Nor would we seek growth at any sacrifice of high quality or purpose. We do not expect large numbers and great popular applause. Unitarians are pioneers, and too independent and discriminating to stir the feverish pulse of the multitude. We seek the heights, and it is our concern to reach them and hold them for the few that struggle up. Loaves and fishes we have not to offer, nor can we promise wealth and health as an attractive by-product of righteousness.

There is no better service that anyone can render than to implant higher ideals in the breast of another. In the matter of religious education as sought through the ordinary Sunday-school, no one who has had any practical experience has ever found it easy, or kept free from doubt as to its being sufficiently efficacious to make it worth while. But the problem is to recognize the difficulty, face all doubts, and stand by. Perfect teachers are impossible, satisfactory ones are not always to be had. If they are not dissatisfied with themselves, they are almost always unfit. But as between doing the best you can and doing nothing at all, it would seem that self-respect and a sense of deep responsibility would leave no recourse. There is no place for a shirker or a quitter in a real Unitarian church.

HAVE WE DONE OUR WORK?

Now and then some indifferent Unitarian expresses doubt as to the future value of our particular church. There are those who say, "Why should we keep it up? Have we not done our work?" We have seen our original protests largely effective, and rejoice that more liberal and generous, and, we believe, more just and true, religious convictions prevail; but have we been constructive and strengthening? And until we have made our own churches fully free and fruitful in spiritual life are we absolved from the call to service?

Have we earned our discharge from the army of life? Shall we be deserters or slackers! We ask no man to fight with us if his loyalty to any other corps is stronger, but to fight somewhere—to do his part for God and his fellow-men wherever he can do the most effective service.

We are not Unitarians first. We are not even Christians first. We are human first, seeking the best in humanity, in our appointed place in a civilization that finds its greatest inspiration in the leadership of Jesus of Nazareth, we are next Christians, and we are finally Unitarians because for us their point of view embodies most truly the spirit that animated his teachings and his life.

And so we appeal to those who really, not nominally, are of our household of faith to feel that it is best worth while to stand by the nearest church and to support it generously, that it may do its part in soul service and world welfare, and also to encourage it and give it more abundant life through attendance and participation in its activities.

OF FIRST IMPORTANCE

It is well for each soul, in the multiplicity of questions besetting him, to deliberately face them and determine what is of first importance. Aspects are so diverse and bewildering that if we do not reduce them to some order, giving them rank, we are in danger of becoming purposeless drifters on the sea of life.

What is the most important thing in life? What shall be our aim and purpose, as we look about us, observing our fellows—what they have accomplished and what they are—what commends itself to us as best worth while? And what course can we pursue to get the most and the best out of it?

We find a world of infinite diversity in conditions, in aims, and in results. One of the most striking differences is in regard to what we call success. We are prone to conclude that he who is prosperous in the matter of having is the successful man. Possessing is the proof of efficiency, and he who possesses little has measurably failed in the main object of life. This conclusion has a measure of truth, but is not wholly true. We see not a few instances of utter poverty of life concurrent with great possessions, and are forced to conclude that the real value of possessions is dependent on what they bring us. Merely to have is of no advantage. Indeed it may be a burden or a curse. Happiness is at least desirable, but it has no necessary connection with property accumulations. They may make it possible, but they never insure it. Possession may be an incident, but seldom is a cause.

If we follow this thought further we shall find that in the accepted methods of accumulation arise many of the causes of current misery and unhappiness. Generally he who is said to succeed pays a price, and a large one, for the prosperity he achieves. To be conspicuously successful commonly involves a degree of selfishness that is almost surely damaging. Often injustice and unfairness are added to the train of factors, and dishonesty and absence of decency give the finishing touch. Every dollar tinged with doubt is a moral liability. If it has been wrested from its rightful owner through fraud or force of opportunity, it would better be at the bottom of the sea.

THE BEST IN LIFE

The power and practical irresponsibility of money have ruined many a man, and the misuse of wealth has left unused immense opportunity for good. It has coined a word that has become abhorrent, and "Capitalism" has, in the minds of the suspicious, become the all-sufficient cause of everything deplorable in human conditions. No true-hearted observer can conclude that the first consideration of life should be wealth. On the other hand, no right-minded person will ignore the desirability and the duty of judiciously providing the means for a reasonable degree of comfort and self-respect, with a surplus for the furtherance of human welfare in general, and the relief of misfortune and suffering. Thrift is a virtue; greed is a vice. Reasonable possession is a commendable and necessary object. The unrestrained avarice that today is making cowards of us all is an unmeasured curse, a world-wide disgrace that threatens civilization.

In considering ends of life we cannot ignore those who consider happiness as adequate. Perhaps there are few who formulate this, but there are many who seem to give it practical assent. They apparently conform their lives to this butterfly estimate, and, in the absence of any other purpose, rest satisfied. Happiness is indeed a desirable condition, and in the highest sense, where it borders on blessedness, may be fairly termed "the end and aim of being." But on the lower stretches of the senses, where it becomes mere enjoyment or pleasure, largely concerned with amusement and self-indulgence of various sorts, it becomes parasitic, robbing life of its strength and flavor and preventing its development and full growth. It is insidious in its deterioration and omnivorous in its appetite. It tends to habits that undermine and to the appropriation of a preponderating share of the valueless things of life. The danger is in the unrestrained appetite, in intemperance that becomes habit. Pleasure is exhausting of both purse and mind. We naturally crave pleasant experiences, and we need a certain amount of relaxation. The danger is in overindulgence and indigestion resulting in spiritual invalidism. Let us take life sanely, accepting pleasures gratefully but moderately.

But what is best in life? Why, life itself. Life is opportunity. Here it is, around us, offered to us. We are free to take what we can or what we like. We have the great privilege of choice, and life's ministry to us depends on what we take and what we leave.

We are providentially assigned our place, whatever it is, but in no fixed sense of its being final and unalterable. The only obligation implied is that of acceptance until it can be bettered.

Our moral responsibility is limited to our opportunity, and the vital question is the use we make of it. The great fact of life is that we are spiritual beings. Religion has to do with soul existence and is the field of its development. It is concerned primarily with being and secondly with doing. It is righteousness inspired by love. It is recognition of our responsibilities to do God's will.

Hence the best life is that which accepts life as opportunity, and faithfully, happily seeks to make the most of it. It seeks to follow the right, and to do the best it can, in any circumstances. It accepts all that life offers, enjoying in moderation its varied gifts, but in restraint of self-indulgence, and with kindly consideration of others. It subordinates its impulses to the apprehended will of God, bears trials with fortitude, and trusts eternal good.

OVERCOMING OBSTACLES

One of the most impressive sights in the natural world is the difficulties resisted and overcome by a tree in its struggle for life. On the very summit of the Sentinel Dome, over eight thousand feet above sea-level, there is rooted in the apparently solid granite a lone pine two feet in diameter. It is not tall, for its struggle with the wind and snow has checked its aspirations, but it is sturdy and vigorous, while the wonder is that it ever established and maintained life at all. Where it gains its nourishment is not apparent. Disintegrated granite seems a hard diet, but it suffices, for the determined tree makes the best of the opportunities offered. Like examples abound wherever a crevice holds any soil whatever. In a niche of El Capitan, more than a thousand feet from the valley's floor, grows a tree a hundred feet high. A strong glass shows a single tree on the crest of Half Dome. Such persistence is significant, and it enforces a lesson we very much need.

Reason should not be behind instinct in making the most of life. While man is less rigidly conditioned and may modify his environment, he, too, may nourish his life by using to the full whatever nutriment is offered. Lincoln has been characterized as a man who made the most of his life. Perhaps his greatness consisted mostly in that.

We are inclined to blame conditions and circumstances for failures that result from our lack of effort. We lack in persistence, we resent disparity in the distribution of talents, we blink at responsibility, and are slothful and trifling. Our life is a failure from lack of will.

Who are we that we should complain that life is hard, or conclude that it is not better so? Why do we covet other opportunities instead of doing the best with those we have? What is the glory of life but to accept it with such satisfaction as we can command, to enjoy what we have a right to, and to use all it offers for its upbuilding and fulfillment?

BEING RIGHT

How evident it is that much more than good intentions is needed in one who would either maintain self-respect or be of any use in his daily life! It is not easy to be good, but it is often less easy to be right. It involves an understanding that presupposes both ability and effort. Intelligence, thinking, often studious consideration, are necessary to give a working hypothesis of what is best. It is seldom that anything is so simple that without careful thought we can be sure that one course is right and another wrong. Perhaps, after we have weighed all that is ponderable, we can only determine which seems the better course of action. Being good may help our judgment. Doing right is the will of God.

PATRIOTISM

"Let us have faith that right makes might, and in that faith let us to the end dare to do our duty as we understand it." Abraham Lincoln had a marvelous aptitude for condensed statement, and in this compact sentence from his Cooper Union address expresses the very essence of the appeal that is made to us today. We can find no more fundamental slogan and no nobler one.

