Part 10

There, for example, was Old Multitude, so called from the many oxen attached to the huge wagons he convoyed to the distant mines. He was a bull-whacker of the old school. His surname had long been lost in the abyss of time. Old Multitude was not looked upon as a mere individual. The public had adopted him, and he had become an institution.

When he was about to depart, a crowd would gather on the main street, as the inhabitants of a little seaport town gather to watch the departure of a ship. Old Multitude bore his honors meekly, but he was conscious that he was the chief actor in an important social function. There was nothing ill-advised in his actions, and his words were fitly chosen as he walked down the line, addressing to each beast of his multitudinous team the appropriate malediction. His wide vocabulary on such occasions contrasted strangely with his usual taciturnity. The words taken by themselves were blood-curdling enough, but as they rose and fell in mighty undulations it seemed as if he were intoning a liturgy.

And there was Old Tansy, a bit of wreckage from the times of ’49. There was a tradition that Tansy had seen better days; at least, it was hard to imagine how he could have seen worse. He lived without visible means of support, and yet he was not submerged. It pleased the community to accept Tansy as a character worth knowing in spite of his fallen fortunes. His obvious failings were always clothed in soft euphemisms. No one could say that he had ever seen him drunk, and on the other hand no one would be so rash as to assert that he had ever seen him sober. In the border land between moderate drinking and inebriety, Tansy dwelt in peace.

What most endeared Tansy to his fellows was his mild religiosity, which manifested itself in persistent church-going. He was no fair-weather Christian. There was no occasion when he would not desert his favorite saloon to take his accustomed place in the back pew of the Presbyterian church. Only once did Tansy express an opinion in regard to the services which he so assiduously attended. A minister passing through the town preached a lurid sermon on the future punishment of the wicked. He spared no materialistic imagery to make his remarks effective. At the close of the service Tansy, instead of going out, as was his custom, went forward and, grasping the minister’s hands, said in a tone of quiet satisfaction, “Parson, it done me good.”

Just what the nature of the good was he did not indicate. I suppose that there was something in the unction of the preacher that recalled memories of the past.

There was one person whom I always recall with peculiar pleasure. To see him coming over the divide in a cloud of dust was to see one of the typical forms of creation. He was known, on account of the huge pair of goggles which he wore, as “Four-Eyed Nick.” He dwelt in a cabin in the most desolate part of the mountain, and he fitted his environment perfectly. He seemed as natural a product of the soil as the sage brush, for like it he had learned to exist where there was very little water.

Great was the joy in the community when one day Four-Eyed Nick announced that he had struck pay ore and that he was about to celebrate his good fortune by getting married. Every one was intensely interested. The newspapers made an especial feature of the approaching marriage in high life. Nick was dazed by the sudden glare of publicity. Who should be invited? His generous heart rebelled against any discrimination, and he solved his problem by saying, “Come one! Come all!” He engaged every vehicle in the town to be at the disposal of such of his fellow citizens as would honor him with their presence at his nuptials.

It would have delighted the heart of Chaucer to have seen the procession of wedding guests wending their way over the ten miles of abominable mountain road to Nick’s cabin. Not on the road to Canterbury was there more variety or more hearty good fellowship. Nick had invited the town, and the town was bent on showing its appreciation of the compliment. The mayor and members of the city council, the lawyers, editors, doctors, clergymen, gamblers, mining experts, saloon-keepers, and honest miners all joined heartily in doing honor to one whom they, for the moment, agreed to consider their most distinguished fellow citizen.

No one could remain long in assured obscurity. It pleased the community to turn its search-light now upon one member and now upon another, and give him a brief experience of living in the public eye. Greatness of one sort or another was sure to be thrust upon one in the course of the year. The choicest spirits of the town were always collaborating in some work of high-grade fiction, and were on the lookout for interesting material. It would have been churlish for any one when his turn came to have refused to be a notability.

An English writer laments the fact that the schools send out thousands of persons whose imaginations have been stifled by the too prosaic discipline which they have undergone. “Why,” he says, “is it that ninety-nine persons out of a hundred lose this faculty in the earliest period of their childhood? It is simply because their bringing up has consisted in the persistent inoculation with the material facts of life, and the correspondingly persistent elimination of all imaginative ideas.”

He blames parents who give their children mechanical toys, especially if they are well made. Even a doll should not have too much verisimilitude. “It would be better to place a bundle of rags in the arms of a little girl, and tell her to imagine it to be a baby. She would, if left to herself with no other resource than her own fancy learn to exercise all her dormant powers of imagination and originality.”

