Chiquita, 
 Walked herself into her stall, and stood there, all quiet and 
 
 dripping : 
 
 Clean as a beaver or rat, with nary a buckle of harness, 
 Just as she swam the Fork, that boss, that ar* filly, 
 
 Chiquita. 
 
Ii8 Chiquita. 
 
 That's what I call a hoss ! and What did you say? Oh, 
 
 the nevey ? 
 Drownded, I reckon, leastways, he never kem back to 
 
 deny it 
 Ye see the derned fool had no seat, ye couldn't have made 
 
 him a rider ; 
 And then, ye know, boys will be boys, and hosses well, 
 
 hosses is hosses 1 
 
'0 jttat* 
 
 (1856.) 
 
 Dow's FLAT. That's its name ; 
 
 And I reckon that you 
 Are a stranger ? The same ? 
 
 Well, I thought it was true, 
 
 For thar isn't a man on the river as can't spot the place at 
 first view. 
 
 It was called after Dow, 
 
 Which the same was an ass, 
 And as to the how 
 
 Thet the thing kem to pass, 
 
 Jest tie up your hoss to that buckeye, and sit ye down here 
 in the grass. 
 
 You see this 'yer Dow 
 
 Hed the worst kind of luck ; 
 He slipped up somehow 
 
 On each thing thet he struck. 
 
 Why, ef he'd a straddled thet fence-rail, the derned thing 
 'ed get up and buck. 
 
 He mined on the bar 
 
 Till he couldn't pay rates ; 
 
120 Dow's Flat. 
 
 He was smashed by a car 
 
 When he tunnelled with Bates ; 
 
 And right on the top of his trouble kem his wife and five 
 kids from the States. 
 
 It was rough, mighty rough ; 
 But the boys they stood by, 
 And they brought him the stuff 
 
 For a house, on the sly ; 
 
 And the old woman, well, she did washing, and took on 
 when no one was nigh. 
 
 But this 'yer luck of Dow's 
 
 Was so powerful mean 
 That the spring near his house 
 Dried right up on the green ; 
 
 And he sunk forty feet down for water, but nary a drop to 
 be seen. 
 
 Then the bar petered out, 
 
 And the boys wouldn't stay ; 
 And the chills got about, 
 And his wife fell away ; 
 
 But Dow in his well kept a peggin' in his usual ridikilous 
 way. 
 
 One day, it was June, 
 And a year ago, jest 
 This Dow kem at noon 
 
 To his work \ike the rest, 
 
 With a shovel and pick on his shoulder, and a derringer hid 
 in his breast. 
 
Dow's Flat. 121 
 
 He goes to the well, 
 
 And he stands on the brink, 
 And stops for a spell 
 
 Jest to listen and think : 
 
 For the sun in his eyes (jest like this, sir !), you see, kinder 
 made the cuss blink. 
 
 His two ragged gals 
 
 In the gulch were at play, 
 
 And a gownd that was Sal's 
 
 Kinder flapped on a bay : 
 
 Not much for a man to be leavin', but his all, as I've heer*d 
 the folks say. 
 
 And That's a peart hoss 
 
 Thet you've got, ain't it now ? 
 What might be her cost ? 
 
 Eh? Oh ! Well, then, Dow- 
 Let's see, well, that forty-foot grave wasn't his, sir, that 
 day, anyhow. 
 
 For a blow of his pick 
 
 Sorter caved in the side, 
 And he looked and turned sick, 
 Then he trembled and cried. 
 
 For you see the dern cuss had struck "Water?" Beg 
 your parding, young man, there you lied! 
 
 It was gold, in the quartz, 
 
 And it ran all alike ; 
 And I reckon five oughts 
 
 Was the worth of that strike ; 
 
 And that house with the coopilow's his'n, which the same 
 isn't bad for a Pike. 
 
122 Daw's Flat. 
 
 Thet's why it's Dow's Flat ; 
 
 And the thing of it is 
 That he kinder got that 
 
 Through sheer contrariness : 
 
 For 'twas water the derned cuss was seekin', and his luck 
 made him certain to miss, 
 
 Thet's so 1 Thar's your way, 
 
 To the left of yon tree ; 
 But a look h'yur, say ? 
 
 Won't you come up to tea ? 
 
 No? Well, then the next time you're passin'; and ask after 
 Dow, and thet's m& 
 
3(n tfce CunneL 
 
 DIDN'T know Flynn, 
 Flynn of Virginia, 
 Long as he's been 'yar ? 
 Look 'ee here, stranger, 
 Whar hev you been ? 
 
 Here in this tunnel 
 He was my pardner, 
 
 That same Tom Flynn, 
 Working together, 
 In wind and weather, 
 
 Day out and in. 
 
 Didn't know Flynn ! 
 Well, that is queer ; 
 
 Why, it's a sin 
 
 To think of Tom Flynn,- 
 Tom with his cheer, 
 Tom without fear, 
 Stranger, look 'yarl 
 
 Thar in the drift, 
 
 Back to the wall, 
 He held the timbers 
 
 Ready to fall ; 
 
1 24 In the Tunnel. 
 
 Then in the darkness 
 I heard him call : 
 
 " Run for your life, Jake ! 
 
 Run for your wife's sake ! 
 
 Don't wait for me." 
 
 And that was all 
 Heard in the din, 
 Heard of Tom Flynn, > 
 Flynn of Virginia. 
 
 That's all about 
 Flynn of Virginia, 
 
 That lets me out. 
 Here in the damp, 
 
 Out of the sun, 
 That 'ar derned lamp 
 
 Makes my eyes run. 
 
 Well, there, I'm done ! 
 
 But, sir, when you'll 
 
 Hear the next fool 
 Asking of Flynn, 
 
 Flynn of Virginia, 
 Just you chip in, 
 Say you knew Flynn ; 
 
 Say that you've been 'yar. 
 
I 125 ) 
 
 "Cicetg." 
 
 (ALKALI STATION.) 
 
 CICELY says you're a poet ; maybe, I ain't much on rhyme: 
 I reckon you'd give me a hundred, and beat me every time. 
 Poetry ! that's the way some chaps puts up an idee, 
 But I takes mine " straight without sugar," and that's what's 
 the matter with me. 
 
 Poetry ! just look round you, alkali, rock, and sage ; 
 Sage-brush, rock, and alkali ; ain't it a pretty page ! 
 Sun in the east at mornin', sun in the west at night, 
 And the shadow of this yer station the on'y thing moves in 
 sight. 
 
 Poetry ! Well now Polly ! Polly, run to your mam ; 
 Run right away, my pooty ! By-by ! Ain't she a lamb ? 
 Poetry ! that reminds me o' suthin' right in that suit : 
 Jest shet that door thar, will yer ? for Cicely's ears is cute. 
 
 Ye noticed Polly, the baby ? A month afore she was born, 
 Cicely my old woman was moody-like and forlorn ; 
 Out of her head and crazy, and talked of flowers and trees ; 
 Family man yourself, sir ? Well, you know what a woman 
 he's. 
 
126 "Cicely? 
 
 Narvous she was, and restless, said that she "couldn't 
 
 stay." 
 
 Stay ! and the nearest woman seventeen miles away. 
 But I fixed it up with the doctor, and he said he would be 
 
 on hand, 
 And I kinder stuck by the shanty, and fenced in that bit o' 
 
 land. 
 
 One night, the tenth of October, I woke with a chill and 
 
 a fright, 
 For the door it was standing open, and Cicely warn't in 
 
 sight, 
 But a note was pinned on the blanket, which it said that she 
 
 " couldn't stay," 
 But had gone to visit her neighbour, seventeen miles away 1 
 
 When and how she stampeded, I didn't wait for to see, 
 For out in the road, next minit, I started as wild as she ; 
 Running first this way and that way, like a hound that is off 
 
 the scent, 
 For there warn't no track in the darkness to tell me the way 
 
 she went. 
 
 I've had some mighty mean moments afore I kem to this 
 
 spot, 
 
 Lost on the Plains in '50, drownded almost and shot; 
 But out on this alkali desert, a hunting a crazy wife, 
 Was ra'ly as on-satis-factory as anything in my life. 
 
 " Cicely ! Cicely ! Cicely ! " I called, and I held my breath, 
 And " Cicely ! " came from the canyon, and all was as still 
 as death. 
 
"Cicely." 127 
 
 And " Cicely ! Cicely ! Cicely ! " came from the rocks below, 
 And jest but a whisper of " Cicely ! " down from them peaks 
 of snow. 
 
 I ain't what you call religious, but I jest looked up to the 
 
 sky, 
 And this yer's to what I'm coming, and maybe ye think 
 
 I lie: 
 
 But up away to the east'ard, yaller and big and far, 
 I saw of a suddent rising the singlerist kind of star. 
 
 Big and yaller and dancing, it seemed to beckon to me : 
 Yaller and big and dancing, such as you never see : 
 Big and yaller and dancing, I never saw such a star, 
 And I thought of them sharps in the Bible, and I went for it 
 then and thar. 
 
 Over the brush and bowlders I stumbled and pushed ahead ; 
 
 Keeping the star afore me, I went wharever it led. 
 
 It might hev been for an hour, when suddent and peart and 
 
 nigh, 
 Out of the yearth afore me thar riz up a baby's cry. 
 
 Listen ! thar's the same music ; but her lungs they are 
 
 stronger now 
 Than the day I packed her and her mother, I'm derned if 
 
 I jest know how. 
 But the doctor kem the next minit, and the joke o' the 
 
 whole thing is 
 That Cis never knew what happened from that very night 
 
 to this 1 
 
128 "Cicely" 
 
 But Cicely says you're a poet, and maybe you might, some 
 
 day, 
 Jest sling her a rhyme 'bout a baby that was born in a 
 
 curious way, 
 And see what she says ; and, old fellow, when you speak of 
 
 the star, don't tell 
 As how 'twas the doctor's lantern, for maybe 'twon't sound 
 
 so well 
 
(SIMPSON'S BAR, 1858.) 
 
 So you've kem 'yer agen, 
 
 And one answer won't do? 
 Well, of all the derned men 
 That I've struck, it is you. 
 
 O Sal ! 'yer's that derned fool from Simpson's, cavortin 1 
 round 'yer in the dew 
 
 Kem in, ef you will. 
 
 Thar, quit ! Take a cheer. 
 Not that ; you can't fill 
 
 Them theer cushings this year, 
 
 For that cheer was my old man's, Joe Simpson, and they 
 don't make such men about 'yer. 
 
 He was tall, was my Jack, 
 And as strong as a tree. 
 Thar's his gun on the rack, 
 
 Jest you heft it, and see. 
 
 And you come a courtin' his widder ! Lord ! where can 
 that critter, Sal, be ! 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
1 30 Penelope. 
 
 You'd fill my Jack's place ? 
 
 And a man of your size, 
 With no baird to his face, 
 Nor a snap to his eyes, 
 
 And nary Sho ! thar ! I was foolin', I was, Joe, for sar- 
 tain, don't rise. 
 
 Sit down. Law ! why, sho ! 
 
 I'm as weak as a gal. 
 Sal ! Don't you go, Joe, 
 
 Or I'll faint, sure, I shall. 
 
 Sit down, anyivheer, where you like, Joe, in that cheer, if 
 you choose, Lord ! where's Sal ? 
 
Plain language from Crutftftii 3[ame& 
 
 (TABLE MOUNTAIN, 1870.) 
 
 WHICH I wish to remark, 
 
 And my language is plain, 
 That for ways that are dark 
 
 And for tricks that are vain. 
 The heathen Chinee is peculiar, 
 
 Which the same I would rise to explain. 
 
 Ah Sin was his name ; 
 
 And I shall not deny, 
 In regard to the same, 
 
 What that name might imply ; 
 But his smile it was pensive and childlike, 
 
 As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. 
 
 It was August the third, 
 
 And quite soft was the skies ; 
 Which it might be inferred 
 
 That Ah Sin was likewise ; 
 Yet he played it that day upon William 
 
 And me in a way I despise. 
 
132 Plain Language from Truthful James. 
 
 Which we had a small game, 
 
 And Ah Sin took a hand : 
 It was Euchre. The same 
 
 He did not understand ; 
 But he smiled as he sat by the table, 
 
 With the smile that was childlike and bland 
 
 Yet the cards they were stocked 
 
 In a way that I grieve, 
 And my feelings were shocked 
 
 At the state of Nye's sleeve, 
 Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, 
 
 And the same with intent to deceive. 
 
 But the hands that were played 
 
 By that heathen Chinee, 
 And the points that he made, 
 
 Were quite frightful to see, 
 Till at last he put down a right bower, 
 
 Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. 
 
 Then I looked up at Nye, 
 
 And he gazed upon me ; 
 And he rose with a sigh, 
 
 And said, " Can this be ? 
 We are ruined by Chinese cheap labour," 
 
 And he went for that heathen Chinee. 
 
 In the scene that ensued 
 
 I did not take a hand, 
 But the floor it was strewed 
 
 Like the leaves on the strand 
 With the cards that Ah sin had been hiding, 
 
 In the game " he did not understand." 
 
Plain Language from Tmthfiil James. 133 
 
 In his sleeves, which were long, 
 
 He had twenty-four packs, 
 Which was coming it strong, 
 
 Yet I state but the facts ; 
 And we found on his nails, which were taper, 
 
 What is frequent in tapers, that's wax. 
 
 Which is why I remark, 
 
 And my language is plain, 
 That for ways that are dark 
 
 And for tricks that are vain, 
 The heathen Chinee is peculiar, 
 
 Which the same I am free to maintain, 
 
( 134 ) 
 
 octetp upon tfie 
 
 1 RESIDE at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful 
 
 James ; 
 
 I am not up to small deceit or any sinful games ; 
 And I'll tell in simple language what I know about the row 
 That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow. 
 
 But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan 
 For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man, 
 And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim, 
 To lay for that same member for to " put a head " on him. 
 
 Now nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see 
 Than the first six months' proceedings of that same Society, 
 Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones 
 That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones. 
 
 Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there, 
 From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare ; 
 And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the 
 
 rules, 
 Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his 
 
 lost mules. 
 
The Society upon the Stanislaus. 135 
 
 Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at 
 
 fault, 
 
 It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault ; 
 He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown, 
 And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town. 
 
 Now I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent 
 To say another is an ass, at least, to all intent ; 
 Nor should the individual who happens to be meant 
 Reply by heaving rocks at him, to any great extent. 
 
 Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order, when 
 A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen, 
 And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the 
 
 floor, 
 And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more. 
 
 For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage 
 
 In a warfare with the remnants of a palaeozoic age ; 
 
 And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was 
 
 a sin, 
 Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of 
 
 Thompson in. 
 
 And this is all I have to say of these improper games, 
 For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful 
 
 James ; 
 And I've told in simple language what I knew about the 
 
 row 
 That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow. 
 
136 
 
 Lufee. 
 
 (IN THE COLORADO PARK, 1873.) 
 
 WOT'S that you're readin' ? a novel ? A novel ! well 
 
 darn my skin ! 
 You a man grown and bearded and histin' such stuff ez 
 
 that in 
 Stuff about gals and their sweethearts ! No wonder you're 
 
 thin ez a knife. 
 Look at me ! clar two hundred and never read one in 
 
 my life ! 
 
 That's my opinion o' novels. And ez to their lyin' round 
 
 here, 
 They belong to the Jedge's daughter the Jedge who came 
 
 up last year 
 On account of his lungs and the mountains and the balsam 
 
 o' pine and fir ; 
 And his daughter well, she read novels, and that's what's 
 
 the matter with her. 
 
 * 
 
 Yet she was sweet on the Jedge, and stuck by him day and 
 
 night, 
 Alone in the cabin up 'yer till she grew like a ghost, all 
 
 white. 
 She wus only a slip of a thing, ez light and ez up and 
 
 away 
 Ez rifle smoke blown through the woods, but she wasn't 
 
 my kind no way ! 
 
Luke. 137 
 
 Speakin' o' gals, d'ye mind that house ez you rise the 
 
 hill, 
 A mile and a half from White's, and jist above Mattingly's 
 
 mill? 
 You do? Well now that's a gal! What! you saw her? 
 
 Oh, come now, thar ! quit ! 
 She was only bedevlin' you boys, for to me she don't cotton 
 
 one bit. 
 
 Now she's what I call a gal ez pretty and plump ez a 
 quail ; 
 
 Teeth ez white ez a hound's, and they'd go through a ten- 
 penny nail ; 
 
 Eyes that kin snap like a cap. So she asked to know 
 "whar I was hid?" 
 
 She did ! Oh, it's jist like her sass, for she's peart ez a 
 Katydid. 
 
 But what was I talking of? Oh ! the Jedge and his daughter 
 
 she read 
 Novels the whole day long, and I reckon she read them 
 
 abed; 
 And sometimes she read them out loud to the Jedge on the 
 
 porch where he sat, 
 And 'twas how " Lord Augustus " said this, and how " Lady 
 
 Blanche " she said that 
 
 But the sickest of all that I heerd was a yarn thet they 
 
 read 'bout a chap, 
 " Leather-stocking " by name, and a hunter chock full o' the 
 
 greenest o' sap ; 
 
138 Luke. 
 
 And they asked me to hear, but I says, " Miss Mabel, not 
 
 any for me ; 
 When I likes I kin sling my own lies, and thet chap and I 
 
 shouldn't agree." 
 
 Yet somehow or other she was always sayin' I brought her 
 
 to mind 
 Of folks about whom she had read, or suthin belike of 
 
 thet kind, 
 And thar warn't no end o' the names that she give me thet 
 
 summer up here 
 "Robin Hood," " Leather-stocking," "Rob Roy," Oh, I 
 
 tell you, the critter was queer ! 
 
 And yet, ef she hadn't been spiled, she was harmless enough 
 
 in her way ; 
 She could jabber in French to her dad, and they said that 
 
 she knew how to play ; 
 And she worked me that shot-pouch up thar, which the 
 
 man doesn't live ez kin use ; 
 And slippers you see 'em down 'yer ez would cradle an 
 
 Injin's papoose. 
 
 Yet along o' them novels, you see, she was wastin' and 
 
 mopin' away, 
 And then she got shy with her tongue, and at last had 
 
 nothin' to say ; 
 And whenever I happened around, her face it was hid by a 
 
 book, 
 And it warn't until she left that she give me ez much ez a 
 
 look. 
 
Luke. 1 39 
 
 And this was the way it was. It was night when I kem up 
 here 
 
 To say to 'em all "good-bye," for I reckoned to go for 
 deer 
 
 At " sun up " the day they left. So I shook 'em all round 
 by the hand, 
 
 'Cept Mabel, and she was sick, ez they give me to under- 
 stand. 
 
 But jist ez I passed the house next morning at dawn, some 
 
 one, 
 
 Like a little waver o' mist got up on the hill with the sun ; 
 Miss Mabel it was, alone all wrapped in a mantle o' 
 
 lace 
 And she stood there straight in the road, with a touch o' 
 
 the sun in her face. 
 
 And she looked me right in the eye I'd seen suthin like 
 
 it before 
 When I hunted a wounded doe to the edge o' the Clear 
 
 Lake Shore, 
 And 1 had my knee on its neck, and jist was raisin* my 
 
 knife, 
 When it give me a look like that, and well, it got off with 
 
 its life. 
 
 "We are going to-day," she said, "and I thought I would 
 
 say good-bye 
 To you in your own house, Luke these woods and the 
 
 bright blue sky ! 
 You've always been kind to us, Luke, and papa has found 
 
 you still 
 As good as the air he breathes, and wholesome as Laurel 
 
 Tree Hill. 
 
140 Luke. 
 
 "And we'll always think of you, Luke, as the thing we 
 
 could not take away, 
 The balsam that dwells in the woods, the rainbow that lives 
 
 in the spray. 
 And you'll sometimes think of me, Luke, as you know you 
 
 once used to say, 
 A rifle smoke blown through the woods, a moment, but 
 
 never to stay." 
 
 And then we shook hands. She turned, but a-suddent she 
 
 tottered and fell, 
 And I caught her sharp by the waist, and held her a minit 
 
 Well, 
 It was only a minit, you know, thet ez cold and ez white 
 
 she lay 
 Ez a snowflake here on my breast, and then well, she 
 
 melted away 
 
 And was gone . . . And thar are her books ; but I says 
 
 not any for me ; 
 Good enough may be for some, but them and I mightn't 
 
 agree. 
 They spiled a decent gal ez might hev made some chap a 
 
 wife, 
 And look at me . clar two hundred and never read one 
 
 in my lire i 
 
QBafces in tfie 
 
 (BIG PINE FLAT, 1871.) 
 
 " SOMETHING characteristic," eh ? 
 
 Humph ! I reckon you mean by that 
 Something that happened in our way, 
 
 Here at the crossin' of Big Pine Flat. 
 Times aren't now as they used to be, 
 
 When gold was flush and the boys were frisky, 
 And a man would pull out his battery 
 
 For anything maybe the price of whisky. 
 
 Nothing of that sort, eh ? That's strange ! 
 
 Why, I thought you might be diverted 
 Hearing how Jones of Red Rock Range 
 
 Drawedhis "hint to the unconverted," 
 And saying, " Whar will you have it ? " shot 
 
 Cherokee Bob at the last debating ! 
 What was the question I forgot, 
 
 But Jones didn't like Bob's way of stating. 
 
 Nothing of that kind, eh ? You mean 
 Something milder ? Let's see ! O Joe ! 
 
 Tell to the stranger that little scene 
 
 Out of the " Babes in the Woods." You know, 
 
142 "The Babes in the Woods" 
 
 " Babes " was the name that we gave 'em, sir, 
 Two lean lads in their teens, and greener 
 
 Than even the belt of spruce and fir 
 
 Where they built their nest, and each day grew 
 leaner. 
 
 No one knew where they came from. None 
 
 Cared to ask if they had a mother. 
 Runaway scholboys, maybe. One 
 
 Tall and dark as a spruce ; the other 
 Blue and gold in the eyes and hair, 
 
 Soft and low in his speech, but rarely 
 Talking with us ; and we didn't care 
 
 To get at their secret at all unfairly. 
 
 For they were so quiet, so sad and shy, 
 
 Content to trust each other solely, 
 That somehow we'd always shut one eye, 
 
 And never seem to observe them wholly 
 As they passed to their work. 'Twas a worn-out 
 claim, 
 
 And it paid them grub. They could live with 
 
 out it, 
 For the boys had a way of leaving game 
 
 In their tent, and forgetting all about it 
 
 Vet no one asked for their secret. Dumb 
 
 It lay in their big eyes' heavy hollows. 
 It was understood that no one should come 
 
 To their tent unawares, save the bees and swallows, 
 So they lived alone. Until one warm night 
 
 I was sitting here at the tent-door,- so, sir ! 
 When out of the sunset's rosy light 
 
 Up rose the Sheriff of Mariposa. 
 
11 The Babes in the Woods'' 143 
 
 I knew at once there was something wrong, 
 
 For his hand and his voice shook just a little, 
 And there isn't much you can fetch along 
 
 To make the sinews of Jack Hill brittle, 
 " Go warn the Babes ! " he whispered, hoarse ; 
 
 " Tell I'm coming to get and scurry ; 
 For I've got a story that's bad, and worse, 
 
 I've got a warrant : G d d n it, hurry ! " 
 
 Too late ! they had seen him cross the hill ; 
 
 I ran to their tent and found them lying 
 Dead in each other's arms, and still 
 
 Clasping the drug they had taken flying. 
 And there lay their secret cold and bare, 
 
 Their life, their trial the old, old story ! 
 For the sweet blue eyes and the golden hair 
 
 Was a woman 's shame and a woman's glory. 
 
 " Who were they ? " Ask no more, or ask 
 
 The sun that visits their grave so lightly ; 
 Ask of the whispering reeds, or task 
 
 The mourning crickets that chirrup nightly. 
 All of their life but its love forgot, 
 
 Everything tender and soft and mystic, 
 These are our Babes in the Woods, you've got, 
 
 Well human nature that's characteristic. 
 
( '44 ) 
 
 Latest Cfnne#e Cmtrage. 
 
 IT was noon by the sun ; we had finished our game, 
 And was passin* remarks goin' back to our claim ; 
 Jones was countin' his chips, Smith relievin' his mind 
 Of ideas that a "straight" should beat "three of a kind," 
 When Johnson of Elko came gallopin' down, 
 With a look on his face 'twixt a grin and a frown, 
 And he calls, "Drop your shovels and face right about, 
 For them Chinees from Murphy's are cleanin' us out 
 
 With their ching-a-ring-chow 
 
 And their chic-colorow 
 
 They're bent upon making 
 
 No slouch of a row." 
 
 Then Jones my own pardner looks up with a sigh 
 " It's your wash-bill," sez he, and I answers, " You lie ! n 
 But afore he could draw or the others could arm, 
 Up tumbles the Bates' boys, who heard the alarm. 
 And a yell from the hill-top and roar of a gong, 
 Mixed up with remarks like " Hi ! yi ! Chang-a-wong," 
 And bombs, shells, and crackers, that crashed through 
 
 the trees, 
 Revealed in their war-togs four hundred Chinees ! 
 