Whatever the circumstances presented and whatever the immediate result will be, we are to dare to do our duty as we understand it. And we are so to dare and so to do in complete faith that right makes might and in utter disregard of fear that might may triumph. The only basis of true courage is faith, and our trust must be in right, in good, in God.

We live in a republic that sustains itself through the acceptance by all of the will of the majority, and to talk of despotism whenever the authority necessary for efficiency is exercised, and that with practically unanimous concurrence, is wholly unreasonable. A man who cannot yield allegiance to the country in which he lives should either be silent and inactive or go to some country where his sympathy corresponds with his loyalty.



CHAPTER X

CONCERNING PERSONS

As years increase we more and more value the personal and individual element in human life. Character becomes the transcendent interest and friends are our chief assets. As I approach the end of my story of memories I feel that the most interesting feature of life has been the personal. I wish I had given more space to the people I have known. Fortune has favored me with friends worth mentioning and of acquaintances, some of whom I must introduce.

Of Horatio Stebbins, the best friend and strongest influence of my life, I have tried to express my regard in a little book about to be published by the Houghton Mifflin Company of Boston. It will be procurable from our San Francisco Unitarian Headquarters. That those who may not see it may know something of my feeling, I reprint a part of an editorial written when he died.

HORATIO STEBBINS

The thoughts that cluster around the memory of Horatio Stebbins so fill the mind that nothing else can be considered until some expression is made of them, and yet the impossibility of any adequate statement is so evident that it seems hopeless to begin. The event of his death was not unexpected. It has been imminent and threatening for years. His feebleness and the intense suffering of his later days relieve the grief that must be felt, and there springs by its side gratitude that rest and peace have come to him. And yet to those who loved him the world seems not quite the same since he has gone from it. There is an underlying feeling of something missing, of loss not to be overcome, that must be borne to the end.

In my early boyhood Horatio Stebbins was "the preacher from Fitchburg"—original in manner and matter, and impressive even to a boy. Ten years passed, and our paths met in San Francisco. From the day he first stood in the historic pulpit as successor of that gifted preacher and patriot, Starr King, till his removal to Cambridge, few opportunities for hearing him were neglected by me. His influence was a great blessing, association with him a delight, his example an inspiration, and his love the richest of undeserved treasures.

Dr. Stebbins was ever the kindliest of men, and his friendliness and consideration were not confined to his social equals. Without condescension, he always had a kind word for the humblest people. He was as gentlemanly and courteous to a hackdriver as he would be to a college president. None ever heard him speak severely or impatiently to a servant. He was considerate by nature, and patient from very largeness. He never harbored an injury, and by his generosity and apparent obliviousness or forgetfulness of the unpleasant past he often put to shame those who had wronged him. He was at times stern, and was always fearless in uttering what he felt to be the truth, whether it was to meet with favor or with disapproval from his hearers.

As a friend he was loyalty itself, and for the slightest service he was deeply appreciative and grateful. He was the most charitable of men, and was not ashamed to admit that he had often been imposed upon.

Of his rank as a thinker and a preacher I am not a qualified judge, but he surely was great of heart and strong of mind. He was a man of profound faith, and deeply religious in a strong, manly way. He inspired others by his trust and his unquestioned belief in the reality of spiritual things. He never did anything for effect; his words fell from his lips in tones of wonderful beauty to express the thought and feeling that glowed within.

Noble man, great preacher, loving friend! thou art not dead, but translated to that higher life of which no doubt ever entered thy trusting mind!

HORACE DAVIS

Horace Davis was born in Worcester, Massachusetts, on March 16, 1831. His father was John Davis, who served as Governor of Massachusetts and as United States Senator. His mother was the daughter of Rev. Aaron Bancroft, one of the pioneers of the Unitarian ministry.

Horace Davis graduated at Harvard in the class of 1849. He began the study of the law, but his eyes failed, and in 1852 he came to California to seek his fortune. He first tried the mines, starting a store at Shaw's Flat. When the venture failed he came to San Francisco and sought any employment to be found. He began by piling lumber, but when his cousin, Isaac Davis, found him at it he put him aboard one of his coasting schooners as supercargo. Being faithful and capable, he was sought by the Pacific Mail Steamship Company, and was for several years a good purser. He and his brother George had loaned their savings to a miller, and were forced to take over the property. Mr. Davis become the accepted authority on wheat and the production of flour, and enjoyed more than forty years of leadership in the business which he accidentally entered.

He was always a public-spirited citizen, and in 1877 was elected to Congress, serving for two terms. He proved too independent and unmanageable for the political leaders of the time and was allowed to return to private life.

In 1887 he was urged to accept the presidency of the University of California, and for three years he discharged the duties of the office with credit.

His interest in education was always great, and he entered with ardor and intelligence into the discharge of his duties as a trustee of the School of Mechanical Arts established by the will of James Lick. As president of the board, he guided its course, and was responsible for the large plan for co-operation and co-ordination by which, with the Wilmerding School and the Lux School (of which he was also a leading trustee), a really great endowed industrial school under one administrative management has been built up in San Francisco. A large part of his energy was devoted to this end, and it became the strongest desire of his life to see it firmly established. He also served for many years as a trustee for Stanford University, and for a time was president of the board. To the day of his death (in July, 1916) he was active in the affairs of Stanford, and was also deeply interested in the University of California. The degree of LL.D. was conferred by the University of the Pacific, by Harvard, and by the University of California.

From his earliest residence in San Francisco he was a loyal and devoted supporter of the First Unitarian Church and of its Sunday-school. For over sixty years he had charge of the Bible-class, and his influence for spiritual and practical Christianity has been very great. He gave himself unsparingly for the cause of religious education, and never failed to prepare himself for his weekly ministration. For eight years he served on the board of trustees of the church and for seven years was moderator of the board.

Under the will of Captain Hinckley he was made a trustee of the William and Alice Hinckley Fund, and for thirty-seven years took an active interest in its administration. At the time of his death he was its president. He was deeply interested in the Pacific Unitarian School for the Ministry, and contributed munificently to its foundation and maintenance.

Mr. Davis preserved his youth by the breadth of his sympathies. He seemed to have something in common with everyone he met; was young with the young. In his talks to college classes he was always happy, with a simplicity and directness that attracted close attention, and a sense of humor that lighted up his address.

His domestic life was very happy. His first wife, the daughter of Captain Macondray, for many years an invalid, died in 1872. In 1875 he married Edith King, the only daughter of Thomas Starr King, a woman of rare personal gifts, who devoted her life to his welfare and happiness. She died suddenly in 1909. Mr. Davis, left alone, went steadily on. His books were his constant companions and his friends were always welcome. He would not own that he was lonely. He kept occupied; he had his round of duties, attending to his affairs, and the administration of various benevolent trusts, and he had a large capacity for simple enjoyments. He read good books; he was hospitably inclined; he kept in touch with his old associates; he liked to meet them at luncheon at the University Club or at the monthly dinner of the Chit-Chat Club, which he had seldom missed in thirty-nine years of membership. He was punctilious in the preparation of his biennial papers, always giving something of interest and value. His intellectual interest was wide. He was a close student of Shakespeare, and years ago printed a modest volume on the Sonnets. He also published a fine study of the Ministry of Jesus, and a discriminating review of the American Constitutions.

Mr. Davis was a man of profound religious feeling. He said little of it, but it was a large part of his life. On his desk was a volume of Dr. Stebbins' prayers, the daily use of which had led to the reading again and again of the book he very deeply cherished.

He was the most loyal of friends—patient, appreciative beyond deserts, kindly, and just. The influence for good of such a man is incalculable. One who makes no pretense of virtue, but simply lives uprightly as a matter of course, who is genuine and sound, who does nothing for effect, who shows simple tastes, and is not greedy for possessions, but who looks out for himself and his belongings in a prudent, self-respecting way, who takes what comes without complaint, who believes in the good and shows it by his daily course, who is never violent and desperate, but calmly tries to do his part to make his fellows happier and the world better, who trusts in God and cheerfully bears the trials that come, who holds on to life and its opportunities, without repining if he be left to walk alone, and who faces death with the confidence of a child who trusts in a Father's love and care—such a man is blessed himself and is a blessing to his fellow-men.

A MEMORY OF EMERSON

In 1871 Ralph Waldo Emerson visited California. He was accompanied by his daughter Ellen, and seemed thoroughly to enjoy the new scenes and new experiences. He visited the Yosemite Valley and other points of interest, and was persuaded to deliver a number of lectures. His first appearance before a California audience was at the Unitarian church, then in Geary Street near Stockton, on a Sunday evening, when he read his remarkable essay on "Immortality," wherein he spoke of people who talk of eternity and yet do not know what to do with a day. The church was completely filled and the interest to hear him seemed so great that it was determined to secure some week-day lectures if possible. In company with Horace Davis, who enjoyed his acquaintance, I called on him at the Occidental Hotel. He was the most approachable of men—as simple and kindly in his manner as could be imagined, and putting one at ease with that happy faculty which only a true gentleman possesses.



