University of Virginia Library

LEGENDS AND TALES.

THE LEGEND OF MONTE DEL DIABLO.

THE cautious reader will detect a lack of authenticity
in the following pages. I am not
a cautious reader myself, yet I confess with some
concern to the absence of much documentary evidence
in support of the singular incident I am
about to relate. Disjointed memoranda, the proceedings
of ayuntamientos and early departmental
juntas, with other records of a primitive and
superstitious people, have been my inadequate
authorities. It is but just to state, however, that
though this particular story lacks corroboration,
in ransacking the Spanish archives of Upper California
I have met with many more surprising and
incredible stories, attested and supported to a degree
that would have placed this legend beyond
a cavil or doubt. I have, also, never lost faith in
the legend myself, and in so doing have profited
much from the examples of divers grant-claimants,
who have often jostled me in their more practical
researches, and who have my sincere sympathy at
the scepticism of a modern hard-headed and practical
world.

For many years after Father Junipero Serro first

rang his bell in the wilderness of Upper California,
the spirit which animated that adventurous priest
did not wane. The conversion of the heathen
went on rapidly in the establishment of Missions
throughout the land. So sedulously did the good
Fathers set about their work, that around their
isolated chapels there presently arose adobe huts,
whose mud-plastered and savage tenants partook
regularly of the provisions, and occasionally of
the Sacrament, of their pious hosts. Nay, so great
was their progress, that one zealous Padre is reported
to have administered the Lord's Supper one
Sabbath morning to “over three hundred heathen
Salvages.” It was not to be wondered that the
Enemy of Souls, being greatly incensed thereat,
and alarmed at his decreasing popularity, should
have grievously tempted and embarrassed these
Holy Fathers, as we shall presently see.

Yet they were happy, peaceful days for California.
The vagrant keels of prying Commerce
had not as yet ruffled the lordly gravity of her
bays. No torn and ragged gulch betrayed the suspicion
of golden treasure. The wild oats drooped
idly in the morning heat, or wrestled with the
afternoon breezes. Deer and antelope dotted the
plain. The watercourses brawled in their familiar
channels, nor dreamed of ever shifting their regular
tide. The wonders of the Yosemite and Calaveras
were as yet unrecorded. The Holy Fathers noted

little of the landscape beyond the barbaric prodigality
with which the quick soil repaid the sowing.
A new conversion, the advent of a Saint's day, or
the baptism of an Indian baby, was at once the
chronicle and marvel of their day.

At this blissful epoch there lived at the Mission
of San Pablo Father José Antonio Haro, a worthy
brother of the Society of Jesus. He was of tall
and cadaverous aspect. A somewhat romantic history
had given a poetic interest to his lugubrious
visage. While a youth, pursuing his studies at
famous Salamanca, he had become enamored of the
charms of Doña Cármen de Torrencevara, as that
lady passed to her matutinal devotions. Untoward
circumstances, hastened, perhaps, by a wealthier
suitor, brought this amour to a disastrous issue;
and Father José entered a monastery, taking upon
himself the vows of celibacy. It was here that
his natural fervor and poetic enthusiasm conceived
expression as a missionary. A longing to convert
the uncivilized heathen succeeded his frivolous
earthly passion, and a desire to explore and develop
unknown fastnesses continually possessed him. In
his flashing eye and sombre exterior was detected
a singular commingling of the discreet Las Casas
and the impetuous Balboa.

Fired by this pious zeal, Father José went forward
in the van of Christian pioneers. On reaching
Mexico, he obtained authority to establish the

Mission of San Pablo. Like the good Junipero,
accompanied only by an acolyte and muleteer, he
unsaddled his mules in a dusky cañon, and rang his
bell in the wilderness. The savages — a peaceful,
inoffensive, and inferior race — presently flocked
around him. The nearest military post was far
away, which contributed much to the security of
these pious pilgrims, who found their open trustfulness
and amiability better fitted to repress hostility
than the presence of an armed, suspicious,
and brawling soldiery. So the good Father José
said matins and prime, mass and vespers, in the
heart of Sin and Heathenism, taking no heed to
himself, but looking only to the welfare of the
Holy Church. Conversions soon followed, and, on
the 7th of July, 1760, the first Indian baby was
baptized, — an event which, as Father José piously
records, “exceeds the richnesse of gold or precious
jewels or the chancing upon the Ophir of
Solomon.” I quote this incident as best suited to
show the ingenious blending of poetry and piety
which distinguished Father José's record.

The Mission of San Pablo progressed and prospered
until the pious founder thereof, like the infidel
Alexander, might have wept that there were
no more heathen worlds to conquer. But his ardent
and enthusiastic spirit could not long brook an
idleness that seemed begotten of sin; and one
pleasant August morning, in the year of grace

1770, Father José issued from the outer court of
the Mission building, equipped to explore the field
for new missionary labors.

Nothing could exceed the quiet gravity and unpretentiousness
of the little cavalcade. First rode
a stout muleteer, leading a pack-mule laden with
the provisions of the party, together with a few
cheap crucifixes and hawks' bells. After him came
the devout Padre José, bearing his breviary and
cross, with a black serapa thrown around his
shoulders; while on either side trotted a dusky
convert, anxious to show a proper sense of their
regeneration by acting as guides into the wilds of
their heathen brethren. Their new condition was
agreeably shown by the absence of the usual mud-plaster,
which in their unconverted state they
assumed to keep away vermin and cold. The
morning was bright and propitious. Before their
departure, mass had been said in the chapel, and
the protection of St. Ignatius invoked against all
contingent evils, but especially against bears, which,
like the fiery dragons of old, seemed to cherish unconquerable
hostility to the Holy Church.

As they wound through the cañon, charming
birds disported upon boughs and sprays, and sober
quails piped from the alders; the willowy watercourses
gave a musical utterance, and the long
grass whispered on the hillside. On entering the
deeper defiles, above them towered dark green

masses of pine, and occasionally the madroño
shook its bright scarlet berries. As they toiled
up many a steep ascent, Father José sometimes
picked up fragments of scoria, which spake to his
imagination of direful volcanoes and impending
earthquakes. To the less scientific mind of the
muleteer Ignacio they had even a more terrifying
significance; and he once or twice snuffed the air
suspiciously, and declared that it smelt of sulphur.
So the first day of their journey wore away, and
at night they encamped without having met a single
heathen face.

It was on this night that the Enemy of Souls
appeared to Ignacio in an appalling form. He
had retired to a secluded part of the camp and
had sunk upon his knees in prayerful meditation,
when he looked up and perceived the Arch-Fiend
in the likeness of a monstrous bear. The Evil
One was seated on his hind legs immediately before
him, with his fore paws joined together just
below his black muzzle. Wisely conceiving this
remarkable attitude to be in mockery and derision
of his devotions, the worthy muleteer was transported
with fury. Seizing an arquebuse, he instantly
closed his eyes and fired. When he had
recovered from the effects of the terrific discharge,
the apparition had disappeared. Father José, awakened
by the report, reached the spot only in time
to chide the muleteer for wasting powder and ball

in a contest with one whom a single ave would have
been sufficient to utterly discomfit. What further
reliance he placed on Ignacio's story is not known;
but, in commemoration of a worthy California
custom, the place was called La Cañada de la
Tentacion del Pio Muletero, or “The Glen of the
Temptation of the Pious Muleteer,” a name which
it retains to this day.

The next morning the party, issuing from a narrow
gorge, came upon a long valley, sear and burnt
with the shadeless heat. Its lower extremity was
lost in a fading line of low hills, which, gathering
might and volume toward the upper end of the
valley, upheaved a stupendous bulwark against
the breezy North. The peak of this awful spur
was just touched by a fleecy cloud that shifted to
and fro like a banneret. Father José gazed at
it with mingled awe and admiration. By a singular
coincidence, the muleteer Ignacio uttered the
simple ejaculation “Diablo!”

As they penetrated the valley, they soon began
to miss the agreeable life and companionable echoes
of the cañon they had quitted. Huge fissures in
the parched soil seemed to gape as with thirsty
mouths. A few squirrels darted from the earth,
and disappeared as mysteriously before the jingling
mules. A gray wolf trotted leisurely along
just ahead. But whichever way Father José
turned, the mountain always asserted itself and

arrested his wandering eye. Out of the dry and
arid valley, it seemed to spring into cooler and
bracing life. Deep cavernous shadows dwelt along
its base; rocky fastnesses appeared midway of its
elevation; and on either side huge black hills
diverged like massy roots from a central trunk.
His lively fancy pictured these hills peopled with
a majestic and intelligent race of savages; and
looking into futurity, he already saw a monstrous
cross crowning the dome-like summit. Far different
were the sensations of the muleteer, who saw
in those awful solitudes only fiery dragons, colossal
bears and break-neck trails. The converts, Concepcion
and Incarnacion, trotting modestly beside
the Padre, recognized, perhaps, some manifestation
of their former weird mythology.

At nightfall they reached the base of the mountain.
Here Father José unpacked his mules, said
vespers, and, formally ringing his bell, called upon
the Gentiles within hearing to come and accept
the Holy Faith. The echoes of the black frowning
hills around him caught up the pious invitation,
and repeated it at intervals; but no Gentiles appeared
that night. Nor were the devotions of the
muleteer again disturbed, although he afterward
asserted, that, when the Father's exhortation was
ended, a mocking peal of laughter came from the
mountain. Nothing daunted by these intimations
of the near hostility of the Evil One, Father José

declared his intention to ascend the mountain at
early dawn; and before the sun rose the next
morning he was leading the way.

The ascent was in many places difficult and
dangerous. Huge fragments of rock often lay
across the trail, and after a few hours' climbing
they were forced to leave their mules in a little
gully, and continue the ascent afoot. Unaccustomed
to such exertion, Father José often stopped
to wipe the perspiration from his thin cheeks. As
the day wore on, a strange silence oppressed them.
Except the occasional pattering of a squirrel, or a
rustling in the chimisal bushes, there were no signs
of life. The half-human print of a bear's foot
sometimes appeared before them, at which Ignacio
always crossed himself piously. The eye was
sometimes cheated by a dripping from the rocks,
which on closer inspection proved to be a resinous
oily liquid with an abominable sulphurous smell.
When they were within a short distance of the
summit, the discreet Ignacio, selecting a sheltered
nook for the camp, slipped aside and busied himself
in preparations for the evening, leaving the
Holy Father to continue the ascent alone. Never
was there a more thoughtless act of prudence,
never a more imprudent piece of caution. Without
noticing the desertion, buried in pious reflection,
Father José pushed mechanically on, and,
reaching the summit, cast himself down and gazed
upon the prospect.