 Four hundred Chinee ; 
 
 We are eight, don't ye see ! 
 
 That made a square fifty 
 
 To just one o' we. 
 
The Latest Chinese Outrage. 145 
 
 They were dressed in their best, but I grieve that that 
 
 same 
 
 Was largely made up of our own, to their shame ; 
 And my pardner's best shirt and his trousers were hung 
 On a spear, and above him were tauntingly swung ; 
 While that beggar, Chey Lee, like a conjuror sat 
 Pullin' out eggs and chickens from Johnson's best hat ; 
 And Bates' game rooster was part of their " loot," 
 And all of Smith's pigs were skyugled to boot ; 
 But the climax was reached and I like to have died 
 When my demijohn, empty, came down the hillside, 
 
 Down the hillside 
 
 What once held the pride 
 
 Of Robertson County 
 
 Pitched down the hillside ! 
 
 Then we axed for a parley. When out of the din 
 To the front comes a-rockin* that heathen, Ah Sin ! 
 " You owe flowty dollee me washee you camp, 
 You catchee my washee me catchee no stamp ; 
 One dollar hap dozen, me no catchee yet, 
 Now that flowty dollee no hab ? how can get ? 
 Me catchee you piggee me sellee for cash, 
 It catchee me licee you catchee no ' hash ; ' 
 Me belly good Sheliff me lebbee when can, 
 Me allee same halp pin as Melican man 1 
 
 But Melican man 
 
 He washee him pan 
 
 On bottom side hillee 
 
 And catchee how can ? " 
 
 " Are we men ? " says Joe Johnson, " and list to this jaw, 
 Without process of warrant or colour of law ? 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
146 The Latest Chinese Outrage. 
 
 Are we men or a-chew ? * here he gasped in his speech, 
 
 For a stink-pot had fallen just out of his reach. 
 
 " Shall we stand here as idle, and let Asia pour 
 
 Her barbaric hordes on this civilised shore ? 
 
 Has the White Man no country? Are we left in the 
 
 lurch ? 
 
 And likewise what's gone of the Established Church ? 
 One man to four hundred is great odds, I own, 
 But this 'yer's a White Man I plays it alone ! " 
 And he sprang up the hillside to stop him none dare-- 
 Till a yell from the top told a " White Man was there I rt 
 
 A White Man was there ! 
 
 We prayed he might spare 
 
 Those misguided heathens 
 
 The few clothes they wear. 
 
 They fled, and he followed, but no matter where ; 
 They fled to escape him, the " White Man was there," 
 Till we missed first his voice on the pine-wooded slope, 
 And we knew for the heathen henceforth was no hope ; 
 And the yells they grew fainter, when Petersen said, 
 " It simply was human to bury his dead." 
 
 And then, with slow tread, 
 
 We crept up, in dread, 
 
 But found nary mortal there, 
 
 Living or dead. 
 
 But there was his trail, and the way that they came, 
 And yonder, no doubt, he was bagging his game. 
 When Jones drops his pickaxe, and Thompson says 
 
 "Shoo I" 
 
 And both of 'em points to a cage of bamboo 
 Hanging down from a tree, with a label that swung 
 
The Latest Chinese Outrage. 147 
 
 Conspicuous, with letters in some foreign tongue, 
 Which, when freely translated, the same did appear 
 Was the Chinese for saying, " A White Man is here ! " 
 
 And as we drew near, 
 
 In anger and fear, 
 
 Bound hand and foot, Johnson 
 
 Looked down with a leer ! 
 
 In his mouth was an opium pipe which was why 
 
 He leered at us so with a drunken-like eye ! 
 
 They had shaved off his eyebrows, and tacked on a cue, 
 
 They had painted his face of a coppery hue, 
 
 And rigged him all up in a heathenish suit, 
 
 Then softly departed, each man with his " loot" 
 
 Yes, every galoot, 
 
 And Ah Sin, to boot, 
 
 Had left him there hanging 
 
 Like ripening fruit 
 
 At a mass meeting held up at Murphy's next day 
 There were seventeen speakers and each had his say ; 
 There were twelve resolutions that instantly passed, 
 And each resolution was worse than the last ; 
 There were fourteen petitions, which, granting the same, 
 Will determine what Governor Murphy's shall name ; 
 And the man from our District that goes up next year 
 Goes up on one issue that's patent and clear : 
 
 " Can the work of a mean, 
 
 Degraded, unclean 
 
 Believer in Buddha 
 
 Be held as a lien?" 
 
Crutfifui James to tije OEliitor, 
 
 (YREKA, 1873.) 
 
 WHICH it is not my style 
 
 To produce needless pain 
 By statements that rile 
 
 Or that go 'gin the grain, 
 
 But here's Captain Jack still a-livin', and Nye has no skelp 
 on his brain 1 
 
 On that Caucasian head 
 
 There is no crown of hair ; 
 It has gone, it has fled ! 
 
 And Echo sez "Where?" 
 
 And I asks, " Is this Nation a White Man's, and is generally 
 things on the square ? " 
 
 She was known in the camp 
 As " Nye's other squaw," 
 And folks of that stamp 
 
 Hez no rights in the law, 
 
 But is treacherous, sinful, and slimly, as Nye might hev well 
 known before. 
 
 But she said that she knew 
 Where the Injins was hid, 
 
Truthful J ames to the Editor. 149 
 
 And the statement was true 
 
 For it seemed that she did, 
 
 Since she led William where he was covered by seventeen 
 Modocs, and slid I 
 
 Then they reached for his hair ; 
 
 But Nye sez, " By the law 
 Of nations, forbear ! 
 
 I surrenders no more : 
 
 And I looks to be treated, you hear me ? as a pris'ner, a 
 prisoner of war ! " 
 
 But Captain Jack rose 
 
 And he sez, " It's too thin ! 
 Such statements as those 
 
 It's too late to begin. 
 
 There's a Modoc indictment agin you, O Paleface, and you're 
 goin' in 1 
 
 " You stole Schonchin's squaw 
 
 In the year sixty-two ; 
 It was in sixty-four 
 
 That Long Jack you went through, 
 
 And you burned Nasty Jim's rancheria, and his wives and 
 his papooses too. 
 
 " This gun in my hand 
 Was sold me by you 
 'Gainst the law of the land, 
 And I grieves it is true ! " 
 
 And he buried his face in his blanket and wept as he hid it 
 from view. 
 
150 Truthf^ll James to the Editor. 
 
 " But you're tried and condemned, 
 
 And skelping's your doom," 
 And he paused and he hemmed 
 
 But why this resume ? 
 
 He was skelped 'gainst the custom of nations, and cut off 
 like a rose in its bloom. 
 
 So I asks without guile, 
 
 And I trusts not in vain, 
 If this is the style 
 
 That is going to obtain 
 
 If here's Captain Jack still a-livin', and Nye with no skeip 
 on his brain ? 
 
of tfje EoaD, 
 
 SIERRAS, 1876. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 First Tourist. I "Yuba Bill? Driver. 
 
 Second Tourist. A Stranger. 
 
 First Tourist. 
 
 LOOK how the upland plunges into cover, 
 
 Green where the pines fade sullenly away. 
 Wonderful those olive depths ! and wonderful, more- 
 over - 
 
 Second Tourist. 
 The red dust that rises in a suffocating way. 
 
 First Tourist. 
 
 Small is the soul that cannot soar above it, 
 
 Cannot but cling to its ever-kindred clay : 
 Better be yon bird, that seems to breathe and love 
 it - 
 
 Second Tourist. 
 
 Doubtless a hawk or some other bird of prey. 
 Were we, like him, as sure of a dinner 
 That on our stomachs would comfortably stay ; 
 
152 An Idyl of the Road. 
 
 Or were the fried ham a shade or two just thinner, 
 That must confront us at closing of the day : 
 
 Then might you sing like Theocritus or Virgil, 
 Then might we each make a metrical essay ; 
 
 But verse just now I must protest and urge ill 
 Fits a digestion by travel led astray. 
 
 Chorus of Passengers. 
 
 Speed, Yuba Bill ! oh, speed us to our dinner ! 
 Speed to the sunset that beckons far away. 
 
 Second Tourist. 
 
 William of Yuba, O Son of Nimshi, hearken ! 
 
 Check thy profanity, but not thy chariot's play. 
 Tell us, O William, before the shadows darken, 
 
 Where, and, oh 1 how we shall dine ? O William, 
 say ! 
 
 Yuba Bill. 
 
 It ain't my fault, nor the Kumpeney's, I reckon, 
 
 Ye can't get ez square meal ez any on the Bay, 
 Up at yon place, whar the senset 'pears to beckon 
 
 Ez thet sharp allows in his airy sort o' way. 
 Thar woz a place wor yer hash ye might hev wrestled, 
 
 Kept by a woman ez chipper ez a jay 
 Warm in her breast all the morning sunshine nestled ; 
 
 Red on her cheeks all the evening's sunshine lay. 
 
 Second Tourist. 
 
 Praise is but breath, O chariot compeller ! 
 Yet of that hash we would bid you farther say. 
 
An Idyl of the Road. 153 
 
 Yuba Bill. 
 
 Thar woz a snipe like you, a fancy tourist 
 
 Kem to that ranch ez if to make a stay, 
 Ran off the gal, and ruined jist the purist 
 
 Critter that lived 
 
 Stranger (quietly). 
 
 You're a liar, driver ! 
 
 Yuba Bill (reaching for his revolver). 
 
 Eh! 
 Here take my lines, somebody 
 
 Chorus of Passengers. 
 
 Hush, boys ! listen ! 
 Inside there's a lady ! Remember 1 No affray 1 
 
 Yuba Bill. 
 Ef that man lives, the fault ain't mine or his'n. 
 
 Stranger. 
 
 Wait for the sunset that beckons fai away, 
 
 Then as you will ! But, meantime, friends, believe me, 
 Nowhere on earth lives a purer woman ; nay, 
 
 If my perceptions do surely not deceive me, 
 She is the lady we have inside to-day. 
 
 As for the man you see that blackened pine tree, 
 Up which the green vine creeps heavenward away ! 
 
 He was that scarred trunk, and she the vine that sweetly 
 Clothed him with life again, and lifted 
 
154 An Idyl of the Road. 
 
 How know you this ? 
 
 Second Tourist. 
 Yes ; but pray 
 
 Stranger. 
 
 She's my wife, 
 
 Yuba 
 The h 11 you say ) 
 
( 155 ) 
 
 Cfjompson of 
 
 IT is the story of Thompson of Thompson, the hero ol 
 
 Angels. 
 Frequently drunk was Thompson, but always polite to the 
 
 stranger ; 
 Light and free was the touch of Thompson upon his 
 
 revolver ; 
 Great the mortality incident on that lightness and freedom. 
 
 Yet not happy or gay was Thompson, the hero of Angels ; 
 Often spoke to himself in accents of anguish and sorrow, 
 " Why do I make the graves of the frivolous youth who in 
 
 folly 
 Thoughtlessly pass my revolver, forgetting its lightness and 
 
 freedom? 
 
 "Why in my daily walks does the surgeon drop his left 
 
 eyelid, 
 The undertaker smile, and the sculptor of gravestone 
 
 marbles 
 Lean on bis chisel and gaze? I care not o'er much for 
 
 attention ; 
 Simple am I in my ways, save but for this lightness and 
 
 freedom." 
 
156 Thompson of A ngels. 
 
 So spake that pensive man this Thompson, the hero of 
 
 Angels, 
 Bitterly smiled to himself, as he strode through the 
 
 chapparal musing. 
 "Why, O why?" echoed the pines in the dark olive depth 
 
 far resounding. 
 'Why, indeed?" whispered the sage brush that bent 
 
 'neath his feet non-elastic 
 
 Pleasant indeed was that morn that dawned o'er the bar- 
 room at Angels, 
 
 Where in their manhood's prime was gathered the pride of 
 the hamlet. 
 
 Six "took sugar in theirs," and nine to the barkeeper 
 lightly 
 
 Smiled as they said, "Well, Jim, you can give us our 
 regular fusil" 
 
 Suddenly as the grey hawk swoops down on the barnyard, 
 
 alighting 
 Where, pensively picking their corn, the favourite pullets 
 
 are gathered, 
 So in that festive bar-room dropped Thompson, the hero 
 
 of Angels, 
 Grasping his weapon dread with his pristine lightness and 
 
 freedom. 
 
 Never a word he spoke ; divesting himself of his garments, 
 Danced the war-dance of the playful yet truculent Modoc, 
 Uttered a single whoop, and then, in the accents of chal- 
 lenge, 
 
 Spake r " Oh, behold in me a Crested Jay Hawk of the 
 mountain." 
 
Thompson of Angels. 157 
 
 Then rose a pallid man a man sick with fever and ague ; 
 
 Small was he, and his step was tremulous, weak, and un- 
 certain ; 
 
 Slowly a Derringer drew, and covered the person of 
 Thompson ; 
 
 Said in his feeblest pipe, " I'm a Bald-headed Snipe of the 
 Valley." 
 
 As on its native plains the kangaroo, startled by hunters, 
 Leaps with successive bounds, and hurries away to the 
 
 thickets, 
 So leaped the Crested Hawk, and quietly hopping behind 
 
 him 
 Ran, and occasionally shot, that Bald-headed Snipe of the 
 
 Valley. 
 
 Vain at the fesdve bar still lingered the people of Angels, 
 Hearing afar in the woods the petulant pop of the pistol ; 
 Never again returned the Crested Jay Hawk of the moun- 
 tains, 
 Never again was seen the Bald-headed Snipe of the Valley. 
 
 Yet in the hamlet of Angels, when truculent speeches are 
 
 uttered, 
 When bloodshed and life alone will atone for some trifling 
 
 misstatement, 
 Maidens and men in their prime recall the last hero of 
 
 Angels, 
 Think of and vainly regret the Bald-headed Snipe of the 
 
 Valley ! 
 
( 158 ) 
 
 (SIERRAS.) 
 
 WE checked our pace, the red road sharply rounding j 
 
 We heard the troubled flow 
 Of the dark olive depths of pines resounding 
 
 A thousand feet below. 
 
 Above the tumult of the canon lifted, 
 
 The grey hawk breathless hung, 
 Or on the hill a winged shadow drifted 
 
 Where furze and thorn-bush clung ; 
 
 Or where half-way the mountain side was furrowed 
 
 With many a seam and scar ; 
 Or some abandoned tunnel dimly burrowed, 
 
 A mole-hill seen so far. 
 
 We looked in silence down across the distant 
 
 Unfathomable reach : 
 A silence broken by the guide's consistent 
 
 And realistic speech. 
 
 " Walker of Murphy's blew a hole through Peters 
 
 For telling him he lied ; 
 Then up and dusted out of South Hornitos 
 
 Across the Long Divide. 
 
The Hawk's Nest. 159 
 
 " We ran him out of Strong's, and up through Eden, 
 
 And 'cross the ford below, 
 And up this canon (Peters' brother leadin'), 
 
 And me and Clark and Joe. 
 
 " He fou't us game : somehow I disremember 
 
 Jest how the thing kem round ; 
 Some say 'twas wadding, some a scattered ember 
 
 From fires on the ground. 
 
 " But in one minute all the hill below him 
 
 Was just one sheet of flame ; 
 Guardin' the crest, Sam Clark and I called to him, 
 
 And, well, the dog was game ! 
 
 " He made no sign : the fires of hell were round him, 
 
 The pit of hell below. 
 We sat and waited, but never found him ; 
 
 And then we turned to go. 
 
 " And then you see that rock that's grown so bristly 
 
 With chapparal and tan 
 Suthin crep' out : it might hev been a grizzly, 
 
 It might hev been a man ; 
 
 "Suthin that howled, and gnashed its teeth, and 
 shouted 
 
 In smoke and dust and flame ; 
 Suthin that sprang into the depths about it, 
 
 Grizzly or man, but game ! 
 
 " That's all ! Well, yes, it does look rather risky, 
 
 And kinder makes one queer 
 And dizzy looking down. A drop of whisky 
 
 Ain't a bad thing right here 1 " 
 
Jper letter. 
 
 I'M sitting alone by the fire, 
 
 Dressed just as I came from the dance, 
 Tn a robe even you would admire, 
 
 It cost a cool thousand in France ; 
 I'm be-diamonded out of all reason, 
 
 My hair is done up in a cue : 
 In short, sir, " the belle of the season " 
 
 Is wasting an hour upon you. 
 
 A dozen engagements I've broken ; 
 
 I left in the midst of a set ; 
 Likewise a proposal, half spoken, 
 
 That waits on the stairs for me yet. 
 They say he'll be rich, when he grows up,- 
 
 And then he adores me indeed ; 
 And you, sir, are turning your nose up, 
 
 Three thousand miles off, as you read 
 
 " And how do I like my position ? " 
 
 " And what do I think of New York ? " 
 " And now, in my higher ambition, 
 
 With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk? " 
 " And isn't it nice to have riches, 
 
 And diamonds and silks, and all that ? " 
 f< And aren't it a change to the ditches 
 
 And tunnels of Poverty Flat " 
 
Her Letter. 161 
 
 Well, yes, if you saw us out driving 
 
 Each day in the Park, four-in-hand, 
 If you saw poor dear mamma contriving 
 
 To look supernaturally grand, 
 If you saw papa's picture, as taken 
 
 By Brady, and tinted at that, 
 You'd never suspect he sold bacon 
 
 And flour at Poverty Flat 
 
 And yet, just this moment, when sitting 
 
 In the glare of the grand chandelier, 
 In the bustle and glitter befitting 
 
 The " finest soirk of the year," 
 In the mists of a gaze de Chamb'ery, 
 
 And the hum of the smallest of talk, 
 Somehow, Joe, I thought of the " Ferry," 
 
 And the dance that we had on "The Fork;" 
 
 Of Harrison's barn, with its muster 
 
 Of flags festooned over the wall ; 
 Of the candles that shed their soft lustre 
 
 And tallow on head-dress and shawl ; 
 Of the steps that we took to one fiddle, 
 
 Of the dress of my queer vis-d-vis ; 
 And how I once went down the middle 
 
 With the man that shot Sandy McGee ; 
 
 Of the moon that was quietly sleeping 
 On the hill, when the time came to go ; 
 
 Of the few baby peaks that were peeping 
 From under their bedclothes of snow ; 
 
 Of that ride, that to me was the rarest ; 
 
 Of the something you said at the gate. 
 VOL. i. L 
 
1 62 Her Letter. 
 
 Ah ! Joe, then I wasn't an heiress 
 To " the best-paying lead in the State." 
 
 Well, well, it's all past ; yet it's funny 
 
 To think, as I stood in the glare 
 Of fashion and beauty and money, 
 
 That I should be thinking, right there, 
 Of some one who breasted high water, 
 
 And swam the North Fork, and all that, 
 Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter, 
 
 The Lily of Poverty Flat. 
 
 But goodness ! what nonsense I'm writing ! 
 
 (Mamma says my taste still is low), 
 Instead of my triumphs reciting, 
 
 I'm spooning on Joseph, heigh-ho ! 
 And I'm to be "finished" by travel, 
 
 Whatever's the meaning of that 
 Oh, why did papa strike pay gravel 
 
 In drifting on Poverty Flat ? 
 
 Good night ! here's the end of my paper ; 
 
 Good night ! if the longitude please, 
 For maybe, while wasting my taper, 
 
 Your sun's climbing over the trees. 
 But know, if you haven't got riches, 
 
 And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that, 
 That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches, 
 
 And you've struck it, on Poverty Flat 
 
te anstner to " $er letter." 
 
 (REPORTED BY TRUTHFUL JAMES.) 
 
 BEING asked by an intimate party, 
 
 Which the same I would term as a friend, 
 Though his health it were vain to call hearty, 
 
 Since the mind to deceit it might lend ; 
 For his arm it was broken quite recent, 
 
 And there's something gone wrong with his lung, 
 Which is why it is proper and decent 
 
 I should write what he runs off his tongue. 
 
 First, he says, Miss, he's read through your letter 
 
 To the end, and " the end came too soon ; * 
 That a " slight illness kept him your debtor," 
 
 (Which for weeks he was wild as a loon) ; 
 That " his spirits are buoyant as yours is ; " 
 
 That with you, Miss, he " challenges Fate," 
 (Which the language that invalid uses 
 
 At times it were vain to relate). 
 
 And he says " that the mountains are fairer 
 For once being held in your thought ; " 
 
 That each rock " holds a wealth that is rarer 
 Than ever by gold-seeker sought'' 
 
164 His Answer to "Her Letter" 
 
 (Which are words he would put in these pages, 
 
 By a party not given to guile ; 
 Though the claim not, at date, paying wages, 
 
 Might produce in the sinful a smile.) 
 
 He remembers the ball at the Ferry, 
 
 And the ride, and the gate, and the vow, 
 And the rose that you gave him, that very 
 
 Same rose he is "treasuring now." 
 (Which his blanket he's kicked on his trunk, Miss, 
 
 And insists on his legs being free ; 
 And his language to me from his bunk, Miss, 
 
 Is frequent and painful and free.) 
 
 He hopes you are wearing no willows, 
 
 But are happy and gay all the while ; 
 That he knows (which this dodging of pillows 
 
 Imparts but small ease to the style, 
 And the same you will pardon) he knows, Miss, 
 
 That, though parted by many a mile, 
 " Yet, were he lying under the snows, Miss, 
 
 They'd melt into tears at your smile." 
 
 And " you'll still think ot him in your pleasures, 
 
 In your brief twilight dreams of the past ; 
 In this green laurel spray that he treasures, 
 
 It was plucked where your parting was last ; 
 In this specimen, but a small trifle, 
 
 It will do for a pin for your shawl." 
 (Which, the truth not to wickedly stifle, 
 
 Was his last week's " clean up," and Ms all) 
 
His Answer to "Her Letter" 165 
 
 He's asleep, which the same might seem strange, Miss, 
 
 Were it not that I scorn to deny 
 That I raised his last dose, for a change, Miss, 
 
 In view that his fever was high ; 
 But he lies there quite peaceful and pensive. 
 
 And now, my respects, Miss, to you ; 
 Which my language, although comprehensive, 
 
 Might seem to be freedom, it's true. 
 
 Which I have a small favour to ask you, 
 
 As concerns a bull-pup, and the same, 
 If the duty would not overtask you, 
 
 You would please to procure for me, game ; 
 And send per express to the Flat, Miss, 
 
 For they say York is famed for the breed, 
 Which, though words of deceit may be that, Miss, 
 
 I'll trust to your taste, Miss, indeed. 
 
 P.S. Which this same interfering 
 
 Into other folks' way I despise ; 
 Yet if it so be I was hearing 
 
 That it's just empty pockets as lies 
 Betwixt you and Joseph, it follers 
 
 That, having no family claims, 
 Here's my pile, which it's six hundred dollars, 
 
 As is yours, with respects, 
 
 TRUTHFUL JAMES, 
 
i66 ) 
 
 IReturn of 
 
 (MUD FLAT, 1860.) 
 
 So you're back from your travels, old fellow, 
 
 And you left but a twelvemonth ago ; 
 You've hobnobbed with Louis Napoleon, 
 
 Eugenie, and kissed the Pope's toe. 
 By Jove, it is perfectly stunning, 
 
 Astounding, and all that, you know ; 
 Yes, things are about as you left them 
 
 In Mud Flat a twelvemonth ago. 
 
 The boys ! they're all right, Oh ! Dick Ashley, 
 
 He's buried somewhere in the snow ; 
 He was lost on the Summit last winter, 
 
 And Bob has a hard row to hoe. 
 You knew that he's got the consumption ? 
 
 You didn't ! Well come, that's a go -, 
 I certainly wrote you at Baden, 
 
 Dear me ! that was six months ago, 
 
 I got all your outlandish letters, 
 
 All stamped by some foreign P.O. 
 I handed myself to Miss Mary 
 
 That sketch of a famous chateau. 
 
' * The Return of Belisarius. " 167 
 
 Tom Saunders is living at 'Frisco, 
 
 They say that he cuts quite a show. 
 You didn't meet Euchre-deck Billy 
 
 Anywhere on your road to Cairo ? 
 
 So you thought of the rusty old cabin, 
 
 The pines, and the valley below, 
 And heard the North Fork of the Yuba 
 
 As you stood on the banks of the Po ? 
 'Twas just like your romance, old fellow ; 
 
 But now there is standing a row 
 Of stores on the site of the cabin 
 
 That you lived in a twelvemonth ago. 
 
 But it's jolly to see you, old fellow, 
 
 To think it's a twelvemonth ago 1 
 And you have seen Louis Napoleon, 
 
 And look like a Johnny Crapaud. 
 Come in. You will surely see Mary, 
 
 You know we are married. What, no ?- 
 Oh, ay ! I forgot there was something 
 
 Between you a twelvemonth ago. 
 
168 
 
 JFurtfjer Language from Crutfiful 3fame& 
 
 (NYE'S FORD, STANISLAUS, 1870.) 
 
