ining influences; his father was a teacher of girls, and a ripe and cultured student withal. Left fatherless, Harte wandered off to California in 1854, dazzled with the golden visions which then transfigured that distant land; and, won by the fantastic romance which stories of the early Spanish occupation, sudden wealth, surprising adventure, and novel life and scenery invested the country, he cast himself into the changeful stream of humanity which ebbed and flowed among the young cities by the sea, the pine-clad ridges of the Sierra, and the rude camps of the goldhunters which were then breaking the stillness of long unvexed solitudes. No age nor condition, no quality of manhood, nor grade of moral or mental culture was unrepresented in that motley tide of migration. The dreamy young student, the future poet of the Argonauts of 1849, drifted on with the rest.

For two or three years he, like all the restless wanderers of those days, pursued a various calling and had no fixed abode. An unsatisfied desire for change, a half-confessed impatience with long tarrying in any spot, seemed to possess every soul. Mining camps and even thrifty towns were depopulated in a single day, the unnoted casualties of their rough life emptying a few places, the rest being eagerly left behind by men who drifted far and wide; their lately coveted "claims " were quickly occupied by other rovers from other fields. Harte mined a little, taught school a little, tried his hand at type-setting and frontier journalism, climbed mountains and threaded ravines as the mounted messenger of an express company, or acted as agent for that company in some of the mountain towns which we have learned to know so well as Sandy Bar, Poker Flat, and Wingdam. But all the while the lithe, agile, and alert young artist was absorbing impressions of the picturesque life, scenery, manners, and talk which surrounded him as an atmosphere.

In 1857, or thereabouts, he drifted back to San Francisco-"The Bay," as the pleasant city by the sea was fondly called by the wandering sons of adventure. The Bay was the little heaven where were cool sea-winds, good cheer, and glimpses of that sensuous life which was then thought of as a far-off, faintly-remembered good found only in "the States." Here Harte speedily developed into a clever young littérateur. Working in the composing-room of a weekly literary journal, he put into type some of his own graceful little sketches by way of experiment. These were noticed and appreciated by the editor, and he was translated from "the case" to the edi

torial room of The Golden Era, where some of the pleasant papers which find place in his later published works were written. These were chiefly local sketches, like "A Boy's Dog," "Sidewalkings" and "From a Balcony." Meantime, marriage and the cares of a growing household had changed the vagrant fancy of the young writer, and he roved no more. He wrote a great deal which has not been gathered up, and in the columns of daily papers, as well as in The Californian, a literary weekly which he some time edited, appeared innumerable papers which enriched the current literature of those times, and swelled the volume of that higher quality of California journalism which seems now to have passed quite away.

In 1864 he was appointed Secretary of the United States Branch Mint in San Francisco, a position which, during the six years he held it, gave him time and opportunity for more careful work than any which he had heretofore accomplished. During this time some of the most famous of his poems and sketches were written. "John Burns of Gettysburg," Gettysburg," "The Pliocene Skull," "The Society upon the Stanislow," "How are you, Sanitary ?" and other little unique gems of verse were written about this time and first appeared (for the most part) anonymously in the San Francisco newspapers. In July, 1868, the publication of The Overland Monthly was begun, with Bret Harte as its organizer and editor. The success of the magazine was immediate and decided. We cannot tell how much of its renown was owing to the series of remarkable stories which immediately began to flow from the pen of its accomplished editor, nor how much to the rare talent which he seems to have had in awaking the dormant energies of those who constituted his loyal staff of contributors. The Overland became at once a unique, piquant and highly-desired element in the current literature of the Republic; and it found a multitude of readers on both sides of the Atlantic. In its pages, August, 1868, appeared "The Luck of Roaring Camp," a story which, whatever may be the merits of those which have succeeded it, gave Harte the first of his great fame as a prose-writer. But it was not until January of the next year that the stimulated appetite of the impatient public was appeased by the production of "The Outcasts of Poker Flat," a dramatic tale which probably contains more firmlydrawn and distinct characters than have appeared in any one of Harte's stories or sketches. "Miggles" came next, and, mar

shaled in their long array, the inimitable personages who figure in still later stories emerged from their shadowy realm and passed into the language and familiar acquaintance of the English-speaking world. Col. Starbottle, John Oakhurst, Stumpy, Tennessee's Partner and Miggles-with laughter and with tears we remember them all; we shall know them as long as we know Sam Weller, Micawber, Little Nell and the goodly company called into being.by that other magician who has, at last, laid down his wand forever.

which his magical touch has yet placed on

canvas.

