{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_2599/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_2599","id":"gutenberg_2599","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2599","summary":null,"tags":["American fiction -- 19th century","Category: American Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Short stories"],"text":"Produced by Donald Lainson\n\n\n\n\n\nLEGENDS AND TALES\n\nBy Bret Harte\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nTHE LEGEND OF MONTE DEL DIABLO\n\nTHE ADVENTURE OF PADRE VINCENTIO\n\nTHE LEGEND OF DEVIL'S POINT\n\nTHE DEVIL AND THE BROKER\n\nTHE OGRESS OF SILVER LAND\n\nTHE RUINS OF SAN FRANCISCO\n\nA NIGHT AT WINGDAM\n\n\n\n\nLEGENDS AND TALES.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LEGEND OF MONTE DEL DIABLO.\n\n\nThe cautious reader will detect a lack of authenticity in the following\npages. I am not a cautious reader myself, yet I confess with some\nconcern to the absence of much documentary evidence in support of\nthe singular incident I am about to relate. Disjointed memoranda, the\nproceedings of ayuntamientos and early departmental juntas, with other\nrecords of a primitive and superstitious people, have been my inadequate\nauthorities. It is but just to state, however, that though this\nparticular story lacks corroboration, in ransacking the Spanish archives\nof Upper California I have met with many more surprising and incredible\nstories, attested and supported to a degree that would have placed this\nlegend beyond a cavil or doubt. I have, also, never lost faith in the\nlegend myself, and in so doing have profited much from the examples\nof divers grant-claimants, who have often jostled me in their more\npractical researches, and who have my sincere sympathy at the scepticism\nof a modern hard-headed and practical world.\n\nFor many years after Father Junipero Serro first rang his bell in\nthe wilderness of Upper California, the spirit which animated that\nadventurous priest did not wane. The conversion of the heathen went\non rapidly in the establishment of Missions throughout the land. So\nsedulously did the good Fathers set about their work, that around their\nisolated chapels there presently arose adobe huts, whose mud-plastered\nand savage tenants partook regularly of the provisions, and occasionally\nof the Sacrament, of their pious hosts. Nay, so great was their\nprogress, that one zealous Padre is reported to have administered\nthe Lord's Supper one Sabbath morning to \u201cover three hundred heathen\nSalvages.\u201d It was not to be wondered that the Enemy of Souls, being\ngreatly incensed thereat, and alarmed at his decreasing popularity,\nshould have grievously tempted and embarrassed these Holy Fathers, as we\nshall presently see.\n\nYet they were happy, peaceful days for California. The vagrant keels of\nprying Commerce had not as yet ruffled the lordly gravity of her bays.\nNo torn and ragged gulch betrayed the suspicion of golden treasure.\nThe wild oats drooped idly in the morning heat, or wrestled with the\nafternoon breezes. Deer and antelope dotted the plain. The watercourses\nbrawled in their familiar channels, nor dreamed of ever shifting their\nregular tide. The wonders of the Yosemite and Calaveras were as yet\nunrecorded. The Holy Fathers noted little of the landscape beyond the\nbarbaric prodigality with which the quick soil repaid the sowing. A new\nconversion, the advent of a Saint's day, or the baptism of an Indian\nbaby, was at once the chronicle and marvel of their day.\n\nAt this blissful epoch there lived at the Mission of San Pablo Father\nJose Antonio Haro, a worthy brother of the Society of Jesus. He was\nof tall and cadaverous aspect. A somewhat romantic history had given a\npoetic interest to his lugubrious visage. While a youth, pursuing his\nstudies at famous Salamanca, he had become enamored of the charms\nof Dona Carmen de Torrencevara, as that lady passed to her matutinal\ndevotions. Untoward circumstances, hastened, perhaps, by a wealthier\nsuitor, brought this amour to a disastrous issue; and Father Jose\nentered a monastery, taking upon himself the vows of celibacy. It was\nhere that his natural fervor and poetic enthusiasm conceived expression\nas a missionary. A longing to convert the uncivilized heathen succeeded\nhis frivolous earthly passion, and a desire to explore and develop\nunknown fastnesses continually possessed him. In his flashing eye and\nsombre exterior was detected a singular commingling of the discreet Las\nCasas and the impetuous Balboa.\n\nFired by this pious zeal, Father Jose went forward in the van of\nChristian pioneers. On reaching Mexico, he obtained authority to\nestablish the Mission of San Pablo. Like the good Junipero, accompanied\nonly by an acolyte and muleteer, he unsaddled his mules in a dusky\ncanyon, and rang his bell in the wilderness. The savages--a peaceful,\ninoffensive, and inferior race--presently flocked around him. The\nnearest military post was far away, which contributed much to the\nsecurity of these pious pilgrims, who found their open trustfulness and\namiability better fitted to repress hostility than the presence of an\narmed, suspicious, and brawling soldiery. So the good Father Jose said\nmatins and prime, mass and vespers, in the heart of Sin and Heathenism,\ntaking no heed to himself, but looking only to the welfare of the Holy\nChurch. Conversions soon followed, and, on the 7th of July, 1760, the\nfirst Indian baby was baptized,--an event which, as Father Jose piously\nrecords, \u201cexceeds the richnesse of gold or precious jewels or the\nchancing upon the Ophir of Solomon.\u201d I quote this incident as best\nsuited to show the ingenious blending of poetry and piety which\ndistinguished Father Jose's record.\n\nThe Mission of San Pablo progressed and prospered until the pious\nfounder thereof, like the infidel Alexander, might have wept that there\nwere no more heathen worlds to conquer. But his ardent and enthusiastic\nspirit could not long brook an idleness that seemed begotten of sin;\nand one pleasant August morning, in the year of grace 1770, Father Jose\nissued from the outer court of the Mission building, equipped to explore\nthe field for new missionary labors.\n\nNothing could exceed the quiet gravity and unpretentiousness of the\nlittle cavalcade. First rode a stout muleteer, leading a pack-mule laden\nwith the provisions of the party, together with a few cheap crucifixes\nand hawks' bells. After him came the devout Padre Jose, bearing his\nbreviary and cross, with a black serapa thrown around his shoulders;\nwhile on either side trotted a dusky convert, anxious to show a proper\nsense of their regeneration by acting as guides into the wilds of their\nheathen brethren. Their new condition was agreeably shown by the absence\nof the usual mud-plaster, which in their unconverted state they assumed\nto keep away vermin and cold. The morning was bright and propitious.\nBefore their departure, mass had been said in the chapel, and the\nprotection of St. Ignatius invoked against all contingent evils, but\nespecially against bears, which, like the fiery dragons of old, seemed\nto cherish unconquerable hostility to the Holy Church.\n\nAs they wound through the canyon, charming birds disported upon\nboughs and sprays, and sober quails piped from the alders; the willowy\nwater-courses gave a musical utterance, and the long grass whispered on\nthe hillside. On entering the deeper defiles, above them towered dark\ngreen masses of pine, and occasionally the madrono shook its bright\nscarlet berries. As they toiled up many a steep ascent, Father Jose\nsometimes picked up fragments of scoria, which spake to his imagination\nof direful volcanoes and impending earthquakes. To the less scientific\nmind of the muleteer Ignacio they had even a more terrifying\nsignificance; and he once or twice snuffed the air suspiciously, and\ndeclared that it smelt of sulphur. So the first day of their journey\nwore away, and at night they encamped without having met a single\nheathen face.\n\nIt was on this night that the Enemy of Souls appeared to Ignacio in an\nappalling form. He had retired to a secluded part of the camp and had\nsunk upon his knees in prayerful meditation, when he looked up and\nperceived the Arch-Fiend in the likeness of a monstrous bear. The Evil\nOne was seated on his hind legs immediately before him, with his fore\npaws joined together just below his black muzzle. Wisely conceiving this\nremarkable attitude to be in mockery and derision of his devotions,\nthe worthy muleteer was transported with fury. Seizing an arquebuse,\nhe instantly closed his eyes and fired. When he had recovered from\nthe effects of the terrific discharge, the apparition had disappeared.\nFather Jose, awakened by the report, reached the spot only in time to\nchide the muleteer for wasting powder and ball in a contest with one\nwhom a single ave would have been sufficient to utterly discomfit. What\nfurther reliance he placed on Ignacio's story is not known; but, in\ncommemoration of a worthy Californian custom, the place was called La\nCanada de la Tentacion del Pio Muletero, or \u201cThe Glen of the Temptation\nof the Pious Muleteer,\u201d a name which it retains to this day.\n\nThe next morning the party, issuing from a narrow gorge, came upon a\nlong valley, sear and burnt with the shadeless heat. Its lower extremity\nwas lost in a fading line of low hills, which, gathering might and\nvolume toward the upper end of the valley, upheaved a stupendous bulwark\nagainst the breezy North. The peak of this awful spur was just touched\nby a fleecy cloud that shifted to and fro like a banneret. Father Jose\ngazed at it with mingled awe and admiration. By a singular coincidence,\nthe muleteer Ignacio uttered the simple ejaculation \u201cDiablo!\u201d\n\nAs they penetrated the valley, they soon began to miss the agreeable\nlife and companionable echoes of the canyon they had quitted. Huge\nfissures in the parched soil seemed to gape as with thirsty mouths. A\nfew squirrels darted from the earth, and disappeared as mysteriously\nbefore the jingling mules. A gray wolf trotted leisurely along just\nahead. But whichever way Father Jose turned, the mountain always\nasserted itself and arrested his wandering eye. Out of the dry and arid\nvalley, it seemed to spring into cooler and bracing life. Deep cavernous\nshadows dwelt along its base; rocky fastnesses appeared midway of its\nelevation; and on either side huge black hills diverged like massy roots\nfrom a central trunk. His lively fancy pictured these hills peopled with\na majestic and intelligent race of savages; and looking into futurity,\nhe already saw a monstrous cross crowning the dome-like summit. Far\ndifferent were the sensations of the muleteer, who saw in those awful\nsolitudes only fiery dragons, colossal bears and break-neck trails.\nThe converts, Concepcion and Incarnacion, trotting modestly beside the\nPadre, recognized, perhaps, some manifestation of their former weird\nmythology.\n\nAt nightfall they reached the base of the mountain. Here Father Jose\nunpacked his mules, said vespers, and, formally ringing his bell, called\nupon the Gentiles within hearing to come and accept the Holy Faith.\nThe echoes of the black frowning hills around him caught up the pious\ninvitation, and repeated it at intervals; but no Gentiles appeared that\nnight. Nor were the devotions of the muleteer again disturbed, although\nhe afterward asserted, that, when the Father's exhortation was ended,\na mocking peal of laughter came from the mountain. Nothing daunted by\nthese intimations of the near hostility of the Evil One, Father Jose\ndeclared his intention to ascend the mountain at early dawn; and before\nthe sun rose the next morning he was leading the way.\n\nThe ascent was in many places difficult and dangerous. Huge fragments\nof rock often lay across the trail, and after a few hours' climbing they\nwere forced to leave their mules in a little gully, and continue the\nascent afoot. Unaccustomed to such exertion, Father Jose often stopped\nto wipe the perspiration from his thin cheeks. As the day wore on, a\nstrange silence oppressed them. Except the occasional pattering of a\nsquirrel, or a rustling in the chimisal bushes, there were no signs of\nlife. The half-human print of a bear's foot sometimes appeared before\nthem, at which Ignacio always crossed himself piously. The eye was\nsometimes cheated by a dripping from the rocks, which on closer\ninspection proved to be a resinous oily liquid with an abominable\nsulphurous smell. When they were within a short distance of the summit,\nthe discreet Ignacio, selecting a sheltered nook for the camp, slipped\naside and busied himself in preparations for the evening, leaving\nthe Holy Father to continue the ascent alone. Never was there a more\nthoughtless act of prudence, never a more imprudent piece of caution.