Below him lay a succession of valleys opening
into each other like gentle lakes, until they were
lost to the southward. Westerly the distant range
hid the bosky cañada which sheltered the mission
of San Pablo. In the farther distance the Pacific
Ocean stretched away, bearing a cloud of fog upon
its bosom, which crept through the entrance of the
bay, and rolled thickly between him and the northeastward;
the same fog hid the base of mountain
and the view beyond. Still, from time to time the
fleecy veil parted, and timidly disclosed charming
glimpses of mighty rivers, mountain defiles, and
rolling plains, sear with ripened oats, and bathed
in the glow of the setting sun. As Father José
gazed, he was penetrated with a pious longing.
Already his imagination, filled with enthusiastic
conceptions, beheld all that vast expanse gathered
under the mild sway of the Holy Faith, and peopled
with zealous converts. Each little knoll in
fancy became crowned with a chapel; from each
dark cañon gleamed the white walls of a mission
building. Growing bolder in his enthusiasm, and
looking farther into futurity, he beheld a new
Spain rising on these savage shores. He already
saw the spires of stately cathedrals, the domes of
palaces, vineyards, gardens, and groves. Convents,
half hid among the hills, peeping from plantations
of branching limes; and long processions of chanting
nuns wound through the defiles. So completely

was the good Father's conception of the
future confounded with the past, that even in their
choral strain the well-remembered accents of Cármen
struck his ear. He was busied in these fanciful
imaginings, when suddenly over that extended
prospect the faint, distant tolling of a bell rang
sadly out and died. It was the Angelus. Father
José listened with superstitious exaltation. The
mission of San Pablo was far away, and the sound
must have been some miraculous omen. But never
before, to his enthusiastic sense, did the sweet seriousness
of this angelic symbol come with such
strange significance. With the last faint peal, his
glowing fancy seemed to cool; the fog closed in
below him, and the good Father remembered he
had not had his supper. He had risen and was
wrapping his serapa around him, when he perceived
for the first time that he was not alone.

Nearly opposite, and where should have been
the faithless Ignacio, a grave and decorous figure
was seated. His appearance was that of an elderly
hidalgo, dressed in mourning, with mustaches of
iron-gray carefully waxed and twisted around a
pair of lantern-jaws. The monstrous hat and prodigious
feather, the enormous ruff and exaggerated
trunk-hose, contrasted with a frame shrivelled and
wizened, all belonged to a century previous. Yet
Father José was not astonished. His adventurous
life and poetic imagination, continually on the

lookout for the marvellous, gave him a certain
advantage over the practical and material minded.
He instantly detected the diabolical quality of his
visitant, and was prepared. With equal coolness
and courtesy he met the cavalier's obeisance.

“I ask your pardon, Sir Priest,” said the stranger,
“for disturbing your meditations. Pleasant
they must have been, and right fanciful, I imagine,
when occasioned by so fair a prospect.”

“Worldly, perhaps, Sir Devil, — for such I take
you to be,” said the Holy Father, as the stranger
bowed his black plumes to the ground; “worldly,
perhaps; for it hath pleased Heaven to retain even
in our regenerated state much that pertaineth to
the flesh, yet still, I trust, not without some speculation
for the welfare of the Holy Church. In
dwelling upon yon fair expanse, mine eyes have
been graciously opened with prophetic inspiration,
and the promise of the heathen as an inheritance
hath marvellously recurred to me. For there can
be none lack such diligence in the True Faith,
but may see that even the conversion of these
pitiful salvages hath a meaning. As the blessed
St. Ignatius discreetly observes,” continued Father
José, clearing his throat and slightly elevating his
voice, “`the heathen is given to the warriors of
Christ, even as the pearls of rare discovery which
gladden the hearts of shipmen.' Nay, I might
say —”

But here the stranger, who had been wrinkling
his brows and twisting his mustaches with well-bred
patience, took advantage of an oratorical
pause: —

“It grieves me, Sir Priest, to interrupt the current
of your eloquence as discourteously as I have
already broken your meditations; but the day already
waneth to night. I have a matter of serious
import to make with you, could I entreat your
cautious consideration a few moments.”

Father José hesitated. The temptation was
great, and the prospect of acquiring some knowledge
of the Great Enemy's plans not the least
trifling object. And if the truth must be told,
there was a certain decorum about the stranger
that interested the Padre. Though well aware of
the Protean shapes the Arch-Fiend could assume,
and though free from the weaknesses of the flesh,
Father José was not above the temptations of the
spirit. Had the Devil appeared, as in the case of
the pious St. Anthony, in the likeness of a comely
damsel, the good Father, with his certain experience
of the deceitful sex, would have whisked her
away in the saying of a paternoster. But there
was, added to the security of age, a grave sadness
about the stranger, — a thoughtful consciousness
as of being at a great moral disadvantage, — which
at once decided him on a magnanimous course of
conduct.

The stranger then proceeded to inform him, that
he had been diligently observing the Holy Father's
triumphs in the valley. That, far from being greatly
exercised thereat, he had been only grieved to
see so enthusiastic and chivalrous an antagonist
wasting his zeal in a hopeless work. For, he observed,
the issue of the great battle of Good and
Evil had been otherwise settled, as he would presently
show him. “It wants but a few moments
of night,” he continued, “and over this interval of
twilight, as you know, I have been given complete
control. Look to the West.”

As the Padre turned, the stranger took his enormous
hat from his head, and waved it three times
before him. At each sweep of the prodigious
feather, the fog grew thinner, until it melted impalpably
away, and the former landscape returned,
yet warm with the glowing sun. As Father José
gazed, a strain of martial music arose from the
valley, and issuing from a deep cañon, the good
Father beheld a long cavalcade of gallant cavaliers,
habited like his companion. As they swept down
the plain, they were joined by like processions,
that slowly defiled from every ravine and cañon of
the mysterious mountain. From time to time the
peal of a trumpet swelled fitfully upon the breeze;
the cross of Santiago glittered, and the royal banners
of Castile and Aragon waved over the moving
column. So they moved on solemnly toward the

sea, where, in the distance, Father José saw stately
caravels, bearing the same familiar banner, awaiting
them. The good Padre gazed with conflicting
emotions, and the serious voice of the stranger
broke the silence.

“Thou hast beheld, Sir Priest, the fading footprints
of adventurous Castile. Thou hast seen the
declining glory of old Spain, — declining as yonder
brilliant sun. The sceptre she hath wrested
from the heathen is fast dropping from her decrepit
and fleshless grasp. The children she hath
fostered shall know her no longer. The soil she
hath acquired shall be lost to her as irrevocably as
she herself hath thrust the Moor from her own
Granada.”

The stranger paused, and his voice seemed
broken by emotion; at the same time, Father José,
whose sympathizing heart yearned toward the departing
banners, cried in poignant accents, —

“Farewell, ye gallant cavaliers and Christian soldiers!
Farewell, thou, Nuñes de Balboa! thou,
Alonzo de Ojeda! and thou, most venerable Las
Casas! Farewell, and may Heaven prosper still
the seed ye left behind!”

Then turning to the stranger, Father José beheld
him gravely draw his pocket-handkerchief
from the basket-hilt of his rapier, and apply it
decorously to his eyes.

“Pardon this weakness, Sir Priest,” said the

cavalier, apologetically; “but these worthy gentlemen
were ancient friends of mine, and have done
me many a delicate service, — much more, perchance,
than these poor sables may signify,” he
added, with a grim gesture toward the mourning
suit he wore.

Father José was too much preoccupied in reflection
to notice the equivocal nature of this tribute,
and, after a few moments' silence, said, as if continuing
his thought, —

“But the seed they have planted shall thrive
and prosper on this fruitful soil.”

As if answering the interrogatory, the stranger
turned to the opposite direction, and, again waving
his hat, said, in the same serious tone, —

“Look to the East!”

The Father turned, and, as the fog broke away
before the waving plume, he saw that the sun was
rising. Issuing with its bright beams through the
passes of the snowy mountains beyond, appeared a
strange and motley crew. Instead of the dark and
romantic visages of his last phantom train, the
Father beheld with strange concern the blue eyes
and flaxen hair of a Saxon race. In place of
martial airs and musical utterance, there rose upon
the ear a strange din of harsh gutturals and singular
sibilation. Instead of the decorous tread
and stately mien of the cavaliers of the former
vision, they came pushing, bustling, panting, and

swaggering. And as they passed, the good Father
noticed that giant trees were prostrated as with
the breath of a tornado, and the bowels of the
earth were torn and rent as with a convulsion.
And Father José looked in vain for holy cross or
Christian symbol; there was but one that seemed
an ensign, and he crossed himself with holy horror
as he perceived it bore the effigy of a bear.

“Who are these swaggering Ishmaelites?” he
asked, with something of asperity in his tone.

The stranger was gravely silent.

“What do they here, with neither cross nor holy
symbol?” he again demanded.

“Have you the courage to see, Sir Priest?” responded
the stranger, quietly.

Father José felt his crucifix, as a lonely traveller
might his rapier, and assented.

“Step under the shadow of my plume,” said the
stranger.

Father José stepped beside him, and they instantly
sank through the earth.

When he opened his eyes, which had remained
closed in prayerful meditation during his rapid descent,
he found himself in a vast vault, bespangled
overhead with luminous points like the starred firmament.
It was also lighted by a yellow glow that
seemed to proceed from a mighty sea or lake that
occupied the centre of the chamber. Around this
subterranean sea dusky figures flitted, bearing

ladles filled with the yellow fluid, which they had
replenished from its depths. From this lake
diverging streams of the same mysterious flood
penetrated like mighty rivers the cavernous distance.
As they walked by the banks of this glittering
Styx, Father José perceived how the liquid
stream at certain places became solid. The ground
was strewn with glittering flakes. One of these
the Padre picked up and curiously examined. It
was virgin gold.

An expression of discomfiture overcast the good
Father's face at this discovery; but there was
trace neither of malice nor satisfaction in the stranger's
air, which was still of serious and fateful contemplation.
When Father José recovered his
equanimity, he said, bitterly, —

“This, then, Sir Devil, is your work! This is
your deceitful lure for the weak souls of sinful nations!
So would you replace the Christian grace
of holy Spain!”

“This is what must be,” returned the stranger,
gloomily. “But listen, Sir Priest. It lies with
you to avert the issue for a time. Leave me here
in peace. Go back to Castile, and take with you
your bells, your images, and your missions. Continue
here, and you only precipitate results. Stay!
promise me you will do this, and you shall not
lack that which will render your old age an ornament
and a blessing”; and the stranger motioned
significantly to the lake.

