The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, December 25, 1895, Page 8

THE SAN FRANCISCO CALL, WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 25, 1895. Charles of Spain sent one of his surtiers and soldiers, Don Deliac: , on & special mission fo v to examine into and report to him : lition and prospects of the Span- s at that port. Don Manuel was received at Monterey &nd fell in love lce Gomez, the daughter of the com- Regardless of the King's repeated ns and consequent displeasure, the oy married the fair Calilornian and sur- adered his pleasant career at home for love's ake. Afteralong and happy life the ted couple died within a month of one er and were buried & few yards nortn of ola Carmel Mission Church.] Came a message from the King, From his Majesty of Spain, To Don Manuel: “‘Prepare To sail forth upon the main To the far Pacific shores, fin 1 most esteemed Where our Spanish subjects dwell; We would learn how they fare. Haste thee, good Don Manuel.” He, the youngest of that court, And the gayest of the gay, ! First in war and first in sport, | To be summoned thus away, 1 From the banquet and the ball, From the moonlight serenade, \eard and he obeyed, ! de farewell to all, | nnon-guarded wall the fort at Monterey v marked a vessel tall | Cast her anchor in the bay, And the ensign of proud Spain To the breezes floated wide, #Tis an envoy of the King,’ Did the commandant decide. With welcome, and with feast, - Did Don Ramon entertain, His young and honored guest— ! Don Manuel of Spain, And the flower of all the town, Dulce, his daughter, filled To the brim the greeting cup, d the stranger’s heart was thrilled y her dark eyes, looking up | All shyly to his own, And she felt that ne’er before { Did so grand a cavalier Grace the old fort on the shore. The antumn passed away In pleasure, song and fete, rambles o’er the hills, In saunterings by the bay, i With Dulce at his side. Don Manuel recked naught | Of his duty to the King, Every impulse, every thought, In Dulce centering. | | The mandate came one day, i With the royal seal impressed, | “Return without delay, With your tidings from the West.” With a pang of bitter grief, T'roubled brow, he fain would hide, He said, “Ramon, my friend, “My mission’s at an end, 1 depart hence, Christmas eve.” Don Ramon much deplored The message of recall. He said, “Friend, be assured That in the Spanish land You will clasp no truer hand, Find no hearts more fond and kind Than those you leave behind.” Along the crescent beach, When the moon shone clear cold, ‘Where the wintry surges rolled To the brooding envoy’s feet, As he paced, they seemed to say : ‘Oh, remember, never more Will you wander by this tide With Dulce by your side; Never more beneath yon moon Will you hear her silvery voice— In her tender glance rejoice, In all the years to come! Though beyond lie fame and gold, Think that love and truth are here. There has passed no lover’s token, No words of passion spoken; But you know her heart will break With pining for your sake.” and “Hush thy voice, reproachful tide,” His troubled soul replied. **What? surrender my career? 1, the chosen of the king, Brave dishonor and disgrace For a girl’s lovely face, And aside his favors fling? I may find a maid as dear; T'll forget, and love again. There are dames in Sunny Spain— Women great in wealth and pride— From whom I'll win my bride.” As he turns to go, the bells From the Mission turret peal, And their silver cadence swells O’er the waters, sweet and clear. Ah, never in all time, Shall again that liguid chime (Ver his tortured senses steal, To his nobler thought appeal. A soft hand is laid in his; “My querida Dulce, here!” “Yes, Don Manuel, it is I, Come here to say good-by, That your ship may sail the seas, Fanned by every passing breeze, I will pray, dear friend of mine, For all grace on thee and thine; But though blest with love and power, When the Angelus you hear Think of her who holds you dear— Forget not, friend, this hour.” Her head is on his breast, His lips to hers are pressed; Love has won—a simple stone The tender story tells Of a love which far outshone Ambition’s paltry wreath. Two hearts, faithful unto death, Long since passed away, And the wild flowers deck their grave By the shores of Carmel Bay. The Writers of Long Ago. Written for THE CALL by WILLIAM GREER HARRISON. With a reverent hand I move the folds of time which hide the dead past from the busvy vresent. Tenderly and with a feeling of reverence I turn to the records of those who, a quarter of a century ago, sang the truth as it is in nature, to the people of San Francisco. With affection- ate regard I open the volumes which con- tain the songs, stories and something of the lives of the men and women who then | belonged to the world of lettersin Cali- fornia. [ do this, not looking for faults, with no desire to expose forgotten weaknesses; not to draw aside the habiliments of the grave, but inspired by the beauty, the| truth and the intrinsic