That kind of education the Honest Miner has carried into mature life. He is full of imaginative ideas. The barest shanty is glorified in his eyes if it bears the sign “Palace Hotel” or “Delmonico’s.” If he cannot have the thing, he takes satisfaction in the name. Above all else, he craves variety.

The inhabitants of Gold Hill used to relate with pleasure the exploits of Sandy Bowers. When he struck an incredibly rich pocket in the mountain, Sandy built for himself a huge and expensive mansion in Washoe Valley. He imported all kinds of trees from foreign lands, none of which would grow. He filled his house with pianos, and when some one suggested sheet music he telegraphed to New York: “Send me some sheet music, one of every kind.”

It was the desire for one of every kind which induced our community, when it put off the habits of a “camp” and became a “city,” to lift into temporary prominence an elderly farmer from Pennsylvania who had drifted into Nevada without changing any of his ways. He came from York County, where he would have gone on his way unnoticed, for there were so many like him. But in the silver country he was different from the common run of fortune-seekers, therefore he was made much of. Some local Diogenes turned his lantern upon him and discovered that he was an honest man, honest in a plodding, Pennsylvania Dutch fashion. “Honest John” became a man of note. Then some one suggested that we had “in our midst a grand old man.” That was enough to make the political fortune of the honest man. He was elected to a position of power in the new city government, for every one was anxious to see what our “grand old man” would do.

He proved a thorn in the flesh of the politicians. He introduced a reign of rigid economy which made the local statesmen despair of the Republic. It was decided that the city had had too much of a good thing. The Grand Old Man should be deposed,--he should not be mayor, nor member of the council, nor any such thing.

But the municipal charter had been conceived in that generous fashion which is proper to a state where there are offices in excess of the needs of the population. The Grand Old Man discovered that there was one office which had been overlooked by the astute politicians: that of the Superintendent of Streets and Sidewalks. The streets had not been clearly differentiated from the surrounding desert, and, as for sidewalks, the citizens had been accustomed to cut across the country wherever it pleased them. The highways having been left to the kindly influence of Nature, it never occurred to any one that they should be officially superintended. The Grand Old Man cast a ballot for himself as Superintendent of Streets and Sidewalks, and when the returns were in, it was found that his name led all the rest. He was declared elected by a majority of one.

Then he began to magnify his office. He brought forth a plan of the city which had heretofore been a dead letter. He discovered streets where the wildest imagination had not supposed streets to be possible. Prominent citizens were arrested for obstructing mythical sidewalks. He was encouraged to stretch his prerogatives to the utmost, for every one was curious to see how far they would go. For six months he ruled by right of eminent domain. Leading lawyers gave it as their opinion that all rights not expressly reserved by the Federal and State governments were vested in the Grand Old Man. The Methodist minister, who was inclined to sensationalism, preached a sermon from the text in Nehemiah vi. 6: “It is reported among the heathen, and Gashmu saith it.” “Who this Gashmu was,” said the preacher, in beginning his discourse, “we do not know, but from the importance attributed to his remarks we may fairly assume that he was the Superintendent of Streets and Sidewalks in Jerusalem.”

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Lowell describes the rough humor of the frontier, with the free and easy manners which characterize

this brown-fisted rough, this shirt-sleeved Cid, This back-woods Charlemagne of empires new, Whose blundering heel instinctively finds out The goutier foot of speechless dignities, Who, meeting Cæsar’s self, would slap his back, Call him ‘Old Horse’ and challenge to a drink.

He had in mind the backwoodsmen whom sturdy apostles like Peter Cartwright labored with to such good purpose. But the Honest Miner, though a pioneer, is not a backwoodsman. His humor is of a different quality. He would not think of slapping Cæsar on the back and calling him “Old Horse.” It would seem more amusing to him to address some one who might properly be called “Old Horse” with titles of honor.

“Truthful James” delights in euphemism. He does not object to calling a spade a spade, but he refuses to do so in such a way as to give offense.

Which it is not my style To produce needless pain By statements that rile Or that go ’gin the grain.

He is no “brown-fisted rough” who delights in swagger. There is roughness enough all about him, and it pleases him to cultivate the amenities. His gentlemanliness is often carried to excess.

The most characteristic humor of the Honest Miner consists, not in grotesque exaggeration, but in delicate understatement. What can be more considerate than the notice posted by the side of an open shaft: “Gentlemen will please not fall down this shaft, for there are men at work below.”

A Nevada minister once described to me the action of a brother minister in the early days. The minister went to a certain town where he offended the lawless element, and was threatened with physical violence if he persisted in his intention of preaching. My friend described the method by which the liberty of prophesying was asserted. “He went into the pulpit, laid his revolver on the Bible--and then he preached _extempore_.”