It was here, the legend discreetly relates, that the
Devil showed — as he always shows sooner or later
— his cloven hoof. The worthy Padre, sorely perplexed
by his threefold vision, and, if the truth
must be told, a little nettled at this wresting away
of the glory of holy Spanish discovery, had shown
some hesitation. But the unlucky bribe of the
Enemy of Souls touched his Castilian spirit.
Starting back in deep disgust, he brandished his
crucifix in the face of the unmasked Fiend, and
in a voice that made the dusky vault resound,
cried, —

“Avaunt thee, Sathanas! Diabolus, I defy thee!
What! wouldst thou bribe me, — me, a brother of
the Sacred Society of the Holy Jesus, Licentiate
of Cordova and Inquisitor of Guadalaxara?
Thinkest thou to buy me with thy sordid treasure?
Avaunt!”

What might have been the issue of this rupture,
and how complete might have been the triumph
of the Holy Father over the Arch-Fiend, who was
recoiling aghast at these sacred titles and the
flourishing symbol, we can never know, for at that
moment the crucifix slipped through his fingers.

Scarcely had it touched the ground before Devil
and Holy Father simultaneously cast themselves
toward it. In the struggle they clinched, and the
pious José, who was as much the superior of his
antagonist in bodily as in spiritual strength, was

about to treat the Great Adversary to a back
somersault, when he suddenly felt the long nails
of the stranger piercing his flesh. A new fear
seized his heart, a numbing chillness crept through
his body, and he struggled to free himself, but in
vain. A strange roaring was in his ears; the lake
and cavern danced before his eyes and vanished;
and with a loud cry he sank senseless to the
ground.

When he recovered his consciousness he was
aware of a gentle swaying motion of his body. He
opened his eyes, and saw it was high noon, and
that he was being carried in a litter through the
valley. He felt stiff, and, looking down, perceived
that his arm was tightly bandaged to his side.

He closed his eyes and after a few words of
thankful prayer, thought how miraculously he had
been preserved, and made a vow of candlesticks to
the blessed Saint José. He then called in a faint
voice, and presently the penitent Ignacio stood
beside him.

The joy the poor fellow felt at his patron's returning
consciousness for some time choked his
utterance. He could only ejaculate, “A miracle!
Blessed Saint José, he lives!” and kiss the Padre's
bandaged hand. Father José, more intent on his
last night's experience, waited for his emotion to
subside, and asked where he had been found.

“On the mountain, your reverence, but a few
varas from where he attacked you.”

“How? — you saw him then?” asked the Padre,
in unfeigned astonishment.

“Saw him, your Reverence! Mother of God, I
should think I did! And your Reverence shall see
him too, if he ever comes again within range of
Ignacio's arquebuse.”

“What mean you, Ignacio?” said the Padre,
sitting bolt-upright in his litter.

“Why, the bear, your Reverence, — the bear,
Holy Father, who attacked your worshipful person
while you were meditating on the top of yonder
mountain.”

“Ah!” said the Holy Father, lying down again.
“Chut, child! I would be at peace.”

When he reached the Mission, he was tenderly
cared for, and in a few weeks was enabled to resume
those duties from which, as will be seen, not
even the machinations of the Evil One could divert
him. The news of his physical disaster spread
over the country; and a letter to the Bishop of
Guadalaxara contained a confidential and detailed
account of the good Father's spiritual temptation.
But in some way the story leaked out; and long
after José was gathered to his fathers, his mysterious
encounter formed the theme of thrilling and
whispered narrative. The mountain was generally
shunned. It is true that Señor Joaquin Pedrillo
afterward located a grant near the base of the
mountain; but as Señora Pedrillo was known to be

a termagant half-breed, the Señor was not supposed
to be over-fastidious.

Such is the Legend of Monte del Diablo. As I
said before, it may seem to lack essential corroboration.
The discrepancy between the Father's narrative
and the actual climax has given rise to some
scepticism on the part of ingenious quibblers. All
such I would simply refer to that part of the report
of Señor Julio Serro, Sub-Prefect of San Pablo,
before whom attest of the above was made.
Touching this matter, the worthy Prefect observes,
“That although the body of Father José doth
show evidence of grievous conflict in the flesh, yet
that is no proof that the Enemy of Souls, who could
assume the figure of a decorous elderly caballero,
could not at the same time transform himself into
a bear for his own vile purposes.”

THE ADVENTURE OF PADRE VICENTIO.

A LEGEND OF SAN FRANCISCO.

ONE pleasant New Year's Eve, about forty
years ago, Padre Vicentio was slowly picking
his way across the sand-hills from the Mission
Dolores. As he climbed the crest of the ridge beside
Mission Creek, his broad, shining face might
have been easily mistaken for the beneficent image
of the rising moon, so bland was its smile and so
indefinite its features. For the Padre was a man
of notable reputation and character; his ministration
at the mission of San José had been marked
with cordiality and unction; he was adored by the
simple-minded savages, and had succeeded in impressing
his individuality so strongly upon them
that the very children were said to have miraculously
resembled him in feature.

As the holy man reached the loneliest portion
of the road, he naturally put spurs to his mule
as if to quicken that decorous pace which the obedient
animal had acquired through long experience
of its master's habits. The locality had an
unfavorable reputation. Sailors — deserters from
whaleships — had been seen lurking about the

outskirts of the town, and low scrub oaks which
everywhere beset the trail might have easily concealed
some desperate runaway. Besides these
material obstructions, the devil, whose hostility to
the church was well known, was said to sometimes
haunt the vicinity in the likeness of a spectral
whaler, who had met his death in a drunken bout,
from a harpoon in the hands of a companion. The
ghost of this unfortunate mariner was frequently
observed sitting on the hill toward the dusk of
evening, armed with his favorite weapon and a tub
containing a coil of line, looking out for some belated
traveller on whom to exercise his professional
skill. It is related that the good Father José
Maria of the Mission Dolores had been twice attacked
by this phantom sportsman; that once, on
returning from San Francisco, and panting with
exertion from climbing the hill, he was startled by
a stentorian cry of “There she blows!” quickly
followed by a hurtling harpoon, which buried itself
in the sand beside him; that on another occasion
he narrowly escaped destruction, his serapa
having been transfixed by the diabolical harpoon
and dragged away in triumph. Popular opinion
seems to have been divided as to the reason for
the devil's particular attention to Father José,
some asserting that the extreme piety of the
Padre excited the Evil One's animosity, and
others that his adipose tendency simply rendered
him, from a professional view-point, a profitable
capture.

Had Father Vicentio been inclined to scoff at
this apparition as a heretical innovation, there
was still the story of Concepcion, the Demon Vaquero,
whose terrible riata was fully as potent as
the whaler's harpoon. Concepcion, when in the
flesh, had been a celebrated herder of cattle and
wild horses, and was reported to have chased the
devil in the shape of a fleet pinto colt all the way
from San Luis Obispo to San Francisco, vowing
not to give up the chase until he had overtaken the
disguised Arch-Enemy. This the devil prevented
by resuming his own shape, but kept the unfortunate
vaquero to the fulfilment of his rash vow;
and Concepcion still scoured the coast on a phantom
steed, beguiling the monotony of his eternal pursuit
by lassoing travellers, dragging them at the
heels of his unbroken mustang until they were
eventually picked up, half-strangled, by the roadside.
The Padre listened attentively for the tramp
of this terrible rider. But no footfall broke the
stillness of the night; even the hoofs of his own
mule sank noiselessly in the shifting sand. Now
and then a rabbit bounded lightly by him, or a
quail ran into the bushes. The melancholy call
of plover from the adjoining marshes of Mission
Creek came to him so faintly and fitfully that it
seemed almost a recollection of the past rather than
a reality of the present.

To add to his discomposure one of those heavy
sea-fogs peculiar to the locality began to drift
across the hills and presently encompassed him.
While endeavoring to evade its cold embraces,
Padre Vicentio incautiously drove his heavy spurs
into the flanks of his mule as that puzzled animal
was hesitating on the brink of a steep declivity.
Whether the poor beast was indignant at this novel
outrage, or had been for some time reflecting on
the evils of being priest-ridden, has not transpired;
enough that he suddenly threw up his heels, pitching
the reverend man over his head, and, having
accomplished this feat, coolly dropped on his knees
and tumbled after his rider.

Over and over went the Padre, closely followed
by his faithless mule. Luckily the little hollow
which received the pair was of sand that yielded
to the superincumbent weight, half burying them
without further injury. For some moments the
poor man lay motionless, vainly endeavoring to
collect his scattered senses. A hand irreverently
laid upon his collar, and a rough shake, assisted
to recall his consciousness. As the Padre staggered
to his feet he found himself confronted by a
stranger.

Seen dimly through the fog, and under circumstances
that to say the least were not prepossessing,
the new-comer had an inexpressibly mysterious
and brigand-like aspect. A long boat-cloak concealed

his figure, and a slouched had hid his features,
permitting only his eyes to glisten in the
depths. With a deep groan the Padre slipped from
the stranger's grasp and subsided into the soft sand
again.

“Gad's life!” said the stranger, pettishly, “hast
no more bones in thy fat carcass than a jellyfish?
Lend a hand, here! Yo, heave ho!” and
he dragged the Padre into an upright position.
“Now, then, who and what art thou?”

The Padre could not help thinking that the
question might have more properly been asked by
himself; but with an odd mixture of dignity and
trepidation he began enumerating his different
titles, which were by no means brief, and would
have been alone sufficient to strike awe in the
bosom of an ordinary adversary. The stranger
irreverently broke in upon his formal phrases, and
assuring him that a priest was the very person he
was looking for, coolly replaced the old man's hat,
which had tumbled off, and bade him accompany
him at once on an errand of spiritual counsel to
one who was even then lying in extremity. “To
think,” said the stranger, “that I should stumble
upon the very man I was seeking! Body of
Bacchus! but this is lucky! Follow me quickly,
for there is no time to lose.”

Like most easy natures the positive assertion of
the stranger, and withal a certain authoritative air

of command, overcame what slight objections the
Padre might have feebly nurtured during this remarkable
interview. The spiritual invitation was
one, also, that he dared not refuse; not only that;
but it tended somewhat to remove the superstitious
dread with which he had begun to regard the mysterious
stranger. But, following at a respectful distance,
the Padre could not help observing with a
thrill of horror that the stranger's footsteps made
no impression on the sand, and his figure seemed
at times to blend and incorporate itself with the
fog, until the holy man was obliged to wait for
its reappearance. In one of these intervals of
embarrassment he heard the ringing of the far-off
Mission bell, proclaiming the hour of midnight.
Scarcely had the last stroke died away before the
announcement was taken up and repeated by a
multitude of bells of all sizes, and the air was
filled with the sound of striking clocks and the
pealing of steeple chimes. The old man uttered
a cry of alarm. The stranger sharply demanded
the cause. “The bells! did you not hear them?”
gasped Padre Vicentio. “Tush! tush!” answered
the stranger, “thy fall hath set triple bob-majors
ringing in thine ears. Come on!”

The Padre was only too glad to accept the explanation
conveyed in this discourteous answer.
But he was destined for another singular experience.
When they had reached the summit of the

eminence now known as Russian Hill, an exclamation
again burst from the Padre. The stranger
turned to his companion with an impatient gesture;
but the Padre heeded him not. The view that
burst upon his sight was such as might well have
engrossed the attention of a more enthusiastic
temperament. The fog had not yet reached the
hill, and the long valleys and hillsides of the embarcadero
below were glittering with the light of a
populous city. “Look!” said the Padre, stretching
his hand over the spreading landscape. “Look,
dost thou not see the stately squares and brilliantly
lighted avenues of a mighty metropolis. Dost
thou not see, as it were, another firmament below?”

“Avast heaving, reverend man, and quit this
folly,” said the stranger, dragging the bewildered
Padre after him. “Behold rather the stars knocked
out of thy hollow noddle by the fall thou hast
had. Prithee, get over thy visions and rhapsodies,
for the time is wearing apace.”

The Padre humbly followed without another
word. Descending the hill toward the north, the
stranger leading the way, in a few moments the
Padre detected the wash of waves, and presently
his feet struck the firmer sand of the beach. Here
the stranger paused, and the Padre perceived a
boat lying in readiness hard by. As he stepped
into the stern sheets, in obedience to the command

of his companion, he noticed that the rowers
seemed to partake of the misty incorporeal texture
of his companion, a similarity that became the
more distressing when he perceived also that their
oars in pulling together made no noise. The
stranger, assuming the helm, guided the boat on
quietly, while the fog, settling over the face of the
water and closing around them, seemed to interpose
a muffled wall between themselves and the
rude jarring of the outer world. As they pushed
further into this penetralia, the Padre listened anxiously
for the sound of creaking blocks and the
rattling of cordage, but no vibration broke the
veiled stillness or disturbed the warm breath of
the fleecy fog. Only one incident occurred to break
the monotony of their mysterious journey. A
one-eyed rower, who sat in front of the Padre,
catching the devout father's eye, immediately
grinned such a ghastly smile, and winked his remaining
eye with such diabolical intensity of
meaning that the Padre was constrained to utter a
pious ejaculation, which had the disastrous effect
of causing the marine Cocles to “catch a crab,”
throwing his heels in the air and his head into the
bottom of the boat. But even this accident did
not disturb the gravity of the rest of the ghastly
boat's crew.

When, as it seemed to the Padre, ten minutes
had elapsed, the outline of a large ship loomed up

directly across their bow. Before he could utter the
cry of warning that rose to his lips, or brace himself
against the expected shock, the boat passed gently
and noiselessly through the sides of the vessel, and
the holy man found himself standing on the berth
deck of what seemed to be an ancient caravel.
The boat and boat's crew had vanished. Only his
mysterious friend, the stranger, remained. By the
light of a swinging lamp the Padre beheld him
standing beside a hammock, whereon, apparently,
lay the dying man to whom he had been so mysteriously
summoned. As the Padre, in obedience
to a sign from his companion, stepped to the side
of the sufferer, he feebly opened his eyes and thus
addressed him: —

“Thou seest before thee, reverend father, a helpless
mortal, struggling not only with the last agonies
of the flesh, but beaten down and tossed with
sore anguish of the spirit. It matters little when
or how I became what thou now seest me. Enough
that my life has been ungodly and sinful, and that
my only hope of absolution lies in my imparting
to thee a secret which is of vast importance to
the holy Church, and affects greatly her power,
wealth, and dominion on these shores. But the
terms of this secret and the conditions of my absolution
are peculiar. I have but five minutes to
live. In that time I must receive the extreme
unction of the Church.”

“And thy secret?” said the holy father.

“Shall be told afterwards,” answered the dying
man. “Come, my time is short. Shrive me
quickly.”

The Padre hesitated. “Couldst thou not tell
this secret first?”

“Impossible!” said the dying man, with what
seemed to the Padre a momentary gleam of triumph.
Then, as his breath grew feebler, he called
impatiently, “Shrive me! shrive me!”

“Let me know at least what this secret concerns?”
suggested the Padre, insinuatingly.

“Shrive me first,” said the dying man.

But the priest still hesitated, parleying with the
sufferer until the ship's bell struck, when, with a
triumphant, mocking laugh from the stranger, the
vessel suddenly fell to pieces, amid the rushing of
waters which at once involved the dying man, the
priest, and the mysterious stranger.

The Padre did not recover his consciousness
until high noon the next day, when he found himself
lying in a little hollow between the Mission
Hills, and his faithful mule a few paces from him,
cropping the sparse herbage. The Padre made the
best of his way home, but wisely abstained from
narrating the facts mentioned above, until after
the discovery of gold, when the whole of this
veracious incident was related, with the assertion
of the padre that the secret which was thus mysteriously

snatched from his possession was nothing
more than the discovery of gold, years since, by the
runaway sailors from the expedition of Sir Francis
Drake.

THE LEGEND OF DEVIL'S POINT.

ON the northerly shore of San Francisco Bay,
at a point where the Golden Gate broadens
into the Pacific stands a bluff promontory. It
affords shelter from the prevailing winds to a semicircular
bay on the east. Around this bay the
hillside is bleak and barren, but there are traces of
former habitation in a weather-beaten cabin and
deserted corral. It is said that these were originally
built by an enterprising squatter, who for
some unaccountable reason abandoned them shortly
after. The “Jumper” who succeeded him disappeared
one day, quite as mysteriously. The third
tenant, who seemed to be a man of sanguine, hopeful
temperament, divided the property into building
lots, staked off the hillside, and projected the
map of a new metropolis. Failing, however, to
convince the citizens of San Francisco that they
had mistaken the site of their city, he presently
fell into dissipation and despondency. He was
frequently observed haunting the narrow strip of
beach at low tide, or perched upon the cliff at
high water. In the latter position a sheep-tender
one day found him, cold and pulseless, with a map

of his property in his hand, and his face turned
toward the distant sea.

Perhaps these circumstances gave the locality
its infelicitous reputation. Vague rumors were
bruited of a supernatural influence that had been
exercised on the tenants. Strange stories were
circulated of the origin of the diabolical title by
which the promontory was known. By some it
was believed to be haunted by the spirit of one of
Sir Francis Drake's sailors who had deserted his
ship in consequence of stories told by the Indians
of gold discoveries, but who had perished by starvation
on the rocks. A vaquero who had once
passed a night in the ruined cabin, related how
a strangely dressed and emaciated figure had
knocked at the door at midnight and demanded food.
Other story-tellers, of more historical accuracy,
roundly asserted that Sir Francis himself had been
little better than a pirate, and had chosen this spot
to conceal quantities of ill-gotten booty, taken
from neutral bottoms, and had protected his hiding-place
by the orthodox means of hellish incantation
and diabolic agencies. On moonlight nights a
shadowy ship was sometimes seen standing off-and-on,
or when fogs encompassed sea and shore the
noise of oars rising and falling in their row-locks
could be heard muffled and indistinctly during the
night. Whatever foundation there might have
been for these stories, it was certain that a more

weird and desolate-looking spot could not have
been selected for their theatre. High hills, verdureless
and enfiladed with dark cañadas, cast their
gaunt shadows on the tide. During a greater portion
of the day the wind, which blew furiously and
incessantly, seemed possessed with a spirit of fierce
disquiet and unrest. Toward nightfall the sea-fog
crept with soft step through the portals of the
Golden Gate, or stole in noiseless marches down
the hillside, tenderly soothing the wind-buffeted
face of the cliff, until sea and sky were hid together.
At such times the populous city beyond
and the nearer settlement seemed removed to an infinite
distance. An immeasurable loneliness settled
upon the cliff. The creaking of a windlass, or the
monotonous chant of sailors on some unseen, outlying
ship, came faint and far, and full of mystic
suggestion.

About a year ago a well-to-do middle-aged
broker of San Francisco found himself at nightfall
the sole occupant of a “plunger,” encompassed
in a dense fog, and drifting toward the
Golden Gate. This unexpected termination of an
afternoon's sail was partly attributable to his want
of nautical skill, and partly to the effect of his
usually sanguine nature. Having given up the
guidance of his boat to the wind and tide, he had
trusted too implicitly for that reaction which his
business experience assured him was certain to occur

in all affairs, aquatic as well as terrestrial. “The
tide will turn soon,” said the broker, confidently, “or
something will happen.” He had scarcely settled
himself back again in the stern-sheets, before the
bow of the plunger, obeying some mysterious impulse,
veered slowly around and a dark object
loomed up before him. A gentle eddy carried the
boat further in shore, until at last it was completely
embayed under the lee of a rocky point now
faintly discernible through the fog. He looked
around him in the vain hope of recognizing some
familiar headland. The tops of the high hills
which rose on either side were hidden in the fog.
As the boat swung around, he succeeded in fastening
a line to the rocks, and sat down again with a
feeling of renewed confidence and security.

It was very cold. The insidious fog penetrated
his tightly buttoned coat, and set his teeth to chattering
in spite of the aid he sometimes drew from
a pocket-flask. His clothes were wet and the
stern-sheets were covered with spray. The comforts
of fire and shelter continually rose before his
fancy as he gazed wistfully on the rocks. In sheer
despair he finally drew the boat toward the most
accessible part of the cliff and essayed to ascend.
This was less difficult than it appeared, and in a
few moments he had gained the hill above. A dark
object at a little distance attracted his attention,
and on approaching it proved to be a deserted

cabin. The story goes on to say, that having built
a roaring fire of stakes pulled from the adjoining
corral, with the aid of a flask of excellent brandy,
he managed to pass the early part of the evening
with comparative comfort.

There was no door in the cabin, and the windows
were simply square openings, which freely admitted
the searching fog. But in spite of these discomforts,
— being a man of cheerful, sanguine
temperament, — he amused himself by poking the
fire, and watching the ruddy glow which the flames
threw on the fog from the open door. In this innocent
occupation a great weariness overcame him,
and he fell asleep.

He was awakened at midnight by a loud “halloo,”
which seemed to proceed directly from the
sea. Thinking it might be the cry of some boatman
lost in the fog, he walked to the edge of the
cliff, but the thick veil that covered sea and land
rendered all objects at the distance of a few feet
indistinguishable. He heard, however, the regular
strokes of oars rising and falling on the water.
The halloo was repeated. He was clearing his
throat to reply, when to his surprise an answer
came apparently from the very cabin he had quitted.
Hastily retracing his steps, he was the more
amazed, on reaching the open door, to find a stranger
warming himself by the fire. Stepping back
far enough to conceal his own person, he took a
good look at the intruder.

He was a man of about forty, with a cadaverous
face. But the oddity of his dress attracted the
broker's attention more than his lugubrious physiognomy.
His legs were hid in enormously wide
trousers descending to his knee, where they met
long boots of sealskin. A pea-jacket with exaggerated
cuffs, almost as large as the breeches, covered
his chest, and around his waist a monstrous
belt, with a buckle like a dentist's sign, supported
two trumpet-mouthed pistols and a curved hanger.
He wore a long queue, which depended half-way
down his back. As the firelight fell on his ingenuous
countenance the broker observed with
some concern that this queue was formed entirely
of a kind of tobacco, known as pigtail or twist.
Its effect, the broker remarked, was much heightened
when in a moment of thoughtful abstraction
the apparition bit off a portion of it, and rolled it
as a quid into the cavernous recesses of his jaws.

Meanwhile, the nearer splash of oars indicated
the approach of the unseen boat. The broker had
barely time to conceal himself behind the cabin
before a number of uncouth-looking figures clambered
up the hill toward the ruined rendezvous.
They were dressed like the previous comer, who,
as they passed through the open door, exchanged
greetings with each in antique phraseology, bestowing
at the same time some familiar nickname.
Flash-in-the-Pan, Spitter-of-Frogs, Malmsey Butt,

Latheyard-Will, and Mark-the-Pinker, were the
few sobriquets the broker remembered. Whether
these titles were given to express some peculiarity
of their owner he could not tell, for a silence followed
as they slowly ranged themselves upon the
floor of the cabin in a semicircle around their
cadaverous host.

At length Malmsey Butt, a spherical-bodied
man-of-war's-man, with a rubicund nose, got on his
legs somewhat unsteadily, and addressed himself
to the company. They had met that evening, said
the speaker, in accordance with a time-honored
custom. This was simply to relieve that one of
their number who for fifty years had kept watch
and ward over the locality where certain treasures
had been buried. At this point the broker pricked
up his ears. “If so be, camarados and brothers
all,” he continued, “ye are ready to receive the
report of our excellent and well-beloved brother,
Master Slit-the-Weazand, touching his search for
this treasure, why, marry, to 't and begin.”

A murmur of assent went around the circle as
the speaker resumed his seat. Master Slit-the-Weazand
slowly opened his lantern jaws, and
began. He had spent much of his time in determining
the exact location of the teasure. He believed
— nay, he could state positively — that its
position was now settled. It was true he had
done some trifling little business outside. Modesty

forbade his mentioning the particulars, but he
would simply state that of the three tenants who
had occupied the cabin during the past ten years,
none were now alive. [Applause, and cries of
“Go to! thou wast always a tall fellow!” and
the like.]

Mark-the-Pinker next arose. Before proceeding
to business he had a duty to perform in the sacred
name of Friendship. It ill became him to pass an
eulogy upon the qualities of the speaker who had
preceded him, for he had known him from “boy-hood's
hour.” Side by side they had wrought together
in the Spanish war. For a neat hand with
a toledo he challenged his equal, while how nobly
and beautifully he had won his present title of
Slit-the-Weazand, all could testify. The speaker,
with some show of emotion, asked to be pardoned
if he dwelt too freely on passages of their early
companionship; he then detailed, with a fine touch
of humor, his comrade's peculiar manner of slitting
the ears and lips of a refractory Jew, who had
been captured in one of their previous voyages.
He would not weary the patience of his hearers,
but would briefly propose that the report of Slit-the-Weazand
be accepted, and that the thanks of
the company be tendered him.

A beaker of strong spirits was then rolled into
the hut, and cans of grog were circulated freely
from hand to hand. The health of Slit-the-Weazand

was proposed in a neat speech by Mark-the-Pinker,
and responded to by the former gentleman
in a manner that drew tears to the eyes of all
present. To the broker, in his concealment, this
momentary diversion from the real business of the
meeting occasioned much anxiety. As yet nothing
had been said to indicate the exact locality of the
treasure to which they had mysteriously alluded.
Fear restrained him from open inquiry, and curiosity
kept him from making good his escape during
the orgies which followed.

But his situation was beginning to become critical.
Flash-in-the-Pan, who seemed to have been
a man of choleric humor, taking fire during some
hotly contested argument, discharged both his pistols
at the breast of his opponent. The balls
passed through on each side immediately below his
arm-pits, making a clean hole, through which the
horrified broker could see the firelight behind him.
The wounded man, without betraying any concern,
excited the laughter of the company, by jocosely
putting his arms akimbo, and inserting his thumbs
into the orifices of the wounds, as if they had been
arm-holes. This having in a measure restored
good-humor, the party joined hands and formed
a circle preparatory to dancing. The dance was
commenced by some monotonous stanzas hummed
in a very high key by one of the party, the rest
joining in the following chorus, which seemed to
present a familiar sound to the broker's ear.

At the regular recurrence of the last line, the
party discharged their loaded pistols in all directions,
rendering the position of the unhappy broker
one of extreme peril and perplexity.

When the tumult had partially subsided, Flash-in-the-Pan
called the meeting to order, and most
of the revellers returned to their places, Malmsey
Butt, however, insisting upon another chorus, and
singing at the top of his voice: —

Flash-in-the-Pan drew a pistol from his belt, and
bidding some one gag Malmsey Butt with the
stock of it, proceeded to read from a portentous
roll of parchment that he held in his hand. It
was a semi-legal document, clothed in the quaint
phraseology of a bygone period. After a long
preamble, asserting their loyalty as lieges of Her
most bountiful Majesty and Sovereign Lady the
Queen, the document declared that they then and
there took possession of the promontory, and all
the treasure trove therein contained, formerly
buried by Her Majesty's most faithful and devoted

Admiral Sir Francis Drake, with the right to
search, discover, and appropriate the same; and
for the purpose thereof they did then and there
form a guild or corporation to so discover, search
for, and disclose said treasures, and by virtue
thereof they solemnly subscribed their names. But
at this moment the reading of the parchment was
arrested by an exclamation from the assembly,
and the broker was seen frantically struggling at
the door in the strong arms of Mark-the-Pinker.

“Let me go!” he cried, as he made a desperate
attempt to reach the side of Master Flash-in-the
Pan. “Let me go! I tell you, gentlemen, that
document is not worth the parchment it is written
on. The laws of the State, the customs of the
country, the mining ordinances, are all against
it. Don't, by all that 's sacred, throw away such
a capital investment through ignorance and informality.
Let me go! I assure you, gentlemen, professionally,
that you have a big thing, — a remarkably
big thing, and even if I ain't in it, I 'm not
going to see it fall through. Don't, for God's
sake, gentlemen, I implore you, put your names to
such a ridiculous paper. There is n't a notary —”

He ceased. The figures around him, which were
beginning to grow fainter and more indistinct, as
he went on, swam before his eyes, flickered, reappeared
again, and finally went out. He rubbed
his eyes and gazed around him. The cabin was

deserted. On the hearth the red embers of his
fire were fading away in the bright beams of the
morning sun, that looked aslant through the open
window. He ran out to the cliff. The sturdy
sea-breeze fanned his feverish cheeks, and tossed
the white caps of waves that beat in pleasant music
on the beach below. A stately merchantman
with snowy canvas was entering the Gate. The
voices of sailors came cheerfully from a bark at
anchor below the point. The muskets of the sentries
gleamed brightly on Alcatraz, and the rolling
of drums swelled on the breeze. Farther on, the
hills of San Francisco, cottage-crowned and bordered
with wharves and warehouses, met his longing
eye.

Such is the Legend of Devil's Point. Any objections
to its reliability may be met with the statement,
that the broker who tells the story has since
incorporated a company under the title of “Flash-in-the-Pan
Gold and Silver Treasure Mining Company,”
and that its shares are already held at a
stiff figure. A copy of the original document is
said to be on record in the office of the company,
and on any clear day the locality of the claim
may be distinctly seen from the hills of San Francisco.

THE DEVIL AND THE BROKER.

A MEDIÆVAL LEGEND.

THE church clocks in San Francisco were
striking ten. The Devil, who had been flying
over the city that evening, just then alighted
on the roof of a church near the corner of Bush
and Montgomery Streets. It will be perceived
that the popular belief that the Devil avoids holy
edifices, and vanishes at the sound of a Credo or
Pater-noster, is long since exploded. Indeed, modern
scepticism asserts that he is not averse to
these orthodox discourses, which particularly bear
reference to himself, and in a measure recognize
his power and importance.

I am inclined to think, however, that his choice
of a resting-place was a good deal influenced by
its contiguity to a populous thoroughfare. When
he was comfortably seated, he began pulling out
the joints of a small rod which he held in his hand,
and which presently proved to be an extraordinary
fishing-pole, with a telescopic adjustment that permitted
its protraction to a marvellous extent.
Affixing a line thereto, he selected a fly of a particular
pattern from a small box which he carried

with him, and, making a skilful cast, threw his
line into the very centre of that living stream which
ebbed and flowed through Montgomery Street.

Either the people were very virtuous that evening
or the bait was not a taking one. In vain the
Devil whipped the stream at an eddy in front of
the Occidental, or trolled his line into the shadows
of the Cosmopolitan; five minutes passed without
even a nibble. “Dear me!” quoth the Devil,
“that 's very singular; one of my most popular
flies, too! Why, they 'd have risen by shoals in
Broadway or Beacon Street for that. Well, here
goes another.” And, fitting a new fly from his well-filled
box, he gracefully recast his line.

For a few moments there was every prospect of
sport. The line was continually bobbing and the
nibbles were distinct and gratifying. Once or
twice the bait was apparently gorged and carried
off in the upper stories of the hotels to be digested
at leisure. At such times the professional manner
in which the Devil played out his line would
have thrilled the heart of Izaak Walton. But his
efforts were unsuccessful; the bait was invariably
carried off without hooking the victim, and the
Devil finally lost his temper. “I 've heard of
these San-Franciscans before,” he muttered; “wait
till I get hold of one, — that 's all!” he added
malevolently, as he rebaited his hook. A sharp
tug and a wriggle foiled his next trial, and

finally, with considerable effort, he landed a portly
two-hundred-pound broker upon the church roof.

As the victim lay there gasping, it was evident
that the Devil was in no hurry to remove the hook
from his gills; nor did he exhibit in this delicate
operation that courtesy of manner and graceful
manipulation which usually distinguished him.

“Come,” he said, gruffly, as he grasped the
broker by the waistband, “quit that whining and
grunting. Don't flatter yourself that you 're a
prize either. I was certain to have had you. It was
only a question of time.”

“It is not that, my lord, which troubles me,”
whined the unfortunate wretch, as he painfully
wriggled his head, “but that I should have been
fooled by such a paltry bait. What will they say
of me down there? To have let `bigger things'
go by, and to be taken in by this cheap trick,”
he added, as he groaned and glanced at the fly
which the Devil was carefully rearranging, “is
what, — pardon me, my lord, — is what gets me!”

“Yes,” said the Devil, philosophically, “I never
caught anybody yet who did n't say that; but tell
me, ain't you getting somewhat fastidious down
there? Here is one of my most popular flies, the
greenback,” he continued, exhibiting an emerald-looking
insect, which he drew from his box. “This,
so generally considered excellent in election season,
has not even been nibbled at. Perhaps your

sagacity, which, in spite of this unfortunate contretemps,
no one can doubt,” added the Devil, with a
graceful return to his usual courtesy, “may explain
the reason or suggest a substitute.”

The broker glanced at the contents of the box
with a supercilious smile. “Too old-fashioned, my
lord, — long ago played out. Yet,” he added, with
a gleam of interest, “for a consideration I might
offer something — ahem! — that would make a
taking substitute for these trifles. Give me,” he
continued, in a brisk, business-like way, “a slight
percentage and a bonus down, and I 'm your man.”

“Name your terms,” said the Devil, earnestly.

“My liberty and a percentage on all you take,
and the thing 's done.”

The Devil caressed his tail thoughtfully, for a
few moments. He was certain of the broker any
way, and the risk was slight. “Done!” he said.

“Stay a moment,” said the artful broker. “There
are certain contingencies. Give me your fishing-rod
and let me apply the bait myself. It requires
a skilful hand, my lord; even your well-known
experience might fail. Leave me alone for half an
hour, and if you have reason to complain of my
success I will forfeit my deposit, — I mean my
liberty.”

The Devil acceded to his request, bowed, and
withdrew. Alighting gracefully in Montgomery
Street, he dropped into Meade & Co.'s clothing

store, where, having completely equipped himself
à la mode, he sallied forth intent on his personal
enjoyment. Determining to sink his professional
character, he mingled with the current of human
life, and enjoyed, with that immense capacity for
excitement peculiar to his nature, the whirl, bustle,
and feverishness of the people, as a purely æsthetic
gratification unalloyed by the cares of business.
What he did that evening does not belong to our
story. We return to the broker, whom we left on
the roof.

When he made sure that the Devil had retired,
he carefully drew from his pocket-book a slip of
paper and affixed it on the hook. The line had
scarcely reached the current before he felt a bite.
The hook was swallowed. To bring up his victim
rapidly, disengage him from the hook, and reset his
line, was the work of a moment. Another bite and
the same result. Another, and another. In a very
few minutes the roof was covered with his panting
spoil. The broker could himself distinguish that
many of them were personal friends; nay, some
of them were familiar frequenters of the building
on which they were now miserably stranded. That
the broker felt a certain satisfaction in being instrumental
in thus misleading his fellow-brokers
no one acquainted with human nature will for a
moment doubt. But a stronger pull on his line
caused him to put forth all his strength and skill.

The magic pole bent like a coach-whip. The broker
held firm, assisted by the battlements of the
church. Again and again it was almost wrested
from his hand, and again and again he slowly reeled
in a portion of the tightening line. At last, with
one mighty effort, he lifted to the level of the roof
a struggling object. A howl like Pandemonium
rang through the air as the broker successfully
landed at his feet — the Devil himself!

The two glared fiercely at each other. The
broker, perhaps mindful of his former treatment,
evinced no haste to remove the hook from his antagonist's
jaw. When it was finally accomplished,
he asked quietly if the Devil was satisfied. That
gentleman seemed absorbed in the contemplation
of the bait which he had just taken from his mouth.
“I am,” he said, finally, “and forgive you; but
what do you call this?”

“Bend low,” replied the broker, as he buttoned
up his coat ready to depart. The Devil inclined
his ear. “I call it Wild Cat!”

THE OGRESS OF SILVER LAND;
OR,
THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF PRINCE BADFELLAH
AND PRINCE BULLEBOYE.

IN the second year of the reign of the renowned
Caliph Lo there dwelt in Silver Land, adjoining
his territory, a certain terrible ogress. She
lived in the bowels of a dismal mountain, where
she was in the habit of confining such unfortunate
travellers as ventured within her domain. The
country for miles around was sterile and barren.
In some places it was covered with a white powder,
which was called in the language of the country
Al Ka Li, and was supposed to be the pulverized
bones of those who had perished miserably in her
service.

In spite of this, every year, great numbers of
young men devoted themselves to the service of the
ogress, hoping to become her godsons, and to enjoy
the good fortune which belonged to that privileged
class. For these godsons had no work to perform,
neither at the mountain nor elsewhere, but roamed
about the world with credentials of their relationship
in their pockets, which they called STOKH,

which was stamped with the stamp and sealed
with the seal of the ogress, and which enabled
them at the end of each moon to draw large quantities
of gold and silver from her treasury. And the
wisest and most favored of those godsons were the
Princes Badfellah and Bulleboye. They knew all
the secrets of the ogress, and how to wheedle and
coax her. They were also the favorites of Soopah
Intendent, who was her Lord High Chamberlain
and Prime Minister, and who dwelt in Silver
Land.

One day, Soopah Intendent said to his servants,
“What is that which travels the most surely,
the most secretly, and the most swiftly?”

And they all answered as one man, “Lightning,
my lord, travels the most surely, the most swiftly,
and the most secretly!”

Then said Soopah Intendent, “Let Lightning
carry this message secretly, swiftly, and surely to
my beloved friends the Princes Badfellah and
Bulleboye, and tell them that their godmother is
dying, and bid them seek some other godmother
or sell their STOKH ere it becomes badjee, — worthless.”

“Bekhesm! On our heads be it!” answered
the servants; and they ran to Lightning with the
message, who flew with it to the City by the Sea,
and delivered it, even at that moment, into the
hands of the Princes Badfellah and Bulleboye.

Now the Prince Badfellah was a wicked young
man; and when he had received this message he
tore his beard and rent his garment and reviled
his godmother, and his friend Soopah Intendent.
But presently he arose, and dressed himself in his
finest stuffs, and went forth into the bazaars and
among the merchants, capering and dancing as
he walked, and crying in a loud voice, “O, happy
day! O, day worthy to be marked with a white
stone!”

This he said cunningly, thinking the merchants
and men of the bazaars would gather about him,
which they presently did, and began to question
him: “What news, O most worthy and serene
Highness? Tell us, that we make merry too!”

Then replied the cunning prince, “Good news,
O my brothers, for I have heard this day that my
godmother in Silver Land is well.” The merchants,
who were not aware of the substance of the
real message, envied him greatly, and said one to
another: “Surely our brother the Prince Badfellah
is favored by Allah above all men”; and they
were about to retire, when the prince checked
them, saying: “Tarry for a moment. Here are
my credentials, or STOKH. The same I will sell
you for fifty thousand sequins, for I have to give a
feast to-day, and need much gold. Who will give
fifty thousand?” And he again fell to capering
and dancing. But this time the merchants drew

a little apart, and some of the oldest and wisest
said: “What dirt is this which the prince would
have us swallow? If his godmother were well,
why should he sell his STOKH? Bismillah! The
olives are old and the jar is broken!” When
Prince Badfellah perceived them whispering, his
countenance fell, and his knees smote against each
other through fear; but, dissembling again, he said:
“Well, so be it! Lo, I have much more than shall
abide with me, for my days are many and my
wants are few. Say forty thousand sequins for my
STOKH and let me depart in Allah's name. Who
will give forty thousand sequins to become the
godson of such a healthy mother?” And he again
fell to capering and dancing, but not as gayly as
before, for his heart was troubled. The merchants,
however, only moved farther away. “Thirty thousand
sequins,” cried Prince Badfellah; but even
as he spoke they fled before his face, crying: “His
godmother is dead. Lo, the jackals are defiling
her grave. Mashalla! he has no godmother.” And
they sought out Panik, the swift-footed messenger,
and bade him shout through the bazaars that the
godmother of Prince Badfellah was dead. When
he heard this, the prince fell upon his face, and
rent his garments, and covered himself with the
dust of the market-place. As he was sitting thus,
a porter passed him with jars of wine on his shoulders,
and the prince begged him to give him a jar,
for he was exceeding thirsty and faint. But the
porter said, “What will my lord give me first?”
And the prince, in very bitterness of spirit, said,
“Take this,” and handed him his STOKH, and so
exchanged it for a jar of wine.

Now the Prince Bulleboye was of a very different
disposition. When he received the message
of Soopah Intendent he bowed his head, and said,
“It is the will of God.” Then he rose, and without
speaking a word entered the gates of his palace.
But his wife, the peerless Maree Jahann, perceiving
the gravity of his countenance, said, “Why
is my lord cast down and silent? Why are those
rare and priceless pearls, his words, shut up so
tightly between those gorgeous oyster-shells, his
lips?” But to this he made no reply. Thinking
further to divert him, she brought her lute into
the chamber and stood before him, and sang the
song and danced the dance of Ben Kotton, which
is called Ibrahim's Daughter, but she could not
lift the veil of sadness from his brow.

When she had ceased, the Prince Bulleboye
arose and said, “Allah is great, and what am I, his
servant, but the dust of the earth! Lo, this day
has my godmother sickened unto death, and my
STOKH become as a withered palm-leaf. Call hither
my servants and camel-drivers, and the merchants
that have furnished me with stuffs, and the beggars
who have feasted at my table, and bid them

take all that is here, for it is mine no longer!”
With these words he buried his face in his mantle
and wept aloud.

But Maree Jahann, his wife, plucked him by
the sleeve. “Prithee, my lord,” said she, “bethink
thee of the Brokah or scrivener, who besought
thee but yesterday to share thy STOKH with him
and gave thee his bond for fifty thousand sequins.”
But the noble Prince Bulleboye, raising
his head, said: “Shall I sell to him for fifty
thousand sequins that which I know is not worth
a Soo Markee? For is not all the Brokah's
wealth, even his wife and children, pledged on
that bond? Shall I ruin him to save myself?
Allah forbid! Rather let me eat the salt fish of
honest penury, than the kibobs of dishonorable
affluence; rather let me wallow in the mire of
virtuous oblivion, than repose on the divan of luxurious
wickedness.”

When the prince had given utterance to this
beautiful and edifying sentiment, a strain of gentle
music was heard, and the rear wall of the apartment,
which had been ingeniously constructed like
a flat, opened and discovered the Ogress of Silver
Land in the glare of blue fire, seated on a triumphal
car attached to two ropes which were connected
with the flies, in the very act of blessing the unconscious
prince. When the walls closed again
without attracting his attention, Prince Bulleboye

arose, dressed himself in his coarsest and cheapest
stuffs, and sprinkled ashes on his head, and in
this guise, having embraced his wife, went forth
into the bazaars. In this it will be perceived how
differently the good Prince Bulleboye acted from
the wicked Prince Badfellah, who put on his gayest
garments to simulate and deceive.

Now when Prince Bulleboye entered the chief
bazaar, where the merchants of the city were gathered
in council, he stood up in his accustomed
place, and all that were there held their breath, for
the noble Prince Bulleboye was much respected.
“Let the Brokah, whose bond I hold for fifty thousand
sequins, stand forth!” said the prince. And
the Brokah stood forth from among the merchants.
Then said the prince: “Here is thy bond for fifty
thousand sequins, for which I was to deliver unto
thee one half of my STOKH. Know, then, O my
brother, — and thou, too, O Aga of the Brokahs, —
that this my STOKH which I pledged to thee is worthless.
For my godmother, the Ogress of Silver
Land, is dying. Thus do I release thee from thy
bond, and from the poverty which might overtake
thee as it has even me, thy brother, the Prince
Bulleboye.” And with that the noble Prince
Bulleboye tore the bond of the Brokah into pieces
and scattered it to the four winds.

Now when the prince tore up the bond there was
a great commotion, and some said, “Surely the

Prince Bulleboye is drunken with wine”; and
others, “He is possessed of an evil spirit”; and
his friends expostulated with him, saying, “What
thou hast done is not the custom of the bazaars, —
behold, it is not Biz!” But to all the prince
answered gravely, “It is right; on my own head
be it!”

But the oldest and wisest of the merchants, they
who had talked with Prince Badfellah the same
morning, whispered together, and gathered around
the Brokah whose bond the Prince Bulleboye had
torn up. “Hark ye,” said they, “our brother the
Prince Bulleboye is cunning as a jackal. What
bosh is this about ruining himself to save thee?
Such a thing was never heard before in the bazaars.
It is a trick, O thou mooncalf of a Brokah! Dost
thou not see that he has heard good news from his
godmother, the same that was even now told us by
the Prince Badfellah, his confederate, and that he
would destroy thy bond for fifty thousand sequins
because his STOKH is worth a hundred thousand!
Be not deceived, O too credulous Brokah! for this
what our brother the prince doeth is not in the
name of Allah, but of Biz, the only god known
in the bazaars of the city.”

When the foolish Brokah heard these things he
cried, “Justice, O Aga of the Brokahs, — justice
and the fulfilment of my bond! Let the prince
deliver unto me the STOKH. Here are my fifty

thousand sequins.” But the prince said, “Have I
not told that my godmother is dying, and that my
STOKH is valueless?” At this the Brokah only
clamored the more for justice and the fulfilment
of his bond. Then the Aga of the Brokahs said,
“Since the bond is destroyed, behold thou hast no
claim. Go thy ways!” But the Brokah again
cried, “Justice, my lord Aga! Behold, I offer the
prince seventy thousand sequins for his STOKH!”
But the prince said, “It is not worth one sequin!”
Then the Aga said, “Bismillah! I cannot understand
this. Whether thy godmother be dead, or
dying, or immortal, does not seem to signify.
Therefore, O prince, by the laws of Biz and of
Allah, thou art released. Give the Brokah thy
STOKH for seventy thousand sequins, and bid him
depart in peace. On his own head be it!” When
the prince heard this command, he handed his
STOKH to the Brokah, who counted out to him
seventy thousand sequins. But the heart of the
virtuous prince did not rejoice, nor did the Brokah,
when he found his STOKH was valueless; but
the merchants lifted their hands in wonder at the
sagacity and wisdom of the famous Prince Bulleboye.
For none would believe that it was the law
of Allah that the prince followed, and not the
rules of Biz.

THE RUINS OF SAN FRANCISCO.

TOWARDS the close of the nineteenth century
the city of San Francisco was totally ingulfed
by an earthquake. Although the whole coast-line
must have been much shaken, the accident seems
to have been purely local, and even the city of
Oakland escaped. Schwappelfurt, the celebrated
German geologist, has endeavored to explain this
singular fact by suggesting that there are some
things the earth cannot swallow, — a statement
that should be received with some caution, as exceeding
the latitude of ordinary geological speculation.

Historians disagree in the exact date of the
calamity. Tulu Krish, the well-known New-Zealander,
whose admirable speculations on the ruins
of St. Paul as seen from London Bridge have won
for him the attentive consideration of the scientific
world, fixes the occurrence in A. D. 1880.
This, supposing the city to have been actually
founded in 1850, as asserted, would give but thirty
years for it to have assumed the size and proportions
it had evidently attained at the time of its
destruction. It is not our purpose, however, to

question the conclusions of the justly famed Maorian
philosopher. Our present business lies with
the excavations that are now being prosecuted by
order of the Hawaiian government upon the site
of the lost city.

Every one is familiar with the story of its discovery.
For many years the bay of San Francisco
had been famed for the luscious quality of its
oysters. It is stated that a dredger one day raked
up a large bell, which proved to belong to the City
Hall, and led to the discovery of the cupola of
that building. The attention of the government
was at once directed to the spot. The bay of San
Francisco was speedily drained by a system of
patent siphons, and the city, deeply embedded in
mud, brought to light after a burial of many centuries.
The City Hall, Post-Office, Mint, and Custom-House
were readily recognized by the large
full-fed barnacles which adhered to their walls.
Shortly afterwards the first skeleton was discovered;
that of a broker, whose position in the upper
strata of mud nearer the surface was supposed
to be owing to the exceeding buoyancy or inflation
of scrip which he had secured about his person
while endeavoring to escape. Many skeletons,
supposed to be those of females, encompassed in
that peculiar steel coop or cage which seems to
have been worn by the women of that period,
were also found in the upper stratum. Alexis

von Puffer, in his admirable work on San Francisco,
accounts for the position of these unfortunate
creatures by asserting that the steel cage was
originally the frame of a parachute-like garment
which distended the skirt, and in the submersion
of the city prevented them from sinking. “If
anything,” says Von Puffer, “could have been
wanting to add intensity to the horrible catastrophe
which took place as the waters first entered
the city, it would have been furnished in the
forcible separation of the sexes at this trying moment.
Buoyed up by their peculiar garments, the
female population instantly ascended to the surface.
As the drowning husband turned his eyes
above, what must have been his agony as he saw
his wife shooting upward, and knew that he was
debarred the privilege of perishing with her? To
the lasting honor of the male inhabitants, be it
said that but few seemed to have availed themselves
of their wives' superior levity. Only one
skeleton was found still grasping the ankles of
another in their upward journey to the surface.”

For many years California had been subject to
slight earthquakes, more or less generally felt, but
not of sufficient importance to awaken anxiety or
fear. Perhaps the absorbing nature of the San-Franciscans'
pursuits of gold-getting, which metal
seems to have been valuable in those days, and
actually used as a medium of currency, rendered

the inhabitants reckless of all other matters.
Everything tends to show that the calamity was
totally unlooked for. We quote the graphic language
of Schwappelfurt:—

“The morning of the tremendous catastrophe
probably dawned upon the usual restless crowd of
gold-getters intent upon their several avocations.
The streets were filled with the expanded figures
of gayly dressed women, acknowledging with coy
glances the respectful salutations of beaux as they
gracefully raised their remarkable cylindrical head-coverings,
a model of which is still preserved in
the Honolulu Museum. The brokers had gathered
at their respective temples. The shopmen
were exhibiting their goods. The idlers, or `Bummers,'
— a term applied to designate an aristocratic,
privileged class who enjoyed immunities from labor,
and from whom a majority of the rulers are
chosen, — were listlessly regarding the promenaders
from the street-corners or the doors of
their bibulous temples. A slight premonitory
thrill runs through the city. The busy life of
this restless microcosm is arrested. The shopkeeper
pauses as he elevates the goods to bring
them into a favorable light, and the glib professional
recommendation sticks on his tongue. In
the drinking-saloon the glass is checked half-way
to the lips; on the streets the promenaders pause.
Another thrill, and the city begins to go down, a

few of the more persistent topers tossing off their
liquor at the same moment. Beyond a terrible
sensation of nausea, the crowds who now throng
the streets do not realize the extent of the catastrophe.
The waters of the bay recede at first
from the centre of depression, assuming a concave
shape, the outer edge of the circle towering many
thousand feet above the city. Another convulsion,
and the water instantly resumes its level.
The city is smoothly ingulfed nine thousand feet
below, and the regular swell of the Pacific calmly
rolls over it. Terrible,” says Schwappelfurt, in
conclusion, “as the calamity must have been, in
direct relation to the individuals immediately concerned
therein, we cannot but admire its artistic
management; the division of the catastrophe into
three periods, the completeness of the cataclysms,
and the rare combination of sincerity of intention
with felicity of execution.”

A NIGHT AT WINGDAM.

I HAD been stage-ridden and bewildered all day,
and when we swept down with the darkness
into the Arcadian hamlet of “Wingdam,” I resolved
to go no farther, and rolled out in a gloomy and
dyspeptic state. The effects of a mysterious pie,
and some sweetened carbonic acid known to the
proprietor of the “Half-Way House” as “lemming
sody,” still oppressed me. Even the facetiæ of the
gallant expressman who knew everybody's Christian
name along the route, who rained letters, newspapers,
and bundles from the top of the stage, whose
legs frequently appeared in frightful proximity to
the wheels, who got on and off while we were
going at full speed, whose gallantry, energy, and
superior knowledge of travel crushed all us other
passengers to envious silence, and who just then
was talking with several persons and manifestly
doing something else at the same time, — even this
had failed to interest me. So I stood gloomily,
clutching my shawl and carpet-bag, and watched
the stage roll away, taking a parting look at the
gallant expressman as he hung on the top rail with
one leg, and lit his cigar from the pipe of a running

footman. I then turned toward the Wingdam
Temperance Hotel.

