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caught under the carwheels of time, was the recipient, and Mrs. Moore's plan was to make the thing very Californian in style, since we had such a worthy old worthy, Calvin B. McDonald, to celebrate. But Stoddard's lines began:
The parables of Nature run From the glow-worm to the sun. “No," he said when protested with, “I write no more poetry about California, and I feel that I shall write no more
poetry at all now; I have to go to !
Now I never heard him complain of California or find any fault at all with any one of us or of anything. But I believe with a belief that amounts to conviction that if the University of California, his own alma mater, had shown him half the respect and consideration that the Pope of
Rome and others of like dignity and 7
power in the far away worlds bestowed, he would have stayed with us. And if this man had been permitted to earn his bread here, why the deaf and the dumb and the blind would not today be traveling up and down the land and publishing to the world, “There is no color in California." “No songbirds in California," and ilk. But let us get on to the end.
The late James R. Osgood, America's write poetry. And that was the end of oldest publisher, and perhaps most honest the color and the majesty, the large sol one, told me in London that Stoddard's emnity, the strength and the mighty book, “A South Sea Idyl,” parts of earnestness of California, so far as the which first appeared in the OVERLAND, outer world saw. Of the old coterie that
was the best thing, after “Two Years made the OVERLAND MONTHLY famous Before the Mast," that had yet been the world over, Bret Harte made us written in this line. I remember with weep; Mark Twain made us laugh; but what earnestness he insisted that the Charles Warren Stoddard, so far as he railroads could do themselves an immense was with us, made us think and see and service by distributing cheap editions of feel.
that book all over the world. He said if We were giving a benefit, headed by the railroads and California would give the late Mrs. Preston Moore, about up their tiresome map and emigration twenty years ago in Oakland. A most
schemes and put a few millions of that worthy old fellow-scribe, who had been book out in place of them, then the peo
STODDARD WHEX THIRTY-FIVE YEARS OLD,
ple would read and believe and want Century, and got him to advance money to see California and the isles of fire enough on Stoddard's work for him to beyond.
get home on! Having shown how indifferent Cali- Nowhere outside of his own country fornia had been to Stoddard, I, in pass- could this man have encountered so much ing, must refer to the behavior of the ignorance of his work or such treatment railroad. Stoddard was in the Levant, of himself. He was coming to me in having been long in the Orient, when Rome once from London when, by missad news came and he must return home. take, near Geneva, he missed his car. He reached New York nearly out of Nothing serious in that, however, had it money, and so Stedman, the poet, and I not been that, the day being hot, he had applied for a pass. Nix; never heard hung up his coat in the car, where he of the man. And so Stedman went to left it on getting out to lunch. The the late Dr. Holland, then editor of the awkward part of it all was the coat contained his pocket-book, ticket, my ad- him to the statue of Saint Peter in the dress in Rome, and all his fortune except mighty cathedral, as it had been to take a few sous. But they brought him on Bret Harte to the grave of Dickens in through. Of course the devout fellow Westminster, and I watched him most attributed all such civility as that to the curiously. saints. I have heard him say they are
There stood the endless string of peasshort of saints in America.
ants, hats in hand,- a prince now and It may be as well though to mention then, a plumed and satin-clad lady in the that the saints let him sleep in the streets line at intervals,--this crowded, carnival of Rome that night, it being Saturday time, and Charley, our wild and wicked night and the town booming with the Charley, after countless crossings and carnival. And he slept in the streets bendings of the knee, took his place in the next night too, fasting all day Sun- line, and so moved on, foot after foot, day as any good Catholic ought to, he toward the great bronze big and dirty said. For he could not identity himself toe of St. Peter. with his pocket-book and baggage at the I stood close by the statue, where it station on Sunday.
stands, or sits, on its pedestal with lifted When I went to the bank for my mail fingers by the lofty wall; with the Monday morning, a pale, slim ghost crept musicians, silver trumpets to their lips, out of the shadows in the corner by the half a mile in the heaven-held dome stove and laid its head on my shoulder, above. while tears ran down its face. I rated Each pious peasant de votee touched him soundly and roundly for depending his lips to the worn toe and sandals, on his saints all the time. But he ex- worn away almost to indistinctness, and cused his saints by saying he had forgot then with his hat brim or the heel of his ten his saints for a second to think of me hand wiped the toe and with a bow and and so got into trouble.
cross passed on.