 Do I sleep ? do I dream ? 
 Do I wonder and doubt? 
 Are things what they seem ? 
 Or is visions about ? 
 Is our civilisation a failure ? 
 Or is the Caucasian played out ? 
 
 Which expressions are strong; 
 
 Yet would feebly imply 
 
 Some account of a wrong 
 
 Not to call it a lie 
 
 As was worked off on William, my pardner, 
 
 And the same being W. Nye. 
 
 He came down to the Ford 
 
 On the very same day 
 
 Of that lottery drawed 
 
 By those sharps at the Bay ; 
 
 And he says to me, "Truthful, how goes it?" 
 
 I replied, " It is far, far from gay ; 
 
Further Language from Truthful James. 169 
 
 " For the camp has gone wild 
 
 On this lottery game, 
 
 And has even beguiled 
 
 ' Injin Dick ' by the same." 
 
 Then said Nye to me, " Injins is pizen : 
 
 But what is his number, eh ? James?" 
 
 I replied, " 7,2, 
 9,8,4, is his hand;" 
 When he started, and drew 
 Out a list, which he scanned ; 
 Then he softly went for his revolver 
 With language I cannot command, 
 
 Then I said, "William Nye l 
 
 But he turned upon me, 
 
 And the look in his eye 
 
 Was quite painful to see ; 
 
 And he says, " You mistake \ this poor Injin 
 
 I protects from such sharps as you be 1 " 
 
 I was shocked and withdrew ; 
 
 But I grieve to relate, 
 
 When he next met my view 
 
 Injin Dick was his mate ', 
 
 And the two around town was a-lying 
 
 In a frightfully dissolute state. 
 
 Which the war dance they had 
 Round a tree at the Bend 
 Was a sight that was sad ; 
 And it seemed that the end 
 
170 Further Language from Truthful James, 
 
 Would not justify the proceedings, 
 As I quiet remarked to a friend. 
 
 For that Injin he fled 
 
 The next day to his band ; 
 
 And we found William spread 
 
 Very loose on the strand, 
 
 With a peaceful-like smile on his features, 
 
 And a dollar greenback in his hand ; 
 
 Which the same, when rolled out, 
 We observed, with surprise, 
 Was what he, no doubt, 
 Thought the number and prize 
 Them figures in red in the corner, 
 Which the number of notes specifies. 
 
 Was it guile, or a dream ? 
 
 Is it Nye that I doubt ? 
 
 Are things what they seem ? 
 
 Or is visions about ? 
 
 Is our civilisation a failure ? 
 
 Or is the Caucasian played out ? 
 
after tfie 
 
 (MOUTH OF THE SHAFT.) 
 
 WHAT I want is my husband, 
 And if you're a man, sir, 
 
 You'll give me an answer, 
 Where is my Joe ? 
 
 Penrhyn, sir, Joe, 
 
 Caernarvonshire. 
 Six months ago 
 
 Since we came here 
 Eh? Ah, you know 1 
 
 Well, I am quiet 
 
 And still, 
 But I must stand here, 
 
 And will ! 
 Please, I'll be strong, 
 
 If you'll just let me wait 
 
 Inside o' that gate 
 Till the news comes along. 
 
 "Negligence!" 
 That was the cause ! 
 Butchery ! 
 
1 7 2 After the Accident. 
 
 Are there no laws, 
 
 Laws to protect such as we ? 
 
 Well, then ! 
 
 I won't raise my voice. 
 There, men ! 
 
 I won't make no noise, 
 Only you just let me be. 
 
 Four, only four did he say 
 Saved ! and the other ones ? Eh ? 
 
 Why do they call ? 
 
 Why are they all 
 Looking and coming this way ? 
 
 What's that ? a message ? 
 
 I'll take it. 
 I know his wife, sir, 
 
 I'll break it. 
 
 " Foreman ! " 
 
 Ay, ay ! 
 
 " Out by and by, 
 
 Just saved his life. 
 
 Say to his wife 
 
 Soon he'll be free." 
 Will I ? God bless you ! 
 
 It's me ! 
 
( 173 ) 
 
 C8e tiBljost tfiat Jim 
 
 WHY. as to that, said the engineer, 
 Ghosts ain't things we are apt to fear ; 
 Spirits don't fool with levers much, 
 And throttle-valves don't take to such. 
 
 And as for Jim, 
 
 What happened to him 
 Was one half fact and t'other half whim ! 
 
 Running one night on the line, he saw 
 A house as plain as the moral law 
 Just by the moonlit bank, and thence 
 Came a drunken man with no more sense 
 
 Than to drop on the rail 
 
 Flat as a flail, 
 As Jim drove by with the midnight mail 
 
 Down went the patents steam reversed. 
 Too late ! for there came a "thud." Jim cursed 
 As the fireman, there in the cab with him, 
 Kinder stared in the face of Jim, 
 
 And says, "What now?" 
 
 Says Jim, " What now ! 
 I'te just run over a man, that's how ! " 
 
174 The Ghost that Jim Saw. 
 
 The fireman stared at Jim. They ran 
 Back, but they never found house nor man,- 
 Nary a shadow within a mile. 
 Jim turned pale, but he tried to smile, 
 
 Then on he tore 
 
 Ten mile or more, 
 In quicker time than he'd made afore. 
 
 Would you believe it ! the very next night 
 Up rose that house in the moonlight white, 
 Out comes the chap and drops as before, 
 Down goes the brake and the rest encore ; 
 
 And so, in fact, 
 
 Each night that act 
 Occurred, till folks swore Jim was cracked 
 
 Humph ! let me see ; it's a year now, 'most, 
 That I met Jim, East, and says, " How's your ghost ? >; 
 " Gone/' says Jim ; " and more, it's plain 
 That ghost don't trouble me again. 
 
 I thought I shook 
 
 That ghost when I took 
 A place on an Eastern line, but look 1 
 
 " What should I meet, the first trip out, 
 
 But the very house we talked about, 
 
 And the selfsame man ! * Well/ says I, ' I guess 
 
 It's time to stop this 'yer foolishness.' 
 
 So I crammed on steam, 
 
 When there came a scream 
 From my fireman, that jest broke my dream : 
 
The Ghost that Jim Saw. 175 
 
 " You've killed somebody ! ' Says I, * Not much ! 
 I've been thar often, and thai ain't no such, 
 And now I'll prove it ! ' Back we ran, 
 And, darn my skin ! but thar was a man 
 
 On the rail, dead, 
 
 Smashed in the head ! 
 Now I call that meanness 1" That's all Jim said, 
 
(MR. INTERVIEWER INTERVIEWED.) 
 
 KNOW me next time when you see me, won't you, old 
 
 smarty ? 
 
 Oh, I mean you, old figger-head, just the same party ! 
 Take out your pensivil, d n you ; sharpen it, do ! 
 Any complaints to make ? Lot's of 'em one of 'em's you, 
 
 You ! who are you, anyhow, goin' round in that sneakin' 
 
 way? 
 
 Never in jail before, was you, old blatherskite, say ? 
 Look at it ; don't it look pooty ? Oh, grin, and be d d to 
 
 you, do ! 
 But if I had you this side o' that gratin', I'd just make it 
 
 lively for you. 
 
 How did I get in here ? Well what 'ud you give to know ? 
 'Twasn't by sneakin' round where I hadn't no call to go : 
 'Twasn't by hangin' round a-spyin' unfortnet men. 
 Grin ! but I'll stop your jaw if ever you do that agen. 
 
 Why don't you say suthin, blast you ? Speak your mind if 
 
 you dare. 
 Ain't I a bad lot, sonny ? Say it, and call it square. 
 
"Seventy-Nine" 1 77 
 
 Hain't got no tongue, hey, hev ye ? O guard ! here's a 
 
 little swell 
 A cussin' and swearin' and yellin', and bribin' me not to 
 
 tell. 
 
 There ! I thought that 'ud fetch ye ! And you want to know 
 
 my name? 
 
 " Seventy-nine " they call me, but that is their little game ; 
 For I am werry highly connected, as a gent, sir, can under- 
 
 stand, 
 And my family hold their heads up with the very furst in 
 
 the land. 
 
 For 'twas all, sir, a put-up job on a pore young man like 
 
 me; 
 And the jury was bribed a puppos, and at furst they couldn't 
 
 agree; 
 And I sed to the judge, sez I, Oh, grin ! it's all right, my 
 
 son ! 
 But you're a werry lively young pup, and you ain't to be 
 
 played upon ! 
 
 VVot's that you got ? tobacco ? I'm cussed but I thought 
 
 'twas a tract 
 Thank ye ! A chap t'other day now, lookee, this is a 
 
 fact 
 
 Slings me a tract on the evils o' keepin' bad company, 
 As if all the saints was howlin' to stay here along o' we. 
 
 No, I hain't no complaints. Stop, yes; do you see that 
 
 chap, 
 
 Him standin' over there, a-hidin' his eyes in his cap? 
 VOL. i. M 
 
1 7 8 "Seventy- Nine" 
 
 Well, that man's stumick is weak, and he can't stand the 
 pris'n fare ; 
 
 For the coffee is just half beans, and the sugar it ain't no- 
 where. 
 
 Perhaps it's his bringin' up ; but he's sickenin' day by day, 
 And he doesn't take no food, and I'm seein* him waste 
 
 away. 
 And it isn't the thing to see j for, whatever he's been and 
 
 done, 
 Starvation isn't the plan as he's to be saved upon. 
 
 For he cannot rough it like me ; and he hasn't the stamps, 
 
 I guess, 
 
 To buy him his extry grub outside o' the pris'n mess. 
 And perhaps if a gent like you, with whom I've been sorter 
 
 free, 
 Would thank you 1 But, say ! look here ! Oh, blast it ! 
 
 don't give it to ME ! 
 
 Don't you give it to me ; now, don't ye, don't ye, don't! 
 You think it's a put-up job ; so I'll thank ye, sir, if you 
 
 won't. 
 But hand him the stamps yourself : why, he isn't even my 
 
 pal; 
 And, if it's a comfort to you, why, I don't intend that he 
 
 shall 
 
( 179 ) 
 
 Cfje 
 
 IT was the stage-driver's story, as he stood with his back to 
 
 the wheelers, 
 
 Quietly flecking his whip, and turning his quid of tobacco ; 
 While on the dusty road, and blent with the rays of the 
 
 moonlight, 
 We saw the long curl of his lash and the juice of tobacco 
 
 descending. 
 
 " Danger ! Sir, I believe you, indeed, I may say, on that 
 
 subject, 
 You your existence might put to the hazard and turn of a 
 
 wager. 
 I have seen danger ? Oh, no ! not me, sir, indeed, I assure 
 
 you: 
 'Twas only the man with the dog that is sitting alone in yon 
 
 waggon. 
 
 " It was the Geiger Grade, a mile and a half from the sum- 
 
 mit : 
 Black as your hat was the night, and never a star in the 
 
 heavens. 
 Thundering down the grade, the gravel and stones we sent 
 
 flying 
 Over the precipice side, a thousand feet plumb to the 
 
 bottom. 
 
180 The Stage-Driver's Story. 
 
 " Half-way down the grade I felt, sir, a thrilling and creak- 
 ing, 
 
 Then a lurch to one side, as we hung on the bank of the 
 canon j 
 
 Then, looking up the road, I saw, in the distance behind 
 me, 
 
 The off hind wheel of the coach, just loosed from its axle, 
 and following. 
 
 " One glance alone I gave, then gathered together my rib- 
 bons, 
 
 Shouted, and flung them, outspread, on the straining necks 
 of my cattle ; 
 
 Screamed at the top of my voice, and lashed the air in my 
 frenzy, 
 
 While down the Geiger Grade, on three wheels, the vehicle 
 thundered. 
 
 " Speed was our only chance, when again came the ominous 
 rattle : 
 
 Crack, and another wheel slipped away, and was lost in the 
 darkness. 
 
 Two only now were left ; yet such was our fearful momen- 
 tum, 
 
 Upright, erect, and sustained on two wheels, the vehicle 
 thundered. 
 
 "As some huge bowlder, unloosed from its rocky shelf on 
 
 the mountain, 
 Drives before it the hare and the timorous squirrel, far 
 
 leaping, 
 
The Stage- Driver's Story. L 8 1 
 
 So down the Geiger Grade rushed the Pioneer coach, and 
 
 before it 
 Leaped the wild horses, and shrieked in advance of the 
 
 danger impending. 
 
 " But to be brief in my tale. Again, ere we came to the 
 
 level, 
 Slipped from its axle a wheel ; so that, to be plain in my 
 
 statement, 
 A matter of twelve hundred yards or more, as the distance 
 
 may be, 
 We travelled upon one wheel, until we drove up to the 
 
 station. 
 
 " Then, sir, we sank in a heap ; but, picking myself from the 
 
 ruins, 
 I heard a noise up the grade; and looking, I saw in the 
 
 distance 
 The three wheels following still, like moons on the horizon 
 
 whirling, 
 Till, circling, they gracefully sank on the road at the side of 
 
 the station. 
 
 " This is my story, sir ; a trifle, indeed, I assure you. 
 Much more, perchance, might be said but I hold him of 
 
 all men most lightly 
 Who swerves from the truth in his tale. No, thank you 
 
 Well, since you are pressing, 
 Perhaps I don't care if I do : you may give me the same, 
 
 Jim, no sugar." 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
3 dftregport Eegenlx 
 
 (I797-) 
 
 THEY ran through the streets of the seaport town, 
 They peered from the decks of the ships that lay ; 
 The cold sea-fog that came whitening down 
 Was never as cold or white as they. 
 
 " Ho, Starbuck and Pinckney and Tenterden ! 
 
 Run for your shallops, gather your men, 
 Scatter your boats on the lower bay. 
 
 Good cause for fear ! In the thick mid-day 
 
 The hulk that lay by the rotting pier, 
 
 Filled with the children in happy play, 
 
 Parted its moorings and drifted clear, 
 
 Drifted clear beyond the reach or call, 
 Thirteen children they were in all, 
 All adrift in the lower bay ! 
 
 Said a hard-faced skipper, " God help us all ! 
 
 She will not float till the turning tide ! " 
 
 Said his wife, " My darling will hear my call, 
 
 Whether in sea or heaven she bide," 
 
 And she lifted a quavering voice and high, 
 Wild and strange as a sea-bird's cry, 
 
 Till they shuddered and wondered at her side. 
 
1 86 A Grey port Legend. 
 
 The fog drove down on each labouring crew, 
 Veiled each from each and the sky and shore : 
 There was not a sound but the breath they drew, 
 And the lap of water and creak of oar ; 
 
 And they felt the breath of the downs, fresh blown 
 O'er leagues of clover and cold grey stone, 
 But not from the lips that had gone before. 
 
 They come no more. But they tell the tale, 
 
 That, when fogs are thick on the harbour reef, 
 
 The mackerel fishers shorten sail ; 
 
 For the signal they know will bring relief : 
 For the voices of children, still at play 
 In a phantom hulk that drifts alway 
 
 Through channels whose waters never fail 
 
 It is but a foolish shipman's tale, 
 
 A theme for a poet's idle page ; 
 
 But still, when the mists of doubt prevail, 
 
 And we lie becalmed by the shores of Age, 
 We hear from the misty troubled shore 
 The voice of the children gone before, 
 Drawing the soul to its anchorage. 
 
187 
 
 a sSetoport Romance. 
 
 THEY say that she died of a broken heart 
 
 (I tell the tale as 'twas told to me) ; 
 But her spirit lives, and her soul is part 
 
 Of this sad old house by the sea. 
 
 Her lover was fickle and fine and French : 
 
 It was nearly a hundred years ago 
 When he sailed away from her arms poor wench ! 
 
 With the Admiral Rochambeau. 
 
 I marvel much what periwigged phrase 
 Won the heart of this sentimental Quaker, 
 
 At what golden-laced speech of those modish days 
 She listened the mischief take her ! 
 
 But she kept the posies of mignonette 
 That he gave ; and ever as their bloom failed 
 
 And faded (though with her tears still wet) 
 Her youth with their own exhaled. 
 
 Till one night, when the sea-fog wrapped a shroud 
 Round spar and spire and tarn and tree, 
 
 Her soul went up on that lifted cloud 
 From this sad old house by the sea. 
 
3 A Newport Romance. 
 
 And ever since then, when the clock strikes two, 
 She walks unbidden from room to room, 
 
 And the air is rilled that she passes through 
 With a subtle, sad perfume. 
 
 The delicate odour of mignonette, 
 
 The ghost of a dead and gone bouquet, 
 
 Is all that tells of her story ; yet, 
 Could she think of a sweeter way ? 
 
 I sit in the sad old house to-night, 
 
 Myself a ghost from a farther sea ; 
 And I trust that this Quaker woman might, 
 
 In courtesy, visit me. 
 
 For the laugh is fled from porch and lawn, 
 And the bugle died from the fort on the hill, 
 
 And the twitter of girls on the stairs is gone, 
 And the grand piano is still. 
 
 Somewhere in the darkness a clock strikes two ; 
 
 And there is no sound in the sad old house, 
 But the long veranda dripping with dew, 
 
 And in the wainscot a mouse. 
 
 The light of my study-lamp streams out 
 From the library door, but has gone astray 
 
 In the depths of the darkened hall Small doubt 
 But the Quakeress knows the way. 
 
 Was it the trick of a sense o'erwrought 
 With outward watching and inward fret ? 
 
 But I swear that the air just now was fraught 
 With the odour of mignonette ! 
 
A Newport Romance. i8g 
 
 I open the window, and seem almost 
 So still lies the ocean to hear the beat 
 
 Of its Great Gulf artery off the coast, 
 And to bask in its tropic heat. 
 
 In my neighbour's windows the gas-lights flare, 
 As the dancers swing in a waltz of Strauss ; 
 
 And I wonder now could I fit that ah 
 To the song of this sad old house. 
 
 And no odour of mignonette there is 
 
 But the breath of morn on the dewy lawn ; 
 
 And mayhap from causes as slight as this 
 The quaint old legend is born. 
 
 But the soul of that subtle, sad perfume, 
 As the spiced embalmings, they say, outlast 
 
 The mummy kid in his rocky tomb, 
 Awakens my buried past 
 
 And I think of the passion that shook my youth, 
 
 Of its aimless loves and its idle pains, 
 And am thankful now for the certain truth 
 
 That only the sweet remains. 
 
 And I hear no rustle of stiff brocade, 
 
 And I see no face at my library door ; 
 For now that the ghosts of my heart are laid, 
 
 She is viewless for evermore. 
 
 But whether she came as a faint perfume, 
 
 Or whether a spirit in stole of white, 
 I feel, as I pass from the darkened room, 
 
 She has been with my soul to-night ! 
 
( '90 ) 
 
 an jTrancijSco. 
 
 (FROM THE SEA.) 
 
 SERENE, indifferent of Fate, 
 Thou sittest at the Western Gate ; 
 
 Upon thy height, so lately won, 
 Still slant the banners of the sun ; 
 
 Thou seest the white seas strike their tents, 
 O Warder of two Continents ! 
 
 And, scornful of the peace that flies 
 Thy angry winds and sullen skies, 
 
 Thou drawest all things, small or great, 
 To thee, beside the Western Gate. 
 ... 
 
 lion's whelp, that hidest fast 
 
 In jungle growth of spire and mast 1 
 
 1 know thy cunning and thy greed, 
 Thy hard high lust and wilful deed, 
 
 And all thy glory loves to tell 
 Of specious gifts material 
 
San Francisco. 191 
 
 Drop down, O Fleecy Fog, and hide 
 Her sceptic sneer and all her pride ! 
 
 Wrap her, O Fog, in gown and hood 
 Of her Franciscan Brotherhood. 
 
 Hide me her faults, her sin and blame ; 
 With thy grey mantle cloak her shame ! 
 
 So shall she, cowled, sit and pray 
 Till morning bears her sins away. 
 
 Then rise, O Fleecy Fog, and raise 
 The glory of her coming days ; 
 
 Be as the cloud that flecks the seas 
 Above her smoky argosies ; 
 
 When forms familiar shall give place 
 To stranger speech and newer face ; 
 
 When all her throes and anxious fears 
 Lie hushed in the repose of years ; 
 
 When Art shall raise and Culture lift 
 The sensual joys and meaner thrift, 
 
 And all fulfilled the vision we 
 Who watch and wait shall never see, 
 
 Who, in the morning of her race, 
 Toiled fair or meanly in our place, 
 
 But, yielding to the common lot, 
 Lie unrecorded and forgot 
 

 Cfje fountain 
 
 BY scattered rocks and turbid waters shining, 
 
 By furrowed glade and dell, 
 To feverish men thy calm, sweet face uplifting, 
 
 Thou stayest them to tell 
 
 The delicate thought that cannot find expression, 
 
 For ruder speech too fair, 
 That, like thy petals, trembles in possession, 
 
 And scatters on the air. 
 
 The miner pauses in his rugged labour, 
 
 And, leaning on his spade, 
 Laughingly calls unto his comrade-neighbour 
 
 To see thy charms displayed. 
 
 But in his eyes a mist unwonted rises, 
 
 And for a moment clear 
 Some sweet home face his foolish thought surprises 
 
 And passes in a tear,^ 
 
 Some boyish vision of his Eastern village, 
 
 Of uneventful toil, 
 Where golden harvests followed quiet tillage 
 
 Above a peaceful soil 
 
The Mountain Heart' s-Ease. 1 93 
 
 One moment only, for the pick, uplifting, 
 
 Through root and fibre cleaves, 
 And on the muddy current slowly drifting 
 
 Are swept thy bruised leaves. 
 
 And yet, O poet, in thy homely fashion, 
 
 Thy work thou dost fulfil, 
 For on the turbid current of his passion 
 
 Thy face is shining still J 
 
 VOL. 
 
( 194 ) 
 
 COWARD, of heroic size, 
 In whose lazy muscles lies 
 Strength we fear and yet despise ; 
 Savage, whose relentless tusks 
 Are content with acorn husks ; 
 Robber, whose exploits ne'er soared 
 O'er the bee's or squirrel's hoard ; 
 Whiskered chin and feeble nose, 
 Claws of steel on baby toes, 
 Here, in solitude and shade, 
 Shambling, shuffling plantigrade, 
 Be thy courses undismayed ! 
 
 Here, where Nature makes thy bed, 
 Let thy rude, half-human tread 
 
 Point to hidden Indian springs, 
 Lost in ferns and fragrant grasses, 
 
 Hovered o'er by timid wings, 
 Where the wood-duck lightly passes, 
 Where the wild bee holds her sweets,- 
 Epicurean retreats, 
 Fit for thee, and better than 
 Fearful spoils of dangerous man. 
 
Grizzly. 195 
 
 In thy fat-jowled deviltry 
 Friar Tuck shall live in thee ; 
 Thou mayst levy tithe and dole ; 
 
 Thou shalt spread the woodland cheer, 
 From the pilgrim taking toll ; 
 
 Match thy cunning with his fear ; 
 Eat, and drink, and have thy fill ; 
 Yet remain an outlaw still 1 
 
( 196 ) 
 
 f^atirono. 
 
 CAPTAIN of the Western wood, 
 Thou that apest Robin Hood ! 
 Green above thy scarlet hose, 
 How thy velvet mantle shows ; 
 Never tree like thee arrayed, 
 Oh thou gallant of the glade ! 
 
 When the fervid August sun 
 Scorches all it looks upon, 
 And the balsam of the pine 
 Drips from stem to needle fine, 
 Round thy compact shade arranged, 
 Not a leaf of thee is changed ! 
 
 When the yellow autumn sun 
 Saddens all it looks upon, 
 Spreads its sackcloth on the hills, 
 Strews its ashes in the rills, 
 Thou thy scarlet hose dost doff, 
 And in limbs of purest buff 
 Challenges! the sombre glade 
 For a sylvan masquerade. 
 
Madrono. 197 
 
 Where, O where, shall he begin 
 Who would paint thee, Harlequin? 
 With thy waxen burnished leaf, 
 With thy branches' red relief, 
 With thy polytinted fruit, 
 In thy spring or autumn suit, 
 Where begin, and oh ! where end, 
 Thou whose charms all art transcend ? 
 
( 198 ) 
 
 Cogotc, 
 
 BLOWN out of the prairie in twilight and dew, 
 Half bold and half timid, yet lazy all through ; 
 Loath ever to leave, and yet fearful to stay, 
 He limps in the clearing, an outcast in grey. 
 
 A shade on the stubble, a ghost by the wall, 
 Now leaping, now limping, now risking a fall, 
 Lop-eared and large jointed, but ever alway 
 A thoroughly vagabond outcast in grey. 
 
 Here, Carlo, old fellow, he's one of your kind,^ 
 Go, seek him, and bring him in out of the wind. 
 What I snarling, my Carlo ! So even dogs may 
 Deny their own kin in the outcast in grey. 
 
 Well, take what you will, though it be on the sly, 
 Marauding, or begging, I shall not ask why j 
 But will call it a dole, just to help on his way 
 A four-footed friar in orders of grey 1 
 
( 199 ) 
 
 Co a 
 
 (SANTA CRUZ, 1869.) 
 