\nWithout noticing the desertion, buried in pious reflection, Father Jose\npushed mechanically on, and, reaching the summit, cast himself down and\ngazed upon the prospect.\n\nBelow him lay a succession of valleys opening into each other like\ngentle lakes, until they were lost to the southward. Westerly the\ndistant range hid the bosky canada which sheltered the mission of San\nPablo. In the farther distance the Pacific Ocean stretched away, bearing\na cloud of fog upon its bosom, which crept through the entrance of the\nbay, and rolled thickly between him and the northeastward; the same fog\nhid the base of mountain and the view beyond. Still, from time to time\nthe fleecy veil parted, and timidly disclosed charming glimpses of\nmighty rivers, mountain defiles, and rolling plains, sear with ripened\noats, and bathed in the glow of the setting sun. As Father Jose gazed,\nhe was penetrated with a pious longing. Already his imagination, filled\nwith enthusiastic conceptions, beheld all that vast expanse gathered\nunder the mild sway of the Holy Faith, and peopled with zealous\nconverts. Each little knoll in fancy became crowned with a chapel; from\neach dark canyon gleamed the white walls of a mission building. Growing\nbolder in his enthusiasm, and looking farther into futurity, he beheld\na new Spain rising on these savage shores. He already saw the spires\nof stately cathedrals, the domes of palaces, vineyards, gardens, and\ngroves. Convents, half hid among the hills, peeping from plantations of\nbranching limes; and long processions of chanting nuns wound through the\ndefiles. So completely was the good Father's conception of the\nfuture confounded with the past, that even in their choral strain the\nwell-remembered accents of Carmen struck his ear. He was busied in\nthese fanciful imaginings, when suddenly over that extended prospect\nthe faint, distant tolling of a bell rang sadly out and died. It was the\nAngelus. Father Jose listened with superstitious exaltation. The mission\nof San Pablo was far away, and the sound must have been some miraculous\nomen. But never before, to his enthusiastic sense, did the sweet\nseriousness of this angelic symbol come with such strange significance.\nWith the last faint peal, his glowing fancy seemed to cool; the fog\nclosed in below him, and the good Father remembered he had not had his\nsupper. He had risen and was wrapping his serapa around him, when he\nperceived for the first time that he was not alone.\n\nNearly opposite, and where should have been the faithless Ignacio, a\ngrave and decorous figure was seated. His appearance was that of an\nelderly hidalgo, dressed in mourning, with mustaches of iron-gray\ncarefully waxed and twisted around a pair of lantern-jaws. The\nmonstrous hat and prodigious feather, the enormous ruff and exaggerated\ntrunk-hose, contrasted with a frame shrivelled and wizened, all\nbelonged to a century previous. Yet Father Jose was not astonished. His\nadventurous life and poetic imagination, continually on the lookout\nfor the marvellous, gave him a certain advantage over the practical and\nmaterial minded. He instantly detected the diabolical quality of his\nvisitant, and was prepared. With equal coolness and courtesy he met the\ncavalier's obeisance.\n\n\u201cI ask your pardon, Sir Priest,\u201d said the stranger, \u201cfor disturbing\nyour meditations. Pleasant they must have been, and right fanciful, I\nimagine, when occasioned by so fair a prospect.\u201d\n\n\u201cWorldly, perhaps, Sir Devil,--for such I take you to be,\u201d said the Holy\nFather, as the stranger bowed his black plumes to the ground; \u201cworldly,\nperhaps; for it hath pleased Heaven to retain even in our regenerated\nstate much that pertaineth to the flesh, yet still, I trust, not without\nsome speculation for the welfare of the Holy Church. In dwelling upon\nyon fair expanse, mine eyes have been graciously opened with prophetic\ninspiration, and the promise of the heathen as an inheritance hath\nmarvellously recurred to me. For there can be none lack such diligence\nin the True Faith, but may see that even the conversion of these\npitiful salvages hath a meaning. As the blessed St. Ignatius discreetly\nobserves,\u201d continued Father Jose, clearing his throat and slightly\nelevating his voice, \u201c'the heathen is given to the warriors of Christ,\neven as the pearls of rare discovery which gladden the hearts of\nshipmen.' Nay, I might say--\u201d\n\nBut here the stranger, who had been wrinkling his brows and twisting\nhis mustaches with well-bred patience, took advantage of an oratorical\npause:--\n\n\u201cIt grieves me, Sir Priest, to interrupt the current of your eloquence\nas discourteously as I have already broken your meditations; but the day\nalready waneth to night. I have a matter of serious import to make with\nyou, could I entreat your cautious consideration a few moments.\u201d\n\nFather Jose hesitated. The temptation was great, and the prospect\nof acquiring some knowledge of the Great Enemy's plans not the least\ntrifling object. And if the truth must be told, there was a certain\ndecorum about the stranger that interested the Padre. Though well aware\nof the Protean shapes the Arch-Fiend could assume, and though free from\nthe weaknesses of the flesh, Father Jose was not above the temptations\nof the spirit. Had the Devil appeared, as in the case of the pious St.\nAnthony, in the likeness of a comely damsel, the good Father, with his\ncertain experience of the deceitful sex, would have whisked her away\nin the saying of a paternoster. But there was, added to the security of\nage, a grave sadness about the stranger,--a thoughtful consciousness as\nof being at a great moral disadvantage,--which at once decided him on a\nmagnanimous course of conduct.\n\nThe stranger then proceeded to inform him, that he had been diligently\nobserving the Holy Father's triumphs in the valley. That, far from\nbeing greatly exercised thereat, he had been only grieved to see so\nenthusiastic and chivalrous an antagonist wasting his zeal in a hopeless\nwork. For, he observed, the issue of the great battle of Good and Evil\nhad been otherwise settled, as he would presently show him. \u201cIt wants\nbut a few moments of night,\u201d he continued, \u201cand over this interval of\ntwilight, as you know, I have been given complete control. Look to the\nWest.\u201d\n\nAs the Padre turned, the stranger took his enormous hat from his head,\nand waved it three times before him. At each sweep of the prodigious\nfeather, the fog grew thinner, until it melted impalpably away, and the\nformer landscape returned, yet warm with the glowing sun. As Father Jose\ngazed, a strain of martial music arose from the valley, and issuing\nfrom a deep canyon, the good Father beheld a long cavalcade of gallant\ncavaliers, habited like his companion. As they swept down the plain,\nthey were joined by like processions, that slowly defiled from every\nravine and canyon of the mysterious mountain. From time to time the peal\nof a trumpet swelled fitfully upon the breeze; the cross of Santiago\nglittered, and the royal banners of Castile and Aragon waved over the\nmoving column. So they moved on solemnly toward the sea, where, in the\ndistance, Father Jose saw stately caravels, bearing the same familiar\nbanner, awaiting them. The good Padre gazed with conflicting emotions,\nand the serious voice of the stranger broke the silence.\n\n\u201cThou hast beheld, Sir Priest, the fading footprints of adventurous\nCastile. Thou hast seen the declining glory of old Spain,--declining as\nyonder brilliant sun. The sceptre she hath wrested from the heathen is\nfast dropping from her decrepit and fleshless grasp. The children she\nhath fostered shall know her no longer. The soil she hath acquired shall\nbe lost to her as irrevocably as she herself hath thrust the Moor from\nher own Granada.\u201d\n\nThe stranger paused, and his voice seemed broken by emotion; at the same\ntime, Father Jose, whose sympathizing heart yearned toward the departing\nbanners, cried in poignant accents,--\n\n\u201cFarewell, ye gallant cavaliers and Christian soldiers! Farewell, thou,\nNunes de Balboa! thou, Alonzo de Ojeda! and thou, most venerable Las\nCasas! Farewell, and may Heaven prosper still the seed ye left behind!\u201d\n\nThen turning to the stranger, Father Jose beheld him gravely draw his\npocket-handkerchief from the basket-hilt of his rapier, and apply it\ndecorously to his eyes.\n\n\u201cPardon this weakness, Sir Priest,\u201d said the cavalier, apologetically;\n\u201cbut these worthy gentlemen were ancient friends of mine, and have\ndone me many a delicate service,--much more, perchance, than these poor\nsables may signify,\u201d he added, with a grim gesture toward the mourning\nsuit he wore.\n\nFather Jose was too much preoccupied in reflection to notice the\nequivocal nature of this tribute, and, after a few moments' silence,\nsaid, as if continuing his thought,--\n\n\u201cBut the seed they have planted shall thrive and prosper on this\nfruitful soil.\u201d\n\nAs if answering the interrogatory, the stranger turned to the opposite\ndirection, and, again waving his hat, said, in the same serious tone,--\n\n\u201cLook to the East!\u201d\n\nThe Father turned, and, as the fog broke away before the waving plume,\nhe saw that the sun was rising. Issuing with its bright beams through\nthe passes of the snowy mountains beyond, appeared a strange and motley\ncrew. Instead of the dark and romantic visages of his last phantom\ntrain, the Father beheld with strange concern the blue eyes and flaxen\nhair of a Saxon race. In place of martial airs and musical utterance,\nthere rose upon the ear a strange din of harsh gutturals and singular\nsibilation. Instead of the decorous tread and stately mien of the\ncavaliers of the former vision, they came pushing, bustling, panting,\nand swaggering. And as they passed, the good Father noticed that giant\ntrees were prostrated as with the breath of a tornado, and the bowels\nof the earth were torn and rent as with a convulsion. And Father Jose\nlooked in vain for holy cross or Christian symbol; there was but one\nthat seemed an ensign, and he crossed himself with holy horror as he\nperceived it bore the effigy of a bear.\n\n\u201cWho are these swaggering Ishmaelites?\u201d he asked, with something of\nasperity in his tone.\n\nThe stranger was gravely silent.\n\n\u201cWhat do they here, with neither cross nor holy symbol?\u201d he again\ndemanded.\n\n\u201cHave you the courage to see, Sir Priest?\u201d responded the stranger,\nquietly.\n\nFather Jose felt his crucifix, as a lonely traveller might his rapier,\nand assented.\n\n\u201cStep under the shadow of my plume,\u201d said the stranger.\n\nFather Jose stepped beside him, and they instantly sank through the\nearth.\n\nWhen he opened his eyes, which had remained closed in prayerful\nmeditation during his rapid descent, he found himself in a vast vault,\nbespangled overhead with luminous points like the starred firmament. It\nwas also lighted by a yellow glow that seemed to proceed from a mighty\nsea or lake that occupied the centre of the chamber. Around this\nsubterranean sea dusky figures flitted, bearing ladles filled with the\nyellow fluid, which they had replenished from its depths. From this lake\ndiverging streams of the same mysterious flood penetrated like mighty\nrivers the cavernous distance. As they walked by the banks of this\nglittering Styx, Father Jose perceived how the liquid stream at certain\nplaces became solid. The ground was strewn with glittering flakes. One\nof these the Padre picked up and curiously examined. It was virgin gold.\n\nAn expression of discomfiture overcast the good Father's face at this\ndiscovery; but there was trace neither of malice nor satisfaction in the\nstranger's air, which was still of serious and fateful contemplation.\nWhen Father Jose recovered his equanimity, he said, bitterly,--\n\n\u201cThis, then, Sir Devil, is your work! This is your deceitful lure for\nthe weak souls of sinful nations! So would you replace the Christian\ngrace of holy Spain!\u201d\n\n\u201cThis is what must be,\u201d returned the stranger, gloomily. \u201cBut listen,\nSir Priest. It lies with you to avert the issue for a time. Leave me\nhere in peace. Go back to Castile, and take with you your bells, your\nimages, and your missions. Continue here, and you only precipitate\nresults. Stay! promise me you will do this, and you shall not lack that\nwhich will render your old age an ornament and a blessing;\u201d and the\nstranger motioned significantly to the lake.