It may have been the weather, or it may have
been the pie, but I was not impressed favorably
with the house. Perhaps it was the name extending
the whole length of the building, with a letter
under each window, making the people who looked
out dreadfully conspicuous. Perhaps it was that
“Temperance” always suggested to my mind rusks
and weak tea. It was uninviting. It might have
been called the “Total Abstinence” Hotel, from
the lack of anything to intoxicate or inthrall the
senses. It was designed with an eye to artistic
dreariness. It was so much too large for the settlement,
that it appeared to be a very slight improvement
on out-doors. It was unpleasantly new.
There was the forest flavor of dampness about it,
and a slight spicing of pine. Nature outraged, but
not entirely subdued, sometimes broke out afresh in
little round, sticky, resinous tears on the doors and
windows. It seemed to me that boarding there must
seem like a perpetual picnic. As I entered the
door, a number of the regular boarders rushed out
of a long room, and set about trying to get the
taste of something out of their mouths, by the application
of tobacco in various forms. A few immediately
ranged themselves around the fireplace,
with their legs over each other's chairs, and in that
position silently resigned themselves to indigestion.

Remembering the pie, I waived the invitation of
the landlord to supper, but suffered myself to be
conducted into the sitting-room. “Mine host” was
a magnificent-looking, heavily bearded specimen
of the animal man. He reminded me of somebody
or something connected with the drama. I was
sitting beside the fire, mutely wondering what it
could be, and trying to follow the particular chord
of memory thus touched, into the intricate past,
when a little delicate-looking woman appeared at
the door, and, leaning heavily against the casing,
said in an exhausted tone, “Husband!” As the
landlord turned toward her, that particular remembrance
flashed before me in a single line of blank
verse. It was this: “Two souls with but one single
thought, two hearts that beat as one.”

It was Ingomar and Parthenia his wife. I imagined
a different dénouement from the play. Ingomar
had taken Parthenia back to the mountains,
and kept a hotel for the benefit of the Alemanni,
who resorted there in large numbers. Poor Parthenia
was pretty well fagged out, and did all the work
without “help.” She had two “young barbarians,”
a boy and a girl. She was faded, but still
good-looking.

I sat and talked with Ingomar, who seemed perfectly
at home and told me several stories of the
Alemanni, all bearing a strong flavor of the wilderness,
and being perfectly in keeping with the house.

How he, Ingomar, had killed a certain dreadful
“bar,” whose skin was just up “yar,” over his bed.
How he, Ingomar, had killed several “bucks,”
whose skins had been prettily fringed and embroidered
by Parthenia, and even now clothed him.
How he, Ingomar, had killed several “Injins,” and
was once nearly scalped himself. All this with
that ingenious candor which is perfectly justifiable
in a barbarian, but which a Greek might feel inclined
to look upon as “blowing.” Thinking of
the wearied Parthenia, I began to consider for the
first time that perhaps she had better married the
old Greek. Then she would at least have always
looked neat. Then she would not have worn a
woollen dress flavored with all the dinners of the
past year. Then she would not have been obliged
to wait on the table with her hair half down. Then
the two children would not have hung about her
skirts with dirty fingers, palpably dragging her
down day by day. I suppose it was the pie which
put such heartless and improper ideas in my head,
and so I rose up and told Ingomar I believed I 'd
go to bed. Preceded by that redoubtable barbarian
and a flaring tallow candle, I followed him up
stairs to my room. It was the only single room
he had, he told me; he had built it for the convenience
of married parties who might stop here,
but, that event not happening yet, he had left it
half furnished. It had cloth on one side, and large
cracks on the other. The wind, which always swept
over Wingdam at night-time, puffed through the
apartment from different apertures. The window
was too small for the hole in the side of the house
where it hung, and rattled noisily. Everything
looked cheerless and dispiriting. Before Ingomar
left me, he brought that “bar-skin,” and throwing
it over the solemn bier which stood in one corner,
told me he reckoned that would keep me warm,
and then bade me good night. I undressed myself,
the light blowing out in the middle of that ceremony,
crawled under the “bar-skin,” and tried to
compose myself to sleep.

But I was staringly wide awake. I heard the
wind sweep down the mountain-side, and toss the
branches of the melancholy pine, and then enter
the house, and try all the doors along the passage.
Sometimes strong currents of air blew my hair all
over the pillow, as with strange whispering breaths.
The green timber along the walls seemed to be
sprouting, and sent a dampness even through the
“bar-skin.” I felt like Robinson Crusoe in his
tree, with the ladder pulled up, — or like the
rocked baby of the nursery song. After lying
awake half an hour, I regretted having stopped
at Wingdam; at the end of the third quarter, I
wished I had not gone to bed; and when a restless
hour passed, I got up and dressed myself. There
had been a fire down in the big room. Perhaps it

was still burning. I opened the door and groped
my way along the passage, vocal with the snores
of the Alemanni and the whistling of the night
wind; I partly fell down stairs, and at last entering
the big room, saw the fire still burning. I
drew a chair toward it, poked it with my foot, and
was astonished to see, by the upspringing flash,
that Parthenia was sitting there also, holding a
faded-looking baby.

I asked her why she was sitting up.

“She did not go to bed on Wednesday night
before the mail arrived, and then she awoke her
husband, and there were passengers to 'tend to.”

“Did she not get tired sometimes?”

“A little, but Abner” (the barbarian's Christian
name) “had promised to get her more help next
spring, if business was good.”

“How many boarders had she?”

“She believed about forty came to regular meals,
and there was transient custom, which was as much
as she and her husband could 'tend to. But he
did a great deal of work.”

“What work?”

“O, bringing in the wood, and looking after the
traders' things.”

“How long had she been married?”

“About nine years. She had lost a little girl
and boy. Three children living. He was from
Illinois. She from Boston. Had an education

(Boston Female High School, — Geometry, Algebra,
a little Latin and Greek). Mother and father
died. Came to Illinois alone, to teach school
Saw him — yes — a love match.” (“Two souls,”
etc., etc.) “Married and emigrated to Kansas.
Thence across the Plains to California. Always
on the outskirts of civilization. He liked it.

“She might sometimes have wished to go home.
Would like to on account of her children. Would
like to give them an education. Had taught them
a little herself, but could n't do much on account
of other work. Hoped that the boy would be like
his father, strong and hearty. Was fearful the
girl would be more like her. Had often thought
she was not fit for a pioneer's wife.”

“Why?”

“O, she was not strong enough, and had seen
some of his friends' wives in Kansas who could
do more work. But he never complained, — he
was so kind.” (“Two souls,” etc.)

Sitting there with her head leaning pensively on
one hand, holding the poor, wearied, and limp-looking
baby wearily on the other arm, dirty,
drabbled, and forlorn, with the firelight playing
upon her features no longer fresh or young, but
still refined and delicate, and even in her grotesque
slovenliness still bearing a faint reminiscence of
birth and breeding, it was not to be wondered that
I did not fall into excessive raptures over the barbarian's

kindness. Emboldened by my sympathy,
she told me how she had given up, little by little,
what she imagined to be the weakness of her early
education, until she found that she acquired but
little strength in her new experience. How, translated
to a backwoods society, she was hated by the
women, and called proud and “fine,” and how her
dear husband lost popularity on that account with
his fellows. How, led partly by his roving instincts,
and partly from other circumstances, he
started with her to California. An account of that
tedious journey. How it was a dreary, dreary
waste in her memory, only a blank plain marked
by a little cairn of stones, — a child's grave. How
she had noticed that little Willie failed. How she
had called Abner's attention to it, but, man-like,
he knew nothing about children, and pooh-poohed
it, and was worried by the stock. How it happened
that after they had passed Sweetwater, she
was walking beside the wagon one night, and looking
at the western sky, and she heard a little voice
say “Mother.” How she looked into the wagon
and saw that little Willie was sleeping comfortably
and did not wish to wake him. How that in a
few moments more she heard the same voice saying
“Mother.” How she came back to the wagon
and leaned down over him, and felt his breath
upon her face, and again covered him up tenderly,
and once more resumed her weary journey beside
him, praying to God for his recovery. How with
her face turned to the sky she heard the same
voice saying “Mother,” and directly a great bright
star shot away from its brethren and expired.
And how she knew what had happened, and ran to
the wagon again only to pillow a little pinched
and cold white face upon her weary bosom. The
thin red hands went up to her eyes here, and for
a few moments she sat still. The wind tore round
the house and made a frantic rush at the front
door, and from his couch of skins in the inner
room — Ingomar, the barbarian, snored peacefully.

“Of course she always found a protector from insult
and outrage in the great courage and strength
of her husband?”

“O yes; when Ingomar was with her she feared
nothing. But she was nervous and had been
frightened once!”

“How?”

“They had just arrived in California. They kept
house then, and had to sell liquor to traders. Ingomar
was hospitable, and drank with everybody,
for the sake of popularity and business, and Ingomar
got to like liquor, and was easily affected by
it. And how one night there was a boisterous
crowd in the bar-room; she went in and tried to
get him away, but only succeeded in awakening
the coarse gallantry of the half-crazed revellers.
And how, when she had at last got him in the

room with her frightened children, he sank down
on the bed in a stupor, which made her think the
liquor was drugged. And how she sat beside him
all night, and near morning heard a step in the
passage, and, looking toward the door, saw the
latch slowly moving up and down, as if somebody
were trying it. And how she shook her husband,
and tried to waken him, but without effect. And
how at last the door yielded slowly at the top (it
was bolted below), as if by a gradual pressure
without; and how a hand protruded through the
opening. And how as quick as lightning she
nailed that hand to the wall with her scissors (her
only weapon), but the point broke, and somebody
got away with a fearful oath. How she never told
her husband of it, for fear he would kill that somebody;
but how on one day a stranger called here, and
as she was handing him his coffee, she saw a queer
triangular scar on the back of his hand.”

She was still talking, and the wind was still
blowing, and Ingomar was still snoring from his
couch of skins, when there was a shout high up
the straggling street, and a clattering of hoofs, and
rattling of wheels. The mail had arrived. Parthenia
ran with the faded baby to awaken Ingomar,
and almost simultaneously the gallant expressman
stood again before me addressing me by
my Christian name, and inviting me to drink out
of a mysterious black bottle. The horses were

speedily watered, and the business of the gallant
expressman concluded, and, bidding Parthenia
good by, I got on the stage, and immediately fell
asleep, and dreamt of calling on Parthenia and
Ingomar, and being treated with pie to an unlimited
extent, until I woke up the next morning in
Sacramento. I have some doubts as to whether
all this was not a dyspeptic dream, but I never
witness the drama, and hear that noble sentiment
concerning “Two souls,” etc., without thinking of
Wingdam and poor Parthenia.