What Harte's repute and standing are in his own land need not now be told. Few writers of modern times have been more discussed; it were better if his critics had always been generous as well as just. But it would not be fair to close this little sketch without noting the fact that most of his works have found eager readers in other lands. English editions of his stories are popular and widely circulated. In Germany, the genial old poet, Ferdinand Freiligrath, has translated a volume of Harte's prose tales, to which is prefixed a charming preface by the translator. We cannot forbear making this extract, so full of the simple-hearted Freiligrath's goodness:

human heart. That he there searched for this gold, that he found it there and triumphantly exhibited it to the world, that is his greatness and his merit. That it is which drew hearts to him wherever the language of Shakespeare, of Milton and Byron is spoken. And that it is which has made me, the old German poet, the translator of the young American colleague; and which has led me to-day to reach to him warmly and cordially my hand across the sea. Good luck, Bret Harte! Good luck, my gold-digger!"

Th. Dentzon has charmingly introduced some of Harte's California sketches to the French world of readers, and, in an article in the Revue des Deux Mondes, he has given at great length a critical analysis of the powers and genius of our favorite story-teller. Our French and German friends alike wrestle with the difficulties of the untranslatable ; but, malgré their failure to master the dialect of the gold-digger, they reproduce admirably the delicate finish and felicitous manipulation of the author. Thus his genius has found expression in many languages, and the gentle, loving spirit which animates his works lives and walks in other lands beyond the sea.

THE great army moved down upon the river and encamped above the enemy's stronghold. There was dredging and digging and hard, patient weeks of approach to be spent before the plan of attack could be fairly tried. The country waited in impatience, and the army toiled and watched, and each individual soldier and citizen lived meanwhile the separate and private life of thought and feeling, of which the visible existence is but the mask or expression more or less dimly comprehended. It is of this underlying and more real life of two or three out of the millions of actors in that tremendous drama that I am going to tell the story now.

A carnage with two ladies and a very old negro driver came to headquarters of one of the brigades one day about noon, and the general for whom they inquired came out courteously to hear what they would have. The elderly lady introduced herself and her daughter, explained that their house and lands adjoined his lines, and that the men of the neighborhood being all in the southern armies, they were naturally exposed to anVOL. VI. II

noyance and uneasiness, and she asked to have a guard for the protection of themselves and their property. The general promised to see to the matter, made a note of the name and place : "Mrs. Forest, of Cottonwood Plantation," two or three miles to the southwest. In consequence of that interview, Captain Luce of the "Fessenden Riflemen was presently detailed to post a guard at the Forests' place, and rode over in person the first day. Luce was a good soldier, a rather sober fellow, somewhat reserved and sharp with men, and a little shy among ladies; not handsome, but of a good presence, and very much liked by his men. The two ladies were true Southerners, but of the better class. They were proud of their State and the Confederacy, and scornful of the North; but that aside, they were well-bred, tolerably informed, superior in manners and bearing. It was no easy matter, that first interview of the young officer with his fair enemies. But he determined to have an understanding with them, if possible, and know just where he stood in the place. So after the first awk

ward difficulty of introducing himself, and the reserved and distant response which was not unnatural from the lonely ladies towards a strange man and an enemy whom circum stances forced them to receive, he said :

or

"My men have strict instructions as to their duty, and I wish you to report immediately any disrespect or annoyance which they may show or permit. I will come send as often as I can to see about it, and shall do my best to make your home secure and pleasant. But I must ask you to remember that we are soldiers in an enemy's country, and exposed on your account. The men must not be annoyed or harshly treated. You will easily see that they must regard an insult to them as aimed at the cause they represent by its enemies, and one that they are bound in honor to resent. I say this for your own sakes, wishing to save you trouble in the future. I do not respect you the less for taking sides with your State, and do not wonder that you do not love us for fighting your friends and desolating your country. But you must remember that there are two sides to the question; that your friends would be at my home if they could; and I hope that some of them would see that my mother and sister came to no harm. I believe that they would."

Beginning thus squarely, and continuing to show the same simple, downright, but courteous bearing in his visits, the first constraint and somewhat haughty politeness of the ladies melted imperceptibly into a respectful familiarity and confidence.

The younger lady's name was Ellen. She was rather tall, with an almost martial carriage, so straight, and proud, and straightforward, disdaining little arts and graces, turning neither to the right nor left. She did not belie the intelligence that lighted up her fine face; she was unusually well read in books of the lighter kind. That alone would have kindled a friendly feeling in the captain, who was something of a student; and from the first he was piqued by her self-contained manner, and admired her simple dignity and the quickness and keenness shown in what she said. With the growing confidence which constant intercourse with the young soldier inspired, her reserve wore off, and they became good friends, in a way. But the frank kindness that took the place of the young lady's first manner, had the same qualities of selfreliance and courage behind it, and Luce felt very sensibly that he held his friendly footing upon sufferance and straight walking, and that one step aside would precipitate him

from it; and the further he went in that path the less did he care to fall out of it.