\n\nIt was here, the legend discreetly relates, that the Devil showed--as he\nalways shows sooner or later--his cloven hoof. The worthy Padre, sorely\nperplexed by his threefold vision, and, if the truth must be told,\na little nettled at this wresting away of the glory of holy Spanish\ndiscovery, had shown some hesitation. But the unlucky bribe of the Enemy\nof Souls touched his Castilian spirit. Starting back in deep disgust,\nhe brandished his crucifix in the face of the unmasked Fiend, and in a\nvoice that made the dusky vault resound, cried,--\n\n\u201cAvaunt thee, Sathanas! Diabolus, I defy thee! What! wouldst thou bribe\nme,--me, a brother of the Sacred Society of the Holy Jesus, Licentiate\nof Cordova and Inquisitor of Guadalaxara? Thinkest thou to buy me with\nthy sordid treasure? Avaunt!\u201d\n\nWhat might have been the issue of this rupture, and how complete might\nhave been the triumph of the Holy Father over the Arch-Fiend, who was\nrecoiling aghast at these sacred titles and the flourishing symbol,\nwe can never know, for at that moment the crucifix slipped through his\nfingers.\n\nScarcely had it touched the ground before Devil and Holy Father\nsimultaneously cast themselves toward it. In the struggle they clinched,\nand the pious Jose, who was as much the superior of his antagonist in\nbodily as in spiritual strength, was about to treat the Great Adversary\nto a back somersault, when he suddenly felt the long nails of the\nstranger piercing his flesh. A new fear seized his heart, a numbing\nchillness crept through his body, and he struggled to free himself, but\nin vain. A strange roaring was in his ears; the lake and cavern danced\nbefore his eyes and vanished; and with a loud cry he sank senseless to\nthe ground.\n\nWhen he recovered his consciousness he was aware of a gentle swaying\nmotion of his body. He opened his eyes, and saw it was high noon, and\nthat he was being carried in a litter through the valley. He felt stiff,\nand, looking down, perceived that his arm was tightly bandaged to his\nside.\n\nHe closed his eyes and after a few words of thankful prayer, thought how\nmiraculously he had been preserved, and made a vow of candlesticks to\nthe blessed Saint Jose. He then called in a faint voice, and presently\nthe penitent Ignacio stood beside him.\n\nThe joy the poor fellow felt at his patron's returning consciousness\nfor some time choked his utterance. He could only ejaculate, \u201cA miracle!\nBlessed Saint Jose, he lives!\u201d and kiss the Padre's bandaged hand.\nFather Jose, more intent on his last night's experience, waited for his\nemotion to subside, and asked where he had been found.\n\n\u201cOn the mountain, your Reverence, but a few varas from where he attacked\nyou.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow?--you saw him then?\u201d asked the Padre, in unfeigned astonishment.\n\n\u201cSaw him, your Reverence! Mother of God, I should think I did! And your\nReverence shall see him too, if he ever comes again within range of\nIgnacio's arquebuse.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat mean you, Ignacio?\u201d said the Padre, sitting bolt-upright in his\nlitter.\n\n\u201cWhy, the bear, your Reverence,--the bear, Holy Father, who attacked\nyour worshipful person while you were meditating on the top of yonder\nmountain.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d said the Holy Father, lying down again. \u201cChut, child! I would be\nat peace.\u201d\n\nWhen he reached the Mission, he was tenderly cared for, and in a few\nweeks was enabled to resume those duties from which, as will be seen,\nnot even the machinations of the Evil One could divert him. The news\nof his physical disaster spread over the country; and a letter to the\nBishop of Guadalaxara contained a confidential and detailed account of\nthe good Father's spiritual temptation. But in some way the story leaked\nout; and long after Jose was gathered to his fathers, his mysterious\nencounter formed the theme of thrilling and whispered narrative. The\nmountain was generally shunned. It is true that Senor Joaquin Pedrillo\nafterward located a grant near the base of the mountain; but as Senora\nPedrillo was known to be a termagant half-breed, the Senor was not\nsupposed to be over-fastidious.\n\nSuch is the Legend of Monte del Diablo. As I said before, it may seem\nto lack essential corroboration. The discrepancy between the Father's\nnarrative and the actual climax has given rise to some scepticism on the\npart of ingenious quibblers. All such I would simply refer to that part\nof the report of Senor Julio Serro, Sub-Prefect of San Pablo, before\nwhom attest of the above was made. Touching this matter, the worthy\nPrefect observes, \u201cThat although the body of Father Jose doth show\nevidence of grievous conflict in the flesh, yet that is no proof that\nthe Enemy of Souls, who could assume the figure of a decorous elderly\ncaballero, could not at the same time transform himself into a bear for\nhis own vile purposes.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHE ADVENTURE OF PADRE VINCENTIO\n\nA LEGEND OF SAN FRANCISCO.\n\n\nOne pleasant New Year's Eve, about forty years ago, Padre Vicentio was\nslowly picking his way across the sand-hills from the Mission Dolores.\nAs he climbed the crest of the ridge beside Mission Creek, his broad,\nshining face might have been easily mistaken for the beneficent image of\nthe rising moon, so bland was its smile and so indefinite its features.\nFor the Padre was a man of notable reputation and character; his\nministration at the mission of San Jose had been marked with cordiality\nand unction; he was adored by the simple-minded savages, and had\nsucceeded in impressing his individuality so strongly upon them that the\nvery children were said to have miraculously resembled him in feature.\n\nAs the holy man reached the loneliest portion of the road, he naturally\nput spurs to his mule as if to quicken that decorous pace which the\nobedient animal had acquired through long experience of its master's\nhabits. The locality had an unfavorable reputation. Sailors--deserters\nfrom whaleships--had been seen lurking about the outskirts of the town,\nand low scrub oaks which everywhere beset the trail might have easily\nconcealed some desperate runaway. Besides these material obstructions,\nthe devil, whose hostility to the church was well known, was said to\nsometimes haunt the vicinity in the likeness of a spectral whaler, who\nhad met his death in a drunken bout, from a harpoon in the hands of a\ncompanion. The ghost of this unfortunate mariner was frequently observed\nsitting on the hill toward the dusk of evening, armed with his favorite\nweapon and a tub containing a coil of line, looking out for some belated\ntraveller on whom to exercise his professional skill. It is related\nthat the good Father Jose Maria of the Mission Dolores had been twice\nattacked by this phantom sportsman; that once, on returning from San\nFrancisco, and panting with exertion from climbing the hill, he was\nstartled by a stentorian cry of \u201cThere she blows!\u201d quickly followed by\na hurtling harpoon, which buried itself in the sand beside him; that on\nanother occasion he narrowly escaped destruction, his serapa having\nbeen transfixed by the diabolical harpoon and dragged away in triumph.\nPopular opinion seems to have been divided as to the reason for the\ndevil's particular attention to Father Jose, some asserting that the\nextreme piety of the Padre excited the Evil One's animosity, and others\nthat his adipose tendency simply rendered him, from a professional\nview-point, a profitable capture.\n\nHad Father Vicentio been inclined to scoff at this apparition as a\nheretical innovation, there was still the story of Concepcion, the\nDemon Vaquero, whose terrible riata was fully as potent as the whaler's\nharpoon. Concepcion, when in the flesh, had been a celebrated herder of\ncattle and wild horses, and was reported to have chased the devil in\nthe shape of a fleet pinto colt all the way from San Luis Obispo to San\nFrancisco, vowing not to give up the chase until he had overtaken the\ndisguised Arch-Enemy. This the devil prevented by resuming his own\nshape, but kept the unfortunate vaquero to the fulfilment of his\nrash vow; and Concepcion still scoured the coast on a phantom steed,\nbeguiling the monotony of his eternal pursuit by lassoing travellers,\ndragging them at the heels of his unbroken mustang until they were\neventually picked up, half-strangled, by the roadside. The Padre\nlistened attentively for the tramp of this terrible rider. But no\nfootfall broke the stillness of the night; even the hoofs of his own\nmule sank noiselessly in the shifting sand. Now and then a rabbit\nbounded lightly by him, or a quail ran into the bushes. The melancholy\ncall of plover from the adjoining marshes of Mission Creek came to him\nso faintly and fitfully that it seemed almost a recollection of the past\nrather than a reality of the present.\n\nTo add to his discomposure one of those heavy sea-fogs peculiar to the\nlocality began to drift across the hills and presently encompassed\nhim. While endeavoring to evade its cold embraces, Padre Vicentio\nincautiously drove his heavy spurs into the flanks of his mule as that\npuzzled animal was hesitating on the brink of a steep declivity. Whether\nthe poor beast was indignant at this novel outrage, or had been for some\ntime reflecting on the evils of being priest-ridden, has not transpired;\nenough that he suddenly threw up his heels, pitching the reverend man\nover his head, and, having accomplished this feat, coolly dropped on his\nknees and tumbled after his rider.\n\nOver and over went the Padre, closely followed by his faithless mule.\nLuckily the little hollow which received the pair was of sand that\nyielded to the superincumbent weight, half burying them without further\ninjury. For some moments the poor man lay motionless, vainly endeavoring\nto collect his scattered senses. A hand irreverently laid upon his\ncollar, and a rough shake, assisted to recall his consciousness. As the\nPadre staggered to his feet he found himself confronted by a stranger.\n\nSeen dimly through the fog, and under circumstances that to say the\nleast were not prepossessing, the new-comer had an inexpressibly\nmysterious and brigand-like aspect. A long boat-cloak concealed his\nfigure, and a slouched hat hid his features, permitting only his eyes\nto glisten in the depths. With a deep groan the Padre slipped from the\nstranger's grasp and subsided into the soft sand again.\n\n\u201cGad's life!\u201d said the stranger, pettishly, \u201chast no more bones in thy\nfat carcass than a jellyfish? Lend a hand, here! Yo, heave ho!\u201d and he\ndragged the Padre into an upright position. \u201cNow, then, who and what art\nthou?\u201d\n\nThe Padre could not help thinking that the question might have more\nproperly been asked by himself; but with an odd mixture of dignity and\ntrepidation he began enumerating his different titles, which were by no\nmeans brief, and would have been alone sufficient to strike awe in the\nbosom of an ordinary adversary. The stranger irreverently broke in upon\nhis formal phrases, and assuring him that a priest was the very person\nhe was looking for, coolly replaced the old man's hat, which had tumbled\noff, and bade him accompany him at once on an errand of spiritual\ncounsel to one who was even then lying in extremity. \u201cTo think,\u201d said\nthe stranger, \u201cthat I should stumble upon the very man I was seeking!\nBody of Bacchus! but this is lucky! Follow me quickly, for there is no\ntime to lose.\u201d\n\nLike most easy natures the positive assertion of the stranger, and\nwithal a certain authoritative air of command, overcame what slight\nobjections the Padre might have feebly nurtured during this remarkable\ninterview. The spiritual invitation was one, also, that he dared\nnot refuse; not only that; but it tended somewhat to remove the\nsuperstitious dread with which he had begun to regard the mysterious\nstranger. But, following at a respectful distance, the Padre could not\nhelp observing with a thrill of horror that the stranger's footsteps\nmade no impression on the sand, and his figure seemed at times to blend\nand incorporate itself with the fog, until the holy man was obliged to\nwait for its reappearance. In one of these intervals of embarrassment he\nheard the ringing of the far-off Mission bell, proclaiming the hour of\nmidnight. Scarcely had the last stroke died away before the announcement\nwas taken up and repeated by a multitude of bells of all sizes, and\nthe air was filled with the sound of striking clocks and the pealing of\nsteeple chimes. The old man uttered a cry of alarm. The stranger sharply\ndemanded the cause. \u201cThe bells! did you not hear them?