The representative. [volume] (St. Paul, Minn.) 1893-1901, 1894-07-25


BRET HARTE IN 1880.
pillows to the distant edge of the horizon.
Snow lying everywhere over the California
Sierras on the 18th day of March, 1913, and
still falling.
1T had been showing for 10 days; snow
ing IN finely graduated powder, in damp,
spongy flakes, in thin feathery plumes;
showing from leaden sky steadily; snow
ing hercely, shaken out of purple black
clouds in white hocculent masses or drop
ping in long, level lines like white lances
from the tumbled and broken heavens. But
always SILENTLY The woods were choked
with 1t, the branches were so laden with 1t
1T had SO permeated, filled and possessed
both earth and sky; it had SO cushioned and
muffied the ringing rocks and echoing hills,
that all sound was deadened. The strongest
gust, the fiercest blast aWoke no sigh of
complaint from the snow backed, rigid files
OF forest. There was no cracking of bough
nor cracking of unnderbrush; the oVerladen
branches of pine and fir yielded and gave
way without a sound. The silence was vast,
measureless, complete
STRAIGHT FROM NATURES HEART
There is no affectation in his intrOduc-
ton to his In the Carquinez Woods"
THE sun was going down in the Car
quinez Woods The few shafts Of sun
light that had pierced their pillared gloom
were lost in unfathomable depths, or splint-
cred their Intellectual lances the enor
nous trunks Of the redwoods. For time
the dull red of their columns and the dull
red Of their cast off bark, which matted
their echoless aisles still seemed to hold
a faint glow of the dying day. But even
this soon passed. Light and color fled
upward The dark interaced tree tops
that had all day made an impenetrabe
shade broke into fire here and there; their
last spires gittered, faded and went ut
terly out. weird twilight that did not
come from the outer world, but seemed to
be born from the wood itself, soon filled
and possessed the aisles. The straight, tall
colossal trunks rose dimly like columns
of upward smoke. The few fallen trees
stretched their lengths into obscurity, and
seemed to lie on shadowy trestles. The
strange breath that filled these mysterious
vaults had neither GOODNESS nor moisture
dry, fragrant dust arose from the noise
less foot that trod their bark strewn floor
the aisles might have been tombs, the
fallen trees enormous mummies the 81
lence the solitude of a forgotten past
FOUNDED A BROAD SCHOOL.
He was the originator of new school,
school that is founded on realism, but
on the realism of big things. The scenes
Of Bret Harte's stories are big; the emo
tons which play in them are big; the re-
suits are big with Importance to the peo-
pie whom he paints in them. He does not
try to see how infinitely exact he can be in
portraying commonplaces. There is life,
and real life in what he writes, but it is
active instead of passive.
AS A HUMORIST.
Not less remarkable than his recognition
of truly dramatic is his recognition Of
the truly humorous. 1t was that very an
probation of the funny that led him to in
directly give his great brother American
to the world. Samuel Clemens when a
man Of no Importance whatever, told
Harte the story of the "Calaveras Frog"
Harte insisted that it ought to be writ
ten, and after Clemens had protested for a
time he finally wrote 1t, signing it Mark
Twain. 1t was one Of the first things to
win the recognition from the public which
has since been widened into international
fame
man who knew him during his lecture
tours in the United States told this story:
THAT CLIMATE.
During a trip over the Pennsylvania cir
cult, Harte found himself one evening in a
small town the very atmosphere of which
was depressing. Turning to the committee
man who waited on him at his room in the
hotel, Harte said:
rs this healthful climate?"
"Passably," responded the committeeman
whats the mortality of this citv?,'
about one a day.
About one, eh?" said Harte. "Come this
way minute" and he drew the commit
teeman into the recess of the bay window.
and then said to him, solemnly:
is the man dead for today? I am going
to lecture here tonight, and it would be a
great relief to me to know that could get
through alive"
FOOLED LABOUCHERE.
His most famous London joke made a
fnfi i'm IF oil oh tod
self in the threadbare, frayed, fringed and
faded garments which would, quite likely
be worn by a cross between a Rohemian
Journalist and tramp, Bret Harte visited
the office of Labouchere's Truth and asked
to see the eminent journalist He was
ushered into the holy of holes, the inner
off1ce OF the newspaporal M. p, and told
him that he had a poem which he would no
pleased to sell, and asked Mr. Labouchere
to look it over. But the famous lance
hurler of the London press at first refused
to glance at the offering, but upon Harte,s
earnestly pleading his immediate need NJ
money Mr.. Labouchere hastily examined
the production. Then he returned il with
the remark:
Il cannot use this trash"
But, my God!' exclaimed Harte. "Tm
starvingr' -
What do you want for it?' inquired
rs 1T worth pound?" said Harte. with
an expression indicating that his heart
was crawling up in the vicinity of his
larynx.
Want pound! 1t is not worth the pa
per it is written on ragged Labouchere
If you want charity, 1 can give you a few
shillinSs, but it would only be accompanied
by advice to the effect that a strong, able
bodied man like you can make more money
and give less cause of offense by seeking
employment at hop-picking or shipping be.
1cf nCtn of
worm your way into journalism, why did
you not join the expedition for the relief of
General Gordon? Who are you, anyway
Bret Harte," was the answer, as the
major portion of the disguise was removed
and the astonished Labouchere beheld q
club companion whom he had known for
years. The poem, however, will soon be
published to the world, and it is one of
Harte's greatest efforts. But its introduce
ton to the great world will not be through
the columns of London Truth.
EDWARD MARSHALL.