In the Footprints of the Padres | Page 3

Of Gabriel, the Archangel.

Where are they now, O, bells?
Where are the fruits o' the mission?
Garnered, where no one dwells,
Shepherd and flock are fled.
O'er the Lord's vineyard swells
The tide that with fell perdition
Sounded their doom and fashioned their tomb
And buried them with the dead.
What then wert thou, and what art now?--
The answer is still unsaid.

And every note of every bell
Sang Gabriel! Rang Gabriel!
In the tower that is left the tale to tell

Of Gabriel, the Archangel.

Where are they now, O tower!
The locusts and wild honey?
Where is the sacred dower
That the bride of Christ was given?
Gone to the wielders of power,
The misers and minters of money;
Gone for the greed that is their creed--
And these in the land have thriven.
What then wer't thou, and what art now,
And wherefore hast thou striven?

And every note of every bell
Sang Gabriel! Rang Gabriel!
In the tower that is left the tale to tell
Of Gabriel, the Archangel.
CHARLES WARREN STODDARD.

IN THE FOOTPRINTS OF THE PADRES

[Illustration: View of Montgomery, Post and Market Streets, San
Francisco, 1858]

OLD DAYS IN EL DORADO
I.
"STRANGE COUNTRIES FOR TO SEE"
Now, the very first book was called "Infancy"; and, having finished it, I
closed it with a bang! I was just twelve. 'Tis thus the twelve-year-old is
apt to close most books. Within those pages--perhaps some day to be
opened to the kindly inquiring eye--lie the records of a quiet life, stirred
at intervals by spasms of infantile intensity. There are more days than
one in a life that can be written of, and when the clock strikes twelve
the day is but half over.
The clock struck twelve! We children had been watching and waiting
for it. The house had been stripped bare; many cases of goods were
awaiting shipment around Cape Horn to California. California! A land
of fable! We knew well enough that our father was there, and had been
for two years or more; and that we were at last to go to him, and dwell
there with the fabulous in a new home more or less fabulous,--yet we
felt that it must be altogether lovely. We said good-bye to
everybody,--getting friends and fellow-citizens more or less mixed as
the hour of departure from our native city drew near. We were very
much hugged and very much kissed and not a little cried over; and then
at last, in a half, dazed condition, we left Rochester, New York, for
New York city, on our way to San Francisco by the Nicaragua route.
This was away back in 1855, when San Francisco, it may be said, was
only six years old.
It seemed a supreme condescension on the part of our maternal
grandfather that he, who did not and could not for a moment
countenance the theatre, should voluntarily take us, one and all, to see
an alleged dramatic representation at Barnum's Museum--at that time

one of the features of New York city, and perhaps the most famous
place of amusement in the land. Four years later, when I was sixteen,
very far from home and under that good gentleman's watchful
supervision, I asked leave to witness a dramatic version of "Uncle
Tom's Cabin," enacted by a small company of strolling players in a
canvas tent. There were no blood-hounds in the cast, and mighty little
scenery, or anything else alluring; but I was led to believe that I had
been trembling upon the verge of something direful, and I was not
allowed to go. What would that pious man have said could he have
seen me, a few years later, strutting and fretting my hour upon the
stage?
Well, we all saw "Damon and Pythias" in Barnum's "Lecture Room,"
with real scenery that split up the middle and slid apart over a carpet of
green baize. And 'twas a real play, played by real players,--at least they
were once real players, but that was long before. It may be their
antiquated and failing art rendered them harmless. And, then, those
beguiling words "Lecture Room" have such a soothing sound! They
seemed in those days to hallow the whole function, which was, of
course, the wily wish of the great moral entertainer; and his great moral
entertainment was even as "the cups that cheer but not inebriate." It
came near it in our case, however. It was our first matinee at the theatre,
and, oh, the joy we took of it! Years afterward did we children in our
playroom, clad in "the trailing garments of the night" in lieu of togas,
sink our identity for the moment and out-rant Damon and his Pythias.
Thrice happy days so long