\u201d gasped Padre\nVicentio. \u201cTush! tush!\u201d answered the stranger, \u201cthy fall hath set triple\nbob-majors ringing in thine ears. Come on!\u201d\n\nThe Padre was only too glad to accept the explanation conveyed in\nthis discourteous answer. But he was destined for another singular\nexperience. When they had reached the summit of the eminence now known\nas Russian Hill, an exclamation again burst from the Padre. The stranger\nturned to his companion with an impatient gesture; but the Padre heeded\nhim not. The view that burst upon his sight was such as might well have\nengrossed the attention of a more enthusiastic temperament. The fog\nhad not yet reached the hill, and the long valleys and hillsides of the\nembarcadero below were glittering with the light of a populous\ncity. \u201cLook!\u201d said the Padre, stretching his hand over the spreading\nlandscape. \u201cLook, dost thou not see the stately squares and brilliantly\nlighted avenues of a mighty metropolis. Dost thou not see, as it were,\nanother firmament below?\u201d\n\n\u201cAvast heaving, reverend man, and quit this folly,\u201d said the strange;\ndragging the bewildered Padre after him. \u201cBehold rather the stars\nknocked out of thy hollow noddle by the fall thou hast had. Prithee, get\nover thy visions and rhapsodies, for the time is wearing apace.\u201d\n\nThe Padre humbly followed without another word. Descending the hill\ntoward the north, the stranger leading the way, in a few moments the\nPadre detected the wash of waves, and presently his feet struck the\nfirmer sand of the beach. Here the stranger paused, and the Padre\nperceived a boat lying in readiness hard by. As he stepped into the\nstern sheets, in obedience to the command of his companion, he noticed\nthat the rowers seemed to partake of the misty incorporeal texture of\nhis companion, a similarity that became the more distressing when he\nperceived also that their oars in pulling together made no noise. The\nstranger, assuming the helm, guided the boat on quietly, while the fog,\nsettling over the face of the water and closing around them, seemed to\ninterpose a muffled wall between themselves and the rude jarring of\nthe outer world. As they pushed further into this penetralia, the Padre\nlistened anxiously for the sound of creaking blocks and the rattling of\ncordage, but no vibration broke the veiled stillness or disturbed the\nwarm breath of the fleecy fog. Only one incident occurred to break the\nmonotony of their mysterious journey. A one-eyed rower, who sat in front\nof the Padre, catching the devout father's eye, immediately grinned\nsuch a ghastly smile, and winked his remaining eye with such diabolical\nintensity of meaning that the Padre was constrained to utter a pious\nejaculation, which had the disastrous effect of causing the marine\nCocles to \u201ccatch a crab,\u201d throwing his heels in the air and his head\ninto the bottom of the boat. But even this accident did not disturb the\ngravity of the rest of the ghastly boat's crew.\n\nWhen, as it seemed to the Padre, ten minutes had elapsed, the outline of\na large ship loomed up directly across their bow. Before he could utter\nthe cry of warning that rose to his lips, or brace himself against the\nexpected shock, the boat passed gently and noiselessly through the sides\nof the vessel, and the holy man found himself standing on the berth deck\nof what seemed to be an ancient caravel. The boat and boat's crew had\nvanished. Only his mysterious friend, the stranger, remained. By the\nlight of a swinging lamp the Padre beheld him standing beside a\nhammock, whereon, apparently, lay the dying man to whom he had been so\nmysteriously summoned. As the Padre, in obedience to a sign from his\ncompanion, stepped to the side of the sufferer, he feebly opened his\neyes and thus addressed him:--\n\n\u201cThou seest before thee, reverend father, a helpless mortal, struggling\nnot only with the last agonies of the flesh, but beaten down and tossed\nwith sore anguish of the spirit. It matters little when or how I became\nwhat thou now seest me. Enough that my life has been ungodly and sinful,\nand that my only hope of absolution lies in my imparting to thee a\nsecret which is of vast importance to the holy Church, and affects\ngreatly her power, wealth, and dominion on these shores. But the terms\nof this secret and the conditions of my absolution are peculiar. I\nhave but five minutes to live. In that time I must receive the extreme\nunction of the Church.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd thy secret?\u201d said the holy father.\n\n\u201cShall be told afterwards,\u201d answered the dying man. \u201cCome, my time is\nshort. Shrive me quickly.\u201d\n\nThe Padre hesitated. \u201cCouldst thou not tell this secret first?\u201d\n\n\u201cImpossible!\u201d said the dying man, with what seemed to the Padre a\nmomentary gleam of triumph. Then, as his breath grew feebler, he called\nimpatiently, \u201cShrive me! shrive me!\u201d\n\n\u201cLet me know at least what this secret concerns?\u201d suggested the Padre,\ninsinuatingly.\n\n\u201cShrive me first,\u201d said the dying man.\n\nBut the priest still hesitated, parleying with the sufferer until the\nship's bell struck, when, with a triumphant, mocking laugh from the\nstranger, the vessel suddenly fell to pieces, amid the rushing of waters\nwhich at once involved the dying man, the priest, and the mysterious\nstranger.\n\nThe Padre did not recover his consciousness until high noon the next\nday, when he found himself lying in a little hollow between the Mission\nHills, and his faithful mule a few paces from him, cropping the sparse\nherbage. The Padre made the best of his way home, but wisely abstained\nfrom narrating the facts mentioned above, until after the discovery of\ngold, when the whole of this veracious incident was related, with the\nassertion of the padre that the secret which was thus mysteriously\nsnatched from his possession was nothing more than the discovery of\ngold, years since, by the runaway sailors from the expedition of Sir\nFrancis Drake.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LEGEND OF DEVIL'S POINT.\n\n\nOn the northerly shore of San Francisco Bay, at a point where the Golden\nGate broadens into the Pacific stands a bluff promontory. It affords\nshelter from the prevailing winds to a semicircular bay on the east.\nAround this bay the hillside is bleak and barren, but there are traces\nof former habitation in a weather-beaten cabin and deserted corral. It\nis said that these were originally built by an enterprising squatter,\nwho for some unaccountable reason abandoned them shortly after. The\n\u201cJumper\u201d who succeeded him disappeared one day, quite as mysteriously.\nThe third tenant, who seemed to be a man of sanguine, hopeful\ntemperament, divided the property into building lots, staked off the\nhillside, and projected the map of a new metropolis. Failing, however,\nto convince the citizens of San Francisco that they had mistaken the\nsite of their city, he presently fell into dissipation and despondency.\nHe was frequently observed haunting the narrow strip of beach at low\ntide, or perched upon the cliff at high water. In the latter position\na sheep-tender one day found him, cold and pulseless, with a map of his\nproperty in his hand, and his face turned toward the distant sea.\n\nPerhaps these circumstances gave the locality its infelicitous\nreputation. Vague rumors were bruited of a supernatural influence that\nhad been exercised on the tenants. Strange stories were circulated of\nthe origin of the diabolical title by which the promontory was known. By\nsome it was believed to be haunted by the spirit of one of Sir Francis\nDrake's sailors who had deserted his ship in consequence of stories told\nby the Indians of gold discoveries, but who had perished by starvation\non the rocks. A vaquero who had once passed a night in the ruined cabin,\nrelated how a strangely dressed and emaciated figure had knocked at\nthe door at midnight and demanded food. Other story-tellers, of more\nhistorical accuracy, roundly asserted that Sir Francis himself had\nbeen little better than a pirate, and had chosen this spot to conceal\nquantities of ill-gotten booty, taken from neutral bottoms, and had\nprotected his hiding-place by the orthodox means of hellish incantation\nand diabolic agencies. On moonlight nights a shadowy ship was sometimes\nseen standing off-and-on, or when fogs encompassed sea and shore the\nnoise of oars rising and falling in their row-locks could be heard\nmuffled and indistinctly during the night. Whatever foundation there\nmight have been for these stories, it was certain that a more weird and\ndesolate-looking spot could not have been selected for their theatre.\nHigh hills, verdureless and enfiladed with dark canadas, cast their\ngaunt shadows on the tide. During a greater portion of the day the wind,\nwhich blew furiously and incessantly, seemed possessed with a spirit of\nfierce disquiet and unrest. Toward nightfall the sea-fog crept with\nsoft step through the portals of the Golden Gate, or stole in noiseless\nmarches down the hillside, tenderly soothing the wind-buffeted face\nof the cliff, until sea and sky were hid together. At such times the\npopulous city beyond and the nearer settlement seemed removed to an\ninfinite distance. An immeasurable loneliness settled upon the cliff.\nThe creaking of a windlass, or the monotonous chant of sailors on\nsome unseen, outlying ship, came faint and far, and full of mystic\nsuggestion.\n\nAbout a year ago a well-to-do middle-aged broker of San Francisco found\nhimself at nightfall the sole occupant of a \u201cplunger,\u201d encompassed in\na dense fog, and drifting toward the Golden Gate. This unexpected\ntermination of an afternoon's sail was partly attributable to his want\nof nautical skill, and partly to the effect of his usually sanguine\nnature. Having given up the guidance of his boat to the wind and tide,\nhe had trusted too implicitly for that reaction which his business\nexperience assured him was certain to occur in all affairs, aquatic\nas well as terrestrial. \u201cThe tide will turn soon,\u201d said the broker,\nconfidently, \u201cor something will happen.\u201d He had scarcely settled himself\nback again in the stern-sheets, before the bow of the plunger, obeying\nsome mysterious impulse, veered slowly around and a dark object loomed\nup before him. A gentle eddy carried the boat further in shore, until\nat last it was completely embayed under the lee of a rocky point now\nfaintly discernible through the fog. He looked around him in the vain\nhope of recognizing some familiar headland. The tops of the high hills\nwhich rose on either side were hidden in the fog. As the boat swung\naround, he succeeded in fastening a line to the rocks, and sat down\nagain with a feeling of renewed confidence and security.\n\nIt was very cold. The insidious fog penetrated his tightly buttoned\ncoat, and set his teeth to chattering in spite of the aid he sometimes\ndrew from a pocket-flask. His clothes were wet and the stern-sheets were\ncovered with spray. The comforts of fire and shelter continually rose\nbefore his fancy as he gazed wistfully on the rocks. In sheer despair he\nfinally drew the boat toward the most accessible part of the cliff and\nessayed to ascend. This was less difficult than it appeared, and in\na few moments he had gained the hill above. A dark object at a little\ndistance attracted his attention, and on approaching it proved to be a\ndeserted cabin. The story goes on to say, that having built a roaring\nfire of stakes pulled from the adjoining corral, with the aid of a flask\nof excellent brandy, he managed to pass the early part of the evening\nwith comparative comfort.\n\nThere was no door in the cabin, and the windows were simply square\nopenings, which freely admitted the searching fog. But in spite of these\ndiscomforts,--being a man of cheerful, sanguine temperament,--he amused\nhimself by poking the fire, and watching the ruddy glow which the flames\nthrew on the fog from the open door. In this innocent occupation a great\nweariness overcame him, and he fell asleep.\n\nHe was awakened at midnight by a loud \u201challoo,\u201d which seemed to proceed\ndirectly from the sea. Thinking it might be the cry of some boatman lost\nin the fog, he walked to the edge of the cliff, but the thick veil that\ncovered sea and land rendered all objects at the distance of a few feet\nindistinguishable. He heard, however, the regular strokes of oars rising\nand falling on the water. The halloo was repeated. He was clearing his\nthroat to reply, when to his surprise an answer came apparently from the\nvery cabin he had quitted. Hastily retracing his steps, he was the more\namazed, on reaching the open door, to find a stranger warming himself by\nthe fire. Stepping back far enough to conceal his own person, he took a\ngood look at the intruder.