His features are familiar from the many published pictures, but no one who had not met his smiling eyes can realize the charm of his personality.

His talk was delightfully genial. I asked him if his journey had been wearisome. "Not at all," he replied; "I have enjoyed it all." The scenery seemed to have impressed him deeply. "When one crosses your mountains," he said, "and sees their wonderful arches, one discovers how architecture came to be invented." When asked if he could favor us with some lectures, he smiled and said: "Well, my daughter thought you might want something of that kind, and put a few in my trunk, in case of an emergency." When it came to dates, it was found that he was to leave the next day for a short trip to the Geysers, and it was difficult to arrange the course of three, which had been fixed upon, after his return. It was about eleven o'clock when we called. I asked him if he could give us one of the lectures that evening. He smiled and said, "Oh, yes," adding, "I don't know what you can do here, but in Boston we could not expect to get an audience on such short notice." We assured him that we felt confident in taking the chances on that. Going at once to the office of the Evening Bulletin, we arranged for a good local notice, and soon had a number of small boys distributing announcements in the business streets.

The audience was a good one in point of numbers, and a pleased and interested one. His peculiar manner of reading a few pages, and then shuffling his papers, as though they were inextricably mixed, was embarrassing at first, but when it was found that he was not disturbed by it, and that it was not the result of an accident, but a characteristic manner of delivery, the audience withheld its sympathy and rather enjoyed the novelty and the feeling of uncertainty as to what would come next. One little incident of the lecture occasioned an admiring smile. A small bunch of flowers had been placed on the reading-desk, and by some means, in one of his shuffles, they were tipped over and fell forward to the floor. Not at all disconcerted, he skipped nimbly out of the pulpit, picked up the flowers, put them back in the vase, replaced it on the desk, and went on with the lecture as though nothing had happened.

He was much interested in the twenty-dollar gold pieces in which he was paid, never before having met with that form of money. His encouraging friendliness of manner quite removed any feeling that a great man's time was being wasted through one's intercourse. He gossiped pleasantly of men and things as though talking with an equal. On one occasion he seemed greatly to enjoy recounting how cleverly James Russell Lowell imitated Alfred Tennyson's reading of his own poems. Over the Sunday-school of our church Starr King had provided a small room where he could retire and gain seclusion. It pleased Emerson. He said, "I think I should enjoy a study beyond the orbit of the servant girl." He was as self-effacing a man as I ever knew, and the most agreeable to meet.

After his return from his short trip he gave two or three more lectures, with a somewhat diminishing attendance. Dr. Stebbins remarked in explanation, "I thought the people would tire in the sockets of their wings if they attempted to follow him."

At this distance, I can remember little that he said, but no distance of time or space can ever dim the delight I felt in meeting him, or the impression formed of a most attractive, penetrating, and inspiring personality.

His kindliness and geniality were unbounded. During our arrangement of dates Mr. Davis smiled as he said of one suggested by Mr. Emerson, "That would not be convenient for Mr. Murdock, for it is the evening of his wedding." He did not forget it. After the lecture, a few days later, he turned to me and asked, "Is she here?" When I brought my flattered wife, he chatted with her familiarly, asking where she had lived before coming to California, and placing her wholly at ease.

Every tone of his voice and every glance of his eye suggested the most absolute serenity. He seemed the personification of calm wisdom. Nothing disturbed him, nothing depressed him. He was as serene and unruffled as a morning in June. He radiated kindliness from a heart at peace with all mankind. His gentleness of manner was an illustration of the possibility of beauty in conduct. He was wholly self-possessed—to imagine him in a passion would be impossible. His word was searching, but its power was that of the sunbeam and not of the blast. He was above all teapot tempests, a strong, tender, fearless, trustful man.

JULIA WARD HOWE

Julia Ward Howe is something more than a noble memory. She has left her impress on her time, and given a new significance to womanhood. To hear the perfect music of the voice of so cultivated a woman is something of an education, and to have learned how gracious and kindly a great nature really is, is an experience well worth cherishing. Mrs. Howe was wonderfully alive to a wide range of interests—many-sided and sympathetic. She could take the place of a minister and speak effectively from deep conviction and a wide experience, or talk simply and charmingly to a group of school-children.

When some years later than her San Francisco visit she spoke at a King's Chapel meeting in Boston, growing feebleness was apparent, but the same gracious spirit was undimmed. Later pictures have been somewhat pathetic. We do not enjoy being reminded of mortality in those of pre-eminent spirit, but what a span of events and changes her life records, and what a part in it all she had borne! When one ponders on the inspiring effect of the Battle Hymn of the Republic, and of the arms it nerved and the hearts it strengthened, and on the direct blows she struck for the emancipation of woman, it seems that there has been abundant answer to her prayer,

"As He died to make men holy, Let us die to make men free."

TIMOTHY H. REARDEN

In glancing back, I can think of no more charming man than Timothy Rearden. He had a most attractive personality, combining rare intelligence and kindly affection with humor and a modesty that left him almost shy. He was scholarly and brilliant, especially in literature and languages. His essays and studies in Greek attracted world-acknowledgment, but at home he was known chiefly as a genial, self-effacing lawyer, not ambitious for a large practice and oblivious of position, but happy in his friends and in delving deep into whatever topic in the world of letters engaged his interest.

He was born in Ohio in 1839 and graduated from the Cleveland High School and from Kenyon College. He served in the Civil War and came to California in 1866. He was a fellow-worker with Bret Harte in the Mint, and also on the Overland Monthly, contributing "Favoring Female Conventualism" to the first number. He was a sound lawyer, but hid with his elders until 1872, when he opened his own office. He was not a pusher, but his associates respected and loved him, so that when in 1883 the governor was called upon to appoint a judge, and, embarrassed by the number of candidates, he called upon the Bar Association to recommend someone, they took a vote and two-thirds of them named Rearden. He served on the bench for eight years.

He was a favorite member of the Chit-Chat Club for many years and wrote many brilliant essays, a volume of which was printed in 1893. The first two he gave were "Francis Petrarch" and "Burning Sappho." Among the most charming was "Ballads and Lyrics," which was illustrated by the equally charming singing of representative selections by Mrs. Ida Norton, the only time in its history when the club was invaded by a woman. Its outside repetition was clamored for, and as the Judge found a good excuse in his position and its requirements, he loaned the paper and I had the pleasure of substituting for him.

When I was a candidate for the legislature he issued a card that was a departure from political methods. It was during the time when all the names were submitted on the ballot and voters crossed off those they did not want to win. He sent his friends a neat card, as follows:

CHARLES A. MURDOCK (Of C.A. Murdock & Co., 532 Clay Street) IS ONE OF THE REPUBLICAN CANDIDATES FOR THE ASSEMBLY FROM THE TENTH SENATORIAL DISTRICT

If you prefer any candidate on any other ticket, scratch Murdock.

If you require any pledge other than that he will vote according to his honest convictions, scratch Murdock.

His friend, Ambrose Bierce, spoke of him as the most scholarly man on the Pacific Coast. He was surely among the most modest and affectionate. He had remarkable poetic gifts. In 1892 the Thomas Post of the Grand Army of the Republic held a memorial service, and he contributed a poem beginning:

"Life's fevered day declines; its purple twilight falling Draws length'ning shadows from the broken flanks; And from the column's head a viewless chief is calling: 'Guide right; close up your ranks!'"

He was ill when it was read. A week from the day of the meeting the happy, well-loved man breathed his last.

JOHN MUIR

John Muir, naturalist, enthusiast, writer, glorifier of the Sierras, is held in affectionate memory the world over, but especially in California, where he was known as a delightful personality. Real pleasure and a good understanding of his nature and quality await those who read of the meeting of Emerson and Muir in the Yosemite in 1871. It is recorded in their diaries. He was a very rare and versatile man. It was my good fortune to sit by him at a dinner on his return from Alaska, where he had studied its glaciers, and had incidentally been honored by having its most characteristic one named after him. He was tremendously impressed by the wonder and majesty of what he had seen, but it in no wise dimmed his enthusiasm for the beauty and glory of the Sierra Nevada. In speaking of the exquisite loveliness of a mountain meadow he exclaimed: "I could conceive it no punishment to be staked out for a thousand years on one of those meadows." His tales of experiences in the High Sierra, where he spent days alone and unarmed, with nothing but tea and a few breadcrusts to sustain him, were most thrilling.

I was afterward charmed by his sketch of an adventure with a dog called "Stickeen," on one of the great Alaskan glaciers, and, meeting him, urged that he make a little book of it. He was pleased and told me he had just done it. Late in life he was shocked at what he considered the desecration of the Hetch-Hetchy Valley by the city of San Francisco, which sought to dam it and form a great lake that should forever furnish a supply of water and power. He came to my office to supervise the publication of the Sierra Club Bulletin, and we had a spirited but friendly discussion of the matter, I being much interested as a supervisor of the city. As a climax he exclaimed, "Why, if San Francisco ever gets the Hetch-Hetchy I shall swear, even if I am in heaven."