 SAUNTERING hither on listless wings, 
 
 Careless vagabond of the sea, 
 Little thou heedest the surf that sings, 
 The bar that thunders, the shale A that rings, 
 
 Give me to keep thy company. 
 
 Little thou hast, old friend, that's new, 
 Storms and wrecks are old things to thee ; 
 
 Sick am I of these changes, too ; 
 
 Little to care for, little to rue, ' 
 I on the shore, and thou on the sea. 
 
 All of thy wanderings, far and near, 
 
 Bring thee at last to shore and me ; 
 All of my journeyings end them here, 
 This our tether must be our cheer, 
 I on the shore, and thou on the sea. 
 
 Lazily rocking on ocean's breast, 
 
 Something in common, old friend, have we ; 
 Thou on the shingle seek'st thy nest, 
 I to the waters look for rest, 
 
 I on the shore, and thou on the sea. 
 
200 \ 
 
 <K3!mt tf)e Cfiimneg 
 
 OVER the chimney the night-wind sang 
 And chanted a melody no one knew ; 
 
 And the Woman stopped, as her babe she tossed, 
 And thought of the one she had long since lost, 
 
 And said, as her tear-drops back she forced, 
 " I hate the wind in the chimney." 
 
 Over the chimney the night-wind sang 
 And chanted a melody no one knew ; 
 
 And the Children said, as they closer drew, 
 
 " 'Tis some witch that is cleaving the black night 
 through, 
 
 'Tis a fairy trumpet that just then blew, 
 And we fear the wind in the chimney." 
 
 Over the chimney the night-wind sang 
 And chanted a melody no one knew ; 
 
 And the Man, as he sat on his hearth below, 
 Said to himself, " It will surely snow, 
 
 And fuel is dear and wages low, 
 
 And I'll stop the leak in the chimney." 
 
What the Chimney Sang. 201 
 
 Over the chimney the night-wind sang 
 And chanted a melody no one knew ; 
 
 But the Poet listened and smiled, for he 
 Was Man, and Woman, and Child, all three, 
 
 And said, " It is God's own harmony, 
 This wind we hear in the chimney." 
 
( 202 ) 
 
 )tc!ten0 in Camp, 
 
 ABOVE the pines the moon was slowly drifting, 
 
 The river sang below ; 
 The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting 
 
 Their minarets of snow. 
 
 The roaring camp-fire, with rude humour, painted 
 
 The ruddy tints of health 
 On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted 
 
 In the fierce race for wealth ; 
 
 Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure 
 
 A hoarded volume drew, 
 And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure 
 
 To hear the tale anew. 
 
 And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, 
 
 And as the firelight fell, 
 He read aloud the book wherein the Master 
 
 Had writ of "Little Nell." 
 
 Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy, for the reader 
 
 Was youngest of them all, 
 But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar 
 
 A silence seemed to fall ; 
 
Dickens in Camp. 203 
 
 The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, 
 
 Listened in^every spray, 
 While the whole camp, with " Nell " on English meadows 
 
 Wandered and lost their way. 
 
 And so in mountain solitudes overtaken 
 
 As by some spell divine 
 Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken 
 
 From out the gusty pine. 
 
 Lost is that camp and wasted all its fire : 
 
 And he who wrought that spell ? 
 Ah ! towering pine and stately Kentish spire, 
 
 Ye have one tale to tell ! 
 
 Lost is that camp, but let its fragrant story 
 
 Blend with the breath that thrills 
 With hop-vine's incense all the pensive glory 
 
 That fills the Kentish hills. 
 
 And on that grave where English oak and holly 
 
 And laurel wreaths entwine, 
 Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,^- 
 
 This spray of Western pine ! 
 
 JULY, 1870. 
 
( 204 ) 
 
 " Ctoentg 
 
 BEG your pardon, old fellow ! I think 
 I was dreaming just now when you spoke. 
 The fact is, the musical clink 
 Of the ice on your wine-goblet's brink 
 A chord of my memory woke. 
 
 And I stood in the pasture-field where 
 Twenty summers ago I had stood ; 
 And I heard in that sound, I declare, 
 The clinking of bells in the air, 
 Of the cows coming home from the wood. 
 
 Then the apple-bloom shook on the hill ; 
 And the mullein-stocks tilted each lance j 
 And the sun behind Rapalye's mill 
 Was my uttermost West, and could thrill 
 Like some fanciful land of romance. 
 
 Then my friend was a hero, and then 
 My girl was an angel. In fine, 
 I drank buttermilk ; for at ten 
 Faith asks less to aid her than when 
 At thirty we doubt over wine. 
 
"Twenty Years" 205 
 
 Ah ! well, it does seem that I must 
 
 Have been dreaming just now when you spoke, 
 
 Or lost, very like, in the dust 
 
 Of the years that slow fashioned the crust 
 
 On that bottle whose seal you last broke. 
 
 Twenty years was its age, did you say ? 
 Twenty years ? Ah ! my friend, it is true ? 
 All the dreams that have flown since that day, 
 All the hopes in that time passed away, 
 Old friend, I've been drinking with you ! 
 
( 206 
 
 jFate, 
 
 " THE sky is clouded, the rocks are bare I 
 The spray of the tempest is white in air ; 
 The winds are out with the waves at play, 
 And I shall not tempt the sea to-day. 
 
 " The trail is narrow, the wood is dim, 
 The panther clings to the arching limb ; 
 And the lion's whelps are abroad at play, 
 And I shall not join in the chase to-day." 
 
 But the ship sailed safely over the sea, 
 And the hunters came from the chase in glee 
 And the town that was builded upon a rock 
 Was swallowed up in the earthquake shock. 
 
( 207 5 
 
 (Prantimotfjet: CenterDem 
 
 (MASSACHUSETTS SHORE, 1800.) 
 
 I MIND it was but yesterday, 
 The sun was dim, the air was chill, 
 Below the town, below the hill, 
 The sails of my son's ship did fill, 
 
 My Jacob, who was cast away. 
 
 He said, " God keep you, mother dear," 
 But did not turn to kiss his wife ; 
 They had some foolish, idle strife ; 
 Her tongue was like a two-edged knife, 
 
 And he was proud as any peer. 
 
 Howbeit that night I took no note 
 Of sea nor sky, for all was drear ; 
 I marked not that the hills looked near, 
 Nor that the moon, though curved and clear, 
 
 Through curd-like scud did drive and float 
 
 For with my darling went the joy 
 Of autumn woods and meadows brown ; 
 I came to hate the little town ; 
 It seemed as if the sun went down 
 
 With him, my only darling boy. 
 
208 Grandmother Tenter den. 
 
 It was the middle of the night, 
 The wind it shifted west-by-south ; 
 It piled high up the harbour mouth ; 
 The marshes, black with summer drouth, 
 
 Were all abroad with sea-foam white. 
 
 It was the middle of the night, 
 The sea upon the garden leapt, 
 And my son's wife in quiet slept, 
 And I, his mother, waked and wept, 
 
 When lo ! there came a sudden light 
 
 And there he stood ! his seaman's dress 
 All wet and dripping seemed to be ; 
 The pale blue fires of the sea 
 Dripped from his garments constantly, 
 
 I could not speak through cowardness. 
 
 " I come through night and storm," he said ; 
 " Through storm and night and death," said he, 
 " To kiss my wife, if it so be 
 That strife still holds 'twixt her and me, 
 
 For all beyond is peace," he said. 
 
 " The sea is His, and He who sent 
 The wind and wave can soothe their strife ; 
 And brief and foolish is our life." 
 He stooped and kissed his sleeping wife, 
 
 Then sighed, and, like a dream, he went. 
 
 Now, when my darling kissed not me, 
 But her his wife who did not wake, 
 My heart within me seemed to break ; 
 I swore a vow, nor thenceforth spake 
 
 Of what my clearer eyes did see. 
 
Grandmother Tenter den. 209 
 
 And when the slow weeks brought him not, 
 Somehow we spake of aught beside, 
 For she, her hope upheld her pride ; 
 And I, in me all hope had died, 
 
 And my son passed as if forgot. 
 
 It was about the next spring-tide, 
 She pined and faded where she stood ; 
 Yet spake no word of ill or good ; 
 She had the hard, cold, Edwards' blood 
 
 In all her veins, and so she died. 
 
 One time I thought, before she passed, 
 To give her peace ; but ere I spake 
 Methought, " He will be first to break 
 The news in heaven," and for his sake 
 
 I held mine back until the last. 
 
 And here I sit, nor care to roam ; 
 I only wait to hear his call ; 
 I doubt not that this day next fall 
 Shall see me safe in port, where all 
 
 And every ship at last comes home. 
 
 And you have sailed the Spanish Main, 
 And knew my Jacob ? . . . Eh ! Mercy ! 
 Ah ! God of wisdom ! hath the sea 
 Yielded its dead to humble me ? 
 
 My boy ! ... My Jacob ! . . . Turn again ! 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
g tgnal 
 
 WILLIAM GUILD was engineer of the train which on the 
 of April plunged into Meadow Brook, on the line of the 
 Stonington and Providence Railroad. It was his custom, 
 as often as he passed his home, to whistle an " All's well " 
 to his wife. He was found, after the disaster, dead, with 
 his hand on the throttle-valve of his engine. 
 
 Two low whistles, quaint and clear, 
 That was the signal the engineer 
 
 That was the signal that Guild, 'tis said 
 Gave to his wife at Providence, 
 As through the sleeping town, and thence, 
 Out in the night, 
 On to the light, 
 Down past the farms, lying white, he sped ! 
 
 As a husband's greeting, scant, no doubt, 
 Yet to the woman looking out, 
 
 Watching and waiting, no serenade, 
 Love song, or midnight roundelay 
 Said what that whistle seemed to say : 
 " To my trust true, 
 So love to you ! 
 Working or waiting, good night ! " it said. 
 
Guild's Signal. 2 1 1 
 
 Brisk young bagmen, tourists fine, 
 Old commuters along the line, 
 
 Brakemen and porters glanced ahead, 
 Smiled as the signal, sharp, intense, 
 Pierced through the shadows of Providence : 
 " Nothing amiss 
 Nothing ! it is 
 Only Guild calling his wife," they said. 
 
 Summer and winter the old refrain 
 Rang o'er the billows of ripening grain, 
 
 Pierced through the budding boughs o'erhead 
 Flew down the track when the red leaves burned 
 Like living coals from the engine spurned ; 
 Sang as it flew : 
 " To our trust true, 
 First of all, duty. Good night ! " it said 
 
 And then, one night, it was heard no more 
 From Stonington over Rhode Island shore, 
 
 And the folk in Providence smiled and said 
 As they turned in their beds, " The engineer 
 Has once forgotten his midnight cheer. " 
 One only knew, 
 To his trust true, 
 Guild lay under his engine dead. 
 
( 212 ) 
 
 aspiring $S}ig$ >e iLatne, 
 
 (A CHEMICAL NARRATIVE.) 
 
 CERTAIN facts which serve to explain 
 The physical charms of Miss Addie De Laine, 
 Who, as the common reports obtain, 
 Surpassed in complexion the lily and rose ; 
 With a very sweet mouth and a retrousse nose ; 
 A figure like Hebe's, or that which revolves 
 In a milliner's window, and partially solves 
 That question which mentor and moralist pains, 
 If grace may exist minus feeling or brains. 
 
 Of course the young lady had beaux by the score, 
 All that she wanted, what girl could ask more ? 
 Lovers that sighed, and lovers that swore, 
 Lovers that danced, and lovers that played, 
 Men of profession, of leisure, and trade ; 
 But one, who was destined to take the high part 
 Of holding that mythical treasure, her heart, 
 This lover the wonder and envy of town 
 Was a practising chemist, a fellow called Brown. 
 
 I might here remark that 'twas doubted by many, 
 In regard to the heart, if Miss Addie had any ; 
 
Aspiring Miss De Laine. 213 
 
 But no one could look in that eloquent face, 
 With its exquisite outline and features of grace, 
 And mark, through the transparent skin, how the tide 
 Ebbed and flowed at the impulse of passion or pride, 
 None could look who believed in the blood's circulation 
 As argued by Harvey, but saw confirmation 
 That here, at least, Nature had triumphed o'er art, 
 And, as far as complexion went, she had a heart 
 
 But this par parenthesis. Brown was the man 
 
 Preferred of all others to carry her fan, 
 
 Hook her glove, drape her shawl, and do all that a belle 
 
 May demand of the lover she wants to treat well. 
 
 Folks wondered and stared that a fellow called Brown 
 
 Abstracted and solemn, in manner a clown, 
 
 111 dressed, with a lingering smell of the shop 
 
 Should appear as her escort at party or hop. 
 
 Some swore he had cooked up some villanous charm, 
 
 Or love philter, not in the regular Pharm- 
 
 Acopoeia, and thus, from pure malice prepense, 
 
 Had bewitched and bamboozled the young lady's sense ; 
 
 Others thought, with more reason, the secret to lie 
 
 In a magical wash or indelible dye ; 
 
 While Society, with its censorious eye 
 
 And judgment impartial, stood ready to damn 
 
 What wasn't improper as being a sham. 
 
 For a fortnight the townfolk had all been agog 
 With a party, the finest the season had seen, 
 To be given in honour of Miss Pollywog, 
 Who was just coming out as a belle of sixteen. 
 The guests were invited ; but one night before 
 A carriage drew up at the modest back-door 
 
214 Aspiring Miss De Laine. 
 
 Of Brown's lab'ratory, and, full in the glare 
 Of a big purple bottle, some closely-veiled fair 
 Alighted and entered : to make matters plain, 
 Spite of veils and disguises, 'twas Addie De Laine. 
 
 As a bower for true love, 'twas hardly the one 
 That a lady would choose to be wooed in or won : 
 No odour of rose or sweet jessamine's sigh 
 Breathed a fragrance to hallow their pledge of troth by, 
 Nor the balm that exhales from the odorous thyme ; 
 But the gaseous effusions of chloride of lime, 
 And salts, which your chemist delights to explain 
 As the base of the smell of the rose and the drain. 
 Think of this, O ye lovers of sweetness ! and know 
 What you smell when you snuff up Lubin or Pinaud. 
 
 I pass by the greetings, the transports and bliss, 
 
 Which, of course, duly followed a meeting like this, 
 
 And come down to business ; for such the intent 
 
 Of the lady who now o'er the crucible leant, 
 
 In the glow of a furnace of carbon and lime, 
 
 Like a fairy called up in the new pantomime ; 
 
 And give but her words as she coyly looked down, 
 
 In reply to the questioning glances of Brown : 
 
 " I am taking the drops, and am using the paste, 
 
 And the little white powders that had a sweet taste, 
 
 Which you told me would brighten the glance of my eye, 
 
 And the depilatory, and also the dye, 
 
 And I'm charmed with the trial ; and now, my dear Brown, 
 
 I have one other favour, now, ducky, don't frown, 
 
 Only one, for a chemist and genius like you 
 
 But a trifle, and one you can easily do. 
 
Aspiring Miss De Lame. 2 1 5 
 
 Now listen : to-morrow, you know, is the night 
 
 Of the birthday soiree of that Pollywog fright \ 
 
 And I'm to be there, and the dress I shall wear 
 
 Is too lovely ; but " " But what then, ma cJiere ? " 
 
 Said Brown, as the lady came to a full stop, 
 
 And glanced round the shelves of the little back shop. 
 
 " Well, I want I want something to fill out the skirt 
 
 To the proper dimensions, without being girt 
 
 In a stiff crinoline, or caged in a hoop 
 
 That shows through one's skirt like the bars of a coop ; 
 
 Something light, that a lady may waltz in, or polk, 
 
 With a freedom that none but you masculine folk 
 
 Ever know. For, however poor woman aspires, 
 
 She's always bound down to the earth by these wires. 
 
 Are you listening? Nonsense ! don't stare like a spoon, 
 
 Idiotic ; some light thing, and spacious, and soon 
 
 Something like well, in fact something like a balloon !" 
 
 Here she paused ; and here Brown, overcome by surprise, 
 
 Gave a doubting assent with still wondering eyes, 
 
 And the lady departed. But just at the door 
 
 Something happened, 'tis true, it had happened before 
 
 In this sanctum of science, a sibilant sound, 
 
 Like some element just from its trammels unbound, 
 
 Or two substances that their affinities found. 
 
 The night of the anxiously-looked-for soiree 
 
 Had come, with its fair ones in gorgeous array ; 
 
 With the rattle of wheels and the tinkle of bells, 
 
 And the " How do ye do's," and the " Hope you are well's ; ' 
 
 And the crush in the passage, and last lingering look 
 
 You give as you hang your best hat on the hook ; 
 
 The rush of hot air as the door opens wide ; 
 
 And your entry, that blending of self-possessed pride 
 
2 1 6 Aspiring Miss De Laine. 
 
 And humility shown in your perfect-bred stare 
 At the folk, as if wondering how they got there ; 
 With other tricks worthy of Vanity Fair. 
 Meanwhile the safe topic, the heat of the room, 
 Already was loosing its freshness and bloom ; 
 Young people were yawning, and wondering when 
 The dance would come off, and why didn't it then : 
 When a vague expectation was thrilling the crowd, 
 Lo ! the door swung its hinges with utterance proud ! 
 And Pompey announced, with a trumpet-like strain, 
 The entrance of Brown and Miss Addie De Laine. 
 
 She entered ; but oh ! how imperfect the verb 
 To express to the senses her movement superb ! 
 To say that she " sailed in " more clearly might tell 
 Her grace in its buoyant and billowy swell. 
 Her robe was a vague circumambient space, 
 With shadowy boundaries made of point-lace. 
 The rest was but guesswork, and well might defy 
 The power of critical feminine eye 
 To define or describe : 'twere as futile to try 
 The gossamer web of the cirrus to trace, 
 Floating far in the blue of a warm summer sky. 
 
 'Midst the humming of praises and the glances of beaux, 
 That greet our fair maiden wherever she goes, 
 Brown slipped like a shadow, grim, silent, and black, 
 With a look of anxiety, close in her track. 
 Once he whispered aside in her delicate ear 
 A sentence of warning, it might be of fear : 
 " Don't stand in a draught, if you value your life." 
 (Nothing more, such advice might be given your wife 
 Or your sweetheart, in times of bronchitis and cough, 
 Without mystery, romance, or frivolous scoff.) 
 
Aspirin? Miss De Laine. 217 
 
 But hark to the music : the dance has begun. 
 
 The closely-draped windows wide open are flung ; 
 
 Trie notes of the piccolo, joyous and light, 
 
 Like bubbles burst forth on the warm summer night. 
 
 Roundabout go the dancers ; in circles they fly ; 
 
 Trip, trip, go their feet as their skirts eddy by j 
 
 And swifter and lighter, but somewhat too plain, 
 
 Whisks the fair circumvolving Miss Addie De Laine. 
 
 Taglioni and Cerito well might have pined 
 
 For the vigour and ease that her movements combined ; 
 
 E'en Rigelboche never flung higher her robe 
 
 In the naughtiest city that's known on the globe. 
 
 'Twas amazing, 'twas scandalous : lost in surprise, 
 
 Some opened their mouths, and a few shut their eyes. 
 
 But hark ! At the moment Miss Addie De Laine, 
 Circling round at the outer edge of an ellipse 
 Which brought her fair form to the window again, 
 From the arms of her partner incautiously slips ! 
 A.nd a shriek fills the air, and the music is still, 
 And the crowd gather round where her partner forlorn 
 Still frenziedly points from the wide window-sill 
 Into space and the night ; for Miss Addie was gone 1 
 Gone like the bubble that bursts in the sun ; 
 Gone like the grain when the reaper is done ; 
 Gone like the dew on the fresh morning grass ; 
 Gone without parting farewell ; and alas ! 
 Gone with a flavour of hydrogen gas ! 
 
 When the weather is pleasant, you frequently meet 
 A white-headed man slowly pacing the street ; 
 His trembling hand shading his lack-lustre eye, 
 Half-blind with continually scanning the sky. 
 
2 1 8 Aspiring Miss De Laine. 
 
 Rumour points him as some astronomical sage, 
 Re-perusing by day the celestial page ; 
 But the reader, sagacious, will recognise Brown, 
 Trying vainly to conjure his lost sweetheart down, 
 And learn the stern moral this story must teach, 
 That Genius may lift its love out of its reach. 
 
3 EegenD of Cologne* 
 
 ABOVE the bones 
 St. Ursula owns, 
 
 And those of the virgins she chaperones ; 
 Above the boats, 
 And the bridge that floats, 
 And the Rhine and the steamers' smoky throats ; 
 Above the chimneys and quaint-tiled roofs, 
 Above the clatter of wheels and hoofs ; 
 Above Newmarket's open space, 
 Above that consecrated place 
 Where the genuine bones of the Magi seen are, 
 And the dozen shops of the real Farina ; 
 Higher than even old Hohestrasse, 
 Whose houses threaten the timid passer : 
 Above them all, 
 Through scaffolds tall 
 And spires like delicate limbs in splinters, 
 The great Cologne's 
 Cathedral stones 
 Climb through the storms of eight hundred winters. 
 
 Unfinished there, 
 In high mid-air 
 The towers halt like a broken prayer ; 
 
22O A Legend of Cologne. 
 
 Through years belated, 
 
 Unconsummated, 
 The hope of its architect quite frustrated. 
 
 Its very youth 
 
 They say, forsooth, 
 With a quite improper purpose mated ; 
 
 And every stone 
 
 With a curse of its own 
 Instead of that sermon Skakespeare stated, 
 
 Since the day its choir, 
 
 Which all admire, 
 By Cologne's Archbishop was consecrated. 
 
 Ah ! that was a day, 
 
 One well might say, 
 
 To be marked with the largest, whitest stone 
 To be found in the towers of all Cologne ! 
 
 Along the Rhine, 
 
 From old Rheinstein, 
 The people flowed like their own good wine. 
 
 From Rudesheim, 
 
 And Geisenheim, 
 
 And every spot that is known to rhyme ; 
 From the famed Cat's Castle of St. Goarshausen, 
 To the pictured roofs of Assmannshausen, 
 
 And down the track, 
 
 From quaint Schwalbach 
 To the clustering tiles of Bacharach ; 
 
 From Bingen, hence 
 
 To old Coblentz : 
 From every castellated crag, 
 Where the robber chieftains kept their "swag," 
 The folk flowed in, and Ober-Cassel 
 Shone with the pomp of knight and vassal ; 
 
A Legend of Cologne. 221 
 
 And pouring in from near and far, 
 As the Rhine to its bosom draws the Ahr, 
 Or takes the arm of the sober Mosel, 
 So in Cologne, knight, squire, and losel, 
 Choked up the city's gates with men 
 From old St. Stephen to Zint Mdrjen. 
 
 What had they come to see ? Ah me ! 
 I fear no glitter of pageantry, 
 
 Nor sacred zeal 
 
 For Church's weal, 
 Nor faith in the virgins' bones to heal ; 
 
 Nor childlike trust in frank confession 
 Drew these, who, dyed in deep transgression, 
 
 Still in each nest 
 
 On every crest 
 Kept stolen goods in their possession ; 
 
 But only their gout 
 
 For something new, 
 More rare than the " roast " of a wandering Jew ; 
 
 Or to be exact 
 
 To see in fact 
 A Christian soul, in the very act 
 Of being damned, secundum artem, 
 By the devil, before a soul could part 'em. 
 
 For a rumour had flown 
 Throughout Cologne, 
 
 That the church, in fact, was the devil's own ; 
 That its architect 
 (Being long "suspect") 
 
 Had confessed to the bishop that he had wreckt 
 Not only his own soul, but had lost 
 The very first Christian soul that crossed 
 
222 A Legend of Cologne. 
 
 The sacred threshold ; and all, in fine, 
 For that very beautiful design 
 Of the wonderful choir 
 They were pleased to admire. 
 And really, he must be allowed to say- 
 To speak in a purely business way 
 That, taking the ruling market prices 
 Of souls and churches, in such a crisis 
 It would be shown 
 And his Grace must own 
 It was really a bargain for Cologne ! 
 
 Such was the tale 
 
 That turned cheeks pale 
 With the thought that the enemy might prevail. 
 
 And the church doors snap 
 
 With a thunder-clap 
 On a Christian soul in that devil's trap. 
 
 But a wiser few, 
 
 Who thought that they knew 
 Cologne's Archbishop, replied, " Pooh, pooh I 
 
 Just watch him and wait, 
 
 And as sure as fate, 
 You'll find that the Bishop will give checkmate. 19 
 
 One here might note 
 
 How the popular vote, 
 As shown in all legends and anecdote, 
 
 Declares that a breach 
 
 Of trust to o'erreach 
 The devil is something quite proper for each. 
 
 And, really, if you 
 
 Give the devil his due 
 In spite of the proverb it's something you'll rue. 
 