\n\nHe was a man of about forty, with a cadaverous face. But the oddity\nof his dress attracted the broker's attention more than his lugubrious\nphysiognomy. His legs were hid in enormously wide trousers descending\nto his knee, where they met long boots of sealskin. A pea-jacket with\nexaggerated cuffs, almost as large as the breeches, covered his chest,\nand around his waist a monstrous belt, with a buckle like a dentist's\nsign, supported two trumpet-mouthed pistols and a curved hanger. He wore\na long queue, which depended half-way down his back. As the firelight\nfell on his ingenuous countenance the broker observed with some concern\nthat this queue was formed entirely of a kind of tobacco, known as\npigtail or twist. Its effect, the broker remarked, was much heightened\nwhen in a moment of thoughtful abstraction the apparition bit off a\nportion of it, and rolled it as a quid into the cavernous recesses of\nhis jaws.\n\nMeanwhile, the nearer splash of oars indicated the approach of the\nunseen boat. The broker had barely time to conceal himself behind the\ncabin before a number of uncouth-looking figures clambered up the hill\ntoward the ruined rendezvous. They were dressed like the previous comer,\nwho, as they passed through the open door, exchanged greetings with\neach in antique phraseology, bestowing at the same time some\nfamiliar nickname. Flash-in-the-Pan, Spitter-of-Frogs, Malmsey Butt,\nLatheyard-Will, and Mark-the-Pinker, were the few sobriquets the broker\nremembered. Whether these titles were given to express some peculiarity\nof their owner he could not tell, for a silence followed as they slowly\nranged themselves upon the floor of the cabin in a semicircle around\ntheir cadaverous host.\n\nAt length Malmsey Butt, a spherical-bodied man-of-war's-man, with\na rubicund nose, got on his legs somewhat unsteadily, and addressed\nhimself to the company. They had met that evening, said the speaker, in\naccordance with a time-honored custom. This was simply to relieve that\none of their number who for fifty years had kept watch and ward over\nthe locality where certain treasures had been buried. At this point the\nbroker pricked up his ears. \u201cIf so be, camarados and brothers all,\u201d\n he continued, \u201cye are ready to receive the report of our excellent and\nwell-beloved brother, Master Slit-the-Weazand, touching his search for\nthis treasure, why, marry, to 't and begin.\u201d\n\nA murmur of assent went around the circle as the speaker resumed his\nseat. Master Slit-the-Weazand slowly opened his lantern jaws, and began.\nHe had spent much of his time in determining the exact location of the\ntreasure. He believed--nay, he could state positively--that its position\nwas now settled. It was true he had done some trifling little business\noutside. Modesty forbade his mentioning the particulars, but he would\nsimply state that of the three tenants who had occupied the cabin during\nthe past ten years, none were now alive. [Applause, and cries of \u201cGo to!\nthou wast always a tall fellow!\u201d and the like.]\n\nMark-the-Pinker next arose. Before proceeding to business he had a duty\nto perform in the sacred name of Friendship. It ill became him to pass\nan eulogy upon the qualities of the speaker who had preceded him, for\nhe had known him from \u201cboyhood's hour.\u201d Side by side they had wrought\ntogether in the Spanish war. For a neat hand with a toledo he challenged\nhis equal, while how nobly and beautifully he had won his present title\nof Slit-the-Weazand, all could testify. The speaker, with some show\nof emotion, asked to be pardoned if he dwelt too freely on passages of\ntheir early companionship; he then detailed, with a fine touch of\nhumor, his comrade's peculiar manner of slitting the ears and lips of a\nrefractory Jew, who had been captured in one of their previous voyages.\nHe would not weary the patience of his hearers, but would briefly\npropose that the report of Slit-the-Weazand be accepted, and that the\nthanks of the company be tendered him.\n\nA beaker of strong spirits was then rolled into the hut, and cans\nof grog were circulated freely from hand to hand. The health of\nSlit-the-Weazand was proposed in a neat speech by Mark-the-Pinker, and\nresponded to by the former gentleman in a manner that drew tears to the\neyes of all present. To the broker, in his concealment, this momentary\ndiversion from the real business of the meeting occasioned much anxiety.\nAs yet nothing had been said to indicate the exact locality of the\ntreasure to which they had mysteriously alluded. Fear restrained him\nfrom open inquiry, and curiosity kept him from making good his escape\nduring the orgies which followed.\n\nBut his situation was beginning to become critical. Flash-in-the-Pan,\nwho seemed to have been a man of choleric humor, taking fire during some\nhotly contested argument, discharged both his pistols at the breast of\nhis opponent. The balls passed through on each side immediately below\nhis arm-pits, making a clean hole, through which the horrified broker\ncould see the firelight behind him. The wounded man, without betraying\nany concern, excited the laughter of the company, by jocosely putting\nhis arms akimbo, and inserting his thumbs into the orifices of the\nwounds, as if they had been arm-holes. This having in a measure restored\ngood-humor, the party joined hands and formed a circle preparatory to\ndancing. The dance was commenced by some monotonous stanzas hummed in\na very high key by one of the party, the rest joining in the following\nchorus, which seemed to present a familiar sound to the broker's ear.\n\n     \u201cHer Majestie is very sicke,\n     Lord Essex hath ye measles,\n     Our Admiral hath licked ye French--\n     Poppe! saith ye weasel!\u201d\n\nAt the regular recurrence of the last line, the party discharged their\nloaded pistols in all directions, rendering the position of the unhappy\nbroker one of extreme peril and perplexity.\n\nWhen the tumult had partially subsided, Flash-in-the-Pan called the\nmeeting to order, and most of the revellers returned to their places,\nMalmsey Butt, however, insisting upon another chorus, and singing at the\ntop of his voice:--\n\n     \u201cI am ycleped J. Keyser--I was born at Spring, hys Garden,\n     My father toe make me ane clerke erst did essaye,\n     But a fico for ye offis--I spurn ye losels offeire;\n     For I fain would be ane butcher by'r ladykin alwaye.\u201d\n\nFlash-in-the-Pan drew a pistol from his belt, and bidding some one gag\nMalmsey Butt with the stock of it, proceeded to read from a portentous\nroll of parchment that he held in his hand. It was a semi-legal\ndocument, clothed in the quaint phraseology of a bygone period. After a\nlong preamble, asserting their loyalty as lieges of Her most bountiful\nMajesty and Sovereign Lady the Queen, the document declared that they\nthen and there took possession of the promontory, and all the treasure\ntrove therein contained, formerly buried by Her Majesty's most faithful\nand devoted Admiral Sir Francis Drake, with the right to search,\ndiscover, and appropriate the same; and for the purpose thereof they did\nthen and there form a guild or corporation to so discover, search\nfor, and disclose said treasures, and by virtue thereof they solemnly\nsubscribed their names. But at this moment the reading of the parchment\nwas arrested by an exclamation from the assembly, and the broker\nwas seen frantically struggling at the door in the strong arms of\nMark-the-Pinker.\n\n\u201cLet me go!\u201d he cried, as he made a desperate attempt to reach the side\nof Master Flash-in-the Pan. \u201cLet me go! I tell you, gentlemen, that\ndocument is not worth the parchment it is written on. The laws of\nthe State, the customs of the country, the mining ordinances, are all\nagainst it. Don't, by all that's sacred, throw away such a capital\ninvestment through ignorance and informality. Let me go! I assure you,\ngentlemen, professionally, that you have a big thing,--a remarkably big\nthing, and even if I ain't in it, I'm not going to see it fall through.\nDon't, for God's sake, gentlemen, I implore you, put your names to such\na ridiculous paper. There isn't a notary--\u201d\n\nHe ceased. The figures around him, which were beginning to grow fainter\nand more indistinct, as he went on, swam before his eyes, flickered,\nreappeared again, and finally went out. He rubbed his eyes and gazed\naround him. The cabin was deserted. On the hearth the red embers of\nhis fire were fading away in the bright beams of the morning sun, that\nlooked aslant through the open window. He ran out to the cliff. The\nsturdy sea-breeze fanned his feverish cheeks, and tossed the white\ncaps of waves that beat in pleasant music on the beach below. A stately\nmerchantman with snowy canvas was entering the Gate. The voices of\nsailors came cheerfully from a bark at anchor below the point. The\nmuskets of the sentries gleamed brightly on Alcatraz, and the rolling\nof drums swelled on the breeze. Farther on, the hills of San Francisco,\ncottage-crowned and bordered with wharves and warehouses, met his\nlonging eye.\n\nSuch is the Legend of Devil's Point. Any objections to its reliability\nmay be met with the statement, that the broker who tells the story has\nsince incorporated a company under the title of \u201cFlash-in-the-Pan Gold\nand Silver Treasure Mining Company,\u201d and that its shares are already\nheld at a stiff figure. A copy of the original document is said to be on\nrecord in the office of the company, and on any clear day the locality\nof the claim may be distinctly seen from the hills of San Francisco.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEVIL AND THE BROKER\n\nA MEDIAEVAL LEGEND\n\n\nThe church clocks in San Francisco were striking ten. The Devil, who had\nbeen flying over the city that evening, just then alighted on the roof\nof a church near the corner of Bush and Montgomery Streets. It will be\nperceived that the popular belief that the Devil avoids holy edifices,\nand vanishes at the sound of a Credo or Pater-noster, is long since\nexploded. Indeed, modern scepticism asserts that he is not averse to\nthese orthodox discourses, which particularly bear reference to himself,\nand in a measure recognize his power and importance.\n\nI am inclined to think, however, that his choice of a resting-place was\na good deal influenced by its contiguity to a populous thoroughfare.\nWhen he was comfortably seated, he began pulling out the joints of a\nsmall rod which he held in his hand, and which presently proved to be an\nextraordinary fishing-pole, with a telescopic adjustment that permitted\nits protraction to a marvellous extent. Affixing a line thereto, he\nselected a fly of a particular pattern from a small box which he carried\nwith him, and, making a skilful cast, threw his line into the very\ncentre of that living stream which ebbed and flowed through Montgomery\nStreet.\n\nEither the people were very virtuous that evening or the bait was not a\ntaking one. In vain the Devil whipped the stream at an eddy in front\nof the Occidental, or trolled his line into the shadows of the\nCosmopolitan; five minutes passed without even a nibble. \u201cDear me!\u201d\n quoth the Devil, \u201cthat's very singular; one of my most popular flies,\ntoo! Why, they'd have risen by shoals in Broadway or Beacon Street\nfor that. Well, here goes another.\u201d And, fitting a new fly from his\nwell-filled box, he gracefully recast his line.\n\nFor a few moments there was every prospect of sport. The line was\ncontinually bobbing and the nibbles were distinct and gratifying. Once\nor twice the bait was apparently gorged and carried off in the upper\nstories of the hotels to be digested at leisure. At such times the\nprofessional manner in which the Devil played out his line would have\nthrilled the heart of Izaak Walton. But his efforts were unsuccessful;\nthe bait was invariably carried off without hooking the victim, and\nthe Devil finally lost his temper. \u201cI've heard of these San Franciscans\nbefore,\u201d he muttered; \u201cwait till I get hold of one,--that's all!\u201d he\nadded malevolently, as he rebaited his hook. A sharp tug and a wriggle\nfoiled his next trial, and finally, with considerable effort, he landed\na portly two-hundred-pound broker upon the church roof.\n\nAs the victim lay there gasping, it was evident that the Devil was in\nno hurry to remove the hook from his gills; nor did he exhibit in this\ndelicate operation that courtesy of manner and graceful manipulation\nwhich usually distinguished him.