The morning call., 1892-08-21
CALIFORNIA; FAIR POET.
A Tribute to The Work and Worth Of
Ina D. C0Olbrlth.
Her ART Has Added to Califoruia's Fame
throughout the Werla-Shau She Be
Forgottenf

cat down before her, pen and pencil,
with great seriousness and preparation to
take her life"
A soon as she found out what was going
on she calmly arose, turned TO a bookshelf,
aud took up "A thin book OF poems, laid it on
the table before the eyes Of the astonished
Interrogation point aud said, That is all |;
good-by."
IL Is the empty wagon that makes the
railing noise. The deep waters are the
still waters. This has been remarked upon
so often that 10 Is q truism. speech is
silver but silence is golden"
i have no right 10 presume on my long
acquaintance with Miss Coolbrith or my pro-
nounccd admiration for her, her quiet way
OF life and her serene, sweet melodies
vesper bells Ia the twilight And 50 / really
know nothing OF her more than that she
was Graded In the camp, amid the stormy
splendor and savage glory of the Rocky
Mountains. and grew to girlhood ia the
orange gardens of Los Angeles. / have
heard that she was born at Salt Lake. of a
stock that came from Maine. But when she
was born or where / do not know. l went
TO the Bohemian Club, San Francisco,
yesterday fer some incident or information
TO tighten up my sketch.
"Do you know Miss CoOlbrith ?"
"Do we know Miss Coolbrith? She Is the
patron saint of tho Bohemian Club, and
has been since its birth. Why, there is not
nlan among US, and we are 800 strong.
but knows her and loves her-aye. adores
her, Her live has been as pure and pa
thetic as her poems. In fact her poems are
her life"
"Ah, thanks: that is it-her life; now
tell me bit about that; and the pencil
was hastily Sbarpened.
There are about eight hundred Bohemian
n In hI fnrf h asa
puts our patron saint In the newspapers"
said Bohemian; and the pencil was poek-
eted.
Knowing how entirely iD the right she Is,
let us be content, and / would that all could
follow her example Of silence. But vanity
viii out with the best Of US. The empty
wagon will clatter and elang along over the
cobblestones, ten thousand Of us all at
once chatteripg and crying out 10 be
heard lying like Satan about ourselves
shooting rockets, red lights. blue lights,
yellow lghts-all In the vain hope TO be
heard and seen for a second above all
others, till life Is babel, a bore, an abomi-
nation unto the Lord.
Let US thank our stars that here is a beau
tiful woman, beautiful almost beyond COM
parison, inspired beyond all comparison In
her peculiarly pure, sweet way of work,
who refuses positively to be heard from.
save to silently lay her little book in your
hand and say, "G0od-day. SIR" a rare
hemlans worship her IN silence and look
dark ar the man who dareS mention her in
the newspapers. Bear witness / am not
even able to get photograph of her beau
tiful face.
Charley Stoddard first took me to see her.
with her mother still then. / first met Null
ford there; Bret HaTte also. She was the
center OF little world; the San Francisco
weird. Such women as Mrs. Preston
Moore, a most remarkable woman who did
great good in Otkland and elsewhere. Mrs.
James Bowman. Mrs. Harry Edwards and
ths like grouped about her. Stod-
dard once told me that she had
never had any of her work retained to
her. This seems remarkable. | know that
l. never. even 10 this day, with all my ex-
perienee. send off piece Of work with any
great confidence that it will be accepted
but l can we'll believe that Stoddard knew
what he was saying. He also tells me that
she never copies her work or makes any cor
rectlons whatever. but sends it forth as 1t
hrst comes coined from her brain. But here
l am growing personal; and those 500
Bohemian clubs aching for my head.
One fact or incident, however, L intend
to tell. even at the risk of both head and
neck. Miss Coolbrith Is the American who
tore down the delapidated old church at
Hucknal Torkard, where Lord Byron is
buried, aid rebuilt il at cost of many
thousands. And she did it in this way.
At the time oil that most cruel insult TO the
iHlGHts pUtl uemOIy SQe maQe q wreath
OF laurel and sent 1t by one on a pilgrim
age to Byron's tomb. But the vicar pro-
tested againstit. The bitter abuse however
In America had aroused the lion In the Brton.
and bitter clerical battle was fought
in The old Norman church that had stood
there for nearly 800 years. And the matter
was finally appealed TO the Bishop of Nor
witch. The Bishop of Norwich sent TO the
King OF Greece for another laurel wreath
and so had the two hung side by side above
the dust Of Byron. who. had he lived, would
have been king OF the land he died TO liberate
from the Turk. Blu, the King of Greece did
more than this, so did the Bishop of Nor
wieh. 30 money poured In and the church
was rebuilt.
William Winter, the poet, in an article in
Harper recently, in speaking of this wreath
and what grew out of the sending of it
from America, gives the credit entirely to
another. So il has been with her always. For,
as said before. she always refuses 10 let her
name be mentioned, even though in the
n0biest work.
OF course am taking some risk in telling
TINS ihe eight hundred Bohemian clubs may
be In soak 10 ayenge their saint. But find my
right TO tell this in her own book and lines.
ITnr, she don't tell all / have told, But
there lies in these lines the solid foundation
OF IL all. page 81:
WITH WREATH OF LAUREL.
o winds. that ripple the long grassl
winds, that Kiss the jeweed seal
Grow stlli and lingering as yon pass
About this laurel tree.
For him pluck the laurel CROWN
1t ripened IN the western breeze
where Sausalito's hills look down
Upon the golden seas
weave, and strive to weave a tome
touch. that, so mellow when it lies
Upon his sarred dust. alone,
Beneath the English skies,
The sunshine a, the arch =. k,a,
The cal that wrapt its native hill
The love that wreathed its glossy hue,
May breathe around IL still
When Whittier brought out his "Songs of
Three Centuries" made up OF the vener-
able Quaker poets scrapbook of more than
half century, the critics. as rule, from
one end of the world to the other, ap-
plauded the following lines, published in
the book as "anony NOUS" and pronounced
them the best lines in his Songs of Three
Centuries":
WHEN TIE GRASS SHALL COVER ME-
When the grass shall cover me
Head TO foot where am lying;
Nnen not any wind that blows
summer blooms winter snows
Shall awake me TO your signing:
Close above me as you pass
You win say. "How kind she wasp
You will say, How true she wasn
when the grass grows over me.
When the grass shall cover me,
Ho lden close TO eRrth's warm bosom;
While laugh, or weep. sing
Neyermore for anything:
You Will find In blade and blossom
Sweet, small voices. odor0us
Tender pleaders In my cause,
That shall speak me as 1 was
when The grass grows over me.
when the IT ass shall cover mel
All, beloved, In my sorrow
a. uyaif