A Legend of Cologne. 223 
 
 But to lie and deceive him, 
 
 To use and to leave him, 
 From Job up to Faust is the way to receive him, 
 
 Though no one has heard 
 
 It ever averred 
 That the " Father of Lies " ever yet broke his word, 
 
 But has left this position, 
 
 In every tradition, 
 To be taken alone by the " truth-loving " Christian ! 
 
 Bom ! from the tower I 
 
 It is the hour ! 
 The host pours in, in its pomp and power 
 
 Of banners and pyx, 
 
 And high crucifix, 
 And crosiers and other processional sticks, 
 
 And no end of Marys 
 
 In quaint reliquaries ; 
 To gladden the souls of all true antiquaries ; 
 
 And an Osculum Pads 
 
 (A myth to the masses 
 Who trusted their bones more to mail and cuirasses), 
 
 All borne by the throng 
 
 Who are marching along 
 To the square of the Dom with processional song, 
 
 With the flaring of dips, 
 
 And bending of hips, 
 And the chanting of hundred perfunctory lips ; 
 
 And some good little boys 
 
 Who had come up from Neuss 
 And the Quirinuskirche to show off their voice : 
 
 All march to the square 
 
 Of the great Dom, and there 
 File right and left, leaving alone and quite bare 
 
224 A Legend of Cologne. 
 
 A covered sedan, 
 Containing so ran 
 The rumour the victim to take off the ban. 
 
 They have left it alone, 
 
 They have sprinkled each stone 
 Of the porch with a sanctified Eau de Cologne* 
 
 Guaranteed in this case 
 
 To disguise every trace 
 Of a sulphurous presence in that sacred place. 
 
 Two Carmelites stand 
 
 On the right and left hand 
 Of the covered sedan chair, to wait the command 
 
 Of the prelate to throw 
 
 Up the cover and show 
 The form of the victim in terror below. 
 
 There's a pause and a prayer, 
 
 Then the signal, and there 
 Is a woman I by all that is good and is fair ! 
 
 A woman ! and known 
 
 To them all one must own 
 
 Too well known to the many, to-day to be shown 
 As a martyr, or e'en 
 As a Christian ! A queen 
 
 Of pleasaunce and revel, of glitter and sheen ; 
 So bad that the worst 
 Of Cologne spake up first, 
 
 And declared 'twas an outrage to suffer one curst, 
 And already a fief 
 Of the Satanic chief, 
 
 To martyr herself for the Church's relief. 
 
A Legend of Cologne. 225 
 
 But in vain fell their sneer 
 On the mob, who I fear 
 On the whole felt a strong disposition to cheer. 
 
 A woman ! and there 
 
 She stands in the glare 
 Of the pitiless sun and their pitying stare 
 
 A woman still young, 
 
 With garments that clung 
 To a figure, though wasted with passion and wrung 
 
 With remorse and despair, 
 
 Yet still passing fair, 
 With jewels and gold in her dark shining hair, 
 
 And cheeks that are faint 
 
 'Neath her dyes and her paint 
 A woman most surely but hardly a saint ! 
 
 She moves. She has gone 
 
 From their pity and scorn ; 
 
 She has mounted alone 
 
 The first step of stone, 
 And the high swinging doors she wide open has thrown, 
 
 Then pauses and turns, 
 
 As the altar blaze burns 
 On her cheeks, and with one sudden gesture she spurns 
 
 Archbishop and Prior, 
 
 Knight, ladye, and friar, 
 And her voice rings out high from the vault of the choir. 
 
 " Oh, men of Cologne ! 
 What I was ye have known ; 
 What I am, as I stand here, One knoweth alone. 
 If it be but His will 
 I shall pass from Him still, 
 VOL. i. p 
 
226 A Legend of Cologne. 
 
 Lost, curst, and degraded, I reckon no ill ; 
 
 If still by that sign 
 
 Of His anger divine 
 One soul shall be saved, He hath blessed more than mine. 
 
 Oh, men of Cologne ! 
 
 Stand forth if ye own 
 A faith like to this, or more fit to atone, 
 
 And take ye my place, 
 
 And God give you grace 
 To stand and confront Him, like me, face to face ! " 
 
 She paused. Yet aloof 
 
 They all stand. No reproof 
 Breaks the silence that fills the celestial roof. 
 
 One instant no more 
 
 She halts at the door, 
 Then enters ! . . . A flood from the roof to the floor 
 
 Fills the church rosy red. 
 
 She is gone ! 
 
 But instead, 
 Who is this leaning forward with glorified head 
 
 And hands stretched to save ? 
 
 Sure this is no slave 
 Of the Powers of Darkness, with aspect so brave ! 
 
 They press to the door, 
 
 But too late ! All is o'er. 
 Nought remains but a woman's form prone on the floor. 
 
 But they still see a trace 
 
 Of that glow in her face 
 That they saw in the light of the altar's high blaze 
 
 On the image that stands 
 
 With the babe in its hands 
 Enshrined in the churches of all Christian lands. 
 
A Legend of Cologne. 227 
 
 A Te Deum sung, 
 
 A censer high swung, 
 With praise, benediction, and incense wide-flung, 
 
 Proclaim that the curse 
 
 Is removed and no worse 
 Is the Dom for the trial in fact, the reverse ; 
 
 For instead of their losing 
 
 A soul in abusing 
 The Evil One's faith, they gained one of his choosing. 
 
 Thus the legend is told : 
 
 You will find in the old 
 Vaulted aisles of the Dom, stiff in marble or cold 
 
 In iron and brass, 
 
 In gown and cuirass, 
 The knights, priests, and bishops who came to that Mass ; 
 
 And high o'er the rest, 
 
 With her babe at her breast, 
 The image of Mary Madonna the blest. 
 
 But you look round in vain, 
 
 On each high pictured pane, 
 For the woman most worthy to walk in her train. 
 
 Yet, standing to-day 
 
 O'er the dust and the clay, 
 'Midst the ghosts of a life that has long passed away, 
 
 With the slow-sinking sun 
 
 Looking softly upon 
 That stained-glass procession, I scarce miss the one 
 
 That it does not reveal, 
 
 For I know and I feel 
 That these are but shadows the woman was real 1 
 
( 228 ) 
 
 Cfie Cale of a 
 
 NAME of my heroine, simply " Rose ; * 
 Surname, tolerable only in prose ; 
 Habitat, Paris, that is where 
 She resided for change of air ; 
 &tat. twenty; complexion fair, 
 Rich, good-looking, and delonnaire^ 
 Smarter than Jersey-lightning There I 
 That's her photograph, done with care. 
 
 In Paris, whatever they do besides, 
 EVERY LADY IN FULL DRESS RIDES ! 
 Moir'e antiques you never meet 
 Sweeping the filth of a dirty street ; 
 But every woman's claim to ton 
 
 Depends upon 
 
 The team she drives, whether phaeton, 
 Landau, or britzka. Hence it's plain 
 That Rose, who was of her toilet vain, 
 Should have a team that ought to be 
 Equal to any in all Paris I 
 
 " Bring forth the horse ! " The commissaire 
 Bowed, and brought Miss Rose a pair 
 Leading an equipage rich and rare. 
 Why doth that lovely lady stare ? 
 
The 7 ^ale of a Pony. 229 
 
 Why ? The tail of the off grey mare 
 Is bobbed, by all that's good and fair ! 
 Like the shaving-brushes that soldiers wear, 
 Scarcely showing as much back-hair 
 As Tam O'Shanter's " Meg," and there, 
 Lord knows, she'd little enough to spare. 
 
 That stare and frown the Frenchman knew, 
 
 But did as well-bred Frenchmen do : 
 
 Raised his shoulders above his crown, 
 
 Joined his thumbs with the ringers down, 
 
 And said, " Ah Heaven ! " then, " Mademoiselle 
 
 Delay one minute, and all is well ! " 
 
 He went returned ; by what good chance 
 
 These things are managed so well in France 
 
 I cannot say, but he made the sale, 
 
 And the bob-tailed mare had a flowing tail. 
 
 All that is false in this world below 
 
 Betrays itself in a love of show ; 
 
 Indignant Nature hides her lash 
 
 In the purple-black of a dyed mustache ; 
 
 The shallowest fop will trip in French, 
 
 The would-be critic will misquote Trench ; 
 
 In short, you're always sure to detect 
 
 A sham in the things folks most affect ; 
 
 Bean-pods are noisiest when dry, 
 
 And you always wink with your weakest eye : 
 
 And that's the reason the old grey mare 
 
 Forever had her tail in the air, 
 
 With flourishes beyond compare, 
 
 Though every whisk 
 
 Incurred the risk 
 Of leaving that sensitive region bare, 
 
230 The Tale of a Pony. 
 
 She did some things that you couldn't but feel 
 She wouldn't have done had her tail been real. 
 
 Champs Elyse*es : Time, past five ; 
 There go the carriages, look alive 1 
 Everything that man can drive, 
 Or his inventive skill contrive, 
 Yankee buggy or English " chay," 
 Dog-cart, droschky, and smart coupe*, 
 A desobligeante quite bulky 
 (French idea of a Yankee sulky} \ 
 Band in the distance playing a march, 
 Footmen standing stiff as starch ; 
 Savans, lorettes, deputies, Arch- 
 Bishops, and there together range 
 ^^-lieutenants and <w//-gardes (strange 
 Way these soldier-chaps make change), 
 Mixed with black-eyed Polish dames, 
 With unpronounceable awful names ; 
 Laces tremble and ribbons flout, 
 Coachmen wrangle and gendarmes shout, 
 Bless us ! what is the row about ? 
 Ah ! here comes Rosy's new turn-out ! 
 Smart ! You bet your life 'twas that ! 
 Nifty ! (short for magnificat). 
 Mulberry panels, heraldic spread, 
 Ebony wheels picked out with red, 
 And two grey mares that were thorough-bred ; 
 No wonder that every dandy's head 
 Was turned by the turn-out, and 'twas said 
 That Caskowhisky (friend of the Czar), 
 A very good whip (as Russians are), 
 Was tied to Rosy's triumphal car, 
 
The Tale of a Pony. 231 
 
 Entranced, the reader will understand, 
 
 By " ribbons " that graced her head and hand. 
 
 Alas ! the hour you think would crown 
 
 Your highest wishes should let you down ! 
 
 Or Fate should turn, by your own mischance, 
 
 Your victor's car to an ambulance ; 
 
 From cloudless heavens her lightnings glance, 
 
 (And these things happen, even in France). 
 
 And so Miss Rose, as she trotted by, 
 
 The cynosure of every eye, 
 
 Saw to her horror the off mare shy, 
 
 Flourish her tail so exceedingly high 
 
 That, disregarding the closest tie, 
 
 And without giving a reason why, 
 
 She flung that tail so free and frisky 
 
 Off in the face of Caskowhisky. 
 
 Excuses, blushes, smiles : in 
 End of the pony's tail, and mine 1 
 
Dn a Cone of tfje TBtg ree& 
 
 (SEQUOIA GIGANTEA.) 
 
 BROWN foundling of the Western wood, 
 
 Babe of primeval wildernesses ! 
 Long on my table thou hast stood 
 
 Encounters strange and rude caresses ; 
 Perchance contented with thy lot, 
 
 Surroundings new and curious faces, 
 As though ten centuries were not 
 
 Imprisoned in thy shining cases. 
 
 Thou bring'st me back the halcyon days 
 
 Of grateful rest, the week of leisure, 
 The journey lapped in autumn haze, 
 
 The sweet fatigue that seemed a pleasure, 
 The morning ride, the noonday halt, 
 
 The blazing slopes, the red dust rising, 
 And then the dim, brown, columned vault, 
 
 With its cool, damp, sepulchral spicing. 
 
 Once more I see the rocking masts 
 That scrape the sky, their only tenant 
 
 The jay-bird, that in frolic casts 
 
 From some high yard his broad blue pennant 
 
On a Cone of the Big Trees. 233 
 
 I see the Indian files that keep 
 
 Their places in the dusty heather, 
 Their red trunks standing ankle-deep 
 
 In moccasins of rusty leather. 
 
 I see all this, and marvel much 
 
 That thou, sweet woodland waif, art able 
 To keep the company of such 
 
 As throng thy friend's the poet's table : 
 The latest spawn the press hath cast, 
 
 The " modern Pope's " " the later Byron's," 
 Why e'en the best may not outlast 
 
 Thy poor relation, Sempervtrens. 
 
 Thy sire saw the light that shone 
 
 On Mohammed's uplifted crescent, 
 On many a royal gilded throne 
 
 And deed forgotten in the present ; 
 He saw the age of sacred trees 
 
 And Druid groves and mystic larches ; 
 And saw from forest domes like these 
 
 The builder bring his Gothic arches. 
 
 And must thou, foundling, still forego 
 
 Thy heritage and high ambition, 
 To lie full lowly and full low, 
 
 Adjusted to thy new condition ? 
 Not hidden in the drifted snows, 
 
 But under ink-drops idly spattered, 
 And leaves ephemeral as those 
 
 That on thy woodland tomb were scattered ? 
 
234 On a Cone of the Big Trees. 
 
 Yet lie them there, O friend ! and speak 
 
 The moral of thy simple story : 
 Though life is all that thou dost seek, 
 
 And age alone thy crown of glory,- 
 Not thine the only germs that fail 
 
 The purpose of their high creation, 
 If their poor tenements avail 
 
 For worldly show and ostentation, 
 
JLone fountain* 
 
 (CEMETERY, SAN FR 
 
 THIS is that hill of awe 
 That Persian Sindbad saw, 
 
 The mount magnetic ; 
 And on its seaward face, 
 Scattered along its base, 
 
 The wrecks prophetic. 
 
 Here come the argosies 
 Blown by each idle breeze, 
 
 To and fro shifting ; 
 Yet to the hill of Fate 
 All drawing, soon or late, 
 
 Day by day drifting ; 
 
 Drifting forever here 
 Barks that for many a year 
 
 Braved wind and weather ; 
 Shallops but yesterday 
 Launched on yon shining bay, 
 
 Drawn all together. 
 
236 Lone Mountain. 
 
 This is the end of all : 
 Sun thyself by the wall, 
 
 O poorer Hindbad ! 
 Envy not Sindbad's fame : 
 Here come alike the same 
 
 Hindbad and Sindbad 
 
237 
 
 HERE'S yer toy balloons 1 All sizes 1 
 Twenty cents for that. It rises 
 Jest as quick as that 'ere, Miss, 
 Twice as big. Ye see it is 
 Some more fancy. Make it square 
 Fifty for 'em both. That's fair. 
 
 That's the sixth I've sold since noon. 
 Trade's reviving. Just as soon 
 As this lot's worked off, I'll take 
 Wholesale figgers. Make or break, 
 That's my motto ! Then I'll buy 
 In some first-class lottery 
 One half ticket, numbered right 
 As I dreamed about last night 
 
 That'll fetch it. Don't tell me I 
 When a man's in luck, you see, 
 All things help him. Every chance 
 Hits him like an avalanche. 
 Here's your toy balloons, Miss. Eh ? 
 You won't turn your face this way ? 
 Mebbe you'll be glad some day 
 
238 Alnasckar. 
 
 With that clear ten thousand prize 
 This 'yer trade I'll drop, and rise 
 Into wholesale. No ! I'll take 
 Stocks in Wall Street Make or break, 
 That's my motto 1 With my luck, 
 Where's the chance of being stuck ? 
 Call it sixty thousand, clear, 
 Made in Wall Street in one year. 
 
 Sixty thousand ! Umph ! Let's see I 
 Bond and mortgage'll.do for me. 
 Good ! That gal that passed me by 
 Scornful like why, mebbe I 
 Some day'll hold in pawn why not ? 
 All her father's prop. She'll spot 
 What's my little game, and see 
 What I'm after's her. He ! he ! 
 
 He ! he ! When she comes to sue 
 Let's see ! What's the thing to do ? 
 Kick her? No! There's the perliss ! 
 Sorter throw her off like this. 
 Hello! Stop! Help! Murder! Hey! 
 There's my whole stock got away, 
 Kiting on the house-tops ! Lost ! 
 All a poor man's fortin ! Cost ? 
 Twenty dollars ! Eh ! What's this ? 
 Fifty cents ! God bless ye, Miss ! 
 
239 
 
 Cfje Ctoo 
 
 As I stand by the cross on the lone mountain's crest, 
 
 Looking over the ultimate sea ; 
 In the gloom of the mountain a ship lies at rest, 
 
 And one sails away from the lea : 
 One spreads its white wings on a far-reaching track, 
 
 With pennant and sheet flowing free ; 
 One hides in the shadow with sails laid aback, 
 
 The ship that is waiting for me 1 
 
 But lo ! in the distance the clouds break away, 
 
 The Gate's glowing portals I see ; 
 And I hear from the outgoing ship in the bay 
 
 The song of the sailors in glee. 
 So I think of the luminous footprints that bore 
 
 The comfort o'er dark Galilee, 
 And wait for the signal to go to the shore, 
 
 To the ship that is waiting for me. 
 
(OPENING OF THE CALIFORNIA THEATRE, SAN FRANCISCO, 
 JANUARY 19, 1870). 
 
 BRIEF words, when actions wait, are well : 
 The prompter's hand is on his bell ; 
 The coming heroes, lovers, kings, 
 Are idly lounging at the wings ; 
 Behind the curtain's mystic fold 
 The glowing future lies unrolled, 
 And yet, one moment for the Past ; 
 One retrospect, the first and last 
 
 " The world's a stage," the Master said. 
 To-night a mightier truth is read : 
 Not in the shifting canvas screen, 
 The flash of gas or tinsel sheen ; 
 Not in the skill whose signal calls 
 From empty boards baronial halls ; 
 But, fronting sea and curving bay, 
 Behold the players and the play. 
 
 Ah, friends ! beneath your real skies 
 The actor's short-lived triumph dies : 
 On that broad stage of empire won, 
 Whose footlights were the setting sun. 
 
Address. 241 
 
 Whose flats a distant background rose 
 In trackless peaks of endless snows ; 
 Here genius bows, and talent waits 
 To copy that but One creates. 
 
 Your shifting scenes : the league of sand, 
 
 An avenue by ocean spanned ; 
 
 The narrow beach of straggling tents, 
 
 A mile of stately monuments ; 
 
 Your standard, lo ! a flag unfurled, 
 
 Whose clinging folds clasp half the world, 
 
 This is your drama, built on facts, 
 
 With " twenty years between the acts." 
 
 One moment more : if here we raise 
 The oft-sung hymn of local praise, 
 Before the curtain facts must sway : 
 Here waits the moral of your play. 
 Glassed in the poet's thought, you view 
 What money can yet cannot do ; 
 The faith that soars, the deeds that shine, 
 Above the gold that builds the shrine. 
 
 And oh ! when others take our place, 
 And Earth's green curtain hides our face, 
 Ere on the stage, so silent now, 
 The last new hero makes his bow : 
 So may our deeds, recalled once more 
 In Memory's sweet but brief encore, 
 Down all the circling ages run, 
 With the world's plaudit of " Well done ! " 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
( 242 
 
 Dollg 
 
 DEAR DOLLY ! who does not recall 
 The thrilling page that pictured all 
 Those charms that held our sense in thralL 
 
 Just as the artist caught her 
 As down that English lane she tripped, 
 In bowered chintz, hat sideways tipped, 
 Trim-bodiced, bright-eyed, roguish-lipped 
 
 The locksmith's pretty daughter ? 
 
 Sweet fragment of the Master's art 1 
 O simple faith ! O rustic heart ! 
 O maid that hath no counterpart 
 
 In life's dry, dog-eared pages ! 
 Where shall we find thy like ? Ah, stay ! 
 Methinks I saw her yesterday 
 In chintz that flowered, as one might say, 
 
 Perennial for ages. 
 
 Her father's modest cot was stone, 
 Five stories high ; in style and tone 
 Composite, and, I frankly own, 
 
 Within its walls revealing 
 Some certain novel, strange ideas : 
 A Gothic door with Roman piers, 
 And floors removed some thousand years 
 
 From their Pompeiian ceiling. 
 
Dolly Varden. 243 
 
 The small salon where she received 
 Was Louis Quatorze, and relieved 
 By Chinese cabinets, conceived 
 
 Grotesquely by the heathen ; 
 The sofas were a classic sight 
 The Roman bench (sedilia hight) ; 
 The chairs were French in gold and white, 
 
 And one Elizabethan. 
 
 And she, the goddess of that shrine, 
 Two ringed fingers placed in mine: 
 The stones were many carats fine, 
 
 And of the purest water 
 Then dropped a curtesy, far enough 
 To fairly fill her cretonne puff 
 And show the petticoat's rich stuff 
 
 That her fond parent bought her. 
 
 Her speech was simple as her dress 
 Not French the more, but English less, 
 She loved ; yet sometimes, I confess, 
 
 I scarce could comprehend her. 
 Her manners were quite far from shy : 
 There was a quiet in ner eye 
 Appalling to the Hugh who'd try 
 
 With rudeness to offend her. 
 
 " But whence," I cried, " this masquerade ? 
 Some figure for to-night's charade 
 A Watteau shepherdess or maid ? " 
 
 She smiled and begged my pardon : 
 " Why, surely you must know the name 
 That woman who was Shakespeare's flame 
 Or Byron's well, it's all the same : 
 
 Why, Lord ! I'm Dolly Varden 1" 
 
244 
 
 Celemacfws tarsus QfJentor* 
 
 DON'T mind me, I beg you, old fellow, I'll do very well 
 
 here alone ; + 
 
 You must not be kept from your " German " because I've 
 
 dropped in like a stone : 
 Leave all ceremony behind you, leave all thought of aught 
 
 but yourself; 
 And leave, if you like, the Madeira, and a dozen cigars on 
 
 the shelf. 
 
 As for me, you will say to your hostess well, I scarcely 
 
 need give you a cue. 
 Chant my praise 1 All will list to Apollo, though Mercury 
 
 pipe to a few. 
 Say just what you please, my dear boy; there's more 
 
 eloquence lies in youth's rash 
 Outspoken heart-impulse than ever growled under this 
 
 grizzling mustache. 
 
 Go, don the dress coat of our tyrant youth's panoplied 
 
 armour for fight, 
 And tie the white neckcloth that rumples, like pleasure, and 
 
 lasts but a night. 
 And pray the Nine Gods to avert you what time the Three 
 
 Sisters shall frown, 
 And you'll lose your high-comedy figure, and sit more at 
 
 ease in your gown. 
 
Telemachus versus Mentor. 245 
 
 He's off ! There's his foot on the staircase. By Jove what 
 
 a bound ! Really now 
 Did / ever leap like this springald, with Love's chaplet 
 
 green on my brow ? 
 Was / such an ass ? No, I fancy. Indeed I remember 
 
 quite plain 
 A gravity mixed with my transports, a cheerfulness softened 
 
 my pain. 
 
 He's gone ! There's the slam of his cab door, there's the 
 
 clatter of hoofs and the wheels ; 
 And while he the light toe is tripping in this arm-chair I'll 
 
 tilt up my heels. 
 He's gone, and for what ? For a tremor from a waist like 
 
 a teetotum spun ; 
 For a rosebud that's crumpled by many before it is gathered 
 
 by one. 
 
 Is there naught in the halo of youth but the glow of a 
 
 passionate race 
 'Midst the cheers and applause of a crowd to the goal 
 
 of a beautiful face ? 
 A race that is not to the swift, a prize that no merits 
 
 enforce, 
 But is won by somefatntant youth, who shall simply walk 
 
 over the course ? 
 
 Poor boy ! shall I shock his conceit ? When he talks of her 
 
 cheek's loveliness, 
 Shall I say 'twas the air of the room, and was due to carbonic 
 
 excess ? 
 
246 Telemachus versus Mentor. 
 
 That when waltzing she drooped on his breast, and the 
 
 veins of her eyelids grew dim, 
 'Twas oxygen's absence she felt, but never the presence of 
 
 him? 
 
 Shall I tell him first love is a fraud, a weakling that's 
 
 strangled in birth, 
 Recalled with perfunctory tears, but lost in unsanctified 
 
 mirth ? 
 Or shall I go bid him believe in all womankind's charm, 
 
 and forget 
 In the light ringing laugh of the world the rattlesnake's gay 
 
 Castanet? 
 
 Shall I tear out a leaf from my heart, from that book that 
 
 forever is shut 
 On the past ? Shall I speak of my first love Augusta 
 
 my Lalage ? But 
 I forget. Was it really Augusta ? No. 'Twas Lucy ! No. 
 
 Mary ! No. Di ! 
 Never mind ! they were all first and faithless, and yet I've 
 
 forgotten just why. 
 
 No, no ! Let him dream on and ever. Alas ! he will 
 
 waken too soon ; 
 And it doesn't look well for October to always be preaching 
 
 at June. 
 Poor boy ! All his fond foolish trophies pinned yonder a 
 
 bow from her hair, 
 A few billets-doux^ invitations, and what's this ? My name, 
 
 I declare ! 
 