\n\n\u201cCome,\u201d he said, gruffly, as he grasped the broker by the waistband,\n\u201cquit that whining and grunting. Don't flatter yourself that you're a\nprize either. I was certain to have had you. It was only a question of\ntime.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is not that, my lord, which troubles me,\u201d whined the unfortunate\nwretch, as he painfully wriggled his head, \u201cbut that I should have been\nfooled by such a paltry bait. What will they say of me down there? To\nhave let 'bigger things' go by, and to be taken in by this cheap trick,\u201d\n he added, as he groaned and glanced at the fly which the Devil was\ncarefully rearranging, \u201cis what,--pardon me, my lord,--is what gets me!\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said the Devil, philosophically, \u201cI never caught anybody yet who\ndidn't say that; but tell me, ain't you getting somewhat fastidious\ndown there? Here is one of my most popular flies, the greenback,\u201d he\ncontinued, exhibiting an emerald-looking insect, which he drew from his\nbox. \u201cThis, so generally considered excellent in election season, has\nnot even been nibbled at. Perhaps your sagacity, which, in spite of\nthis unfortunate contretemps, no one can doubt,\u201d added the Devil, with\na graceful return to his usual courtesy, \u201cmay explain the reason or\nsuggest a substitute.\u201d\n\nThe broker glanced at the contents of the box with a supercilious smile.\n\u201cToo old-fashioned, my lord,--long ago played out. Yet,\u201d he added,\nwith a gleam of interest, \u201cfor a consideration I might offer\nsomething--ahem!--that would make a taking substitute for these trifles.\nGive me,\u201d he continued, in a brisk, business-like way, \u201ca slight\npercentage and a bonus down, and I'm your man.\u201d\n\n\u201cName your terms,\u201d said the Devil, earnestly.\n\n\u201cMy liberty and a percentage on all you take, and the thing's done.\u201d\n\nThe Devil caressed his tail thoughtfully, for a few moments. He was\ncertain of the broker any way, and the risk was slight. \u201cDone!\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cStay a moment,\u201d said the artful broker. \u201cThere are certain\ncontingencies. Give me your fishing-rod and let me apply the bait\nmyself. It requires a skilful hand, my lord; even your well-known\nexperience might fail. Leave me alone for half an hour, and if you have\nreason to complain of my success I will forfeit my deposit,--I mean my\nliberty.\u201d\n\nThe Devil acceded to his request, bowed, and withdrew. Alighting\ngracefully in Montgomery Street, he dropped into Meade & Co.'s clothing\nstore, where, having completely equipped himself a la mode, he sallied\nforth intent on his personal enjoyment. Determining to sink his\nprofessional character, he mingled with the current of human life,\nand enjoyed, with that immense capacity for excitement peculiar to his\nnature, the whirl, bustle, and feverishness of the people, as a purely\naesthetic gratification unalloyed by the cares of business. What he did\nthat evening does not belong to our story. We return to the broker, whom\nwe left on the roof.\n\nWhen he made sure that the Devil had retired, he carefully drew from\nhis pocket-book a slip of paper and affixed it on the hook. The line\nhad scarcely reached the current before he felt a bite. The hook was\nswallowed. To bring up his victim rapidly, disengage him from the hook,\nand reset his line, was the work of a moment. Another bite and the same\nresult. Another, and another. In a very few minutes the roof was covered\nwith his panting spoil. The broker could himself distinguish that\nmany of them were personal friends; nay, some of them were familiar\nfrequenters of the building on which they were now miserably stranded.\nThat the broker felt a certain satisfaction in being instrumental in\nthus misleading his fellow-brokers no one acquainted with human nature\nwill for a moment doubt. But a stronger pull on his line caused him\nto put forth all his strength and skill. The magic pole bent like a\ncoach-whip. The broker held firm, assisted by the battlements of the\nchurch. Again and again it was almost wrested from his hand, and again\nand again he slowly reeled in a portion of the tightening line. At last,\nwith one mighty effort, he lifted to the level of the roof a struggling\nobject. A howl like Pandemonium rang through the air as the broker\nsuccessfully landed at his feet--the Devil himself!\n\nThe two glared fiercely at each other. The broker, perhaps mindful\nof his former treatment, evinced no haste to remove the hook from his\nantagonist's jaw. When it was finally accomplished, he asked quietly\nif the Devil was satisfied. That gentleman seemed absorbed in the\ncontemplation of the bait which he had just taken from his mouth. \u201cI\nam,\u201d he said, finally, \u201cand forgive you; but what do you call this?\u201d\n\n\u201cBend low,\u201d replied the broker, as he buttoned up his coat ready to\ndepart. The Devil inclined his ear. \u201cI call it WILD CAT!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHE OGRESS OF SILVER LAND;\n\nOR,\n\nTHE DIVERTING HISTORY OF PRINCE BADFELLAH AND PRINCE BULLEBOYE.\n\n\nIn the second year of the reign of the renowned Caliph Lo there dwelt\nin SILVER LAND, adjoining his territory, a certain terrible ogress. She\nlived in the bowels of a dismal mountain, where she was in the habit of\nconfining such unfortunate travellers as ventured within her domain. The\ncountry for miles around was sterile and barren. In some places it was\ncovered with a white powder, which was called in the language of the\ncountry AL KA LI, and was supposed to be the pulverized bones of those\nwho had perished miserably in her service.\n\nIn spite of this, every year, great numbers of young men devoted\nthemselves to the service of the ogress, hoping to become her godsons,\nand to enjoy the good fortune which belonged to that privileged class.\nFor these godsons had no work to perform, neither at the mountain\nnor elsewhere, but roamed about the world with credentials of their\nrelationship in their pockets, which they called STOKH, which was\nstamped with the stamp and sealed with the seal of the ogress, and which\nenabled them at the end of each moon to draw large quantities of gold\nand silver from her treasury. And the wisest and most favored of those\ngodsons were the Princes BADFELLAH and BULLEBOYE. They knew all the\nsecrets of the ogress, and how to wheedle and coax her. They were also\nthe favorites of SOOPAH INTENDENT, who was her Lord High Chamberlain and\nPrime Minister, and who dwelt in SILVER LAND.\n\nOne day, SOOPAH INTENDENT said to his servants, \u201cWhat is that which\ntravels the most surely, the most secretly, and the most swiftly?\u201d\n\nAnd they all answered as one man, \u201cLIGHTNING, my lord, travels the most\nsurely, the most swiftly, and the most secretly!\u201d\n\nThen said SOOPAH INTENDENT, \u201cLet Lightning carry this message secretly,\nswiftly, and surely to my beloved friends the Princes BADFELLAH and\nBULLEBOYE, and tell them that their godmother is dying, and bid\nthem seek some other godmother or sell their STOKH ere it becomes\nbadjee,--worthless.\u201d\n\n\u201cBekhesm! On our heads be it!\u201d answered the servants; and they ran to\nLightning with the message, who flew with it to the City by the Sea,\nand delivered it, even at that moment, into the hands of the Princes\nBADFELLAH and BULLEBOYE.\n\nNow the Prince BADFELLAH was a wicked young man; and when he had\nreceived this message he tore his beard and rent his garment and reviled\nhis godmother, and his friend SOOPAH INTENDENT. But presently he arose,\nand dressed himself in his finest stuffs, and went forth into the\nbazaars and among the merchants, capering and dancing as he walked, and\ncrying in a loud voice, \u201cO, happy day! O, day worthy to be marked with a\nwhite stone!\u201d\n\nThis he said cunningly, thinking the merchants and men of the bazaars\nwould gather about him, which they presently did, and began to question\nhim: \u201cWhat news, O most worthy and serene Highness? Tell us, that we\nmake merry too!\u201d\n\nThen replied the cunning prince, \u201cGood news, O my brothers, for I have\nheard this day that my godmother in SILVER LAND is well.\u201d The merchants,\nwho were not aware of the substance of the real message, envied him\ngreatly, and said one to another: \u201cSurely our brother the Prince\nBADFELLAH is favored by Allah above all men;\u201d and they were about to\nretire, when the prince checked them, saying: \u201cTarry for a moment.\nHere are my credentials, or STOKH. The same I will sell you for fifty\nthousand sequins, for I have to give a feast to-day, and need much\ngold. Who will give fifty thousand?\u201d And he again fell to capering and\ndancing. But this time the merchants drew a little apart, and some of\nthe oldest and wisest said: \u201cWhat dirt is this which the prince would\nhave us swallow? If his godmother were well, why should he sell his\nSTOKH? Bismillah! The olives are old and the jar is broken!\u201d When Prince\nBADFELLAH perceived them whispering, his countenance fell, and his knees\nsmote against each other through fear; but, dissembling again, he said:\n\u201cWell, so be it! Lo, I have much more than shall abide with me, for my\ndays are many and my wants are few. Say forty thousand sequins for my\nSTOKH and let me depart in Allah's name. Who will give forty thousand\nsequins to become the godson of such a healthy mother?\u201d And he again\nfell to capering and dancing, but not as gayly as before, for his heart\nwas troubled. The merchants, however, only moved farther away. \u201cThirty\nthousand sequins,\u201d cried Prince BADFELLAH; but even as he spoke they\nfled before his face, crying: \u201cHis godmother is dead. Lo, the jackals\nare defiling her grave. Mashalla! he has no godmother.\u201d And they sought\nout PANIK, the swift-footed messenger, and bade him shout through the\nbazaars that the godmother of Prince BADFELLAH was dead. When he heard\nthis, the prince fell upon his face, and rent his garments, and covered\nhimself with the dust of the market-place. As he was sitting thus, a\nporter passed him with jars of wine on his shoulders, and the prince\nbegged him to give him a jar, for he was exceeding thirsty and faint.\nBut the porter said, \u201cWhat will my lord give me first?\u201d And the prince,\nin very bitterness of spirit, said, \u201cTake this,\u201d and handed him his\nSTOKH, and so exchanged it for a jar of wine.\n\nNow the Prince BULLEBOYE was of a very different disposition. When he\nreceived the message of SOOPAH INTENDENT he bowed his head, and said,\n\u201cIt is the will of God.\u201d Then he rose; and without speaking a word\nentered the gates of his palace. But his wife, the peerless MAREE\nJAHANN, perceiving the gravity of his countenance, said, \u201cWhy is my\nlord cast down and silent? Why are those rare and priceless pearls,\nhis words, shut up so tightly between those gorgeous oyster-shells, his\nlips?\u201d But to this he made no reply. Thinking further to divert him,\nshe brought her lute into the chamber and stood before him, and sang\nthe song and danced the dance of BEN KOTTON, which is called IBRAHIM's\nDAUGHTER, but she could not lift the veil of sadness from his brow.\n\nWhen she had ceased, the Prince BULLEBOYE arose and said, \u201cAllah is\ngreat, and what am I, his servant, but the dust of the earth! Lo, this\nday has my godmother sickened unto death, and my STOKH become as a\nwithered palm-leaf. Call hither my servants and camel-drivers, and the\nmerchants that have furnished me with stuffs, and the beggars who have\nfeasted at my table, and bid them take all that is here, for it is mine\nno longer!\u201d With these words he buried his face in his mantle and wept\naloud.\n\nBut MAREE JAHANN, his wife, plucked him by the sleeve. \u201cPrithee, my\nlord,\u201d said she, \u201cbethink thee of the BROKAH or scrivener, who besought\nthee but yesterday to share thy STOKH with him and gave thee his bond\nfor fifty thousand sequins.\u201d But the noble Prince BULLEBOYE, raising his\nhead, said: \u201cShall I sell to him for fifty thousand sequins that which I\nknow is not worth a SOO MARKEE? For is not all the BROKAH'S wealth, even\nhis wife and children, pledged on that bond? Shall I ruin him to save\nmyself? Allah forbid! Rather let me eat the salt fish of honest penury,\nthan the kibobs of dishonorable affluence; rather let me wallow in\nthe mire of virtuous oblivion, than repose on the divan of luxurious\nwickedness.