value of the| vorks of these early writers, to enter a | simple plea that they be all lovingly re- membered in these Christmas times. | Some have passed into the valley of the | great shadow, some have wandered from | us into distant lands and some are still with us in the flesh. Let us believe that they are all with us around our Christmas fires, brightening our dull lives, making pictures for us in the flickering flames of the yule log, retelling their stories, feast- ing our eyes upon the realization of their Areams, filling our hearts with a common love, playing upon our sympathies, mak- ing us glad that they were and that we are. No voice that sang for us then, however feeble its notes so long as they were true, should be forgotten. They were the true historians, and whoever writes the story of California must turn to these and even earlier writers and in their fugitive songs tind that material necessary in a true his- tory of the lands by the peaceful sea. In these records every phase of Western life, the strong, the robust, manly, yet in- tensely dramatic life, is told in language | s0 beautiful in its simplicity, so strong in i realism, so apt in its descrintion, that the scenes depicted are ag fresh to us to- | day as they were to thoss who read the tales as they were told. Stories of heroic adventure, of the opening up of new fields of enterprise, of the discovery of new re- gions of wealth, of the indomitable pluck and perseverance of the men who built up the fortunes of this new empire of the West, stories oi love, of passion, of re- venge, of heroism. of victory and of defeat, ries of seli-abnegation, of splendid self- rifice, of man’s love for man, of woman’s devotion, of man’s perfidy, of woman's be- trayal, of broken hearts, of blighted ambi- tion, of vast fortunes, of human wrecks, of death and the grave. We hear the musical clangor of the pick in the bowels of the earth; we see the eager, anxious, expectant look in the face of the delving miner; we see thatlook turn to one of blank despair as the fruits of his labor come to him as *‘Dead Sea apples,”’ and we see that look also passaway as, with the courage true to his nature, he turns in another direction, in another effort to win success, and are with him as the golden metal yields to his will and crowns him victor. We see these strange sons of toil in their wild abandonment in the miners' camp, we read of their quarrels, their fatal duels, and we are told of the code of honor by which their Jives were governed. We hear their lusty yet musical songs, and we know that in the midst of their revelry there are sad hearts thinking, sad souls dreaming of dear ones away in the farthest East. We know the story of their lives and their privations and their hopes, and with all their follies, their sin and shame, we for- get everything but the great manliness of their natures and the splendid pluck of their lives. We see them felling the giants of the forest and hear the ax of the woodsmen ringing through the forest and its curious echo among the hills. And when the day’s work is done we see the woodsmen gather round their campfire and hear the stories that were told a thousand years ago retold in the heart of the forest of California. And, as in the mining camp, so in the lumber camp, there was always a poez who sang of nature and of her magical charms and who sang truly because his heart was true. _And we have stories of the mining law- var s=vd the roneh but faithful mining parson, and of the honest and dishonest gambler, and of great-hearted doctors, and teachers, and leaders, and of all the men who daily carried their lives in their hands and who thought of self never. And stories of the brave, simple zirls go- ing into these wild regions to take up the task of educating the more youthful of the population, of their marvelous influence upon the men amid whom they dwelt, of the magical changes in their surroundings, of the strange courtships and love scenes; and, alas! of the tragedies as well as the comedies of Western life. Is it not wise to look back and once more bring into prominence the names of those who pro- vided for usasong that can never grow old? Young California knows little of John C. Cremony, one of the most remarkable and picturesque figures in California life, a man who was iniensely human in all his sympathies, and whose “Tales of the In- dians” arc pen-paintings with a color and strength that bring these half-brothers of ours cioser to oar hearts. And B. P. Avery, once editor of the A*Overland Monthly,”” then Minister to China, now among the shades, a lover of art, a strong, clean, truthful writer. Good John Melville, with his quaint and gentle ways, with his pure English, and his wholesome life, is he not amidst the shades also? And T. H. Rearden, a lawyer, scholar iand brilliant conversationalist, an ardent lover of the Grecian civilization, a poet who sang inspired by the Giecian muse, is he not with his masters? And J. Ross Browne, with his stories of old California days and his Texas idyls, his dry humor and his strong love for his fellow-mortals, is he not with the immor- tals? And Prentice Mulford, with his odd fancies and his quaint conceits and his grave psychological studies, and witha song to sing which. he sang right on until the far-off called him away. Dr. J. D. B. Stillman, with whom poetry was science, and who loved to follow in the footsteps of the pioneers, and recount their triumphs, rejoice in their victories and suffer in their defeats, is beyond the mountain tops. And Bishop Kip, & man of stately pres- ence and grave dienity, yet ever in sym- pathy with the intellectual progress of the times. Up there on some hidden peak, breaking through the nether sky, has he builc a church, and are the old heroes gethering round him listening to the new song,"“The Song of the Emancivated Soul” ? And can we not hear the rough though musical notes of Captain C. M. Scammon, who told us the story of Astoria, and made for us a rorance out of the “Lives of the Fur Seals””? Is be not away with the old Berserkers, hunting for new worlds in the mists of the unknown? And Noah Brooks, who has found out the glory and delight of the eternal em- pire, where neither ‘‘old lamps nor negw lamps’’ are needed, for the light of that land fades never? And Albert S. Evans, whose thoughts were ever “‘among the clouds,” has he not realized his dreams? And W. A. Kendall, who sang to usthe “Song of Night,” bidding us godspeed through the darkening hours, has he not said farewell to the night forever? And sweet Josephine Clifford, has she not re- alized *‘All Things for the Best’’? And John Kays, who loved the forest life and all its ways, and in his fancies made it a home for us, and built temples and wor- shiped there, does he look down and see the desecration of his temples by the van- dals of the present? And Taliesin Evans,who loved to wander by the river banks and preach the gospel of the brooks and tell the stories of the trees, is he not still singing in the great temple of the infinite? Avd John and Agnes Manning with their stories of Aus- tralian and Californian life, and Theodore F. Dwight, and Hilda Rosevelt and Geor- giana B. Kirby with their varied stories of the life of the day, sang they not all true songs? Among the living yet distant writers, who in winning fame for themselves drew i from abroad many generous notices of | those who helped to create the world of letters in California, we have only to name Mark Twain to start into being groups of odds and ends, picturesque characters, a comic kingdom and an empire of fun. Mr. Clemens clambered rapidly the broken pathway up the mountain- side, becoming an object of universal | regard and the subject of an alumiost over- | whelming pecumary disaster. Who can- not Lut feel a deep sympathy with him and express an earnest hope that ere the lights go out for him he will have had time given to him to enjoy the peace and quiet which should be his in the evening of life? Charles W. Stoddard, it would be an af- fectation to call him anything but Charlie, poet and dreamer of dreams, whose songs are songs of the heart ana whose own life is never sad save in the contemplation of the sadness of others, him it would be im- possible to know without loving. Charle, who is never so happy as when he is dreaming, wandering idly through the forest, loitering by some babbling stream, lazily reclining at the foot of some moun- tain, with an earnest desire to climb it, but with a total disability to overcome his natural laziness, this most gentle and genial of men is engaged in educating the unloveliness of the Eastern youth, but his heart and his affections are here with us in California. Martin Kellogg, scientist and scholar, and Professor Le Conte, two men of at- tainments so great that it may be said with certainty that however distinguishea they are in this fair land that hada they been translated to some seat of learning in the older lands they would have been hon- ored by the great thinkers of the world. Fortunately for the University of Califor- nia both these scholars have been con- tented to find the reward of their labors in training 1ts youth. What an odd, quaint and delightfu: pair they are! Professor Kellogg shows all the signs and marks of his Scottish ancestry, with his terrible commmon-sense, his immediate acceptance of facts and his disposition to reject fan- cies; having withal a dry wit, though it be Scotch, and a nature gentle and kindly as that of a true woman. Professor Le Conte, scientist, shows quickly his French origin, giving you the hard facts of science in such dainty, delicate, burnished words as to make a poem of almost all his utter- ances. Tospend an evening with either or both of these men is a reward fora year of hard work. [ Bret Harte! What memories the name touches! Whatsprings of almost forgotten lore bubble up at the very sound of his name! How tne pine trees echo it, how the canyons reverberate, how the camp- dwellers shout it, how-the bronzed maidens of California sing it and how we love it and wish he had never left us! I wonder if he doesn’t hunger for the old groves, for the brown hills, for the superb manliness which he has thrown away tor the dreary monotony of city life. Can he not hear his ““Angelus” calling him back, or his own “Fate’” warning him to return to ‘“‘San Francisco From the Sea,” or will he in this Yule-time send us a message by his “Sea Bird”? Has the “Luck of Roaring Camp” followed him? Dare he ride again with *Friar Pedro”?or has helost that voice that sang for us “Madrona,” oris his **Idyl of Red Gulch” forgotten, or is he still tell- ing it to “Tennessee’s Partner,”” or has he drawn a picture of the “Grizzly” for his new iriends, and for some fair London lady has he written ‘“Her Letter,” or told her of the ‘“Mountain’s Heart's-ease,” or painted for her *‘Portala’s Cross,”’ or amused her with the tale of “Brown of Calaveras”; or has he startled the scien- tific world with another story of the ““Or- nithologist,” or is he still writing the ‘“History of Our Ishmaelites’”? No. Yet he may be singing the song of “Chiquita,” or the ballad of “Dow’s Flat,” or making hearts cry over the story of “Jim,” or melting the world to tears with “Dickens in Camp.”” Will he ever write another “Tliad of Sandy Bar,” or sing of “Cicely,” orsend “An Answer to Her Letter,” or will he give us anotlher ‘‘Penelope,” or delight and charm us again with "Plain Language From Truthful James”? Per- haps not. ‘‘Look here upon this victure.” A new light in the Western world. A young and gallant soldier in the noonday of life, leaving the scenes of battle and blood, stepping out of the tierce medley of war into the gentler fields of literature, A’ plumed knight equipped for peaceful con- quests, lance in rest but ready at call for l:mightly deeds. So came Ambrose Bierce into our world of letters five and twenty years ago. Turn to his “Haunted Village™ and read the strong, virile tale of the times, the vivid and forceful picture of scenes entirely new to him. Color, draw- ing, breadth and strength are there, with a freshness that is charming and delight- fuland an art that was meant to endure. And how much we owe him for delightful hours with the “‘Grizzlies.” How full of humor and quaint oddities of expression and touches of pathos and broad, bold English, withouta twist in it. And thus he wrote and satirized and stirred as by the potency of the skill that was in him until the shadow fell npon his genius—the shadow that hurt his ambition and turned his life’s purpose awry. And Ina D. Coolbrith: when we think of her, the sweetest singer of them all, we arein the dreamland of poesy and there comes to us on the soft air of the new-born day the perfume of the rose and the deli- cate odor of the violet. The fern and the | brake, the splash of water, the shadow on the hillside, the swish of the birds through the air, the music of the trees, the sun- tinted sky, the gray robes of the night in the darkling clonds—all these are ours in the plaintive songs Ina sings. And Joaquin Miller, the eccentric, whose wonderful creations, whose strange pen- pictures, whose weird imagination and wiose gift of song make of him a figure | picturesque, boid and prominent in Cali | fornia. Nor has he a local reputation | only. The poets of other lands recognize and welcome him as a brother, and even the critics agree that he possesses that indefinable something which, for lack of a better name, we call genius. And Lucius H. Foote, soldier, diplomat and scholar, whose utterances are always chaste, classical and poetical. No man has done more to dignify and elevate litera- ture. No writer has so well preserved that elegancy of diction which distinguishes the gentle scholar from him who is merely i scholastic. And M. G. Upton with his strong, wholesome and pure English, a master of political economy, breaking occasionally into a lighter vein of humorous descrip- tion, always clear, lucid and to the point. And Andrew Mc and Davis and his | brother Horace 1 both passionate vis, lovers of Shakespeare, both contributors to the wealth of the literatare of the day, both to be regarded in affectionate remem- brance. And Samuel Williams, and W. C. Bart- lett, with varied talents and with journal- istic skill told their story truthfully and pointedly, making their mark in the liter- ary world and a reputation for clean writing and sturdy phrasing worthy of imitation. John 8. Hittell, historian and chronicler, dealt by choice with the graver matters of life, delving into the past, d1s- covering for us, as it were, the “dead rivers of California,” giving to the reader pictures of untrodden valleys, of forgotten races, and preparing himself for a “‘history of California.” J.T. Doyen and Dr. Harris picture for us in golden colors life in the Orient, and M. J. Kelly takes us back to far Cartha- gena, and from there to spend the night in | the ‘““steppes of Russia.” And Thomas Magee, business man and litterateur, who found time to write of ‘“‘overworked soils” and of the marvels of “‘an overland trip,” carrying with him a well-studied volume of Shakespeare, rejoicing in its possession, and always ready to express his love for the great master. And George F. Parsons, who knew and told us all about “Bohe- mianism,” initiated us into its mysteries and then took us off into the fields of journalism and for a time left us there. And Mrs. Eugenia Melville, who gave to her Buglish stories a dainty, French piquancy that made them delightful read- ing. And how the professional men appeared in their strong, vigorous monologues—the Rev. H. D. Jenking, Dr. D. Walker, the Rev. A. W. Loomis, Dr. J. 8. Silver, Dr. G. T. Shipley, the Rev. D. C. Bissell—all writ- ing with a purpose, all contributing to the new kingdom of knowledge. These all belonged to the perfod indi- cated. A little later their number was in- creased and strengthened by a host of new writers whose names and characteristics are familiar to our readers. And Daniel O’Connell, the grand-nephew of the great Liverator, who makes sun- | shine wherever he is, and whose poems | and ballads and 1 songs make us al- | most angry with him that he is so dilet- | tante in his methods. Alas! Dan is a Nim- | rod and the time which should belong to | the muse (and the muses wiil not be trifled with) is given to piscatorial pursuits, yet 0O’Connell has been a prolific writer, writ- ing on the wing as it were, and apparently indifferent as to the fate of his fugitive songs of which he has made but onecoliec- tion. Dan may be called the Tom Moore of California, and if he isn’t Tom Moore it is because he ie so many good feliows in one that it is difficult to place him. Thave purposely excluded any reference to the corps of dramatic critics. The work they have done is too important to be dealt with as a part of the article and | must form the subject of a special paper. | Tt will be sufficient to say that the dramatic writers of this City have a national and international reputation of which they | may well be proud. Written for THE CALL Two weeks before Christmas there was a novelty in San Francisco—not the great City of to-day, but the rough and happy- go-lucky one of early days—the Christmas of 1852. The frequenters of the Bella Union, on Washington street, opposite the plaza, | then one of the many gambling-houses in the lively young City, were astomishea on entering the brilliantly lighted hall to sce seated in the dealer’s chair at one of the rouge et noir tables a woman. A woman in a gambling den was indeed a novelty, but when she was heard to call out in a soft voice, yet clear and somewhat musical, strongly marked with a foreign | accent, “Make you game, gentlemans, make you bets; red to win, black to lose; | make you bets, gentlemans,’’ they recog- nized that she had supplanted the regular | dealer. “Who is she?”’ and “Where did she come from ?"’ were questions asked, but not answered. Before the first game had been made, the table at which she sat was surrounded by a throng anxious to see the new dealer and to tempt chance at her table. The cries of the dealers at the other tabies were uttered again and again, but they had no attrac- tion that night for those in the hall, who had come there to play. Not in the least embarrassed by the crowd in front of her, the woman quietly watched those who, in response to her in- vitation to make their bets. crushed and clbowed their way to reach her table. Oc- casionally she bestowed a smile upon some reckless individual who made an unusually large bet. Curiosity prompted questioning, and be- fore the first deal it was announced from one to another that the mysteriousstranger was ‘“Madame Jules,” who had but a few days before arrived from one of the great gambling centers of Europe. Further than that none could say. The heterogenous crowd watched Mme. Jules closely. Among them was one who took his stand at the corner of the table and held his place, despite the pushing and crowding. He watched the dealer most intently. His eyes were shaded by the rim of a brown sombrero. l Mme. Jules was a woman of slender type, a brunette with the olive complexion of Southern Europe. Her dark tresses were worn in the mode introduced by Eugenie-Marie de Guzman when she ap- peared at the Tuilleries before she became the bride of Napoleon ITI. Mme. Jules’ black eyes flashed or were subdued at will, and there was a mark of determination about her mouth when her features were in repose which only faded away when she smiled. The man in the brown sombrero staked some money on one of the colors. Occa- sionally he glanced atone of the players making a bet, but for the greater part his eyes were fixed on the dealer. Once or twice he attempted to speak to her, but in the excitement, the rush for place to add to the piles of glittering gold on the red and black spotted cloth of green, his movements were not observed by the play- ers or by the fascinating woman who called, “Come, gentlemans, make you bets.” At last came the long awaited announce- ment, “Game made, gentlemans; roll.” Those who lost watched the dealer rake in their money and prepared themselves for the next deal, while those who won smiled as they pocketed their winnings. The man in the brown sombrero had won, but he made no attempt to reach for his money, and when the croupier drew his attention to'it he simply moved his hand in a manner indicative that he wanted it to remain on the table for the next play. Suddenly he leaned forward, saying as he did so, “Marie.” At that moment he raised his head and his eyes met the gaze of a tall, full-whiskered man who worea glazed cap and who stood behind the cbair .