Telemachus versus Mentor. 247 
 
 Humph ! " You'll come, for I've got you a prize, with 
 
 beauty and money no end ; 
 You know her, I think ; 'twas on dit she once was engaged 
 
 to your friend j 
 But she says that's all over." Ah, is it? Sweet Ethel ! 
 
 incomparable maid ! 
 Or what if the thing were a trick ? this letter so freely 
 
 displayed ! 
 
 My opportune presence ! No ! nonsense ! Will nobody 
 
 answer the bell? 
 Call a cab! Half past ten. Not too late yet. Oh, 
 
 Ethel! Why don't you go ! Well? 
 "Master said you would wait' 1 Hang your master! 
 
 " Have I ever a message to send ? " 
 Yes, tell him I've gone to the German to dance with the 
 
 friend of his friend. 
 
2 4 8 ) 
 
 SHHolf reaHg saift to little 
 
 WONDERING maiden, so puzzled and fair, 
 Why dost thou murmur and ponder and stare ? 
 " Why are my eyelids so open and wild ? " 
 Only the better to see with, my child ! 
 Only the better and clearer to view 
 Cheeks that are rosy and eyes that are blue. 
 
 Dost thou still wonder, and ask why these arms 
 Fill thy soft bosom with tender alarms, 
 Swaying so wickedly ? are they misplaced 
 Clasping or shielding some delicate waist : 
 Hands whose coarse sinews may fill you with fear 
 Only the better protect you, my dear 1 
 
 Little Red Riding-Hood, when in the street, 
 Why do I press your small hand when we meet ? 
 Why, when you timidly offered your cheek, 
 Why did I sigh, and why didn't I speak ? 
 Why, well : you see if the truth must appear 
 I'm not your grandmother, Riding-Hood, dear ! 
 
( 2 49 ) 
 
 More 
 
 " So she's here, your unknown Dulcinea the lady you met 
 
 on the train 
 And you really believe she would know you if you were to 
 
 meet her again ? " 
 
 " Of course," he replied, " she would know me ; there never 
 
 was womankind yet 
 Forgot the effect she inspired She excuses, but does not 
 
 forget." 
 
 "Then you told her your love?" asked the elder; the 
 
 younger looked up with a smile : 
 " I sat by her side half an hour what else was I doing the 
 
 while ? 
 
 " What, sit by the side of a woman as fair as the sun in the 
 
 sky, 
 And look somewhere else lest the dazzle flash back from 
 
 your own to her eye ? 
 
 " No, I hold that the speech of the tongue be as frank and 
 
 as bold as the look, 
 And I held up herself to herself, that was more than she 
 
 got from her book." 
 
250 Half -an- Hour before Supper. 
 
 " Young blood ! " laughed the elder ; " no doubt you are 
 
 voicing the mode of To-Day : 
 But then we old fogies at least gave the lady some chance 
 
 for delay. 
 
 " There's my wife (you must know) we first met on the 
 
 journey from Florence to Rome : 
 It took me three weeks to discover who was she and where 
 
 was her home ; 
 
 " Three more to be duly presented ; three more ere I saw 
 
 her again ; 
 And a year ere my romance began where yours ended that 
 
 day on the train." 
 
 11 Oh, that was the style of the stage-coach ; we travel to-day 
 
 by express ; 
 Forty miles to the hour," he answered, " won't admit of a 
 
 passion that's less." 
 
 " But what if you make a mistake ? " quoth the elder. The 
 
 younger half sighed : 
 "What happens when signals are wrong or switches 
 
 misplaced ? " he replied. 
 
 " Very well, I must bow to your wisdom," the elder returned, 
 
 " but submit 
 Your chances of winning this woman your boldness has 
 
 bettered no whit 
 
Half -an- Hour before Supper. 2 5 1 
 
 " Why, you do not at best know her name. And what if I 
 
 try your ideal 
 With something, if not quite so fair, at least more en rlgk 
 
 and real ? 
 
 "Let me find you a partner. Nay, come, I insist you 
 
 shall follow this way. 
 My dear, will you not add your grace to entreat Mr. Rapid 
 
 to stay ? 
 
 " My wife, Mr. Rapid Eh, what ! Why, he's gone yet he 
 
 said he would come. 
 How rude ! I don't wonder, my dear, you are properly 
 
 crimson and dumb ! " 
 
OOfmt t|je Uuflet ang, 
 
 O JOY of creation 
 To be! 
 
 rapture to fly 
 
 And be free ! 
 Be the battle lost or won, 
 Though its smoke shall hide the sun, 
 
 1 shall find my love the one 
 
 Born for me ! 
 
 I shall know him where he stands. 
 
 All alone, 
 With the power in his hands 
 
 Not o'erthrown ; 
 I shall know him by his face, 
 By his god-like front and grace ; 
 I shall hold him for a space, 
 
 All my own 1 
 
 It is he O my love ! 
 
 So bold ! 
 It is I All thy love 
 
 Foretold ! 
 
 It is I. O love ! what bliss I 
 Dost thou answer to my kiss ? 
 O sweetheart ! what is this 
 
 Lieth there so cold ? 
 
PARODIES, ETC. 
 
( 255 ) 
 
 Before tfie Curtain* 
 
 BEHIND the footlights hangs the rusty baize, 
 A trifle shabby in the upturned blaze 
 Of flaring gas and curious eyes that gaze. 
 
 The stage, methinks, perhaps is none too wide, 
 
 And hardly fit for royal Richard's stride, 
 
 Or FalstafFs bulk, or Denmark's youthful pride. 
 
 Ah, well ! no passion walks its humble boards ; 
 O'er it no king nor valiant Hector lords : 
 The simplest skill is all its space affords. 
 
 The song and jest, the dance and trifling play, 
 The local hit at follies of the day, 
 The trick to pass an idle hour away, 
 
 For these no trumpets that announce the Moor, 
 No blast that makes the hero's welcome sure, 
 A single fiddle in the overture I 
 
Co t&e pliocene 
 
 (A GEOLOGICAL ADDRESS.) 
 
 " SPEAK, O man, less recent ! Fragmentary fossil ! 
 Primal pioneer of pliocene formation, 
 Hid in lowest drifts below the earliest stratum 
 Of volcanic tufa ! 
 
 " Older than the beasts, the oldest Palaeotherium ; 
 Older than the trees, the oldest Cryptogami ; 
 Older than the hills, those infantile eruptions 
 Of earth's epidermis ! 
 
 " Eo Mio Plio whatsoe'er the ' cene ' was 
 That those vacant sockets filled with awe and wonder,- 
 Whether shores Devonian or Silurian beaches, 
 Tell us thy strange story ! 
 
 " Or has the professor slightly antedated 
 By some thousand years thy advent on this planet, 
 Giving thee an air that's somewhat better fitted 
 For cold-blooded creatures ? 
 
 " Wert thou true spectator of that mighty forest 
 When above thy head the stately Sigillaria 
 Reared its columned trunks in that remote and distant 
 Carboniferous epoch ? 
 
7<? the Pliocene Skull. 257 
 
 " Tell iiS of that scene, the dim and watery woodland, 
 Songless, silent, hushed, with never bird or insect, 
 Veiled with spreading fronds and screened with tall club- 
 mosses, 
 Lycopodiacea, 
 
 " When beside thee walked the solemn Plesiosaurus, 
 And around thee crept the festive Ichthyosaurus, 
 While from time to time above thee flew and circled 
 Cheerful Pterodactyls. 
 
 "Tell us of thy food, those half-marine refections, 
 Crinoids on the shell and Brachipods au natural, 
 Cuttlefish to which the pieuvre of Victor Hugo 
 Seems a periwinkle. 
 
 " Speak, thou awful vestige of the earth's creation, 
 Solitary fragment of remains organic ! 
 Tell the wondrous secret of thy past existence, 
 Speak ! thou oldest primate ! " 
 
 Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla, 
 And a lateral movement of the condyloid process, 
 With post-pliocene sounds of healthy mastication, 
 Ground the teeth together. 
 
 And, from that imperfect dental exhibition, 
 Stained with express juices of the weed Nicotian, 
 Came these hollow accents, blent with softer murmurs 
 Of expectoration : 
 
 " Which my name is Bowers, and my crust was busted 
 Falling down a shaft in Calaveras County, 
 But I'd take it kindly if you'd send the pieces 
 Home to old Missouri ! " 
 
 VOL. I. R 
 
'BallaD of 9@r* Coofte* 
 
 (A LEGEND OF THE CLIFF HOUSE, SAN FRANCISCO.) 
 
 WHERE the sturdy ocean breeze 
 Drives the spray of roaring seas, 
 That the Cliff-House balconies 
 
 Overlook : 
 
 There, in spite of rain that balked, 
 With his sandals duly chalked, 
 Once upon a tight-rope walked 
 
 Mr. Cooke. 
 
 But the jester's lightsome mien, 
 And his spangles and his sheen, 
 All had vanished when the scene 
 
 He forsook. 
 
 Yet in some delusive hope, 
 In some vague desire to cope, 
 One still came to view the rope 
 
 Walked by Cooke. 
 
 Amid Beauty's bright array, 
 On that strange eventful day, 
 Partly hidden from the spray, 
 
 In a nook, 
 
The Ballad of Mr. Cooke. 259 
 
 Stood Florinda Vere de Vere ; 
 Who, with wind-dishevelled hair, 
 And a rapt, distracted air, 
 
 Gazed on Cooke, 
 
 Then she turned, and quickly cried 
 
 To her lover at her side, 
 
 While her form with love and pride 
 
 Wildly shook : 
 
 " Clifford Snook ! oh, hear me now ! 
 Here I break each plighted vow : 
 There's but one to whom I bow, 
 
 And that's Cooke ! " 
 
 Haughtily that young man spoke : 
 
 " I descend from noble folk ; 
 
 1 Seven Oaks,' and then ' Se'nnoak/ 
 
 Lastly Snook, 
 
 Is the way my name I trace. 
 Shall a youth of noble race 
 In affairs of love give place 
 
 To a Cooke ?" 
 
 " Clifford Snook, I know thy claim 
 To that lineage and name, 
 And I think I've read the same 
 
 In Home Tooke ; 
 But I swear, by all divine, 
 Never, never, to be thine, 
 Till thou canst upon yon line 
 
 Walk like Cooke." 
 
260 The Ballad of Mr. Cooke. 
 
 Though to that gymnastic feat 
 He no closer might compete 
 Than to strike a &z/0;zrt?-sheet 
 
 In a book ; 
 
 Yet thenceforward, from that day, 
 He his figure would display 
 In some wild athletic way, 
 
 After Cooke. 
 
 On some household eminence, 
 On a clothes-line or a fence, 
 Over ditches, drains, and thence 
 
 O'er a brook, 
 He, by high ambition led, 
 Ever walked and balanced, 
 Till the people, wondering, said, 
 
 "How like Cooke!" 
 
 Step by step did he proceed, 
 Nerved by valour, not by greed, 
 And at last the crowning deed 
 
 Undertook. 
 
 Misty was the midnight air, 
 And the cliff was bleak and bare, 
 When he came to do and dare, 
 
 Just like Cooke. 
 
 Through the darkness, o'er the flow, 
 Stretched the line where he should go, 
 Straight across as flies the crow 
 
 Or the rook : 
 
The Ballad of Mr. Cooke. 261 
 
 One wild glance around he cast ; 
 Then he faced the ocean blast, 
 And he strode the cable last 
 
 Touched by Cooke, 
 
 Vainly roared the angry seas, 
 Vainly blew the ocean breeze ; 
 But, alas ! the walker's knees 
 
 Had a crook ; 
 
 And before he reached the rock 
 Did they both together knock, 
 And he stumbled with a shock 
 
 Unlike Cooke I 
 
 Downward dropping in the dark, 
 Like an arrow to its mark, 
 Or a fish-pole when a shark 
 
 Bites the hook. 
 
 Dropped the pole he could not save, 
 Dropped the walker, and the wave 
 Swift engulfed the rival brave 
 
 OfJ. Cooke i 
 
 Came a roar across the sea 
 Of sea-lions in their glee, 
 In a tongue remarkably 
 
 Like Chinook ; 
 
 And the maddened sea-gull seemed 
 Still to utter, as he screamed, 
 " Perish thus the wretch who deemed 
 
 Himself Cooke 1" 
 
262 The Ballad of Mr. Cooke. 
 
 But on misty moon-lit nights 
 
 Comes a skeleton in tights, 
 
 Walks once more the giddy heights 
 
 He mistook ; 
 
 And, unseen to mortal eyes, 
 Purged of grosser earthly ties, 
 Now at last in spirit guise 
 
 Outdoes Cooke. 
 
 Still the sturdy ocean breeze 
 Sweeps the spray of roaring seas, 
 Where the Cliff-house balconies 
 
 Overlook ; 
 
 And the maidens in their prime, 
 Reading of this mournful rhyme, 
 Weep where, in the olden time, 
 
 Walked J. Cooke. 
 
263 
 
 Clje QSallaD of tfie <ZBmeu, 
 
 O SAY, have you seen at the Willows so green, 
 
 So charming and rurally true, 
 A singular bird, with a manner absurd, 
 
 Which they call the Australian Emeu? 
 
 Have you 
 
 Ever seen this Australian Emeu ? 
 
 It trots all around with its head on the ground, 
 
 Or erects it quite out of your view ; 
 And the ladies all cry, when its figure they spy, 
 
 " Oh ! what a sweet pretty Emeu ! 
 
 Oh! do 
 
 Just look at that lovely Emeu ! " 
 
 One day to this spot, when the weather was hot, 
 Came Matilda Hortense Fortescue ; 
 
 And beside her there came a youth of high name,- 
 Augustus Florell Montague : 
 
 The two 
 Both loved that wild, foreign Emeu. 
 
 With two loaves of bread then they fed it, instead 
 Of the flesh of the white cockatoo, 
 
264 The Ballad of the Emeu. 
 
 Which once was its food in that wild neighbourhood 
 Where ranges the sweet Kangaroo, 
 
 That too 
 Is game for the famous Emeu ! 
 
 Old saws and gimlets but its appetite whets, 
 
 Like the world-famous bark of Peru ; 
 There's nothing so hard that the bird will discard, 
 
 And nothing its taste will eschew, 
 
 That you 
 
 Can give that long-legged Emeu ! 
 
 The time slipped away in this innocent play 
 
 When up jumped the bold Montague : 
 " Where's that specimen pin that I gayly did win 
 
 In raffle, and gave unto you, 
 
 Fortescue ? " 
 
 No word spoke the guilty Emeu ! 
 
 " Quick ! tell me his name whom thou gavest that same, 
 Ere these hands in thy blood I embrue ! " 
 
 " Nay, dearest," she cried, as she clung to his side, 
 " I'm innocent as that Emeu ! " 
 
 "Adieu!" 
 He replied, " Miss M. H. Fortescue 1 " 
 
 Down she dropped at his feet, all as white as a sheet, 
 
 As wildly he fled from her view ; 
 He thought 'twas her sin, for he knew not the pin 
 
 Had been gobbled up by the Emeu ; 
 
 All through 
 
 The voracity of that Emeu J 
 
265 
 
 (BEING THE ONLY GENUINE SEQUEL TO "MAUD MULLER.") 
 
 MAUD MULLER all that summer day 
 Raked the meadow sweet with hay ; 
 
 Yet, looking down the distant lane, 
 She hoped the Judge would come again. 
 
 But when he came, with smile and bow, 
 
 Maud only blushed, and stammered, "Ha-ow?" 
 
 And spoke of her " pa," and wondered whether 
 He'd give consent they should wed together. 
 
 Old Miiller burst in tears, and then 
 
 Begged that the Judge would lend him " ten ; " 
 
 For trade was dull, and wages low, 
 
 And the "craps," this year, were somewhat slow. 
 
 And ere the languid summer died, 
 Sweet Maud became the Judge's bride. 
 
266 Mrs. Jiidge Jenkins. 
 
 But, on the day that they were mated, 
 Maud's brother Bob was intoxicated ; 
 
 And Maud's relations, twelve in all, 
 Were very drunk at the Judge's hall. 
 
 And when the summer came again, 
 The young bride bore him babies twain ; 
 
 And the Judge was blest, but thought it strange 
 That bearing children made such a change. 
 
 For Maud grew broad and red and stout, 
 And the waist that his arm once clasped about 
 
 Was more than he now could span ; and he 
 Sighed as he pondered, ruefully, 
 
 How that which in Maud was native grace 
 In Mrs. Jenkins was out of place ; 
 
 And thought of the twins, and wished that they 
 Looked less like the man who raked the hay 
 
 On Muller's farm, and dreamed with pain 
 Of the day he wandered down the lane. 
 
 And, looking down that dreary track, 
 He half regretted that he came back. 
 
 For, had he waited, he might have wed 
 Some maiden fair and thoroughbred ; 
 
Mrs. Judge Jenkins. 267 
 
 For there be women fair as she, 
 Whose verbs and nouns do more agree. 
 
 Alas for maiden ! alas for judge ! 
 
 And the sentimental, that's one-half " fudge;" 
 
 For Maud soon thought the Judge a bore, 
 With all his learning and all his lore ; 
 
 And the Judge would have bartered Maud's fair 
 
 face 
 For more refinement and social grace. 
 
 If, of all words of tongue and pen, 
 The saddest are, " It might have been," 
 
 More sad are these we daily see : 
 " It is, but hadn't ought to be." 
 
268 
 
 (Geological 
 
 I HAVE found out a gift for my fair ; 
 
 I know where the fossils abound, 
 Where the footprints of Aves declare 
 
 The birds that once walked on the ground ; 
 Oh, come, and in technical speech- 
 
 We'll walk this Devonian shore, 
 Or on some Silurian beach 
 
 We'll wander, my love, evermore. 
 
 I will show thee the sinuous track 
 
 By the slow-moving annelid made, 
 Or the Trilobite that, farther back, 
 
 In the old Potsdam sandstone was laid ; 
 Thou shalt see, in his Jurassic tomb, 
 
 The Plesiosaurus embalmed ; 
 In his Oolitic prime and his bloom, 
 
 Iguanodon safe and unharmed ! 
 
 You wished I remember it well, 
 
 And I loved you the more for that wish 
 For a perfect cystedian shell 
 
 And a whole holocephalic fish. 
 And oh, if Earth's strata contains 
 
 In its lowest Silurian drift, 
 Or paleozoic remains 
 
 The same, 'tis your lover's free gift I 
 
A Geological Madrigal. 269 
 
 Then come, love, and never say nay, 
 
 But calm all your maidenly fears ; 
 We'll note, love, in one summer's day 
 
 The record of millions of years ; 
 And though the Darwinian plan 
 
 Your sensitive feelings may shock, 
 We'll find the beginning of man, 
 
 Our fossil ancestors, in rock ! 
 
(AN AERIAL RETROSPECT.) 
 
 WHAT was it filled my youthful dreams, 
 In place of Greek or Latin themes, 
 Or beauty's wild, bewildering beams ? 
 
 Avitor ! 
 
 What visions and celestial scenes 
 I filled with aerial machines, 
 Montgolfier's and Mr. Green's ! 
 
 Avitor ! 
 
 What fairy tales seemed things of course 
 The roc that brought Sindbad across, 
 The Calendar's own winged-horse I 
 
 Avitor 1 
 
 How many things I took for facts, 
 Icarus and his conduct lax, 
 And how he sealed his fate with wax ! 
 
 Avitor ! 
 
 The first balloons I sought to sail, 
 Soap-bubbles fair, but all too frail, 
 Or kites, but thereby hangs a tail. 
 
 Avitor ! 
 
Avitor. 271 
 
 What made me launch from attic tall 
 
 A kitten and a parasol, 
 
 And watch their bitter, frightful fall ? 
 
 Avitor I 
 
 What youthful dreams of high renown 
 Bade me inflate the parson's gown, 
 That went not up, nor yet came down ? 
 
 Avitor ! 
 
 My first ascent I may not tell ; 
 Enough to know that in that well 
 My first high aspirations fell. 
 
 Avitor ! 
 
 My other failures let me pass : 
 The dire explosions, and, alas ! 
 The friends I choked with noxious gas. 
 
 Avitor 1 
 
 For lo ! I see perfected rise 
 The vision of my boyish eyes, 
 The messenger of upper skies. 
 
 Avitor I 
 
BBBofcfc 
 
 (AFTER EDGAR ATX AN POE.) 
 
 THE skies they were ashen and sober, 
 
 The streets they were dirty and drear ; 
 It was night in the month of October, 
 
 Of my most immemorial year. 
 Like the skies, I was perfectly sober, 
 
 As I stopped at the mansion of Shear, 
 At the Nightingale, perfectly sober, 
 
 And the willowy woodland down here. 
 
 Here, once in an alley Titanic 
 
 Of Ten-pins, I roamed with my soul, 
 
 Of Ten-pins, with Mary, my soul ; 
 They were days when my heart was volcanic, 
 
 And impelled me to frequently roll, 
 
 And made me resistlessly roll, 
 Till my ten-strikes created a panic 
 
 In the realms of the Boreal pole, 
 Till my ten-strikes created a panic 
 
 With the monkey atop of his pole. 
 
 I repeat, I was perfectly sober, 
 
 But my thoughts they were palsied and sear,- 
 My thoughts were decidedly queer ; 
 
 For I knew not the month was October, 
 
VOL. I. 
 
 The Willows. 273 
 
 And I marked not the night of the year ; 
 I forgot that sweet morceau of Auber 
 
 That the band oft performed down here, 
 And I mixed the sweet music of Auber 
 
 With the Nightingale's music by Shear. 
 
 And now as the night was senescent, 
 
 And star-dials pointed to morn, 
 
 And car-drivers hinted of morn, 
 At the end of the path a liquescent 
 
 And bibulous lustre was born ; 
 'Twas made by the bar-keeper present, 
 
 Who mixed a duplicate horn, 
 His two hands describing a crescent 
 
 Distinct with a duplicate horn. 
 
 And I said : " This looks perfectly regal, 
 
 For it's warm, and I know I feel dry, 
 
 I am confident that I feel dry ; 
 We have come past the emeu and eagle, 
 
 And watched the gay monkey on high ; 
 Let us drink to the emeu and eagle, 
 
 To the swan and the monkey on high, 
 
 To the eagle and monkey on high ; 
 For this bar-keeper will not inveigle, 
 
 Bully boy with the vitreous eye ; 
 He surely would never inveigle, 
 
 Sweet youth with the crystalline eye." 
 
 But Mary, uplifting her finger, 
 
 Said, "Sadly this bar I mistrust,- 
 
 I fear that this bar does not trust 
 Oh, hasten ! oh, let us not linger 
 
 Oh, fly, let us fly, ere we must !" 
 
274 The Willows. 
 
 In terror she cried, letting sink her 
 Parasol till it trailed in the dust, 
 
 In agony sobbed, letting sink her 
 Parasol till it trailed in the dust, 
 Till it sorrowfully trailed in the dust. 
 
 Then I pacified Mary and kissed her, 
 And tempted her into the room, 
 And conquered her scruples and gloom ; 
 
 And we passed to the end of the vista, 
 
 But were stopped by the warning of doom,- 
 By some words that were warning of doom. 
 
 And I said, " What is written, sweet sister, 
 At the opposite end of the room ? " 
 
 She sobbed, as she answered, " All liquors 
 Must be paid for ere leaving the room." 
 
 Then my heart it grew ashen and sober, 
 As the streets were deserted and drear, 
 For my pockets were empty and drear ; 
 
 And I cried, " It was surely October, 
 On this very night of last year, 
 That I journeyed I journeyed down here, 
 That I brought a fair maiden down here, 
 On this night of all nights in the year. 
 Ah ! to me that inscription is clear ; 
 
 Well I know now, I'm perfectly sober, 
 Why no longer they credit me here, 
 
 Well I know now that music of Auber, 
 And this Nightingale, kept by one Shear. 
 
275 
 
 (AFTER SPENSER.) 
 
 Lo ! where the castle of bold Pfeiffer throws 
 Its sullen shadow on the rolling tide, 
 No more the home where joy and wealth repose, 
 But now where wassailers in cells abide ; 
 See yon long quay that stretches far and wide, 
 Well known to citizens as wharf of Meiggs ; 
 There each sweet Sabbath walks in maiden pride 
 Then pensive Margaret, and brave Pat, whose legs 
 Encased in broadcloth oft keep time with Peg's. 
 
 Here cometh oft the tender nursery-maid, 
 While in her ear her love his tale doth pour ; 
 Meantime her infant doth her charge evade, 
 And rambleth sagely on the sandy shore, 
 Till the sly sea-crab, low in ambush laid, 
 Seizeth his leg and biteth him full sore. 
 Ah me ! what sounds the shuddering echoes bore 
 When his small treble mixed with Ocean's roar. 
 
 Hard by there stands an ancient hostelrie, 
 
 And at its side a garden, where the bear, 
 
 The stealthy catamount, and coon agree 
 
 To work deceit on all who gather there j 
 
 And when Augusta that unconscious fair 
 
 With nuts and apples plieth Bruin free, 
 
 Lo ! the green parrot claweth her back hair, 
 
 And the grey monkey grabbeth fruits that she 
 
 On her gay bonnet wears, and laugheth loud in glee 
 
Cfie o#t Caife of 
 
 HIGH on the Thracian hills, half hid in the billows of clover, 
 Thyme, and the asphodel blooms, and lulled by Pactolian 
 
 streamlet, 
 
 She of Miletus lay, and beside her an aged satyr 
 Scratched his ear with his hoof, and playfully mumbled his 
 
 chestnuts. 
 