\u201d\n\nWhen the prince had given utterance to this beautiful and edifying\nsentiment, a strain of gentle music was heard, and the rear wall of the\napartment, which had been ingeniously constructed like a flat, opened\nand discovered the Ogress of SILVER LAND in the glare of blue fire,\nseated on a triumphal car attached to two ropes which were connected\nwith the flies, in the very act of blessing the unconscious prince.\nWhen the walls closed again without attracting his attention, Prince\nBULLEBOYE arose, dressed himself in his coarsest and cheapest stuffs,\nand sprinkled ashes on his head, and in this guise, having embraced\nhis wife, went forth into the bazaars. In this it will be perceived\nhow differently the good Prince BULLEBOYE acted from the wicked Prince\nBADFELLAH, who put on his gayest garments to simulate and deceive.\n\nNow when Prince BULLEBOYE entered the chief bazaar, where the merchants\nof the city were gathered in council, he stood up in his accustomed\nplace, and all that were there held their breath, for the noble Prince\nBULLEBOYE was much respected. \u201cLet the BROKAH, whose bond I hold for\nfifty thousand sequins, stand forth!\u201d said the prince. And the BROKAH\nstood forth from among the merchants. Then said the prince: \u201cHere is thy\nbond for fifty thousand sequins, for which I was to deliver unto thee\none half of my STOKH. Know, then, O my brother,--and thou, too, O Aga of\nthe BROKAHS,--that this my STOKH which I pledged to thee is worthless.\nFor my godmother, the Ogress of SILVER LAND, is dying. Thus do I release\nthee from thy bond, and from the poverty which might overtake thee as it\nhas even me, thy brother, the Prince BULLEBOYE.\u201d And with that the noble\nPrince BULLEBOYE tore the bond of the BROKAH into pieces and scattered\nit to the four winds.\n\nNow when the prince tore up the bond there was a great commotion, and\nsome said, \u201cSurely the Prince BULLEBOYE is drunken with wine;\u201d\n and others, \u201cHe is possessed of an evil spirit;\u201d and his friends\nexpostulated with him, saying, \u201cWhat thou hast done is not the custom\nof the bazaars,--behold, it is not BIZ!\u201d But to all the prince answered\ngravely, \u201cIt is right; on my own head be it!\u201d\n\nBut the oldest and wisest of the merchants, they who had talked with\nPrince BADFELLAH the same morning, whispered together, and gathered\naround the BROKAH whose bond the Prince BULLEBOYE had torn up. \u201cHark\nye,\u201d said they, \u201cour brother the Prince BULLEBOYE is cunning as a\njackal. What bosh is this about ruining himself to save thee? Such\na thing was never heard before in the bazaars. It is a trick, O thou\nmooncalf of a BROKAH! Dost thou not see that he has heard good news\nfrom his godmother, the same that was even now told us by the Prince\nBADFELLAH, his confederate, and that he would destroy thy bond for fifty\nthousand sequins because his STOKH is worth a hundred thousand! Be not\ndeceived, O too credulous BROKAH! for this what our brother the prince\ndoeth is not in the name of ALLAH, but of BIZ, the only god known in the\nbazaars of the city.\u201d\n\nWhen the foolish BROKAH heard these things he cried, \u201cJustice, O Aga\nof the BROKAHS,--justice and the fulfilment of my bond! Let the prince\ndeliver unto me the STOKH. Here are my fifty thousand sequins.\u201d But the\nprince said, \u201cHave I not told that my godmother is dying, and that\nmy STOKH is valueless?\u201d At this the BROKAH only clamored the more for\njustice and the fulfilment of his bond. Then the Aga of the BROKAHS\nsaid, \u201cSince the bond is destroyed, behold thou hast no claim. Go thy\nways!\u201d But the BROKAH again cried, \u201cJustice, my lord Aga! Behold, I\noffer the prince seventy thousand sequins for his STOKH!\u201d But the prince\nsaid, \u201cIt is not worth one sequin!\u201d Then the Aga said, \u201cBismillah! I\ncannot understand this. Whether thy godmother be dead, or dying, or\nimmortal, does not seem to signify. Therefore, O prince, by the laws\nof BIZ and of ALLAH, thou art released. Give the BROKAH thy STOKH for\nseventy thousand sequins, and bid him depart in peace. On his own head\nbe it!\u201d When the prince heard this command, he handed his STOKH to the\nBROKAH, who counted out to him seventy thousand sequins. But the heart\nof the virtuous prince did not rejoice, nor did the BROKAH, when he\nfound his STOKH was valueless; but the merchants lifted their hands in\nwonder at the sagacity and wisdom of the famous Prince BULLEBOYE.\nFor none would believe that it was the law of ALLAH that the prince\nfollowed, and not the rules of BIZ.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RUINS OF SAN FRANCISCO\n\n\nTowards the close of the nineteenth century the city of San Francisco\nwas totally ingulfed by an earthquake. Although the whole coast-line\nmust have been much shaken, the accident seems to have been purely\nlocal, and even the city of Oakland escaped. Schwappelfurt, the\ncelebrated German geologist, has endeavored to explain this singular\nfact by suggesting that there are some things the earth cannot\nswallow,--a statement that should be received with some caution, as\nexceeding the latitude of ordinary geological speculation.\n\nHistorians disagree in the exact date of the calamity. Tulu Krish, the\nwell-known New-Zealander, whose admirable speculations on the ruins\nof St. Paul as seen from London Bridge have won for him the attentive\nconsideration of the scientific world, fixes the occurrence in A. D.\n1880. This, supposing the city to have been actually founded in 1850,\nas asserted, would give but thirty years for it to have assumed the\nsize and proportions it had evidently attained at the time of its\ndestruction. It is not our purpose, however, to question the conclusions\nof the justly famed Maorian philosopher. Our present business lies with\nthe excavations that are now being prosecuted by order of the Hawaiian\ngovernment upon the site of the lost city.\n\nEvery one is familiar with the story of its discovery. For many years\nthe bay of San Francisco had been famed for the luscious quality of\nits oysters. It is stated that a dredger one day raked up a large bell,\nwhich proved to belong to the City Hall, and led to the discovery of\nthe cupola of that building. The attention of the government was at once\ndirected to the spot. The bay of San Francisco was speedily drained by a\nsystem of patent siphons, and the city, deeply embedded in mud, brought\nto light after a burial of many centuries. The City Hall, Post-Office,\nMint, and Custom-House were readily recognized by the large full-fed\nbarnacles which adhered to their walls. Shortly afterwards the first\nskeleton was discovered; that of a broker, whose position in the\nupper strata of mud nearer the surface was supposed to be owing to the\nexceeding buoyancy or inflation of scrip which he had secured about his\nperson while endeavoring to escape. Many skeletons, supposed to be those\nof females, encompassed in that peculiar steel coop or cage which seems\nto have been worn by the women of that period, were also found in\nthe upper stratum. Alexis von Puffer, in his admirable work on San\nFrancisco, accounts for the position of these unfortunate creatures\nby asserting that the steel cage was originally the frame of a\nparachute-like garment which distended the skirt, and in the submersion\nof the city prevented them from sinking. \u201cIf anything,\u201d says Von Puffer,\n\u201ccould have been wanting to add intensity to the horrible catastrophe\nwhich took place as the waters first entered the city, it would have\nbeen furnished in the forcible separation of the sexes at this trying\nmoment. Buoyed up by their peculiar garments, the female population\ninstantly ascended to the surface. As the drowning husband turned his\neyes above, what must have been his agony as he saw his wife shooting\nupward, and knew that he was debarred the privilege of perishing with\nher? To the lasting honor of the male inhabitants, be it said that but\nfew seemed to have availed themselves of their wives' superior levity.\nOnly one skeleton was found still grasping the ankles of another in\ntheir upward journey to the surface.\u201d\n\nFor many years California had been subject to slight earthquakes, more\nor less generally felt, but not of sufficient importance to awaken\nanxiety or fear. Perhaps the absorbing nature of the San Franciscans'\npursuits of gold-getting, which metal seems to have been valuable in\nthose days, and actually used as a medium of currency, rendered the\ninhabitants reckless of all other matters. Everything tends to show that\nthe calamity was totally unlooked for. We quote the graphic language of\nSchwappelfurt:--\n\n\u201cThe morning of the tremendous catastrophe probably dawned upon\nthe usual restless crowd of gold-getters intent upon their several\navocations. The streets were filled with the expanded figures of gayly\ndressed women, acknowledging with coy glances the respectful salutations\nof beaux as they gracefully raised their remarkable cylindrical\nhead-coverings, a model of which is still preserved in the Honolulu\nMuseum. The brokers had gathered at their respective temples. The\nshopmen were exhibiting their goods. The idlers, or 'Bummers,'--a term\napplied to designate an aristocratic, privileged class who enjoyed\nimmunities from labor, and from whom a majority of the rulers\nare chosen,--were listlessly regarding the promenaders from the\nstreet-corners or the doors of their bibulous temples. A slight\npremonitory thrill runs through the city. The busy life of this restless\nmicrocosm is arrested. The shopkeeper pauses as he elevates the goods\nto bring them into a favorable light, and the glib professional\nrecommendation sticks on his tongue. In the drinking-saloon the glass\nis checked half-way to the lips; on the streets the promenaders pause.\nAnother thrill, and the city begins to go down, a few of the more\npersistent topers tossing off their liquor at the same moment. Beyond a\nterrible sensation of nausea, the crowds who now throng the streets do\nnot realize the extent of the catastrophe. The waters of the bay recede\nat first from the centre of depression, assuming a concave shape, the\nouter edge of the circle towering many thousand feet above the city.\nAnother convulsion, and the water instantly resumes its level. The city\nis smoothly ingulfed nine thousand feet below, and the regular swell\nof the Pacific calmly rolls over it. Terrible,\u201d says Schwappelfurt, in\nconclusion, \u201cas the calamity must have been, in direct relation to the\nindividuals immediately concerned therein, we cannot but admire its\nartistic management; the division of the catastrophe into three\nperiods, the completeness of the cataclysms, and the rare combination of\nsincerity of intention with felicity of execution.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nA NIGHT AT WINGDAM.\n\n\nI had been stage-ridden and bewildered all day, and when we swept down\nwith the darkness into the Arcadian hamlet of \u201cWingdam,\u201d I resolved\nto go no farther, and rolled out in a gloomy and dyspeptic state. The\neffects of a mysterious pie, and some sweetened carbonic acid known\nto the proprietor of the \u201cHalf-Way House\u201d as \u201clemming sody,\u201d still\noppressed me. Even the facetiae of the gallant expressman who knew\neverybody's Christian name along the route, who rained letters,\nnewspapers, and bundles from the top of the stage, whose legs frequently\nappeared in frightful proximity to the wheels, who got on and off while\nwe were going at full speed, whose gallantry, energy, and superior\nknowledge of travel crushed all us other passengers to envious silence,\nand who just then was talking with several persons and manifestly doing\nsomething else at the same time,--even this had failed to interest me.\nSo I stood gloomily, clutching my shawl and carpet-bag, and watched the\nstage roll away, taking a parting look at the gallant expressman as he\nhung on the top rail with one leg, and lit his cigar from the pipe of a\nrunning footman. I then turned toward the Wingdam Temperance Hotel.