The manner of narration savored of the soil. The Honest Miner under such circumstances would subordinate everything to emphasis on the correct homiletical method. No matter how able the minister might be, it was evident that if he were closely confined to his notes, his delivery could not be effective.

A good woman described the way in which her minister, a young man fresh from the theological school, made one of his first parish calls. He found his parishioner, who had been extolled as one of the pillars of the church, in a state of intoxication, and he was chased out of the house and some distance down the street.

“We were sorry it happened, for it gave him an unpleasant impression of the congregation. You know Mr. ---- met with several rebuffs.”

The unconventional episode was related with all the prim propriety of “Cranford.”

The perfect democracy of a mining camp develops a certain naïve truth-telling, which has all the unexpectedness which belongs to the observations of a boy. There is no attempt to reduce everything to uniformity, or to prove any particular thesis. The gossip of a conventional village where people know each other too well is apt to be malicious. A creditable action is narrated, and then comes the inevitable “but.” The subject of conversation falls in the estimation of the hearers with a sudden thud.

The Honest Miner does not attempt to pass final judgment or to arrange his fellow men according to any sort of classification. He speaks of them as he sees them, and so virtues and failings jostle one another and take no offense. The result is a moral inconsequence which has all the effect of studied wit. This is what delights us in the characterization of Thompson of Angel’s:

Frequently drunk was Thompson, but always polite to the stranger.

As we read the line we smile, not so much at Thompson as at the society of which he was a part. We see behind him the sympathetic company at Angel’s. Here was a public with whose temper he was familiar. He could trust himself to the judgment of his peers. No misdemeanor would blind them to such virtues as he actually possessed. He could appeal to them with perfect confidence.

When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice.

The Western mining camp is not primarily an educational institution, yet it has served a most important function in the making of Americans. The young man is fortunate who on leaving college can take a post-graduate course in a community where he can study sociology at first hand. He will learn many things, especially that human nature is not so simple as it seems, but that it has many “dips, spurs, and angles.”

A SAINT RECANONIZED

All the world loves a lover,” but all the world does not love a saint. Our hearts do not leap up when we behold a halo on the title-page, and so the lives of the heroes of the Church are frequently neglected. When the saint has been duly canonized, that is generally the end of him in popular esteem. But sometimes the ecclesiastical and secular judgments coincide and the saint is invested with human interest.

So it has been with St. Francis of Assisi,--given the highest honors in his church, he has captivated the imagination of the world. Protestants vie with Catholics in doing him honor. At no time has his name been more familiar or his legend more often repeated than in our own day. He has been recanonized.

This renewal of interest in the Franciscan legend is all the more interesting because it carries us into a region so remote from that in which we habitually dwell.

“Now it came to pass that as Francis, the servant of the Lord, was singing the praises of the Lord with joy and gladness, certain robbers fell upon him and fiercely questioned him who he was. And he answered, ‘I am the herald of the King of Heaven.’ And the robbers fell upon him with blows and cast him into a ditch, saying, ‘Lie there, thou herald of nothing!’ When they had departed Francis arose and went through the forest, singing with a loud voice the praises of the Creator.”

These words take us into another world than ours. To enter that world we must not only lay aside our easily besetting sins, but our easily besetting virtues as well. We must cast aside all the prudential virtues, we must rid our minds of all prejudice in favor of scientific charity and rationalistic schemes of philanthropy, and we must disclaim personal responsibility for the progress of modern civilization. With such impedimenta the pilgrim of thought might possibly get as far back as the sixteenth century, but it would be impossible for him to penetrate into the thirteenth. He who would do so must first drink deep of Lethe. He must put out of mind those persons and events which have been the distinctive influences of the modern world. He must forget Luther, and wash his soul clean of every trace of Calvin; every echo of the raillery of Voltaire must have died away, and his mind must have been kept unspotted from the world of Newton and of Darwin.

Above all, if he would enter into the social dreams of the thirteenth century, he must forget that he ever heard of such a science as political economy. He must renounce the old Adam and all his works,--I mean Adam Smith.

But on the other side of Lethe there are pure fountains, and dark forests where robbers lurk, and where saints are singing the high praises of God, and beyond are the “regions dim of rapture” where they are lost from the eyes of their disciples.

And it may not be in vain to turn aside from the consideration of the engrossing questions of our day, to enter into that dim world and look out upon it through the eyes of its truest saints. They were eyes blind to many things we see clearly, but they saw some things which we do not always see; at any rate they were eyes--

Beyond my knowing of them beautiful, Beyond all knowing of them wonderful, Beautiful in the light of holiness.

So Francis of Assisi has an especial interest for every student of Christianity and for every student of ethics. For the student of Christianity he stands as a man who, while neither a theologian nor a reformer, and having no place among the intellectual leaders of mankind, has an undisputed spiritual leadership. His place is that of the little child whom Jesus placed in the midst and of whom he said, “Of such is the kingdom of Heaven.”

For the student of ethics St. Francis is of interest because, while he had an invincible ignorance of scientific ethics, yet the real emphasis of his life and teaching was on the finest kind of ethical idealism. We are reminded of Shakespeare’s lines:--

Love is too young to know what conscience is, Yet who knows not that conscience is born of love.

There are some characters, and St. Francis is among them, who belong so completely to their own age that we cannot take them out of their environment. The beauty of their lives is like that of some shy wild flower which will not bear transplanting. If we would enjoy it we must go where it grows. To appreciate these characters we need not critical knowledge, but imaginative sympathy.

There is an old Irish legend of a young hero who sailed to a far country and married a beautiful princess. Living there he enjoyed perpetual youth, and three centuries passed away as if they had been but three years. Then came a longing to return to his own native land. After much entreating his fair wife allowed him to return on one condition, and that was that he should not dismount from the white steed she gave him. The prince came back, but riding in youthful strength and beauty through the familiar land, at last he forgot the condition. Dismounting, his feet touched the ground, and the enchantment vanished. Suddenly he realized the passage of time. His friends, the heroes of his youth, were dead and forgotten. He was very old; his strength had withered away. The joyous paganism in which he had been bred had been driven away. He saw processions of monks and nuns, and heard the sound of church bells, and saw over all the shadow of the cross. He belonged to the old order that had passed away, now the destinies of the land were in the hands of new men.

Something of this same caution must be used by those who would see the St. Francis whom the people long ago loved and worshiped. He is the embodiment of mediæval goodness. Let us beware of disenchanting literalism, lest suddenly the radiant youth disappear and we see only the relic of an age that has passed away.

Let us not look back at St. Francis. Let us stand at the beginning of the thirteenth century and look forward. Let us share the dream of the youth who went through the forest singing the praise of God.

The transformation of worldly ambition into spiritual was never more vividly told than in the legend of St. Francis, by the Three Companions. We see Francis the gay son of Peter Bernardone, merchant of Assisi, transformed into a knight of Lady Poverty.

“Then a few years later a certain noble of the city of Assisi provided himself with warlike gear to go into Apulia to increase his profit of money and renown. Upon hearing this, Francis did aspire to go with him and to be made a knight by a certain count, Gentile by name; wherefore he made ready stuffs as costly as he could, poorer in riches than his fellow citizen, but more profuse in largesse. One night when he had given all his thoughts to bringing this to pass, and was fevered with the desire for making the journey, he was visited by the Lord, who draweth him as one eager for glory to the pinnacle of glory by a vision and uplifteth him. For while sleeping that night one appeared unto him, calling him by name, and leading him into the palace of a fair bride, very pleasant and full of knightly armor, to wit, glittering shields and other apparel hanging on the wall as it were waiting for knights to accoutre them therewithal. And while he, rejoicing greatly, marveled silently within himself what this might be, he asked whose were these arms flashing with such splendor and this so pleasant palace? And the answer was made him that the palace and all things therein were his own and his knights’. And thus awakening with joyous heart he rose early.... And so much gayer than his wont did he seem that many wondered thereat, and asked whence had he such joy, unto whom he would reply, “I know that I shall be a great prince.”

It was not the sense of sin that proved the beginning of a new life to this light-hearted Italian. It was rather the sense of a higher chivalry. Another vision came to him. A voice asked, “‘Which can do the better for thee, the lord or the servant?’

“And when he answered, ‘The lord,’ that other said again unto him, ‘Wherefore then dost thou leave the lord for the servant, and a rich lord for a poor?’... Then waking he began earnestly to ponder this vision. And just as in the first vision he had been, as it were, quite carried out of himself for his great joy, coveting worldly good fortune, so in this vision he withdrew within himself entirely, wondering at its might, and meditating so earnestly that he could sleep no more that night.”

At last the new vision took form in an enthusiastic way of life. In the church Francis heard the words of the gospels, “Take no gold nor silver nor money in your purses, nor two coats, nor shoes, nor staff.”

No further did he need to listen. Throwing away his purse, and putting on the garb of a peasant, he devoted himself henceforth not simply to the service of the poor, but to the worship of Poverty. Dante in memorable words described this lover-like devotion.

For he in youth his father’s wrath incurred For certain Dame, to whom as unto death The gate of pleasure no one doth unlock;

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Then day by day more fervently he loved her. She reft of her first husband, scorned, obscure, One thousand and one hundred years and more, Waited without a suitor till he came.

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