 Vainly the Msenid and the Bassarid gambolled about her, 
 
 The free-eyed Bacchante sang, and Pan the renowned, the 
 accomplished 
 
 Executed his difficult solo. In vain were their gambols and 
 dances : 
 
 High o'er the Thracian hills rose the voice of the shep- 
 herdess, wailing. 
 
 " Ai ! for the fleecy flocks, the meek-nosed, the passionless 
 faces ; 
 
 Ai! for the tallow-scented, the straight-tailed, the high- 
 stepping ; 
 
 Ai ! for the timid glance, which is that which the rustic, 
 sagacious, 
 
 Applies to him who loves but may not declare his passion !" 
 
The Lost Tails of Miletus. 277 
 
 Her then Zeus answered slow : " O daughter of song and 
 
 sorrow, 
 
 Hapless tender of sheep, arise from thy long lamentation ! 
 Since thou canst not trust fate, nor behave as becomes a 
 
 Greek maiden, 
 Look and behold thy sheep." And lo! they returned to her 
 
 tailless 1 
 
Bitualist 
 
 BY A COMMUNICANT OF " ST. JAMES V 
 
 HE wore, I think, a chasuble, the day when first we met ; 
 
 A stole and snowy alb likewise : I recollect it yet 
 
 He called me " daughter," as he raised his jewelled hand to 
 bless; 
 
 And then, in thrilling undertones, he asked, " Would I con- 
 fess?" 
 
 mother dear ! blame not your child, if then on bended 
 
 knees 
 
 1 dropped, and thought of Ab&ard, and also Eloise ; 
 
 Or when, beside the altar high, he bowed before the pyx, 
 I envied that seraphic kiss he gave the crucifix. 
 
 The cruel world may think it wrong, perhaps may deem me 
 weak, 
 
 And, speaking of that sainted man, may call his conduct 
 "cheek;" 
 
 And, like that wicked barrister whom Cousin Harry quotes, 
 
 May term his mixed chalice " grog," his vestments " petti- 
 coats : " 
 
 But, whatsoe'er they do or say, I'll build a Christian's hope 
 On incense and on altar-lights, on chasuble and cope. 
 Let others prove, by precedent, the faith that they profess : 
 " His can't be wrong " that's symbolised by such becoming 
 dress. 
 
I 2 79 ) 
 
 3 99orai FinDtcator* 
 
 IF Mr. Jones, Lycurgus B., 
 Had one peculiar quality, 
 'Twas his severe advocacy 
 Of conjugal fidelity. 
 
 His views of heaven were very free ; 
 His views of life were painfully 
 Ridiculous ; but fervently 
 He dwelt on marriage sanctity. 
 
 He frequently went on a spree ; 
 But in his wildest revelry, 
 On this esDecial subject he 
 Betrayed no ambiguity. 
 
 And though at times Lycurgus B. 
 Did lay his hands not lovingly 
 Upon his wife, the sanctity 
 Of wedlock was his guaranty. 
 
 But Mrs. Jones declined to see 
 Affairs in the same light as he, 
 And quietly got a decree 
 Divorcing her from that L. B. 
 
280 A Moral Vindicator. 
 
 And what did Jones, Lycurgus B., 
 With his known idiosyncrasy ? 
 He smiled, a bitter smile to see, 
 And drew the weapon of Bowie. 
 
 He did what Sickles did to Key, 
 What Cole on Hiscock wrought, did he ; 
 In fact, on persons twenty-three 
 He proved the marriage sanctity. 
 
 The counsellor who took the fee, 
 The witnesses and referee, 
 The Judge who granted the decree, 
 Died in that wholesale butchery. 
 
 And then when Jones, Lycurgus B., 
 Had wiped the weapon of Bowie, 
 Twelve jurymen did instantly 
 Acquit and set Lycurgus free. 
 
( 28l 
 
 California 
 
 (ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.) 
 
 OH come, my beloved ! from thy winter abode, 
 From thy home on the Yuba, thy ranch overflowed : 
 For the waters have fallen, the winter has fled, 
 And the river once more has returned to its bed. 
 
 Oh, mark how the spring in its beauty is near ! 
 How the fences and tules once more reappear ! 
 How soft lies the mud on the banks of yon slough 
 By the hole in the levee the waters broke through ! 
 
 All nature, dear Chloris, is blooming to greet 
 The glance of your eye and the tread of your feet ; 
 For the trails are all open, the roads are all free, 
 And the highwayman's whistle is heard on the lea. 
 
 Again swings the lash on the high mountain trail, 
 And the pipe of the packer is scenting the gale ; 
 The oath and the jest ringing high o'er the plain, 
 Where the smut is not always confined to the grain. 
 
 Once more glares the sunlight on awning and roof, 
 Once more the red clay's pulverised by the hoof, 
 
282 California Madrigal. 
 
 Once more the dust powders the " outsides " with red, 
 Once more at the station the whisky is spread. 
 
 Then fly with me, love, ere the summer's begun, 
 And the mercury mounts to one hundred and one ; 
 Ere the grass now so green shall be withered and sear, 
 In the spring that obtains but one month in the year. 
 
tfje <ZEngfne# aft, 
 
 (OPENING OF THE PACIFIC RAILROAD.) 
 
 WHAT was it the Engines said, 
 Pilots touching, head to head 
 Facing on the single track, 
 Half a world behind each back ? 
 This is what the Engines said, 
 Unreported and unread. 
 
 With a prefatory screech, 
 In a florid Western speech, 
 Said the Engine from the WEST : 
 " I am from Sierra's crest ; 
 And, if altitude's a test, 
 Why, I reckon, it's confessed 
 That I've done my level best" 
 
 Said the Engine from the EAST : 
 " They who work best talk the least 
 S'pose you whistle down your brakes ; 
 What you've done is no great shakes, 
 Pretty fair, but let our meeting 
 Be a different kind of greeting. 
 
284 What the Engines Said. 
 
 Let these folks with champagne stuffing, 
 
 Not their Engines, do the fuffing. 
 
 Listen ! Where Atlantic beats 
 
 Shores of snow and summer heats ; 
 
 Where the Indian autumn skies 
 
 Paint the woods with wampum dyes, 
 
 I have chased the flying sun, 
 
 Seeing all he looked upon, 
 
 Blessing all that he has blest, 
 
 Nursing in my iron breast 
 
 All his vivifying heat, 
 
 All his clouds about my crest ; 
 
 And before my flying feet 
 
 Every shadow must retreat" 
 
 Said the Western Engine, "Phew!" 
 And a long low whistle blew. 
 " Come now, really that's the oddest 
 Talk for one so very modest 
 You brag of your East ! You do ? 
 Why, / bring the East to you / 
 All the Orient, all Cathay, 
 Find through me the shortest way ; 
 And the sun you follow here 
 Rises in my hemisphere. 
 Really, if one must be rude, 
 Length, my friend, ain't longitude." 
 
 Said the Union, " Don't reflect, or 
 I'll run over some Director." 
 Said the Central, "I'm Pacific; 
 But, when riled, I'm quite terrific. 
 Yet to-day we shall not quarrel, 
 Just to show these folks this moral, 
 
What the Engines Said. 285 
 
 How two Engines in their vision 
 Once have met without collision." 
 That is what the Engines said, 
 Unreported and unread ; 
 Spoken slightly through the nose, 
 With a whistle at the close. 
 

 I i 
 
 Cfje legend of tfie Bfjine. 
 
 BEETLING walls with ivy grown, 
 Frowning heights of mossy stone ; 
 Turret, with its flaunting flag 
 Flung from battlemented crag ; 
 Dungeon-keep and fortalice 
 Looking down a precipice 
 O'er the darkly glancing wave 
 By the Lurline-haunted cave ; 
 Robber haunt and maiden bower, 
 Home of Love and Crime and Power, 
 That's the scenery, in fine, 
 Of the Legends of the Rhine. 
 
 One bold baron, double-dyed 
 Bigamist and parricide, 
 And, as most the stories run, 
 Partner of the Evil One ; 
 Injured innocence in white, 
 Fair but idiotic quite, 
 Wringing of her lily hands ; 
 Valour fresh from Paynim lands, 
 Abbot ruddy, hermit pale, 
 Minstrel fraught with many a tale, 
 Are the actors that combine 
 In the Legends of the Rhine. 
 
The Legends of the Rhine. 287 
 
 Bell-mouthed flagons round a board ; 
 Suits of armour, shield, and sword ; 
 Kerchief with its bloody stain j 
 Ghosts of the untimely slain ; 
 Thunder-clap and clanking chain ; 
 Headsman's block and shining axe ; 
 Thumb-screw, crucifixes, racks ; 
 Midnight-tolling chapel bell, 
 Heard across the gloomy fell, 
 These and other pleasant facts 
 Are the properties that shine 
 In the Legends of the Rhine. 
 
 Maledictions, whispered vows 
 Underneath the linden boughs ; 
 Murder, bigamy, and theft ; 
 Travellers of goods bereft ; 
 Rapine, pillage, arson, spoil, 
 Everything but honest toil, 
 Are the deeds that best define 
 Every Legend of the Rhine. 
 
 That Virtue always meets reward, 
 But quicker when it wears a sword ; 
 That Providence has special care 
 Of gallant knight and lady fair ; 
 That villains, as a thing of course, 
 Are always haunted by remorse, 
 Is the moral, I opine, 
 Of the Legends of the Rhine. 
 
288 
 
 toitfiout ense, 
 
 FOR THE PARLOUR AND PIANO. 
 
 I. THE PERSONIFIED SENTIMENTAL. 
 
 AFFECTION'S charm no longer gilds 
 
 The idol of the shrine ; 
 But cold Oblivion seeks to fill 
 
 Regret's ambrosial wine. 
 Though Friendship's offering buried lies 
 
 'Neath cold Aversions snow, 
 Regard and Faith will ever bloom 
 
 Perpetually below. 
 
 I see thee whirl in marble halls, 
 
 In Pleasure's giddy train ; 
 Remorse is never on that brow, 
 
 Nor Sorrow's mark of pain. 
 Deceit has marked thee for her own ; 
 
 Inconstancy the same ; 
 And Ruin wildly sheds its gleam 
 
 Athwart thy path of shame. 
 
 II. THE HOMELY PATHETIC. 
 
 The dews are heavy on my brow ; 
 
 My breath comes hard and low ; 
 Yet, mother dear, grant one request, 
 
 Before your boy must go. 
 Oh ! lift me ere my spirit sinks, . 
 
 And ere my senses fail : 
 
Songs without Sense. 
 
 Place me once more, O mother dear ! 
 Astride the old fence-rail 
 
 The old fence-rail, the old fence-rail ! 
 
 How oft these youthful legs, 
 With Alice' and Ben Bolt's, were hung 
 
 Across those wooden pegs. 
 'Twas there the nauseating smoke 
 
 Of my first pipe arose : 
 O mother dear! these agonies 
 
 Are far less keen than those. 
 
 289 
 
 I know where lies the hazel dell, 
 
 Where simple Nellie sleeps ; 
 I know the cot of Nettie Moore, 
 
 And where the willow weeps. 
 I know the brook side and the mill, 
 
 But. all their pathos fails 
 Beside the days when once I sat 
 
 Astride the old fence-rails. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 III. SWISS AIR. 
 
 I'M a gay tra, la, ia, 
 With my fal, lal, la, la, 
 And my bright 
 And my light 
 
 Tra, la, le. [Repeat] 
 
 Then laugh, ha, ha, ha, 
 And ring, ting, ling, ling, 
 And sing fal, la, la, 
 
 La, la, le. [Repeat] 
 
LITTLE POSTERITY. 
 
3[ofmng' Ji9ert^oor Ji3eigf)6otm 
 
 IT was spring the first time that I saw her, for her papa 
 
 and mamma moved in 
 Next door, just as skating was over, and marbles about to 
 
 begin, 
 For the fence in our back-yard was broken, and I saw as I 
 
 peeped through the slat, 
 There were " Johnny Jump-ups " all around her, and I knew 
 
 it was spring just by that 
 
 I never knew whether she saw me for she didn't say 
 
 nothing to me, 
 But "Ma! here's a slat in the fence broke, and the boy 
 
 that is next door can see." 
 But the next day I climbed on our wood-shed, as you know 
 
 mamma says I've a right, 
 And she calls out, "Well, peekin is manners!'' and I 
 
 answered her, " Sass is perlite ! " 
 
 But I wasn't a bit mad, no, Papa, and to prove it, the very 
 
 next day, 
 When she ran past our fence in the morning I happened to 
 
 get in her way, 
 
294 Master Johnny's Next-door Neighbour. 
 
 For you know I am " chunked " and clumsy, as she says 
 
 are all boys of my size, 
 And she nearly upset me, she did, Pa, and laughed till tears 
 
 came in her eyes. 
 
 And then we were friends from that moment, for I knew 
 
 that she told Kitty Sage, 
 And she wasn't a girl that would flatter, " that she thought 
 
 I was tall for my age." 
 And I gave her four apples that evening, and took her to 
 
 ride on my sled, 
 And "What am I telling you this for?" Why, Papa, my 
 
 neighbour is dead! 
 
 You don't hear one-half I am saying I really do think 
 
 it's too bad ! 
 Why, you might have seen crape on her door-knob, and 
 
 noticed to-day I've been sad. 
 And they've got her a coffin of rosewood, and they say they 
 
 have dressed her in white, 
 And I've never once looked through the fence, Pa, since 
 
 she died at eleven last night 
 
 And Ma says it's decent and proper, as I was her neigh 
 
 bour and friend, 
 That I should go there to the funeral, and she thinks that 
 
 you ought to attend ; 
 But I am so clumsy and awkward, I know I shall be in the 
 
 way, 
 And suppose they should speak to me, Papa, I wouldn't 
 
 know just what to say. 
 
Master Johnny's Next-door Neighbour. 295 
 
 So I think I will get up quite early, I know I sleep late, but 
 
 I know 
 I'll be sure to wake up if our Bridget pulls the string that 
 
 I'll tie to my toe ; 
 And I'll crawl through the fence and I'll gather the "Johnny 
 
 Jump-ups " as they grew 
 Round her feet the first day that I saw her, and, Papa, I'll 
 
 give them to you. 
 
 For you're a big man, and you know, Pa, can come and go 
 
 just where you choose, 
 And you'll take the flowers into her, and surely they'll never 
 
 refuse ; 
 But, Papa, don't say they're from Johnny ; they won't 
 
 understand, don't you see ? 
 But just lay them down on her bosom, and, Papa, she'll 
 
 know they're from Me. 
 
( 296 ) 
 
 ifl!0 OEt)tt&'0 Sootiest Bequest. 
 
 MY papa knows you, and he says you're a man who makes 
 
 reading for books ; 
 But I never read nothing you wrote, nor did papa I know 
 
 by his looks. 
 So I guess you're like me when I talk, and I talk, and I 
 
 talk all the day, 
 knd they only say : " Do stop that child ! " or, " Nurse, take 
 
 Miss Edith away." 
 
 But papa said if I was good I could ask you alone by 
 
 myself 
 If you wouldn't write me a book like that little one up on 
 
 the shelf. 
 I don't mean the pictures, of course, for to make them 
 
 you've got to be smart ; 
 But the reading that runs all around them, you know 
 
 just the easiest part 
 
 You needn't mind what it's about, for no one will see it but 
 me 
 
 And Jane that's my nurse and John he's the coach- 
 man just only us three. 
 
 You're to write of a bad little girl, that was wicked and 
 bold and all that j 
 
 And then you are to write, if you please, something good 
 very good of a cat i 
 
Miss EditKs Modest Request. 297 
 
 This cat she was virtuous and meek, and kind to her parents 
 
 and mild, 
 And careful and neat in her ways, though her mistress was 
 
 such a bad child ; 
 And hours she would sit and would gaze when her mistress 
 
 that's me was so bad, 
 And blink, just as if she would say : " O Edith ! you make 
 
 my heart sad." 
 
 And yet, you would scarcely believe it, that beautiful angelic 
 
 cat 
 Was blamed by the servants for stealing whatever, they said, 
 
 she'd get at. 
 And when John drank my milk don't you tell me ! I 
 
 know just the way it was done 
 They said 'twas the cat and she sitting and washing her 
 
 face in the sun ! 
 
 And then there was Dick, my canary. When I left its cage 
 open one day, 
 
 They all made believe that she ate it, though I know that 
 the bird flew away. 
 
 And why? Just because she was playing with a feather 
 she found on the floor, 
 
 As if cats couldn't play with a feather without people think- 
 ing 'twas more. 
 
 Why, once we were romping together, when I knocked down 
 
 a vase from the shelf, 
 That cat was as grieved and distressed as if she had done it 
 
 herself; 
 
298 Miss Edittis Modest Request. 
 
 And she walked away sadly and hid herself, and never came 
 
 out until tea 
 So they say, for they sent me to bed, and she never came 
 
 even to me. 
 
 No matter whatever happened, it was laid at the door of 
 
 that cat 
 Why, once when I tore my apron she was wrapped in it, 
 
 and I called "Rat!" 
 Why, they blamed that on her. I shall never no, not to 
 
 my dying day 
 Forget the pained look that she gave me when they slapped 
 
 me and took me away. 
 
 Of course, you know just what comes next, when a child is 
 
 as lovely as that : 
 She wasted quite slowly away it was goodness was killing 
 
 that cat. 
 I know it was nothing she ate, for her taste was exceedingly 
 
 nice; 
 But they said she stole Bobby's ice cream, and caught a bad 
 
 cold from the ice. 
 
 And you'll promise to make me a book like that little one 
 up on the shelf, 
 
 And you'll call her " Naomi," because it's a name that she 
 just gave herself; 
 
 For she'd scratch at my door in the morning, and when- 
 ever I'd call out, "Who's there?" 
 
 She would answer, " Naomi ! Naomi ! " like a Christian I 
 vow and declare. 
 
Miss Edittis Modest Request. 299 
 
 And you'll put me and her in a book. And, mind, you're 
 
 to say I was bad ; 
 And I might have been badder than that but for the 
 
 example I had. 
 And you'll say that she was a Maltese, and what's that 
 
 you asked? "Is she dead?" 
 Why, please, sir, there airit any cat J You're to make one 
 
 up out of your head 1 
 
300 
 
 <ZEDit!) mafees it pleasant for 
 QBrotfier 3facfe* 
 
 "CRYING!" of course I am crying, and I guess you would 
 
 be crying too 
 If people were telling such stories as they tell about me, 
 
 about you. 
 Oh yes, you can laugh, if you want to, and smoke as you 
 
 didn't care how, 
 And get your brains softened like uncle's. Dr. Jones says 
 
 you're gettin' it now. 
 
 Why don't you say " stop ! " to Miss Ilsey ? she cries 
 
 twice as much as I do, 
 And she's older and cries just from meanness for a ribbon 
 
 or anything new. 
 Ma says it's her "sensitive nature." Oh my ! No. I shan't 
 
 stop my talk ! 
 And I don't want no apples nor candy, and I don't want 
 
 to go take a walk ! 
 
 I know why you're mad? Yes, I do, now! You think 
 
 that Miss Ilsey likes you, 
 And I've heard her repeatedly call you the bold-facest boy 
 
 that she knew ; 
 And she'd "like to know where you learnt manners." Oh 
 
 yes ! Kick the table that's right ! 
 Spill the ink on my dress, and go then round telling Ma 
 
 that I look like a fright ! 
 
Miss Edith makes it Pleasant. 301 
 
 What stories? Pretend you don't know that they're 
 
 saying I broke off the match 
 'Twixt old Money-grubber and Mary, by saying she called 
 
 him " Crosspatch ! " 
 When the only allusion I made him about sister Mary was 
 
 she 
 Cared more for his cash than his temper, and you know, 
 
 Jack, you said that to me. 
 
 And it's true ! But it's me, and I'm scolded, and Pa says if 
 
 I keep on I might 
 By and by get my name in the papers ! Who cares ? Why, 
 
 'twas only last night 
 I was reading how Pa and the sheriff were selling some lots, 
 
 and it's plain 
 If it's awful to be in the papers why Papa would go and 
 
 complain. 
 
 You think it ain't true about Ilsey ? Well, I guess I know 
 
 girls and I say 
 There's nothing I see about Ilsey to show she likes you 
 
 anyway ! 
 I know what it means when a girl who has called her cat 
 
 after one boy 
 Goes and changes its name to another's. And she's done 
 
 it and I wish you joy ! 
 
302 ) 
 
 OH, you're the girl lives on the corner ? Come in if you 
 
 want to come quick ! 
 There's no one but me in the house and the cook but she's 
 
 only a stick. 
 Don't try the front way but come over the fence through 
 
 the window that's how. 
 Don't mind the big dog he won't bite you just see him 
 
 obey me ! there now ! 
 
 What's your name, "Mary Ellen?" How funny, mine's 
 
 Edith it's nicer, you see, 
 But yours does for you, for you're plainer, though maybe 
 
 you're gooder than me, 
 For Jack says I'm sometimes a devil, but Jack, of all folks* 
 
 needn't talk, 
 For I don't call the seamstress an angel 'til Ma says the 
 
 poor thing must " walk." 
 
 Come in! It's quite dark in the parlour, for sister will 
 
 keep the blinds down, 
 For you know her complexion is sallow like yours, but she 
 
 isn't as brown ; 
 Though Jack says that isn't the reason she likes to sit here 
 
 with Jim Moore. 
 Do you think that he meant that she kissed him ? Would 
 
 you if your lips wasn't sore? 
 
Miss Edith makes another Friend. 303 
 
 If you like, you can try our piano. 'Taint ours. A man 
 
 left it here 
 To rent by the month, although Ma says he hasn't been 
 
 paid for a year. 
 Sister plays oh, such fine variations ! why, I once heard 
 
 a gentleman say 
 That she didn't mind that for the music in fact, it was just 
 
 in her way ! 
 
 Ain't I funny ? And yet it's the queerest of all, that what- 
 ever I say, 
 
 One-half of the folks die a-laughing, and the rest they all 
 look t'other way. 
 
 And some say, " That child ! " Do they ever say that to such 
 people as you ? 
 
 Though maybe you're naturally silly, and that makes your 
 eyes so askew. 
 
 Now stop don't you dare to be crying ! Just as sure as 
 
 you live, if you do, 
 I'll call in my big dog to bite you, and I'll make my Papa 
 
 kill you too ! 
 And then where'll you be ? So play pretty. There's my 
 
 doll, and a nice piece of cake. 
 You don't want it you think it is poison ! Then /'// eat 
 
 it, dear, just for your sake I 
 
( 304 ) 
 
 )n tfte JLantung* 
 
 (AN IDYL OF THE BALUSTERS.) 
 
 BOBBY, (Etat. 3j. JOHNNY, (Ztat. $\. 
 
 BOBBY. 
 
 Do you know why they've put us in that back room, 
 Up in the attic, close against the sky, 
 And made believe our nursery's a cloak-room ? 
 Do you know why ? 
 
 JOHNNY. 
 
 No more I don't, nor why that Sammy's mother 
 What Ma thinks horrid, 'cause he bunged my eye, 
 Eats an ice cream, down there, like any other 
 No more don't 1 1 
 
 BOBBY. 
 
 Do you know why Nurse says it isn't manners 
 For you and me to ask folks twice for pie, 
 And no one hits that man with two bananas ? 
 Do you know why ? 
 
 JOHNNY. 
 
 No more I don't, nor why that girl, whose dress is 
 Off of her shoulders, don't catch cold and die, 
 When you and me gets croup when we undresses I 
 No more don't I ! 
 
On the Landing. 305 
 
 BOBBY. 
 
 Perhaps she ain't as good as you and I is, 
 And God don't want her up there in the sky, 
 And lets her live to come in just when pie is 
 Perhaps that's why ? 
 
 JOHNNY. 
 
 Do you know why that man that's got a cropped head 
 Rubbed it just now as if he felt a fly ? 
 Could it be, Bobby, something that I dropded ? 
 And is that why ? 
 
 BOBBY. 
 
 Good boys behaves, and so they don't get scolded, 
 Nor drop hot milk on folks as they pass by. 
 
 JOHNNY [piously]. 
 
 Marbles would bounce on Mr. Jones' bald head 
 But 7 shan't try 1 
 
 BOBBY. 
 
 Do you know why Aunt Jane is always snarling 
 At you and me because we tells a lie, 
 And she don't slap that man that called her darling ? 
 Do you know why ? 
 
 JOHNNY. 
 
 No more I don't, nor why that man with Mamma 
 Just kissed her hand. 
 
 VOL. i. u 
 
306 On the Landing. 
 
 BOBBY. 
 
 She hurt it and that's why, 
 He made it well, the very way that Mamma 
 Does do to I. 
 