| dead body of a man. A Mystery of the Green Table. by ERNEST C. STOCK, of the dealer. He scowled atthe man in the brown sombrero, who became violently agitated, despite an effort to appear calm. Upon hearing the name, the woman also became affected. Fora moment her face lost its color and she seemed to lose all power to act. The man inthe glazed cap leaned over, whispered something and received an affirmative nod, Then he said something more to her and patted her on the shoulder. This seemed to revive and assure her, for the color returned to her cheeks and she was as full of life as ever. In the meantime the tall man with the glazed cap had moved over to where the man with the brown sombrero stood. He spoke a few words to him in a low tone, his manner indicating his sincerity. The man with the brown sombrero, when he of the glazed cap left him, stood as if undecided what to do. Suddenly, however, he moved away and he was seen no more that night. His bet doubled, but as he did not come to claim it it was taken care of by the bank. Night after night Mme. Jules appeared at her accustomed place at the gaming table, and night after night she was con- ironted by the usual crowd of players. The man with the brown sombrero was not among them. It was not until the night before Christmas that he came again. He had edged his way to within a few feet of Mme. Jules. When the play wasat its height he threw his hand to his side and wes in the act of drawing a revolver from its holster. The movement was ob- served by the tall man with the glazed cap who stood at kis accustomed post. He sprang forward, seized the man with the sombrero by the throat and backed him out of the hall into the street. The crowd followed, expecting to see a case prepared for the Coroner, but in this they were ais- appointed. The man with the brown som- brero slunk away. The man with the glazed cap hurriedly returned to Mme. Jules. The following night the man with the brown sombrero again appeared in the Bella Union and a look of disappointment spread over his countenance when he dis- coverea that Mme. Jules was not at the table, and that the seat was occnpied by the former dealer. For a week he visited the place every night, but he did not find the woman. She had ceased to play. Sev- eral tried to engage him in conversation, but be waved them all away and refused to say a word. Then his visits ceased. L A few days after the ringingof bells had proclaimed the advent of the new year some of the charcoal burners of Sans Souci Valley in crossing the sand hill on their way to their home came across the In hisright hand there was clenched a revolver and in his right temple there was a bullet hole, estab- lishing a case of suicide. There was noth- ing found in the clothing that would tell who the dead man was. One of the curious who called at the Morgue recog- nized the body as that of the man who had been ejected from the Bella Union by the tall man with the glazed cap. Others who came later corroborated the identifi- cation. A search was instituted for Mme. Jules in the hope that she would tell who he was, but she could not be found. At the privateboarding-house where she had been living it was ascertained that the morning after the trouble in the gambling hall she went away without saying where she was going, but as the steamer sailed for Panama that day it was presumed that she left for the East. The man with the glazed cap disappeared at the same time that she did. No one was discovered who could tell where the man who had taken his life lived, or tell anything about him, so the unknown man was buried in an unmarked grave and with him the secret of the mys- terious “Marie,” or Mme. Jules, the first woman who ever dealt a banking game in San Francisco. | after | death, and that as to die is to come face to | solemn “In the name of God, amen!” wrote ‘Peter Magee; for this was to be a holo- graphic will, and he was proud to think that he knew as much as the ablest lawyer in the land when it came to drawing a tes- fament devising a vast estate. “In the name of God, amen!” he read, sonorously, he had written it. “That sounds rich and round and holy,” he mused. “It means to say that the making of a will isa formal acceptance of the inevitablity