GEORGE HOLMES HOWISON

Among the many beneficent acts of Horatio Stebbins in his distinguished ministry in San Francisco was his influence in the establishment of the chair of Moral Philosophy in the University of California. It was the gift of D.O. Mills, who provided the endowment on the advice of Dr. Stebbins. The first occupant appointed was Professor Howison, who from 1884 to 1912 happily held a fruitful term. He was admirably fitted for his duties, and with the added influence of the Philosophical Union contributed much to the value of the university. A genial and kindly man, with a keen sense of humor, he was universally and deeply respected by the students and by his associates. He made philosophy almost popular, and could differ utterly from others without any of the common results of antagonism, for he generated so much more light than heat. His mind was so stored that when he began to speak there seemed to be no reason aside from discretion why he should ever stop.

I enjoyed to the full one little business incident with him. In my publications I followed a somewhat severe style of typography, especially priding myself on the possession of a complete series of genuine old-style faces cast in Philadelphia from moulds cut a hundred and seventy years ago. In these latter days a few bold men have tried to improve on this classic. One Ronaldson especially departed from the simplicity and dignity of the cut approved by Caxton, Aldus, and Elzevir, and substituted for the beautiful terminal of, say the capital T, two ridiculous curled points. I resented it passionately, and frequently remarked that a printer who would use Ronaldson old-style would not hesitate to eat his pie with a knife. One day Professor Howison (I think his dog "Socrates" was with him) came into my office and inquired if I had a cut of old-style type that had curved terminals on the capital Ts. I had no idea why he asked the question; I might have supposed that he wanted the face, but I replied somewhat warmly that I had not, that I had never allowed it in the shop, to which he replied with a chuckle, "Good! I was afraid I might get them."

Professor Howison furnished one of the best stories of the great earthquake of 1906. In common with most people, he was in bed at fourteen minutes past five on the 18th of April. While victims generally arose and dressed more or less, the Professor calmly remained between the sheets, concluding that if he was to die the bed would be the most fitting and convenient place to be in. It took more than a full-grown earthquake to disturb his philosophy.

JOSIAH ROYCE

It is doubtful if any son of California has won greater recognition than Josiah Royce, born in Grass Valley in November, 1855. In 1875 he graduated at the University of California. After gaining his Ph.D. at Johns Hopkins, he returned to his alma mater and for four years was instructor in English literature and logic.

He joined the Chit-Chat Club in 1879 and continued a member until his removal to Harvard in 1882. He was a brilliant and devoted member, with a whimsical wit and entire indifference to fit of clothes and general personal appearance. He was eminently good-natured and a very clever debater. With all the honors heaped upon him, he never forgot his youthful associates. At a reunion held in 1916 he sent this friendly message to the club: "Have warmest memories of olden time. Send heartiest greetings to all my fellow members. I used to be a long-winded speaker in Chit-Chat, but my love far outlasts my speeches. You inspired my youth. You make my older years glow."

In my youthful complacency I had the audacity to print an essay on "The Policy of Protection," taking issue with most of my brother members, college men and free-traders. Later, while on a visit to California, he told me, with a twinkle in his eye, "I am using your book at Harvard as an example of logic."

He died honored everywhere as America's greatest philosopher, one of the world's foremost thinkers, and withal a very lovable man.

CHARLES GORDON AMES

In the early days Rev. Charles Gordon Ames preached for a time in Santa Cruz. Later he removed to San Jose, and occasionally addressed San Francisco audiences. He was original and witty and was in demand for special occasions. In an address at a commencement day at Berkeley, I heard him express his wonder at being called upon, since he had matriculated at a wood-pile and graduated in a printing-office. Several years after he had returned East I was walking with him in Boston. We met one of his friends, who said, "How are you, Ames?" "Why, I'm still at large, and have lucid intervals," replied the witty preacher. He once told me of an early experience in candidating. He was asked to preach in Worcester, where there was a vacancy. Next day he met a friend who told him the results, saying: "You seem to have been fortunate in satisfying both the radicals and the conservatives. But your language was something of a surprise; it does not follow the usual Harvard type, and does not seem ministerial. You used unaccustomed illustrations. You spoke of something being as slow as molasses. Now, so far as I know, molasses is not a scriptural word. Honey is mentioned in the Bible, but not molasses."

JOAQUIN MILLER

The passing of Joaquin Miller removed from California her most picturesque figure. In his three-score and twelve years he found wide experience, and while his garb and habits were somewhat theatrical he was a strong character and a poet of power. In some respects he was more like Walt Whitman than any other American poet, and in vigor and grasp was perhaps his equal. Of California authors he is the last of the acknowledged leading three, Harte and Clemens completing the group. For many years he lived with his wife and daughter at "The Heights," in the foothills back of Oakland, writing infrequently, but with power and insight. His "Columbus" will probably be conceded to be his finest poem, and one of the most perfect in the language. He held his faculties till the last, writing a few days before his death a tender message of faith in the eternal.

With strong unconventionality and a somewhat abrupt manner, he was genial and kindly in his feelings, with warm affections and great companionability.

An amusing incident of many years ago comes back to freshen his memory. An entertainment of a social character was given at the Oakland Unitarian church, and when my turn came for a brief paper on wit and humor I found that Joaquin Miller sat near me on the platform. As an illustration of parody, bordering on burlesque, I introduced a Miller imitation—the story of a frontiersman on an Arizona desert accompanied by a native woman of "bare, brown beauty," and overtaken by heat so intense that but one could live, whereupon, to preserve the superior race, he seized a huge rock and

"Crushed with fearful blow Her well-poised head."

It was highly audacious, and but for a youthful pride of authorship and some curiosity as to how he would take it I should have omitted it.

Friends in the audience told me that the way in which I watched him from the corner of my eye was the most humorous thing in the paper. At the beginning his head was bowed, and for some time he showed no emotion of any sort, but as I went on and it grew worse and worse, he gave way to a burst of merriment and I saw that I was saved.

I was gratified then, and his kindliness brings a little glow of good-will—that softens my farewell.

MARK TWAIN

Of Mark Twain my memory is confined to two brief views, both before he had achieved his fame. One was hearing him tell a story with his inimitable drawl, as he stood smoking in front of a Montgomery Street cigar-store, and the other when on his return from a voyage to the Hawaiian Islands he delivered his famous lecture at the Academy of Music. It was a marvelous address, in which with apparently no effort he led his audience to heights of appreciative enthusiasm in the most felicitous description of the beautiful and wonderful things he had seen, and then dropped them from the sublime to the ridiculous by some absurd reference or surprisingly humorous reflection.

The sharp contrast between his incomparably beautiful word paintings and his ludicrous humor was characteristic of two sides of the waggish newspaper reporter who developed into a good deal of a philosopher and the first humorist of his time.

SHELDON GAYLORD KELLOGG

Among my nearest friends I am proud to count Sheldon G. Kellogg, associated through both the Unitarian church, the Sunday-school, and the Chit-Chat Club. He was a lawyer with a large and serviceable conscience as well as a well-trained mind. He grew to manhood in the Middle West, graduated in a small Methodist college, and studied deeply in Germany. He came to San Francisco, establishing himself in practice without acquaintance, and by sheer ability and character compelled success. His integrity and thoroughness were beyond any question. He went to the root of any matter that arose. He was remarkably well read and a passionate lover of books. He was exact and accurate in his large store of information. Dr. Stebbins, in his delightful extravagance, once said to Mrs. Kellogg, "Your husband is the only man I'm afraid of—he knows so much." At the Chit-Chat no one dared to hazard a doubtful statement of fact. If it was not so, Kellogg would know it. He was the most modest of men and would almost hesitate to quote the last census report to set us right, but such was our respect for him that his statements were never questioned; he inspired complete confidence. I remember an occasion when the Supreme Court of the state, or a department of it, had rendered an opinion setting aside a certain sum as the share of certain trustees. Kellogg was our attorney. He studied the facts and the decision until he was perfectly sure the court had erred and that he could convince them of it. We applied for a hearing in bank and he was completely sustained.

Kellogg was an eminently fair man. He took part in a political convention on one occasion and was elected chairman. There was a bitter fight between contending factions, but Kellogg was so just in his rulings that both sides were satisfied and counted him friendly.

He was a lovable personality and the embodiment of honor. He was studious and scholarly and always justified our expectation of an able, valuable paper on whatever topic he treated. I do not recall that in all my experience I have ever known any other man so unreservedly and universally respected.

JOSEPH WORCESTER

It is a salutary experience to see the power of goodness, to know a man whose loveliness of life and character exerts an influence beyond the reach of great intellectual gift or conscious effort. Joseph Worcester was a modest, shrinking Swedenborgian minister. His congregation was a handful of refined mystics who took no prominent part in public affairs and were quiet and unobtrusive citizens. He was not attractive as a preacher, his voice trembled with emotion and bashfulness, and he read with difficulty. He was painfully shy, and he was oppressed and suffered in a crowd. He was unmarried and lived by himself in great simplicity. He seemed to sustain generally good health on tea, toast, and marmalade, which at noonday he often shared with his friend William Keith, the artist.

He was essentially the gentle man. In public speaking his voice never rang out with indignation. He preserved the conversational tone and seemed devoid of passion and severity. He was patient, kind, and loving. He had humor, and a pleasant smile generally lighted up his benignant countenance. He was often playfully indignant. I remember that at one time an aesthetic character named Russell addressed gatherings of society people advising them what they should throw out of their over-furnished rooms. In conversation with Mr. Worcester I asked him how he felt about it. He replied, "I know what I should throw out—Mr. Russell." It was so incongruous to think of the violence implied in Mr. Worcester's throwing out anything that it provoked a hearty laugh. Yet there was no weakness in his kindliness. He was simply "slow to wrath," not acquiescent with wrong. His strength was not that of the storm, but of the genial shower and the smiling sun. His heart was full of love and everybody loved him. His hold was through the affections and his blissful unselfishness. He seemed never to think of himself at all.

He thought very effectually of others. He was helpfulness incarnate, and since he was influential, surprising results followed. He was fond of children and gave much time to the inmates of the Protestant Orphan Asylum, conducting services and reading to them. They grew very fond of him, and his influence on them was naturally great. He was much interested in the education of the boys and in their finding normal life. He took up especially the providing for them of a home where they could live happily and profitably while pursuing a course of study in the California School of Mechanical Arts. An incident of his efforts in their behalf illustrates what an influence he had gained in the community. A young man of wealth, not a member of his congregation and not considered a philanthropist, but conversant with what Mr. Worcester was doing and hoped to do, called upon him one day and said: "Mr. Worcester, here is a key that I wish to leave with you. I have taken a safe-deposit box; it has two keys. One I will keep to open the box and put in bonds from time to time, and the other I give you that you may open it and use coupons or bonds in carrying out your plans for helping the boys." This illustrates how he was loved and what good he provoked in others. Without knowing it or seeking it he was a great community influence. He was gifted of the Spirit. He had beauty of character, simplicity, unselfishness, love of God and his fellow-men. His special beliefs interested few, his life gave life, his goodness was radiant. He drew all men to him by his love, and he showed them the way.

FREDERICK LUCIAN HOSMER

I cannot forego the pleasure of referring with sincere affection to my brother octogenarian, Frederick L. Hosmer. He achieved the fullness of honor two months in advance of me, which is wholly fitting, since we are much farther separated in every other regard. He has been a leader for a great many years, and I am proud to be in sight of him.

His kindly friendship has long been one of the delights of my life, and I have long entertained the greatest respect and admiration for his ability and quality. As a writer of hymns he has won the first place in the world's esteem, and probably his noble verse is (after the Psalms) the most universally used expression of the religious feeling of mankind. More worshipers unite in singing his hymns, Unitarian though he be, than those of any other man, living or dead. It is a great distinction, and in meriting it he holds enviable rank as one of the world's greatest benefactors.

Yet he remains the most modest of men, with no apparent consciousness that he is great. His humility is an added charm and his geniality is beautiful.

He has made the most of a fancied resemblance to me, and in many delightful ways has indulged in pleasantries based on it. In my room hangs a framed photograph signed "Faithfully yours, Chas. A. Murdock." It is far better-looking than I ever was—but that makes no difference.

We were once at a conference at Seattle. He said with all seriousness, "Murdock, I want you to understand that I intend to exercise great circumspection in my conduct, and I rely upon you to do the same."

I greatly enjoyed Dr. Hosmer's party, with its eighty candles, and I was made happy that he could be at mine and nibble my cake. Not all good and great men are so thoroughly lovable.

THOMAS LAMB ELIOT

When Horatio Stebbins in 1864 assumed charge of the San Francisco church he was the sole representative of the denomination on the Pacific Coast. For years he stood alone,—a beacon-like tower of liberalism. The first glimmer of companionship came from Portland, Oregon. At the solicitation of a few earnest Unitarians Dr. Stebbins went to Portland to consult with and encourage them. A society was formed to prepare the way for a church. A few consecrated women worked devotedly; they bought a lot in the edge of the woods and finally built a small chapel. Then they moved for a minister. In St. Louis, Mo., Rev. William Greenleaf Eliot had been for many years a force in religion and education. A strong Unitarian church and Washington University resulted. He had also founded a family and had inspired sons to follow in his footsteps. Thomas Lamb Eliot had been ordained and was ready for the ministry. He was asked to take the Portland church and he accepted. He came first to San Francisco on his way. Dr. Stebbins was trying the experiment of holding services in the Metropolitan Theater, and I remember seeing in the stage box one Sunday a very prepossessing couple that interested me much—they were the Eliots on their way to Portland. William G., Jr., was an infant-in-arms. I was much impressed with the spirit that moved the attractive couple to venture into an unknown field. The acquaintance formed grew into a friendship that has deepened with the years.

The ministry of the son in Portland has been much like that of the father in St. Louis. The church has been reverent and constructive, a steady force for righteousness, an influence for good in personal life and community welfare. Dr. Eliot has fostered many interests, but the church has been foremost. He has always been greatly respected and influential. Dr. Stebbins entertained for him the highest regard. He was wont to say: "Thomas Eliot is the wisest man for his years I ever knew." He has always been that and more to me. He has served one parish all his life, winning and holding the reverent regard of the whole community. The active service of the church has passed to his son and for years he has given most of his time and strength to Reed College, established by his parishioners. In a few months he will complete his eighty years of beautiful life and noble service. He has kept the faith and passed on the fine spirit of his inheritance.



CHAPTER XI

OUTINGS

I have not been much of a traveler abroad, or even beyond the Pacific states. I have been to the Atlantic shore four times since my emigration thence, and going or coming I visited Chicago, St. Louis, Denver, and other points, but have no striking memories of any of them. In 1914 I had a very delightful visit to the Hawaiian Islands, including the volcano. It was full of interest and charm, with a beauty and an atmosphere all its own; but any description, or the story of experiences or impressions, would but re-echo what has been told adequately by others. British Columbia and western Washington I found full of interest and greatly enjoyed; but they also must be left unsung. My outings from my beaten track have been brief, but have contributed a large stock of happy memories. Camping in California is a joy that never palls, and among the pleasantest pictures on memory's walls are the companionship of congenial friends in the beautiful surroundings afforded by the Santa Cruz Mountains. Twice in all the years since leaving Humboldt have I revisited its hospitable shores and its most impressive redwoods. My love for it will never grow less. Twice, too, have I reveled in the Yosemite Valley and beyond to the valley that will form a majestic lake—glorious Hetch-Hetchy.

I am thankful for the opportunity I have enjoyed of seeing so fully the great Pacific empire. My church supervision included California, Oregon, and Washington, with the southern fringe of Canada for good measure. Even without this attractive neighbor my territory was larger than France (or Germany) and Belgium, England, Wales, and Ireland combined. San Diego, Bellingham, and Spokane were the triangle of bright stars that bounded the constellation. To have found friends and to be sure of a welcome at all of these and everywhere between was a great extension to my enjoyment, and visiting them was not only a pleasant duty but a delightful outing.

IN THE SIERRAS

Belated vacations perhaps gain more than they lose, and in the sum total at least hold their own. It is one advantage of being well distributed that opportunities increase. In that an individual is an unsalaried editor, extensive or expensive trips are unthinkable; that his calling affords necessities but a scant allowance of luxuries, leaves recreation in the Sierras out of the question; but that by the accidents of politics he happens to be a supervisor, certain privileges, disguised attractively as duties, prove too alluring to resist.

The city had an option on certain remote lands supposed to be of great value for water and power, and no one wants to buy a pig of that size in a poke, so it was ordained that the city fathers, with their engineer and various clerks and functionaries entitled to a vacation and desiring information (or vice versa), should visit the lands proposed to be acquired.

In 1908 the supervisors inspected the dam-sites at Lake Eleanor and the Hetch-Hetchy, but gained little idea of the intervening country and the route of the water on its way to the city. Subsequently the trip was more thoroughly planned and the result was satisfactory, both in the end attained and in the incidental process.

On the morning of August 17, 1910, the party of seventeen disembarked from the Stockton boat, followed by four fine municipal automobiles. When the men and the machines were satisfactorily supplied with fuel and the outfit was appropriately photographed, the procession started mountainward. For some time the good roads, fairly well watered, passed over level, fruitful country, with comfortable homes. Then came gently rolling land and soon the foothills, with gravelly soil and scattered pines. A few orchards and ranches were passed, but not much that was really attractive. Then we reached the scenes of early-day mining and half-deserted towns known to Bret Harte and the days of gold. Knight's Ferry became a memory instead of a name. Chinese Camp, once harboring thousands, is now a handful of houses and a few lonely stores and saloons. It had cast sixty-five votes a few days before our visit.