 JOHNNY. 
 
 I feel so sleepy. . . . Was that Papa kissed us ? 
 What made him sigh, and look up to the sky ? 
 
 BOBBY. 
 
 We wer'n't downstairs, and he and God had missed us, 
 And that was why ! 
 
CaUet 
 
 CANTO 1 
 
 i. 
 ACT first, scene first. A study. Of SL kind 
 
 Half cell, half salon, opulent yet grave ; 
 Rare books, low shelved, yet far above the mind 
 
 Of common man to compass or to crave ; 
 Some slight relief of pamphlets that inclined 
 
 The soul at first to trifling, till dismayed 
 By text and title, it drew back resigned, 
 
 Nor cared with levity to vex a shade. 
 
 That to itself such perfect concord made. 
 
 ii. 
 Some thoughts like these perplexed the patriot brain 
 
 Of Jones Lawgiver to the Commonwealth, 
 As on the threshold of this chaste domain 
 
 He paused expectant, and looked up in stealth 
 To darkened canvases that frowned amain, 
 
 With stern-eyed Puritans, who first began 
 To spread their roots in " Georgius Primus'" reign, 
 
 Nor dropped till now, obedient to some plan, 
 
 Their century fruit the perfect Boston man. 
 
 in. 
 
 Somewhere within that Russia-scented gloom 
 A voice catarrhal thrilled the Member's ear ; 
 
308 Cadet Grey. 
 
 "Brief is our business, Jones. Look round this 
 room ! 
 
 Regard yon portraits ! Read their meaning clear ! 
 These much proclaim * my ' station. I presume 
 
 You are our Congressman, before whose wit 
 And sober judgment shall the youth appear 
 
 Who for West Point is deemed most just and fit 
 
 To serve his country and to honour it." 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Such is my son ! Elsewhere perhaps 'twere wise 
 
 Trial competitive should guide your choice. 
 There are some people I can well surmise 
 
 Themselves must show their merits. History's 
 
 voice 
 Spares me that trouble, all desert that lies 
 
 In yonder ancestor of Queen Anne's day, 
 Or yon grave Governor is all my boy's, 
 
 Reverts to him ; entailed, as one might say ; 
 
 In brief, result in Winthrop Adams Grey ! " 
 
 v. 
 He turned and laid his well-bred hand, and smiled, 
 
 On the cropped head of one who stood beside. 
 Ah me ! in sooth it was no ruddy child, 
 
 Nor brawny youth that thrilled the father's pride 
 'Twas but a Mind that somehow had beguiled 
 
 From soulless Matter processes that served 
 For speech and motion and digestion mild, 
 
 Content if all one moral purpose nerved, 
 
 Nor recked thereby its spine were somewhat curved 
 
 VI. 
 
 He was scarce eighteen. Yet ere he was eight 
 He had despoiled the classics j much he knew 
 
Cadet Grey. 309 
 
 Of Sanscrit ; not that he placed undue weight 
 On this, but that it helped him with Hebrew, 
 
 His favourite tongue. He learned, alas ! too late, 
 One can't begin too early would regret 
 
 That boyish whim to ascertain the state 
 Of Venus' atmosphere made him forget 
 That philologic goal on which his soul was set. 
 
 VII. 
 
 He too had travelled ; at the age of ten 
 Found Paris empty, dull except for art 
 
 And accent. " Mabille " with its glories then 
 Less than Egyptian "Almees " touched a heart 
 
 Nothing if not pure classic. If some men 
 Thought him a prig, it vexed not his conceit, 
 
 But moved his pity, and ofttimes his pen, 
 
 The better to instruct them, through some sheet 
 Published in Boston, and signed " Beacon Street.'- 1 
 
 VIII. 
 
 ^^ 
 
 From premises so plain the blind could see 
 But one deduction, and it came next day. 
 
 "In times like these, the very name of G. 
 Speaks volumes," wrote the Honourable J. 
 
 "Enclosed please find appointment." Presently 
 Came a reception to which Harvard lent 
 
 Fourteen professors, and, to give "esprit? 
 The Liberal Club some eighteen ladies sent, 
 Five that spoke Greek, and thirteen sentiment 
 
 IX. 
 
 Four poets came who loved each others' song, 
 And two philosophers, who thought that they 
 
3io Cadet Grey. 
 
 Were in most things impractical and wrong ; 
 
 And two Reformers, each in his own way 
 Peculiar one who had waxed strong 
 
 On herbs and water, and such simple fare ; 
 Two foreign lions, " Ram See " and " Chy Long," 
 
 And several artists claimed attention there, 
 
 Based on the fact they had been snubbed else- 
 where. 
 
 x. 
 
 With this endorsement nothing now remained 
 
 But counsel, God speed, and some calm adieux ; 
 No foolish tear the father's eyelash stained, 
 
 And Winthrop's cheek as guiltless shone of dew. 
 A slight publicity, such as obtained 
 
 In classic Rome, these few last hours attended. 
 The day arrived, the train and depot gained, 
 
 The mayor's own presence this last act com- 
 mended ; 
 
 The train moved off, and here the first act ended. 
 
 CANTO II 
 
 i. 
 Where West Point crouches, and with lifted shield 
 
 Turns the whole river eastward through the pass : 
 Whose jutting crags, half silver, stand revealed 
 
 Like bossy bucklers of Leonidas ; 
 Where buttressed low against the storms that wield 
 
 Their summer lightnings where her eaglets' swarm, 
 By Freedom's cradle Nature's self has steeled 
 
 Her heart, like Winkelried, and to that storm 
 
 Of levelled lances bares her bosom warm. 
 
Cadet Grey. 3 1 1 
 
 ii. 
 But not to-night. The air and woods are still, 
 
 The faintest rustle in the trees below, 
 The lowest tremor from the mountain rill, 
 
 Come to the ear as but the trailing flow 
 Of spirit robes that walk unseen the hill ; 
 
 The moon low sailing o'er the upland farm, 
 The moon low sailing where the waters fill 
 
 The lozenge lake, beside the banks of balm, 
 
 Gleams like a chevron on the river's arm. 
 
 in. 
 All space breathes languor ; from the hill-top high, 
 
 Where Putnam's bastion crumbles in the past, 
 To swooning depths where drowsy cannon lie 
 
 And wide-mouthed mortars gape in slumbers vast ; 
 Stroke upon stroke, the far oars glance and die 
 
 On the hushed bosom of the sleeping stream ; 
 Bright for one moment drifts a white sail by, 
 
 Bright for one moment shows a bayonet gleam 
 
 Far on the level plain, then passes as a dream. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Soft down the line of darkened battlements, 
 Bright on each lattice of the barrack walls, 
 
 Where the low arching sallyport indents, 
 
 Seen through its gloom beyond, the moonbeam 
 falls. 
 
 All is repose save where the camping tents 
 
 Mock the white gravestones farther on, where sound 
 
 No morning guns for " reveille? nor whence 
 
 No drum-beat calls retreat, but still is ever found 
 Waiting and present on each sentry's round. 
 
312 Cadet Grey. 
 
 v. 
 
 Within the camp they lie, the young, the brave, 
 Half knight, half schoolboy, acolytes of fame, 
 
 Pledged to one altar, and perchance one grave ; 
 Bred to fear nothing but reproach and blame, 
 
 Ascetic dandies o'er whom vestals rave, 
 
 Clean-limbed young Spartans, disciplined young 
 elves, 
 
 Taught to destroy, that they may live to save, 
 Students embattled, soldiers at their shelves, 
 Heroes whose conquests are at first themselves. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Within the camp they lie, in dreams are freed 
 
 From the grim discipline they learn to love ; 
 In dreams no more the sentry's challenge heed, 
 
 In dreams afar beyond their pickets rove ; 
 One treads once more the piney paths that lead 
 
 To his green mountain home, and pausing hears 
 The cattle call ; one treads the tangled weed 
 
 Of slippery rocks beside Atlantic piers ; 
 
 One smiles in sleep, one wakens wet with tears. 
 
 VII. 
 
 One scents the breath of jasmine flowers that twine 
 The pillared porches of his Southern home ; 
 
 One hears the coo of pigeons in the pine 
 Of Western woods where he was wont to roam ; 
 
 One sees the sunset fire the distant line 
 
 Where the long prairie sweeps its levels down ; 
 
 One treads the snowpeaks ; one by lamps that shine 
 Down the broad highways of the sea-girt town, 
 And two are missing Cadets Grey and Brown ! 
 
Cadet Grey. 313 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Much as I grieve to chronicle the fact, 
 
 That self-same truant known as " Cadet Grey " 
 Was the young hero of our moral tract, 
 
 Shorn of his twofold names on entrance-day. 
 " Winthrop " and " Adams " dropped in that one act 
 
 Of martial curtness, and the roll-call thinned 
 Of his ancestors, he with youthful tact 
 
 Indulgence claimed, since Winthrop no more 
 sinned, 
 
 Nor sainted Adams winced when he, plain Grey was 
 " skinned." 
 
 IX. 
 
 He had known trials since we saw him last, 
 By sheer good luck had just escaped rejection, 
 
 Not for his learning, but that it was cast 
 
 In a spare frame scarce fit for drill inspection ; 
 
 But when he ope'd his lips a stream so vast 
 Of information flooded each professor, 
 
 They quite forgot his eyeglass something past 
 All precedent accepting the transgressor, 
 Weak eyes and all of which he was possessor. 
 
 E'en the first day he touched a blackboard's space- 
 So the tradition of his glory lingers 
 
 Two wise professors fainted, each with face 
 White as the chalk within his rapid fingers : 
 
 All day he ciphered, at such frantic pace, 
 His form was hid in chalk precipitation 
 
 Of every problem, till they said his case 
 Could meet from them no fair examination 
 Till Congress made a new appropriation. 
 
3 J 4 Cadet Grey. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Famous in molecules, he demonstrated 
 
 From the mess hash to many a listening classful ; 
 
 Great as a botanist, he separated 
 Three kinds of " Mentha " in one julep's glassful ; 
 
 High in astronomy, it has been stated 
 He was the first at West Point to discover 
 
 Mars' missing satellites, and calculated 
 Their true positions, not the heavens over, 
 But 'neath the window of Miss Kitty Rover. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Indeed I fear this novelty celestial 
 
 That very night was visible and clear ; 
 At least two youths of aspect most terrestrial, 
 
 And clad in uniform, were loitering near 
 A villa's casement, where a gentle vestal 
 
 Took their impatience somewhat patiently, 
 Knowing the youths were somewhat green and 
 "bestial" 
 
 (A certain slang of the Academy, 
 
 I beg the reader won't refer to me). 
 
 XIII. 
 
 For when they ceased their ardent strain, Miss Kitty 
 Glowed not with anger nor a kindred flame, 
 
 But rather flushed with an odd sort of pity, 
 
 Half matron's kindness, and half coquette's shame ; 
 
 Proud yet quite blameful, when she heard their ditty 
 She gave her soul poetical expression, 
 
 And being clever too, as she was pretty, 
 
 From her high casement warbled this confession 
 Half provocation and one half repression : 
 
Cadet Grey. 315 
 
 NOT YET. 
 
 Not yet, O friend, not yet ! the patient stars 
 Lean from their lattices, content to wait. 
 All is illusion till the morning bars 
 Slip from the levels of the Eastern gate. 
 Night is too young, O friend 1 day is too near ; 
 Wait for the day that maketh all things clear. 
 Not yet, O friend, not yet 1 
 
 Not yet, O love, not yet ! all is not true, 
 All is not ever, as it seemeth now. 
 Soon shall the river take another blue, 
 Soon dies yon light upon the mountain brow. 
 What lieth dark, O love, bright day will fill. 
 Wait for thy morning, be it good or ill 
 Not yet, O love, not yet 1 
 
 XIV. 
 The strain was finished ; softly as the night 
 
 Her voice died from the window, yet e'en then 
 Fluttered and fell likewise a kerchief white ; 
 
 But that no doubt was accident, for when 
 She sought her couch she deemed her conduct quite 
 
 Beyond the reach of scandalous commentor 
 Washing her hands of either gallant wight 
 
 Knowing the moralist might compliment her 
 
 Thus voicing Siren with the words of Mentor. 
 
 xv. 
 She little knew the youths below, who straight 
 
 Dived for her kerchief, and quite overlooked 
 The pregnant moral she would inculcate ; 
 
 Nor dreamed the less how little Winthrop brooked 
 Her right to doubt his soul's maturer state. 
 
 Brown who was Western, amiable, and new 
 Might take the moral and accept his fate ; 
 
 The which he did, but, being stronger too, 
 
 Took the white kerchief, also, as his due. 
 
3 1 6 Cadet Grey. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 They did not quarrel, which no doubt seemed queer 
 To those who knew not how their friendship 
 blended ; 
 
 Each were opposed, and each the other's peer, 
 Yet each other in some things transcended. 
 
 Where Brown lacked culture, brains and oft, I fear, 
 Cash in his pocket Grey of course supplied him ; 
 
 Where Grey lacked frankness, force, and faith 
 
 sincere, 
 
 Brown of his manhood suffered none to chide him, 
 But in his faults stood manfully beside him. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 In academic walks and studies grave, 
 In the camp drill and martial occupation, 
 
 They helped each other ; but just here I crave 
 Space for the reader's full imagination 
 
 The fact is patent, Grey became a slave ! 
 A tool, a fag, a " pleb ! " To state it plainer, 
 
 All that blue blood and ancestry e'er gave, 
 
 Cleaned guns, brought water ! was, in fact, retainer 
 To Jones, whose uncle was a paper-stainer 1 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 How they bore this at home I cannot say : 
 
 I only know so runs the gossip's tale. 
 It chanced one day that the paternal Grey 
 
 Came to West Point that he himself might hail 
 The future hero in some proper way 
 
 Consistent with his lineage. With him came 
 A judge, a poet, and a brave array 
 
 Of aunts and uncles, bearing each a name, 
 
 Eyeglass and respirator with the same. 
 
Cadet Grey. 317 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " Observe ! " quoth Grey the elder to his friends, 
 " Not in these giddy youths at base-ball playing 
 
 You'll notice Winthrop Adams ! Greater ends 
 Than these absorb his leisure. No doubt straying 
 
 With Caesar's Commentaries, he attends 
 Some Roman council Let us ask, however, 
 
 Yon grimy urchin, who my soul offends 
 By wheeling offal, if he will endeavour 
 
 To find What 1 heaven J Winthrop 1 Oh ! no ! 
 
 never!" 
 
 xx. 
 
 Alas ! too true ! The last of all the Greys 
 Was " doing police detail ; " it had come 
 
 To this ; in vain were the historic bays 
 That crowned the pictured Puritans at home ! 
 
 And yet 'twas certain that in grosser ways 
 
 Of health and physique he was quite improving. 
 
 Straighter he stood, and had achieved some praise 
 In other exercise, much more behooving 
 A soldier's taste than merely dirt removing. 
 
 Bancroft Library 
 
 XXI. 
 
 But to resume : we left the youthful pair, 
 Some stanzas back, before a lady's bower ; 
 
 'Tis to be hoped they were no longer there, 
 For stars were pointing to the morning hour 
 
 Their escapade discovered, ill 'twould fare 
 With our two heroes, derelict of orders ; 
 
 But, like the ghost, they " scent the morning air," 
 And back again they steal across the borders, 
 Unseen, unheeded, by their martial warders. 
 
318 Cadet Grey. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 They got to bed with speed : young Grey to dream 
 Of some vague future with a general's star, 
 
 And Mistress Kitty basking in its gleam ; 
 While Brown, content to worship her afar, 
 
 Dreamed himself dying .by some lonely stream, 
 Having snatched Kitty from eighteen Nez Perces, 
 
 Till a far bugle, with the morning beam, 
 In his dull ear its fateful song rehearses, 
 Which Winthrop Adams after put to verses. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 So passed three years of their noviciate, 
 
 The first real boyhood Grey had ever known. 
 
 His youth ran clear not choked like his Cochituate, 
 In civic pipes, but free and pure alone ; 
 
 Yet knew repression, could himself habituate 
 To having mind and body well rubbed down, 
 
 Could read himself in others, and could situate 
 Themselves in him except, I grieve to own, 
 He couldn't see what Kitty saw in Brown ! 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 At last came graduation ; Brown received 
 In the One Hundredth Cavalry commission ; 
 
 Then frolic, flirting, parting when none grieved 
 Save Brown, who loved our young Academician, 
 
 And Grey, who felt his friend was still deceived 
 By Mistress Kitty, who with other beauties 
 
 Graced the occasion, and it was believed 
 
 Had promised Brown that when he could recruit his 
 Promised command, she'd share with him those duties, 
 
 xxv. 
 
 Howe'er this I know not ; all I know, 
 The night was June's, the moon rode high and clear, 
 
Cadet Grey. 319 
 
 " Twas such a night as this " three years ago 
 Miss Kitty sang the song that two might hear. 
 
 There is a walk where trees o'erarching grow, 
 Too wide for one, not wide enough for three 
 
 (A fact precluding any plural beau), 
 Which quite explained Miss Kitty's company, 
 But not why Grey that favoured one should be. 
 
 XXVI 
 
 There is a spring, whose limpid waters hide 
 Somewhere within the shadows of that path 
 
 Called Kosciusko's. There two figures bide 
 Grey and Miss Kitty. Surely Nature hath 
 
 No fairer mirror for a might-be bride 
 
 Than this same pool that caught our gentle belle 
 
 To its dark heart one moment. At her side 
 Grey bent. A something trembled o'er the well, 
 Bright, spherical a tear ? Ah ! no, a button fell ! 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 " Material minds might think that gravitation," 
 
 Quoth Grey, " drew yon metallic spheroid down. 
 The soul poetic views the situation 
 
 Fraught with more meaning. When thy girlish crown 
 Was mirrored there, there was disintegration 
 
 Of me, and all my spirit moved to you, 
 Taking the form of slow precipitation ! " 
 
 But here came " Taps," a start, a smile, adieu ! 
 
 A blush, a sigh, and end of Canto II. 
 
 BUGLE SONG. 
 
 Fades the light, Love, good night I 
 
 And afar Must thou go 
 
 Goeth day, cometh night When the day 
 
 And a star And the light 
 
 Leadeth all, Need thee so 
 
 Speedeth all Needeth all 
 
 To their rest I Heedeth all, 
 
 That is best ? 
 
320 Cadet Grey. 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 i. 
 
 Where the sun sinks through leagues of arid sky, 
 Where the sun dies o'er leagues of arid plain, 
 
 Where the dead bones of wasted rivers lie, 
 
 Trailed from their channels in yon mountain chain 
 
 Where day by day naught takes the wearied eye 
 But the low-rimming mountains, sharply based 
 
 On the dead levels, moving far or nigh, 
 As the sick vision wanders o'er the waste, 
 But ever day by day against the sunset traced : 
 
 n. 
 There moving through a poisonous cloud that stings 
 
 With dust of alkali the trampling band 
 Of Indian ponies, ride on dusky wings 
 
 The red marauders of the Western land ; 
 Heavy with spoil, they seek the trail that brings 
 
 Their flaunting lances to that sheltered bank 
 Where lie their lodges ; and the river sings 
 
 Forgetful of the plain beyond, that drank 
 
 Its life blood, where the wasted caravan sank. 
 
 in. 
 They brought with them the thief's ignoble spoil, 
 
 The beggar's dole, the greed of chiffonier, 
 The scum of camps, the implements of toil 
 
 Snatched from dead hands, to rust as useless here ; 
 All they could rake or glean from hut or soil 
 
 Piled their lean ponies, with the jackdaw's greed 
 For vacant glitter. It were scarce a foil 
 
 To all this tinsel that one feathered reed 
 
 Bore on its barb two scalps that freshly bleed ! 
 
Cadet Grey. 3 2 1 
 
 IV. 
 
 They brought with them, alas ! a wounded foe, 
 Bound hand and foot, yet nursed with cruel care, 
 
 Lest that in death he might escape one throe 
 They had decreed his living flesh should bear : 
 
 A youthful officer, by one foul blow 
 Of treachery surprised, yet fighting still 
 
 Amid his ambushed train, calm as the snow 
 Above him hopeless, yet content to spill 
 His blood with theirs, and fighting but to kill. 
 
 v. 
 
 He had fought nobly, and in that brief spell 
 
 Had won the awe of those rude border men 
 Who gathered round him, and beside him fell 
 
 In loyal faith and silence, save that when 
 By smoke embarrassed, and near sight as well, 
 
 He paused to wipe his eyeglass, and decide 
 Its nearer focus, there arose a yell 
 
 Of approbation, and Bob Barker cried 
 
 " Wade in, Dundreary ! " tossed his cap and died 
 
 VI. 
 
 Their sole survivor now ! his captors bear 
 Him all unconscious, and beside the stream 
 
 Leave him to rest ; meantime the squaws prepare 
 The stake for sacrifice : nor wakes a gleam 
 
 Of pity in those Furies' eyes that glare 
 Expectant of the torture ; yet alway 
 
 His steadfast spirit shines and mocks them there 
 With peace they know not, till at close of day 
 On his dull ear there thrills a whispered " Grey 1 " 
 
 x 
 
322 Cadet Grey. 
 
 VII. 
 
 He starts ! Was it a trick ? Had angels kind 
 
 Touched with compassion some weak woman's 
 
 breast ? 
 Such things he'd read of ! Faintly to his mind 
 
 Came Pocohontas pleading for her guest. 
 But then this voice, though soft, was still inclined 
 
 To baritone ! A squaw in ragged gown 
 Stood near him frowning hatred. Was he blind ? 
 
 Whose eye was this beneat h that beetling frown ? 
 
 The frown was painted, but that wink meant 
 Brown ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " Hush ! for your life and mine ! the thongs are cut," 
 He whispers ; " in yon thicket stands my horse, 
 
 One dash ! I follow close, as if to glut 
 My own revenge, yet bar the other's course. 
 
 Now ! " And 'tis done. Grey speeds, Brown follows ; 
 but 
 
 Ere yet they reach the shade, Grey, fainting, reels 
 
 Yet not before Brown's circling arms close shut 
 His in, uplifting him ! Anon he feels 
 A horse beneath him bound, and hears the rattling 
 heels. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Then rose a yell of baffled hate, and sprang 
 Headlong the savages in swift pursuit ; 
 
 Though speed the fugitives, they hope to hang 
 Hot on their heels, like wolves, with tireless foot. 
 
 Long is the chase ; Brown hears with inward pang 
 The short, hard panting of his gallant steed 
 
 Beneath its double burden ; vainly rang 
 
Cadet Grey. 323 
 
 Both voice and spur. The heaving flanks may 
 
 bleed, 
 Yet comes the sequel that they still must heed ! 
 
 x. 
 
 Brown saw it reined his steed ; dismounting, stood 
 
 Calm and inflexible. " Old chap ! you see 
 There is but one escape. You know it ? Good ! 
 
 There is one man to take it. You are he, 
 The horse won't carry double. If he could, 
 
 'Twould but protract this bother. I shall stay : 
 I've business with these devils they with me ; 
 
 I will occupy them till you get away. 
 
 Hush ! quick time, forward. There ! God bless 
 you, Grey ! " 
 
 XI. 
 
 But as he finished, Grey slipped to his feet, 
 Calm as his ancestors in voice and eye : 
 You do forget yourself when you compete 
 With him whose right it is to stay here and to die : 
 
 That's not your duty. Please regain your seat : 
 And take my orders since I rank you here ! 
 
 Mount and rejoin your men, and my defeat 
 .Report at quarters. Take this letter ; ne'er 
 Give it to aught but her, though death should 
 interfere." 
 
 XII. 
 
 And, shamed and blushing, Brown the letter took 
 
 Obediently and placed it in his pocket, 
 Then drawing forth another, said, " I look 
 
 For death as you do, wherefore take this locket 
 And letter." Here his comrade's hand he shook 
 
 In silence. " Should we both together fall, 
 Some other man " but here all speech forsook 
 
Cadet Grey. 
 
 His lips, as ringing cheerily o'er all 
 He heard afar his own dear bugle-call ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 'Twas his command and succour, but e'en then 
 Grey fainted, with poor Brown, who had forgot 
 
 He likewise had been wounded, and both men 
 Were picked up quite unconscious of their lot 
 
 Long lay they in extremity, and when 
 
 They both grew stronger, and once more exchanged 
 
 Old vows and memories, one common " den " 
 In hospital was theirs, and free they ranged, 
 Awaiting orders, but no more estranged. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 And yet 'twas strange nor can I end my tale 
 Without this moral, to be fair and just : 
 
 They never sought to know why each did fail 
 The prompt fulfilment of the other's trust. 
 
 It was suggested they could not avail 
 Themselves of either letter, since they were 
 
 Duly dispatched to their address by mail 
 By Captain X., who knew Miss Rover fair 
 Now meant stout Mistress Bloggs of Blank Blank 
 Square. 
 
 ~> 
 
 THE END. 
 
 PRINTRD BY BALLANTVNE, HANSON AND CO. 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON.