You are here
قراءة كتاب In the Footprints of the Padres
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@13321@[email protected]#image-23" class="pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">Sentinel Hotel, Yosemite, in 1869
San Francisco in 1856
THE BELLS OF SAN GABRIEL
The blood of the grape that nourished;
The blossom and fruit of the vine
That was heralded far away.
These were thy gifts; and thine,
When the vine and the fig-tree flourished,
The promise of peace and of glad increase
Forever and ever and aye.
What then wert thou, and what art now?
Answer me, O, I pray!
Sang Gabriel! Rang Gabriel!
In the tower that is left the tale to tell
Of Gabriel, the Archangel.
Flood of the wine-press flowing;
Blood o' the Christ was the wine—
Blood o' the Lamb that was slain.
Thy gifts were fat o' the kine
Forever coming and going
Far over the hills, the thousand hills—
Their lowing a soft refrain.
What then wert thou, and what art now?
Answer me, once again!
Sang Gabriel! Rang Gabriel!
In the tower that is left the tale to tell
Of Gabriel, the Archangel.
Body of Him thus broken
And mingled with blood o' the vine—
The bread and the wine of life;
Out of the good sunshine
They were given to thee as a token—
The body of Him, and the blood of Him,
When the gifts of God were rife.
What then wert thou, and what art now,
After the weary strife?
Sang Gabriel! Rang Gabriel!
In the tower that is left the tale to tell
Of Gabriel, the Archangel.
Where are the fruits o' the mission?
Garnered, where no one dwells,
Shepherd and flock are fled.
O'er the Lord's vineyard swells
The tide that with fell perdition
Sounded their doom and fashioned their tomb
And buried them with the dead.
What then wert thou, and what art now?—
The answer is still unsaid.
Sang Gabriel! Rang Gabriel!
In the tower that is left the tale to tell
Of Gabriel, the Archangel.
The locusts and wild honey?
Where is the sacred dower
That the bride of Christ was given?
Gone to the wielders of power,
The misers and minters of money;
Gone for the greed that is their creed—
And these in the land have thriven.
What then wer't thou, and what art now,
And wherefore hast thou striven?
Sang Gabriel! Rang Gabriel!
In the tower that is left the tale to tell
Of Gabriel, the Archangel.
IN THE FOOTPRINTS OF THE PADRES
View of Montgomery, Post and Market Streets, San Francisco, 1858
OLD DAYS IN EL DORADO
I.
"STRANGE COUNTRIES FOR TO SEE"
OW, the very first book was called "Infancy"; and, having finished it, I closed it with a bang! I was just twelve. 'Tis thus the twelve-year-old is apt to close most books. Within those pages—perhaps some day to be opened to the kindly inquiring eye—lie the records of a quiet life, stirred at intervals by spasms of infantile intensity. There are more days than one in a life that can be written of, and when the clock strikes twelve the day is but half over.
The clock struck twelve! We children had been watching and waiting for it. The house had been stripped bare; many cases of goods were awaiting shipment around Cape Horn to California. California! A land of fable! We knew well enough that our father was there, and had been for two years or more; and that we were at last to go to him, and dwell there with the fabulous in a new home more or less fabulous,—yet we felt that it must be altogether lovely. We said good-bye to everybody,—getting friends and fellow-citizens more or less mixed as the hour of departure from our native city drew near. We were very much hugged and very much kissed and not a little cried over; and then at last, in a half, dazed condition, we left Rochester, New York, for New York city, on our way to San Francisco by the Nicaragua route. This was away back in 1855, when San Francisco, it may be said, was only six years old.
It seemed a supreme condescension on the part of our maternal grandfather that he, who did not and could not for a moment countenance the theatre, should voluntarily take us, one and all, to see an alleged dramatic representation at Barnum's Museum—at that time one of the features of New York city, and perhaps the most famous place of amusement in the land. Four years later, when I was sixteen, very far from home and under that good gentleman's watchful supervision, I asked leave to witness a dramatic version of "Uncle Tom's Cabin," enacted by a small company of strolling players in a canvas tent. There were no blood-hounds in the cast, and mighty little scenery, or anything else alluring; but I was led to believe that I had been trembling upon the verge of something direful, and I was not allowed to go. What would that pious man have said could he have seen me, a few years later, strutting and