Then came a stratum of mills and mines, mostly deserted, a few operating sufficiently to discolor with the crushed mineral the streams flowing by. Soon we reached the Tuolumne, with clear, pellucid water in limited quantities, for the snow was not very plentiful the previous winter and it melted early.

Following its banks for a time, the road turned to climb a hill, and well along in the afternoon we reached "Priests," a favorite roadhouse of the early stage line to the Yosemite. Here a good dinner was enjoyed, the machines were overhauled, and on we went. Then Big Oak Flat, a mining town of some importance, was passed, and a few miles farther Groveland, where a quite active community turned out en masse to welcome the distinguished travelers. The day's work was done and the citizens showed a pathetic interest which testified to how little ordinarily happened. The shades of night were well down when Hamilton's was reached—a stopping-place once well known, but now off the line of travel. Here we were hospitably entertained and slept soundly after a full day's exercise. In the memory of all, perhaps the abundance of fried chicken for breakfast stands out as the distinguishing feature. A few will always remember it as the spot where for the first time they found themselves aboard a horse, and no kind chronicler would refer to which side of the animal they selected for the ascent. The municipally chartered pack-train, with cooks and supplies for man and beast, numbered over sixty animals, and chaparejos and cowboys, real and near, were numerous.

The ride to the rim of the South Fork of the Tuolumne was short. The new trail was not sufficiently settled to be safe for the sharp descents, and for three-quarters of a mile the horses and mules were turned loose and the company dropped down the mountainside on foot. The lovely stream of water running between mountainous, wooded banks was followed up for many miles.

About midday a charming spot for luncheon was found, where Corral Creek tumbles in a fine cascade on its way to the river. The day was warm, and when the mouth of Eleanor Creek was reached many enjoyed a good swim in an attractive deep basin.

Turning to the north, the bank of Eleanor was followed to the first camping-place, Plum Flat, an attractive clearing, where wild plums have been augmented by fruit and vegetables. Here, after a good dinner served in the open by the municipal cooks, the municipal sleeping-bags were distributed, and soft and level spots were sought for their spreading. The seasoned campers were happy and enjoyed the luxury. Some who for the first time reposed upon the breast of Mother Earth failed to find her charm. One father awoke in the morning, sat up promptly, pointed his hand dramatically to the zenith, and said, "Never again!" But he lived to revel in the open-air caravansary, and came home a tougher and a wiser man.

A ride of fifteen miles through a finely wooded country brought us to the Lake Eleanor dam-site and the municipal camp, where general preparations are being made and runoff records are being taken. In a comfortable log house two assistants to the engineer spent the winter, keeping records of rainfall and other meteorological data.

While we were in camp here, Lake Eleanor, a mile distant, was visited and enjoyed in various ways, and those who felt an interest in the main purpose of the trip rode over into the Cherry Creek watershed and inspected the sites and rights whose purchase is contemplated. Saturday morning we left Lake Eleanor and climbed the steep ridge separating its watershed from that of the Tuolumne. From Eleanor to Hetch-Hetchy as the crow would fly, if there were a crow and he wanted to fly, is five miles. As mules crawl and men climb, it takes five hours. But it is well worth it for association with granite helps any politician.

Hetch-Hetchy Valley is about half as large as Yosemite and almost as beautiful. Early in the season the mosquitoes make life miserable, but as late as August the swampy land is pretty well dried up and they are few. The Tuolumne tumbles in less effectively than the Merced enters Yosemite. Instead of two falls of nine hundred feet, there is one of twenty or so. The Wampana, corresponding to the Yosemite Falls, is not so high nor so picturesque, but is more industrious, and apparently takes no vacation. Kolana is a noble knob, but not quite so imposing as Sentinel Rock.

We camped in the valley two days and found it very delightful. The dam-site is not surpassed. Nowhere in the world, it is said, can so large a body of water be impounded so securely at so small an expense.

There is an admirable camping-ground within easy distance of the valley, and engineers say that at small expense a good trail, and even a wagon-road, can be built along the face of the north wall, making possible a fine view of the magnificent lake.

With the argument for granting the right the city seeks I am not here concerned. The only purpose in view is the casual recital of a good time. It has to do with a delightful sojourn in good company, with songs around the camp-fire, trips up and down the valley, the taking of photographs, the appreciation of brook-trout, the towering mountains, the moon and stars that looked down on eyes facing direct from welcome beds. Mention might be made of the discovery of characters—types of mountain guides who prove to be scholars and philosophers; of mules, like "Flapjack," of literary fame; of close intercourse with men at their best; of excellent appetites satisfactorily met; of genial sun and of water so alluring as to compel intemperance in its use.

The climbing of the south wall in the early morning, the noonday stop at Hog Ranch, and the touching farewell to mounts and pack-train, the exhilarating ride to Crocker's, and the varied attractions of that fascinating resort, must be unsung. A night of mingled pleasure and rest with every want luxuriously supplied, a half-day of good coaching, and once more Yosemite—the wonder of the West.

Its charms need no rehearsing. They not only never fade, but they grow with familiarity. The delight of standing on the summit of Sentinel Dome, conscious that your own good muscles have lifted you over four thousand feet from the valley's floor, with such a world spread before you; the indescribable beauty of a sunrise at Glacier Point, the beauty and majesty of Vernal and Nevada falls, the knightly crest of the Half Dome, and the imposing grandeur of the great Capitan—what words can even hint their varied glory!

All this packed into a week, and one comes back strengthened in body and spirit, with a renewed conviction of the beauty of the world, and a freshened readiness to lend a hand in holding human nature up to a standard that shall not shame the older sister.

A DAY IN CONCORD

There are many lovely spots in New England when June is doing her best. Rolling hills dotted with graceful elms, meadows fresh with the greenest of grass, streams of water winding through the peaceful stretches, robins hopping in friendly confidence, distant hills blue against the horizon, soft clouds floating in the sky, air laden with the odor of lilacs and vibrant with songs of birds. There are many other spots of great historic interest, beautiful or not—it doesn't matter much—where memorable meetings have been held which set in motion events that changed the course of history, or where battles have been fought that no American can forget. There are still other places rich with human interest where some man of renown has lived and died—some man who has made his undying mark in letters, or has been a source of inspiration through his calm philosophy. But if one would stand upon the particular spot which can claim supremacy in each of these three respects, where can he go but to Concord, Massachusetts!

It would be hard to find a lovelier view anywhere in the gentle East than is to be gained from the Reservoir Height—a beautifully broken landscape, hill and dale, woodland, distant trees, two converging streams embracing and flowing in a quiet, decorous union beneath the historic bridge, comfortable homes, many of them too simple and dignified to be suspected of being modern, a cluster of steeples rising above the elms in the center of the town, pastures and plowed fields, well-fed Jerseys resting under the oaks, an occasional canoe floating on the gentle stream, genuine old New England homes, painted white, with green blinds, generous wood-piles near at hand, comfortable barns, and blossoming orchards, now and then a luxurious house, showing the architect's effort to preserve the harmonious—all of these and more, to form a scene of pastoral beauty and with nothing to mar the picture—no uncompromising factories, no blocks of flats, no elevated roads, no glaring signs of Cuban cheroots or Peruna bitters. It is simply an ideal exhibit of all that is most beautiful and attractive in New England scenery and life, and its charm is very great.

Turning to its historic interest, one is reminded of it at every side. Upon a faithful reproduction of the original meeting-house, a tablet informs the visitor that here the first meeting was held that led to national independence. A placard on a quaint old hostelry informs us that it was a tavern in pre-Revolutionary times. Leaving the "common," around which most New England towns cluster, one soon reaches Monument Street. Following it until houses grow infrequent, one comes to an interesting specimen which seems familiar. A conspicuous sign proclaims it private property and that sightseers are not welcome. It is the "Old Manse" made immortal by the genius of Hawthorne. Near by, an interesting road intersects leading to a river. Soon we descry a granite monument at the famous bridge, and across the bridge "The Minute Man." The inscription on the monument informs us that here the first British soldier fell. An iron chain incloses a little plot by the side of a stone wall where rest those who met the first armed resistance. Crossing the bridge which spans a dark and sluggish stream one reaches French's fine statue with Emerson's noble inscription,—

"By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood And fired the shot heard round the world."

No historic spot has a finer setting or an atmosphere so well fitted to calm reflection on a momentous event.

On the way to Concord, if one is so fortunate as to go by trolley, one passes through Lexington and catches a glimpse of its bronze "Minute Man," more spirited and lifelike in its tense suspended motion than French's calm and determined farmer-soldier. In the side of a farmhouse near the Concord battle-field—if such an encounter can be called a battle—a shot from a British bullet pierced the wood, and that historic orifice is carefully preserved; a diamond-shaped pane surrounds it. Our friend, Rev. A.W. Jackson, remarked, "I suppose if that house should burn down, the first thing they would try to save would be that bullet-hole."

But Concord is richest in the memory of the men who have lived and died there, and whose character and influence have made it a center of world-wide inspiration. One has but to visit Sleepy Hollow Cemetery to be impressed with the number and weight of remarkable names associated with this quiet town, little more than a village. Sleepy Hollow is one of a number of rather unusual depressions separated by sharp ridges that border the town. The hills are wooded, and in some instances their steep sides make them seem like the half of a California canyon. The cemetery is not in the cuplike valley, but on the side and summit of a gentle hill. It is well kept and very impressive. One of the first names to attract attention is "Hawthorne," cut on a simple slab with rounded top. It is the sole inscription on the little stone about a foot high. Simplicity could go no farther. Within a small radius are found the graves of Emerson, Thoreau, Alcott, John Weiss, and Samuel Hoar. Emerson's monument is a beautiful boulder, on the smoothed side of which is placed a bronze tablet. The inscriptions on the stones placed to the memory of the different members of the family are most fitting and touching. This is also true of the singularly fine inscriptions in the lot where rest several generations of the Hoar family. A good article might be written on monumental inscriptions in the Concord burial-ground. It is a lovely spot where these illustrious sons of Concord have found their final resting-place, and a pilgrimage to it cannot but freshen one's sense of indebtedness to these gifted men of pure lives and elevated thoughts.

The most enjoyable incident of the delightful Decoration Day on which our trip was made was a visit to Emerson's home. His daughter was in New York, but we were given the privilege of freely taking possession of the library and parlor. Everything is as the sage left it. His books are undisturbed, his portfolio of notes lies upon the table, and his favorite chair invites the friend who feels he can occupy it. The atmosphere is quietly simple. The few pictures are good, but not conspicuous or insistent. The books bear evidence of loving use. Bindings were evidently of no interest. Nearly all the books are in the original cloth, now faded and worn. One expects to see the books of his contemporaries and friends, and the expectation is met. They are mostly in first editions, and many of them are almost shabby. Taking down the first volume of The Dial, I found it well filled with narrow strips of paper, marking articles of especial interest. The authors' names not being given, they were frequently supplied by Mr. Emerson on the margin. I noticed opposite one article the words "T. Parker" in Mr. Emerson's writing. The books covered one side of a good-sized room and ran through the connecting hall into the quaint parlor, or sitting-room, behind it. A matting covered the floor, candlesticks rested on the chimney-piece, and there was no meaningless bric-a-brac, nor other objects of suspected beauty to distract attention. As you enter the house, the library occupies the large right-hand corner room. It was simple to the verge of austerity, and the farthest possible removed from a "collection." There was no effort at arrangement—they were just books, for use and for their own sake. The portfolio of fugitive notes and possible material for future use was interesting, suggesting the source of much that went to make up those fascinating essays where the "thoughts" often made no pretense at sequence, but rested in peaceful unregulated proximity, like eggs in a nest. Here is a sentence that evidently didn't quite satisfy him, an uncertain mark of erasure leaving the approved portion in doubt: "Read proudly. Put the duty of being read invariably on the author. If he is not read, whose fault is it? I am quite ready to be charmed—but I shall not make believe I am charmed." Dear man! he never would "make believe." Transparent, sincere soul, how he puts to shame all affectation and pretense! Mr. Jackson says his townsmen found it hard to realize that he was great. They always thought of him as the kindly neighbor. One old farmer told of his experience in driving home a load of hay. He was approaching a gate and was just preparing to climb down to open it, when an old gentleman nimbly ran ahead and opened it for him. It was Emerson, who apparently never gave it a second thought. It was simply the natural thing for him to do.

Walden Pond is some little distance from the Emerson home, and the time at our disposal did not permit a visit. But we had seen enough and felt enough to leave a memory of rare enjoyment to the credit of that precious day in Concord.

FIVE DAYS

There are several degrees of rest, and there are many ways of resting. What is rest to one person might be an intolerable bore to another, but when one finds the ultimate he is never after in doubt. He knows what is, to him, the real thing. The effect of a sufficient season, say five days, to one who had managed to find very little for a disgracefully long time, is not easy to describe, but very agreeable to feel.

My friend [Footnote: Horace Davis] has a novel retreat. He is fond of nature as manifested in the growth of trees and plants, and some seventeen years ago he bought a few acres, mostly of woods, in the Santa Cruz Mountains. There was a small orchard, a few acres of hillside hayfield, and a little good land where garden things would grow.

There was, too, a somewhat eccentric house where a man who was trying to be theosophical had lived and communed with his mystified soul. To foster the process he had more or less blue glass and a window of Gothic form in the peak of his rambling house. In his living-room a round window, with Sanskrit characters, let in a doubtful gleam from another room. In the side-hill a supposedly fireproof vault had been built to hold the manuscript that held his precious thoughts. In the gulch he had a sacred spot, where, under the majestic redwoods, he retired to write, and in a small building he had a small printing-press, from which the world was to have been led to the light. But there was some failure of connection, and stern necessity compelled the surrender of these high hopes. My friend took over the plant, and the reformer reformed and went off to earn his daily bread.

His memory is kept alive by the name Mahatma, given to the gulch, and the blue glass has what effect it may on a neighbor's vegetables. The little house was made habitable. The home of the press was comfortably ceiled and made into a guest-chamber, and apples and potatoes are stored in the fireproof vault. The acres were fairly covered with a second growth of redwood and a wealth of madronos and other native trees; but there were many spaces where Nature invited assistance, and my friend every year has planted trees of many kinds from many climes, until he has an arboretum hardly equaled anywhere. There are pines in endless variety—from the Sierra and from the seashore, from New England, France, Norway, and Japan. There flourish the cedar, spruce, hemlock, oak, beech, birch, and maple. There in peace and plenty are the sequoia, the bamboo, and the deodar. Eucalypts pierce the sky and Japanese dwarfs hug the ground.

These children of the woodland vary in age from six months to sixteen years, and each has its interest and tells its story of struggle, with results of success or failure, as conditions determine. At the entrance to the grounds an incense-cedar on one side and an arbor-vitae on the other stand dignified guard. The acres have been added to until about sixty are covered with growing trees. Around the house, which wisteria has almost covered, is a garden in which roses predominate, but hollyhocks, coreopsis, and other flowers not demanding constant care grow in luxuriance. There is abundance of water, and filtered sunshine gives a delightful temperature. The thermometer on the vine-clad porch runs up to 80 in the daytime and in the night drops down to 40.

A sympathetic Italian lives not far away, keeping a good cow, raising amazingly good vegetables, gathering the apples and other fruit, and caring for the place. The house is unoccupied except during the five days each month when my friend restores himself, mentally and physically, by rest and quiet contemplation and observation. He takes with him a faithful servitor, whose old age is made happy by these periodical sojourns, and the simple life is enjoyed to the full.

Into this Resthaven it was my happy privilege to spend five-sevenths of a week of August, and the rare privilege of being obliged to do nothing was a great delight. Early rising was permissible, but not encouraged. At eight o'clock a rich Hibernian voice was heard to say, "Hot water, Mr. Murdock," and it was so. A simple breakfast, meatless, but including the best of coffee and apricots, tree-ripened and fresh, was enjoyed at leisure undisturbed by thought of awaiting labor. Following the pleasant breakfast chat was a forenoon of converse with my friend or a friendly book or magazine, broken by a stroll through some part of the wood and introduction to the hospitably entertained trees from distant parts. My friend is something of a botanist, and was able to pronounce the court names of all his visitors. Wild flowers still persist, and among others was pointed out one which was unknown to the world till he chanced to find it.



Very interesting is the fact that the flora of the region, which is a thousand feet above sea-level, has many of the characteristics of beach vicinity, and the reason is disclosed by the outcropping at various points of a deposit of white sand, very fine, and showing under the microscope the smoothly rounded form that tells of the rolling waves. This deposit is said to be traceable for two hundred miles easterly, and where it has been eroded by the streams of today enormous trees have grown on the deposited soil. The mind is lost in conjecture of the time that must have elapsed since an ancient sea wore to infinitesimal bits the quartz that some rushing stream had brought from its native mountains.

Another interesting feature of the landscape was the clearly marked course of the old "Indian trail," known to the earliest settlers, which followed through this region from the coast at Santa Cruz to the Santa Clara Valley. It followed the most accessible ridges and showed elemental surveying of a high order. Along its line are still found bits of rusted iron, with specks of silver, relics of the spurs and bridles of the caballeros of the early days.

The maples that sheltered the house are thinned out, that the sun may not be excluded, and until its glare becomes too radiant the steamer-chair or the rocker seeks the open that the genial page of "Susan's Escort, and Others," one of the inimitable books of Edward Everett Hale, may be enjoyed in comfort. When midday comes the denser shade of tree or porch is sought, and coats come off. At noon dinner is welcome, and proves that the high cost of living is largely a conventional requirement. It may be beans or a bit of roast ham brought from home, with potatoes or tomatoes, good bread and butter, and a dessert of toasted crackers with loganberries and cream. To experience the comfort of not eating too much and to find how little can be satisfying is a great lesson in the art of living. To supplement, and dispose of, this homily on food, our supper was always baked potatoes and cream toast,—but such potatoes and real cream toast! Of course, fruit was always "on tap," and the good coffee reappeared.

In the cool of the afternoon a longer walk. Good trails lead over the whole place, and sometimes we would go afield and call on some neighbor. Almost invariably they were Italians, who were thriving where improvident Americans had given up in despair. Always my friend found friendly welcome. This one he had helped out of a trouble with a refractory pump, that one he had befriended in some other way. All were glad to see him, and wished him well. What a poor investment it is to quarrel with a neighbor!

Sometimes my friend would busy himself by leading water to some neglected and thirsty plant, while I was re-reading "Tom Grogan" or Brander Matthews' plays, but for much of the time we talked and exchanged views on current topics or old friends. When the evening came we prudently went inside and continued our reading or our talk till we felt inclined to seek our comfortable beds and the oblivion that blots out troubles or pleasures.

And so on for five momentous days. Quite unlike the "Seven Days" in the delightful farce-comedy of that name, in which everything happened, here nothing seemed to happen. We were miles from a post-office, and newspapers disturbed us not. The world of human activity was as though it were not. Politics as we left it was a disturbing memory, but no fresh outbreaks aggravated our discomfort. We were at rest and we rested. A good recipe for long life, I think, would be: withdraw from life's turmoil regularly—five days in a month.

AN ANNIVERSARY

The Humboldt County business established and conducted on honor by Alex. Brizard was continued on like lines by his three sons with conspicuous success. As the fiftieth anniversary approached they arranged to fitly celebrate the event. They invited many of their father's and business associates to take part in the anniversary observance in July, 1913. With regret, I was about to decline when my good friend Henry Michaels, a State Guard associate, who had become the head of the leading house in drugs and medicines with which Brizard and his sons had extensively dealt, came in and urged me to join him in motoring to Humboldt. He wanted to go, but would not go alone and the double delight of his company and joining in the anniversary led to prompt acceptance of his generous proposal. There followed one of the most enjoyable outings of my life. I had never compassed the overland trip to Humboldt, and while I naturally expected much the realization far exceeded my anticipations.

From the fine highway following the main ridge the various branches of the Eel River were clearly outlined, and when we penetrated the world-famous redwood belt and approached the coast our enjoyment seemed almost impious, as though we were motoring through a cathedral.

We found Arcata bedecked for the coming anniversary. The whole community felt its significance. When the hour came every store in town closed. Seemingly the whole population assembled in and around the Brizard store, anxious to express kindly memory and approval of those who so well sustained the traditions of the elders. The oldest son made a brief, manly address and introduced a few of the many who could have borne tribute. It was a happy occasion in which good-will was made very evident. A ball in the evening concluded the festivities, and it was with positive regret that we turned from the delightful atmosphere and retraced our steps to home and duty.



CHAPTER XII

OCCASIONAL VERSE

BOSTON (After Bret Harte)

On the south fork of Yuba, in May, fifty-two, An old cabin stood on the hill, Where the road to Grass Valley lay clear to the view, And a ditch that ran down to Buck's Mill.

It was owned by a party that lately had come To discover what fate held in store; He was working for Brigham, and prospecting some, While the clothes were well cut that he wore.

He had spruced up the cabin, and by it would stay, For he never could bear a hotel. He refused to drink whiskey or poker to play, But was jolly and used the boys well.

In the long winter evenings he started a club, To discuss the affairs of the day. He was up in the classics—a scholarly cub— And the best of the talkers could lay.

He could sing like a robin, and play on the flute, And he opened a school, which was free, Where he taught all the musical fellows to toot, Or to join in an anthem or glee.

So he soon "held the age" over any young man Who had ever been known on the bar; And the boys put him through, when for sheriff he ran, And his stock now was much above par.

In the spring he was lucky, and struck a rich lead, And he let all his friends have a share; It was called the New Boston, for that was his breed, And the rock that he showed them was rare.

When he called on his partners to put up a mill, They were anxious to furnish the means; And the needful, of course, turned into his till Just as freely as though it was beans.

Then he went to the Bay with his snug little pile— There was seventeen thousand and more— To arrange for a mill of the most approved style, And to purchase a Sturtevant blower.

But they waited for Boston a year and a day, And he never was heard of again. For the lead he had opened was salted with pay, And he'd played 'em with culture and brain.

THE GREATER FREEDOM

O God of battles, who sustained Our fathers in the glorious days When they our priceless freedom gained, Help us, as loyal sons, to raise Anew the standard they upbore, And bear it on to farther heights, Where freedom seeks for self no more, But love a life of service lights.

OUR FATHER

Is God our Father? So sublime the thought We cannot hope its meaning full to grasp, E'en as the Child the gifts the wise men brought Could not within his infant fingers clasp.

We speak the words from early childhood taught. We sometimes fancy that their truth we feel; But only on life's upper heights is caught The vital message that they may reveal.

So on the heights may we be led to dwell, That nearer God we may more truly know How great the heritage His love will tell If we be lifted up from things below.

RESURGAM

The stricken city lifts her head, With eyes yet dim from flowing tears; Her heart still throbs with pain unspent, But hope, triumphant, conquers fears.

With vision calm, she sees her course, Nor shrinks, though thorny be the way. Shall human will succumb to fate, Crushed by the happenings of a day?

The city that we love shall live, And grow in beauty and in power; Her loyal sons shall stand erect, Their chastened courage Heaven's dower.

And when the story shall be told Of direful ruin, loss, and dearth, There shall be said with pride and joy: "But man survived, and proved his worth."

SAN FRANCISCO

O "city loved around the world," Triumphant over direful fate, Thy flag of honor never furled, Proud guardian of the Golden Gate;

Hold thou that standard from the dust Of lower ends or doubtful gain; On thy good sword no taint of rust; On stars and stripes no blot or stain.

Thy loyal sons by thee shall stand, Thy highest purpose to uphold; Proclaim the word, o'er all the land, That truth more precious is than gold.

Let justice never be denied, Resist the wrong, defend the right; Where West meets East stand thou in pride Of noble life,—a beacon-light.

THE NEW YEAR

The past is gone beyond recall, The future kindly veils its face; Today we live, today is all We have or need, our day of grace.

The world is God's, and hence 'tis plain That only wrong we need to fear; 'Tis ours to live, come joy or pain, To make more blessed each New Year.

PRODIGALS

We tarry in a foreign land, With pleasure's husks elate, When robe and ring and Father's hand At home our coming wait.

DEEP-ROOTED

Fierce Boreas in his wildest glee Assails in vain the yielding tree That, rooted deep, gains strength to bear, And proudly lifts its head in air.

When loss or grief, with sharp distress, To man brings brunt of storm and stress, He stands serene who calmly bends In strength that trust, deep-rooted, lends.

TO HORATIO STEBBINS

The sun still shines, and happy, blithesome birds Are singing on the swaying boughs in bloom. My eyes look forth and see no sign of gloom, No loss casts shadow on the grazing herds; And yet I bear within a grief that words Can ne'er express, for in the silent tomb Is laid the body of my friend, the doom Of silence on that matchless voice. Now girds My spirit for the struggle he would praise. A leader viewless to the mortal eye Still guides my steps, still calls with clarion cry To deeds of honor, and my thoughts would raise To seek the truth and share the love on high. With loyal heart I'll follow all my days.

NEW YEAR, 1919

The sifting sand that marks the passing year In many-colored tints its course has run Through days with shadows dark, or bright with sun, But hope has triumphed over doubt and fear, New radiance flows from stars that grace our flag. Our fate we ventured, though full dark the night, And faced the fatuous host who trusted might. God called, the country's lovers could not lag, Serenely trustful, danger grave despite, Untrained, in love with peace, they dared to fight, And freed a threatened world from peril dire, Establishing the majesty of right. Our loyal hearts still burn with sacred fire, Our spirits' wings are plumed for upward flight.

NEW YEAR, 1920

The curtain rises on the all-world stage, The play is unannounced; no prologue's word Gives hint of scene, or voices to be heard; We may be called with tragedy to rage, In comedy or farce we may disport, With feverish melodrama we may thrill, Or in a pantomimic role be still. We may find fame in field, or grace a court, Whate'er the play, forthwith its lines will start, And every soul, in cloister or in mart, Must act, and do his best from day to day— So says the prompter to the human heart. "The play's the thing," might Shakespear's Hamlet say. "The thing," to us, is playing well our part.

EPILOGUE

*Walking in the Way*

To hold to faith when all seems dark to keep of good courage when failure follows failure to cherish hope when its promise is faintly whispered to bear without complaint the heavy burdens that must be borne to be cheerful whatever comes to preserve high ideals to trust unfalteringly that well-being follows well-doing this is the Way of Life To be modest in desires to enjoy simple pleasures to be earnest to be true to be kindly to be reasonably patient and ever-lastingly persistent to be considerate to be at least just to be helpful to be loving this is to walk therein.

Charles A. Murdock

THE END