of face with God a will is addressed as much to heaven as to earth. “Let me impress upon myself the vast and awful sublimity of the thought. For the shadows ire drawing about me and it is comfortable to feel that old age and a completed life do not lay a laggard hand on the latch when Death knocks at the door, and that the possessor of great wealth, gathered by his own true hand, may face the last summons without fear.” Mr. Magee paused and reflected, and then added this to what he had already written: “I, Peter Magee, being of sound and disposing mind—"’ “Ha, h he softly chuckled. “‘See how elibly a dying man can say that he is in full possession of his faculties! And is it any different when the testator is not in | the article of death? Such of my heirs as | will be inspired with discontent by the provisions of this testament will bring overwhelming proof of my inability to express my wishes with that justice which | wisdom inspires.” He looked about the shabby room of | which he was the lonely occupant, smiled | grimly at the cheap candle which cast its wavering glow upon his writing paper, | and which filled the room with shifting, shambling and ragged shadows, drawn | thither from every corner of the broad | demesne which human suffering claims | for its own. He glanced down over his | writing-pad at the tattered craz_v-quinf which covered his emaciated frame. “They will prove,” he ruminated, “that | the mere fact of my selecting this squalid chamber in which to make my will and die, away from doctors grotesquely | under reflections upon the fee | which my estate will yield them, away from long-jawed heirs who prowl through the big house noiselessly, like unsubstan- tial ghouis—all tbis will be employed as convincing proof that I was not of sound and disposing mind; that is, if the will should not happen to suit them. “Now, it will not suit them if it gives them less than they think they ought to have or might secure by fightinz it in the courts. Mind you, it is not my will that they respect. And oh, that is the wretch- edness of death! While we live and our money makes law of our word we are mighty, but the moment the poor rotting clay turns cold it is not even useful as car- rion for their beaks! And so all the power | and all the brains and cunning and con- triving, all the soul and essence, all that accumulated wealth stands for as the his- tory of its gatherer and as the imperish- able part of him that goes swinging and surging down the ages for good or ill—all the spirit and meaning of it are forgotten, and only the meaner and grosser and wholly degrading part of it lures with its glitter and challenges bitterness and un- rest with its sordid influence. It is sweet and wholesome for a million- aire to die in the aspect of poverty. “‘In the name of God, amen!’ Aye, mark that. We may not call in God as a vartner in devise unless he has earned a share in the estate, and this right can bave accrued only through his co-operation in the acquisition of the property. “Mercy! In how many cases does that fact exist? “But this assumption of God’s conniv- ance in the making of a will is only a matter of form! Had I time, and were a | will the proper medium for expressing my | views on this phase of the case, I might | put into this precious document some very interesting observations on the subject of form. They would concern in general matters that have form withont substance. It T should do that it would be merely adding to the evidences of my mental incapacity, and as a will is a very important affair its maker must conceal the truth with wise assiduity, even thongh in so doing he deceive him- self. I wonder how many rich will-makers would die content if, while they were mak- ing it, they should suddenly develop the ability to bring themselves face to face with truth and justice, that unailing defi- nition of God! “The strangest coincidence in all the combinations of circumstances that have brought me to this extremity is that I should happen to be dying and making my willon the eve of Christmas. I can explain to my own satisfaction the peculiar tnoughts that are filling my mind to-night by considering the infinences which a gen- eral preparation for this day have exer- cised upon my understanding, upon which the tenderness of aeath hus already had an effect. Well, it is good to yield to any influence that opens the doors of the heart to the intrusive sunshine which comes from many glowing suns and clamors for admission. How marvelous a feeling is inspired now by the inmer questioning which demand to know whether one who understands Christianity can make the pursuit of wealth a business! “Sjow, there! We are upon the frayed edges of ragged arguments. He that hath it not in his marrow wisely to weigh char~ ity against justice, the sweetness of fore giveness against the righteousness of pun- ishment, the allurements of hope against the definite aims of a worthy ambition, the blindness of faith against the natural need