\n\nIt may have been the weather, or it may have been the pie, but I was not\nimpressed favorably with the house. Perhaps it was the name extending\nthe whole length of the building, with a letter under each window,\nmaking the people who looked out dreadfully conspicuous. Perhaps it was\nthat \u201cTemperance\u201d always suggested to my mind rusks and weak tea. It was\nuninviting. It might have been called the \u201cTotal Abstinence\u201d Hotel,\nfrom the lack of anything to intoxicate or inthrall the senses. It was\ndesigned with an eye to artistic dreariness. It was so much too large\nfor the settlement, that it appeared to be a very slight improvement\non out-doors. It was unpleasantly new. There was the forest flavor of\ndampness about it, and a slight spicing of pine. Nature outraged,\nbut not entirely subdued, sometimes broke out afresh in little round,\nsticky, resinous tears on the doors and windows. It seemed to me that\nboarding there must seem like a perpetual picnic. As I entered the door,\na number of the regular boarders rushed out of a long room, and set\nabout trying to get the taste of something out of their mouths, by\nthe application of tobacco in various forms. A few immediately ranged\nthemselves around the fireplace, with their legs over each other's\nchairs, and in that position silently resigned themselves to\nindigestion. Remembering the pie, I waived the invitation of the\nlandlord to supper, but suffered myself to be conducted into the\nsitting-room. \u201cMine host\u201d was a magnificent-looking, heavily bearded\nspecimen of the animal man. He reminded me of somebody or something\nconnected with the drama. I was sitting beside the fire, mutely\nwondering what it could be, and trying to follow the particular chord\nof memory thus touched, into the intricate past, when a little\ndelicate-looking woman appeared at the door, and, leaning heavily\nagainst the casing, said in an exhausted tone, \u201cHusband!\u201d As the\nlandlord turned toward her, that particular remembrance flashed before\nme in a single line of blank verse. It was this: \u201cTwo souls with but one\nsingle thought, two hearts that beat as one.\u201d\n\nIt was Ingomar and Parthenia his wife. I imagined a different denouement\nfrom the play. Ingomar had taken Parthenia back to the mountains, and\nkept a hotel for the benefit of the Alemanni, who resorted there in\nlarge numbers. Poor Parthenia was pretty well fagged out, and did all\nthe work without \u201chelp.\u201d She had two \u201cyoung barbarians,\u201d a boy and a\ngirl. She was faded, but still good-looking.\n\nI sat and talked with Ingomar, who seemed perfectly at home and told\nme several stories of the Alemanni, all bearing a strong flavor of\nthe wilderness, and being perfectly in keeping with the house. How he,\nIngomar, had killed a certain dreadful \u201cbar,\u201d whose skin was just up\n\u201cyar,\u201d over his bed. How he, Ingomar, had killed several \u201cbucks,\u201d whose\nskins had been prettily fringed and embroidered by Parthenia, and even\nnow clothed him. How he, Ingomar, had killed several \u201cInjins,\u201d and was\nonce nearly scalped himself. All this with that ingenious candor which\nis perfectly justifiable in a barbarian, but which a Greek might feel\ninclined to look upon as \u201cblowing.\u201d Thinking of the wearied Parthenia, I\nbegan to consider for the first time that perhaps she had better married\nthe old Greek. Then she would at least have always looked neat. Then she\nwould not have worn a woollen dress flavored with all the dinners of\nthe past year. Then she would not have been obliged to wait on the table\nwith her hair half down. Then the two children would not have hung about\nher skirts with dirty fingers, palpably dragging her down day by day. I\nsuppose it was the pie which put such heartless and improper ideas in\nmy head, and so I rose up and told Ingomar I believed I'd go to bed.\nPreceded by that redoubtable barbarian and a flaring tallow candle, I\nfollowed him up stairs to my room. It was the only single room he had,\nhe told me; he had built it for the convenience of married parties who\nmight stop here, but, that event not happening yet, he had left it half\nfurnished. It had cloth on one side, and large cracks on the other. The\nwind, which always swept over Wingdam at night-time, puffed through the\napartment from different apertures. The window was too small for the\nhole in the side of the house where it hung, and rattled noisily.\nEverything looked cheerless and dispiriting. Before Ingomar left me,\nhe brought that \u201cbar-skin,\u201d and throwing it over the solemn bier which\nstood in one corner, told me he reckoned that would keep me warm, and\nthen bade me good night. I undressed myself, the light blowing out in\nthe middle of that ceremony, crawled under the \u201cbar-skin,\u201d and tried to\ncompose myself to sleep.\n\nBut I was staringly wide awake. I heard the wind sweep down the\nmountain-side, and toss the branches of the melancholy pine, and then\nenter the house, and try all the doors along the passage. Sometimes\nstrong currents of air blew my hair all over the pillow, as with strange\nwhispering breaths. The green timber along the walls seemed to be\nsprouting, and sent a dampness even through the \u201cbar-skin.\u201d I felt like\nRobinson Crusoe in his tree, with the ladder pulled up,--or like the\nrocked baby of the nursery song. After lying awake half an hour, I\nregretted having stopped at Wingdam; at the end of the third quarter, I\nwished I had not gone to bed; and when a restless hour passed, I got up\nand dressed myself. There had been a fire down in the big room. Perhaps\nit was still burning. I opened the door and groped my way along the\npassage, vocal with the snores of the Alemanni and the whistling of\nthe night wind; I partly fell down stairs, and at last entering the big\nroom, saw the fire still burning. I drew a chair toward it, poked it\nwith my foot, and was astonished to see, by the upspringing flash, that\nParthenia was sitting there also, holding a faded-looking baby.\n\nI asked her why she was sitting up.\n\n\u201cShe did not go to bed on Wednesday night before the mail arrived, and\nthen she awoke her husband, and there were passengers to 'tend to.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid she not get tired sometimes?\u201d\n\n\u201cA little, but Abner\u201d (the barbarian's Christian name) \u201chad promised to\nget her more help next spring, if business was good.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow many boarders had she?\u201d\n\n\u201cShe believed about forty came to regular meals, and there was transient\ncustom, which was as much as she and her husband could 'tend to. But HE\ndid a great deal of work.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat work?\u201d\n\n\u201cO, bringing in the wood, and looking after the traders' things.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow long had she been married?\u201d\n\n\u201cAbout nine years. She had lost a little girl and boy. Three children\nliving. HE was from Illinois. She from Boston. Had an education (Boston\nFemale High School,--Geometry, Algebra, a little Latin and Greek).\nMother and father died. Came to Illinois alone, to teach school.\nSaw HIM--yes--a love match.\u201d (\u201cTwo souls,\u201d etc., etc.) \u201cMarried and\nemigrated to Kansas. Thence across the Plains to California. Always on\nthe outskirts of civilization. HE liked it.\n\n\u201cShe might sometimes have wished to go home. Would like to on account\nof her children. Would like to give them an education. Had taught them\na little herself, but couldn't do much on account of other work. Hoped\nthat the boy would be like his father, strong and hearty. Was fearful\nthe girl would be more like her. Had often thought she was not fit for a\npioneer's wife.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy?\u201d\n\n\u201cO, she was not strong enough, and had seen some of his friends' wives\nin Kansas who could do more work. But he never complained,--was so\nkind.\u201d (\u201cTwo souls,\u201d etc.)\n\nSitting there with her head leaning pensively on one hand, holding the\npoor, wearied, and limp-looking baby wearily on the other arm, dirty,\ndrabbled, and forlorn, with the firelight playing upon her features no\nlonger fresh or young, but still refined and delicate, and even in her\ngrotesque slovenliness still bearing a faint reminiscence of birth and\nbreeding, it was not to be wondered that I did not fall into excessive\nraptures over the barbarian's kindness. Emboldened by my sympathy, she\ntold me how she had given up, little by little, what she imagined to be\nthe weakness of her early education, until she found that she acquired\nbut little strength in her new experience. How, translated to a\nbackwoods society, she was hated by the women, and called proud and\n\u201cfine,\u201d and how her dear husband lost popularity on that account with\nhis fellows. How, led partly by his roving instincts, and partly from\nother circumstances, he started with her to California. An account of\nthat tedious journey. How it was a dreary, dreary waste in her memory,\nonly a blank plain marked by a little cairn of stones,--a child's\ngrave. How she had noticed that little Willie failed. How she had called\nAbner's attention to it, but, man-like, he knew nothing about children,\nand pooh-poohed it, and was worried by the stock. How it happened that\nafter they had passed Sweetwater, she was walking beside the wagon one\nnight, and looking at the western sky, and she heard a little voice say\n\u201cMother.\u201d How she looked into the wagon and saw that little Willie was\nsleeping comfortably and did not wish to wake him. How that in a few\nmoments more she heard the same voice saying \u201cMother.\u201d How she came\nback to the wagon and leaned down over him, and felt his breath upon her\nface, and again covered him up tenderly, and once more resumed her weary\njourney beside him, praying to God for his recovery. How with her face\nturned to the sky she heard the same voice saying \u201cMother,\u201d and directly\na great bright star shot away from its brethren and expired. And how\nshe knew what had happened, and ran to the wagon again only to pillow\na little pinched and cold white face upon her weary bosom. The thin red\nhands went up to her eyes here, and for a few moments she sat still. The\nwind tore round the house and made a frantic rush at the front door,\nand from his couch of skins in the inner room--Ingomar, the barbarian,\nsnored peacefully.\n\n\u201cOf course she always found a protector from insult and outrage in the\ngreat courage and strength of her husband?\u201d\n\n\u201cO yes; when Ingomar was with her she feared nothing. But she was\nnervous and had been frightened once!\u201d\n\n\u201cHow?\u201d\n\n\u201cThey had just arrived in California. They kept house then, and had\nto sell liquor to traders. Ingomar was hospitable, and drank with\neverybody, for the sake of popularity and business, and Ingomar got to\nlike liquor, and was easily affected by it. And how one night there was\na boisterous crowd in the bar-room; she went in and tried to get him\naway, but only succeeded in awakening the coarse gallantry of the\nhalf-crazed revellers. And how, when she had at last got him in the room\nwith her frightened children, he sank down on the bed in a stupor, which\nmade her think the liquor was drugged. And how she sat beside him all\nnight, and near morning heard a step in the passage, and, looking toward\nthe door, saw the latch slowly moving up and down, as if somebody were\ntrying it. And how she shook her husband, and tried to waken him, but\nwithout effect. And how at last the door yielded slowly at the top (it\nwas bolted below), as if by a gradual pressure without; and how a hand\nprotruded through the opening. And how as quick as lightning she nailed\nthat hand to the wall with her scissors (her only weapon), but the point\nbroke, and somebody got away with a fearful oath. How she never told her\nhusband of it, for fear he would kill that somebody; but how on one day\na stranger called here, and as she was handing him his coffee, she saw a\nqueer triangular scar on the back of his hand.\u201d\n\nShe was still talking, and the wind was still blowing, and Ingomar was\nstill snoring from his couch of skins, when there was a shout high\nup the straggling street, and a clattering of hoofs, and rattling of\nwheels. The mail had arrived. Parthenia ran with the faded baby to\nawaken Ingomar, and almost simultaneously the gallant expressman stood\nagain before me addressing me by my Christian name, and inviting me\nto drink out of a mysterious black bottle. The horses were speedily\nwatered, and the business of the gallant expressman concluded, and,\nbidding Parthenia good by, I got on the stage, and immediately fell\nasleep, and dreamt of calling on Parthenia and Ingomar, and being\ntreated with pie to an unlimited extent, until I woke up the next\nmorning in Sacramento. I have some doubts as to whether all this was not\na dyspeptic dream, but I never witness the drama, and hear that noble\nsentiment concerning \u201cTwo souls,\u201d etc., without thinking of Wingdam and\npoor Parthenia.","title":"Legends and Tales","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":16752}