Those of the better | marveled that he did not take the class always used a handkerchief of fatal Roman fever and die.
course. But our esthetic poet made the “Die in the city of Saint Peter? Im
one blunder, not an infrequent one with possible !” And brow, breast, left, right, us, of wiping the toe before instead of cross after cross in quick succession as I after kissing. That is bad taste. But led to the Cafe Greco, did Charles War- let us get out from St. Peter's or we shail ren Stoddard, our boy "Charley."
never reach the end. I had secured a room for him with great A few months after the carnival, Letrouble; a narrow, dirty thing, truly, man, the banker, brother to Arthur but a palace at such times. “ It looks Leman, the artist, who has been here like a coffin," he said as he put his head and will be here again, came to our place in," and smells like hell." He would with dismay and told me Charley was not enter, said the street was better, and dying, having had a fall frm his horse so, the saints helping him of course, by in a ride home at night fron Tivoli. luck or accident, at last we found a pretty Priests came, bishops and archbishops. place, with a dozen pretty girls to help It is strange how this gentle poet got him count his beads, to thank the into the hearts of them all and stayed saints for deliverance from that dirty there. While on this subject, let me say coffin.
that no man, not even the President of It was my fortune and pleasure to take the United States, ever had or ever could
have such favors and such friendship as been good indeed, for no man has ever this man, our bad, bad boy, Charley, lived so pure a life, so gentle and entirely had and still has abroad. So he did not good. die. And when his restoring strength When he got well and the great Cathpermitted the liberty, I again rallied him olic University of America 'was estababout his saints.
lished, his Holiness the Pope put out his “Yes, it surely was the saints,” he hand over the heads of the hundred thouinsisted, “ for see what friends this mis- sand learned men of Europe who would fortune has brought me."
have been proud of the place and laid it And his faith did not betray him, for on the head of Charles Warren Stoddard the Pope sent him a long letter, an auto- in choice. And so our poet bundled up graph letter on parchment and in Latin, his books and went away from Rome to which is, or was once, hung up in the the Washington university, to be buried principal Catholic edifice in San Fran- there out of sight of us all, with the cisco. We heretics used to tell Charley monks, the incense, the rituals, the as he lay there that this parchment for- music, the sacred things that he has gave him all his sins, past, present, and always so loyally loved. He has gone future, he surely would have a good out of the life of Bohemia as the sunlight time from that day forth. And so he has goes in the afternoon, and we sit saying had; let us thank his saints with him. of him as he sang when a boy of the sunHe has from that misfortune forth had a light of California :good time — as good a time as his heart
The sunlight has flown like a butterfly is good -- and that is saying it has ever Brushing the gold from his wings.
TO PRAY is but to Love! 'Tis not to live
A mendicant imploring at God's feet
THE patriotic tidal wave that swept perpetuate the memory of those who
over our country in its centennial took part in the American Revolution, year aroused many new impulses among and strangely enough, the seed was a liberty-loving people. Long before planted and developed on the extreme that period the bent and grizzled last western shores of the continent. It soldier of the Revolution had ceased to sounds almost romantic for history to appear in public parades. The people record that in California birth was given were made to feel that a slight frost of
to the patriotic organization that bears antiquity was beginning to incrust our
the name which heads this article. Three national existence and that steps should thousand miles from the fields whereon be taken to preserve from oblivion the battles of the Revolution were fought,names of men and their heroic deeds of
three thousand miles from the sacred a hundred years before. It was such spot where legislation proclaimed liberty sentiments that suggested a way to to a free and independent people, – there