of cpen-eyed questioning; he that hath it not in him to make him a wise man lacks all that would make him a good Curistian or Jew or Brahmin or Buddhist—lacks all that would make him a good man even though he profess not a religion! As for the pursmit of wealth, one might indulge that occupation and be still a good man if oné shouid acquire money as one devises it—in the name of God, amen! “What makes a good man? He who asks the question hath it not in him to answer it, for had he that he would not inquire. *‘Under the common order dbf human affairs aeath cancels all obligations of gratitude. This means to say that there is no gratitude apart from expediency. Hence the institution of devise, which is a safeguard erected by the law against mani- festations of ingratitude. But it is a wonderful law that can make human beings good and a miraculous working of it that cannot be turned aside by avarice. “There are other things, and they must have a concrete expression. So I write: *‘In the name of God, amen! I, Peter Magee, being of sound and aisposing mind, do make this, my last will and testament, to wit: To my wife, Jane Magee, I bequeath the opportunity of enforcing her rights under the law. To my daughters, Eliza« beth and Margaret, I bequeath the memory of the education which I have given them for the purpose of earning a livelihood. To my sons, John and Jeremiah, I be- queath my love and $1 each. Lest these bequests seem meager and inade- quate, I explain that I do not wish to encourage idleness, extrava- gance and dissipation by bequests of large parts of my fortune to my said child- ren. 'To all other persons who may think or be able to prove in court that they bave a valid claim upon my estate, il is hereby provided that $1 each shall be left, with which they may buy a rope to hang them« selves.”” Mr. Magee chuckled gleefully upon read- ing this over after it had been written, The lines in his face sank deeper and its ashy hue became more pallid. Meanwhile his decreasing candle was ‘sinking toward its socket, and he regarded it anxiously, regretting that he had not provided another. In order to make it fit the toa large stick he had wrapped the lower end with paper. “You see,” he mused, “had I left them my property they would have fought for it like thieves. Knowing myself the evils of wealth in unwise hands, I would endow them with the blessings of poverty. As for my property—oh, the lawyers will take good care of that! “Still I must make a pretense of othe» disposition. How cozy and snug it is for a dying man to juggle with future cone ditions which, he being dead, he has no right to control. Has there ever lived a millionaire whose vanity was not his im- mortal part, refusing to accompany him to the grave and stalking forth among living mankind rattling the bones of its dead creator?” * 5 Near about this time the paper which wrapped the end of the candle caught the flame and flared up with ominous vigor. The dying man regarded it with a glance in which an alarmed apprehension was mingled with a sinister introspection. “I am tearing out my vitals this night,” he resumed, “in order to study the my teries and strange conceits which lie hide den in their folds. Has this unexpected augmentation of my light come to aid my perception, or is it merely the flash pre- ceding that profound darkness in which the eye of the soul can see more clearly 2’ He lcoked curiously around the walls and up at the ceiling. “It gives a warm glow,” he said, “quite unlike the cold dead light of the past few hours. That seems very strange. I had forgotten the ways of a candle wrapped with paper and thrust into a tin stick. But what am I doing for what -people call charity? Only this . . . I am dying And that is good.”" And the strangest part of it, the thing which explains his will, is that he was not a millionaire at all, but a penniless old man without wife or children. So his body was very vroperly interred in the potter’s field the day after Christmas. A QUESTIONABLE RISK, | The building was on the “black list” of the insurance companies because one of tpe tenants had already burned out four times under suspicious circumstances, n_md'lpvurenuy Wwith pecuniary profit to himseli. It was, therefore, impossible for this tenant to get insurance from any com- pany, and the boycott went so far as to in- clude any building that harborea him or his stock of goods. The business concern that had moved into the *“‘black-listed” building was aisturbed. The head of the firm went tc an insurance acent and said: “I wish you could arrange it in some way to insure our stock.”’ d *I'm sorry,” replied the agent, “but the Jompanies have no confidence in that man on the floor adove.”’ ‘He can’t get insurance, eh ?” t & cent’s worth. They're onto him all along the line.”” “Well, do you think there’s any danger of a fire in that building as long as he's not insured ?” “Well, [ should say not. thought of that before.” The firm received its policy at once. I never 9