He

Luce presently found himself contriving to be at Cottonwood a great many times in a week, and his mind going back there more and more as he went about his duty. had a small number of favorite books with him in camp, and some of them presently found their way to the Forest mansion, and some with the name of that family on the flyleaves took their place in the officers' tent of company C. Luce began to have a great liking for talking over Thackeray with Miss Ellen. She shared the incomprehensible dislike of her sex for that author, and she and the captain had many a talk, good-humored but sincere, and sometimes serious, over the master's men and women. But when Luce went over these discussions in his mind, it was not so much of the weight of the argument that he found himself thinking as of the lady's keen instinct, her quickness and delicacy of perception, and her shrinking from falsehood and impurity and difficulty in believing them.

But digging and dredging could not last forever, and one day Captain Luce woke up and found that the army was beginning to move again. His division was yet undisturbed, but he knew the marching orders would come before long, and the thought brought him a dull new feeling not at all pleasant.

He did not find the ache grow less by sleeping on it, and indeed he was late falling asleep and awoke very early. He made an errand to ride over to Cottonwood in the morning, found Miss Ellen alone, and told her of his near departure.

"When we went into camp over here," he said, "I was fretted by the delay, and now we are going, I feel as if I were leaving home." He laughed a little, rather ruefully.

She was doing some needlework, and she laid it down, and looked over at him thoughtfully. "So you're going away to fight my friends," she said. "Doesn't it seem strange that you and I, sitting here, should be enemies?"

"It seems crazy," he answered. He was leaning against the open window. He drew his sword and let the sun glitter on the pol ished blade. It was a pretty thing and made for a pretty use, he thought. This business he was in took for the moment that look of gro tesque and incredible madness and folly that it does now and ther, I suppose, to us all. The lady was sitting with a serious face and her eyes cast down, seeming to debate some

thing in her mind. When she looked up he was sliding the bright blade back in the scabbard.

"Captain Luce," she said, "you have been very kind. I am going to ask one more fa vor of you."

"I will do anything for you consistent with my duty," he said.

She bade him wait, and went out and came back with an ordinary card photograph, which she put into his hand. It was the picture of a handsome young fellow in the uniform of a Southern cavalry soldier.

"Is it your brother?" Luce asked, glancing at the finer living face before him. "He looks a little like you."

"No, he is a friend," she said, blushing very slightly. "His name is Morris-William Morris. He was a captain in the twentysixth Tennessee regiment when I last heard of him."

Luce looked at her while she was speak ing, and then turned away and looked out at the bright land and sky, and it was as if a black cloud had drawn suddenly over both. He put the card back to her without looking, and said, rather coldly :

"Well, what do you want me to do?" "Will you be back here again?" "I suppose I can come once more if there is any need," he answered. "Do you care?" Certainly. I shall be very sorry when you go. It's a dark time for us, you know, and you have been very friendly. I shall miss you sadly."

"Thank you. You're very good." "You will come to-morrow, then. Keep the picture till you come. I want you to familiarize yourself with it, so you will know Captain Morris if you should meet. You are my friend too now, and don't you see how terrible it would be if you should meet and hurt one another ?" and she shuddered and turned her pained face aside. He took a step or two away and sat down by the table, and she came and sat down opposite. He held out the card with the face down, and answered sternly :

"He is the enemy of my country. I am a soldier. I must do my duty."

"I do not ask you to do otherwise," she replied, a little proudly. "If you should fall into the hands of our soldiers, and should meet Captain Morris, if you will give him my name I am certain he will do you any kind ness in his power. Is it too much to ask you to do the same by him? Will you keep the picture till to-morrow?"

"If you wish it," he answered, and drew

back the card and took a long look at the brave, frank face and manly figure of the trooper.

It was late in the afternoon of the following day when the captain came galloping up the Cottonwood avenue, and sent off the guard. His black horse was white with foam. Miss Ellen met him at the door, and he took a last look at the picture as he handed it back to her. And he said:

"I shall know him if he looks like his picture. I haven't a minute to wait. I could hardly get off at all. All the troops are off but ours, and we break camp at daybreak. I must bid you good-bye. Is your mother at home?"

Mrs. Forest was quickly called, and they shook hands and said good-bye, expressing their hearty regret and hopes of meeting again. And then the captain mounted and rode off, turning to wave his cap and smile, at the corner, and then, plunging spurs into his mare, went galloping down the rows of trees with a great lump in his throat, and only a dim view of the flying wood and the fields tawny with sunset.

Siege and capitulation, movements by rail and river, hard marching, weary camping, forays, skirmishes, battles, bloody victories and bloody repulses followed one another and removed Luce farther and farther from Cottonwood, and might have easily worn out a light impression. But it seldom needed more than night, or danger, or leisure for thought to bring to his mind's sight a proud, straight girl, with a serious face, as he remembered it best,-and renew the ache and hankering he had brought away with him. He had seen many thousands of the enemy, dead and alive; had, indeed, been sent north in charge of a train of prisoners, but none of his inquiries for Captain Morris met with suc cess. In fact he knew that out of the millions engaged in the enormous contest, it was a thousand to one that they two would ever