In The Footprints Of The Padres Part 1

In the Footprints of the Padres.

by Charles Warren Stoddard.

INTRODUCTION

Since the first and second editions of "In the Footprints of the Padres"

appeared, many things have transpired. San Francisco has been destroyed and rebuilt, and in its holocaust most of the old landmarks mentioned in the pages that follow as then existing, have been obliterated. Since then, too, the gentle heart, much of whose story is told herein, has been hushed in death. Charles Warren Stoddard has followed on in the footprints of the Padres he loved so well. He abides with us no longer, save in the sweetest of memories, memories which are kept ever new by the unforgettable writings which he left behind him. He pa.s.sed away April 23, 1909, and lies sleeping now under the cypresses of his beloved Monterey.

Charles Warren Stoddard was possessed of unique literary gifts that were all his own. These gifts shine out in the pages of this book. Here we find that mustang humor of his forever kicking its silver heels with the most upsetting suddenness into the honeyed sweetness of his flowing poetry. Here, too, we find that gift of word-painting which makes all his writings a brilliant gallery of rich-hued and soft-lighted wonder.

Of the green thickets of the redwood forests he says, in "Primeval California": "A dense undergrowth of light green foliage caught and held the sunlight like so much spray." So do Stoddard's pages catch and hold the lights and shadows of a world which is the more beautiful because he beheld it and sang of it--for sing he did. His prose is the essence of poetry.

In my autograph copy of "The Footprints of the Padres" Stoddard wrote: "A new memory of Old Monterey is the richer for our meeting here for the first time in the flesh. We have often met in spirit ere this." Whenever we would go walking together, he and I, through the streets of that old Monterey, old no longer save in memory, he would invariably take me to a certain high board fence, and looking through an opening show me the ruins of an adobe house--nothing but a broken fireplace left, moss-grown and crumbling away. "That is my old California," he would say, while his sweet voice was shaken with tears. That desolated hearth seemed to him the symbol of the California which he had known and loved.... But no, the old California that Stoddard loved lives on, and will, because he caught and preserved its spirit and its coloring, its light and life and music. As the redwood thicket holds the sunlight, so do Stoddard's words keep bright and living, though viewed through a mist of tears, the California of other days.

In this new edition of "The Footprints" some changes will be found, changes which all will agree make an improvement over the original volume. "Primeval California," first published in October, 1881, in the old Scribner's (now The Century) Magazine, when James G. Holland was its editor, is at times Stoddard at his best. "In Yosemite Shadows" shows us the young Stoddard full of boyish enthusiasm--he could not have been more than twenty when it was written and published, in the old Overland, then edited by Bret Harte. It is more than a gloriously poetic description of Yosemite, when Yosemite still dreamed in its virgin beauty; it is the revelation of a poet's beginnings, for it gives us in the rough, just finding their way to the light, all those gifts which later won Stoddard his fame.

The third addition to this volume is "An Affair of the Misty City," a valuable chapter, since it is wholly autobiographical, and at the same time embodies pen portraits of all the celebrities of California's first literary days, that famous group of which Stoddard was one. Of all the group, Ina Coolbrith was closest and dearest to Stoddard's heart. The beautiful abiding friendship which bound the souls of these two poets together has not been surpa.s.sed in all the poetry and romance of the world. These last added chapters are taken from "In the Pleasure of His Company," which is out of print and may never be republished.

The "Mysterious History," included in the original editions of "The Footprints" has wisely been left out. It had no proper place in the book: Stoddard himself felt that. The additions which have been supplied by Mr. Robertson, who was for years Stoddard's publisher, and in whom the author reposed the utmost confidence, make a real improvement on the original book.

"We have often met in spirit ere this," Stoddard wrote me. We had; and we meet again and again. I feel him very near me as I write these words; and I feel, too, that his gentle soul will visit everyone who reads the chronicles he has here set down, so that even though no shaft rise in marble glory to mark his last resting place, still in unnumbered hearts his memory will be enshrined. With his poet friend, Thomas Walsh, well may we say:

"Vain the laudation!--What are crowns and praise To thee whom Youth anointed on the eyes?

We have but known the lesser heart of thee Whose spirit bloomed in lilies down the ways Of Padua; whose voice perpetual sighs On Molokai in tides of melody."

CHARLES PHILLIPS.

San Francisco, September first, Nineteen hundred and eleven.

THE BELLS OF SAN GABRIEL

Thine was the corn and the wine, 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!

And every note of every bell Sang Gabriel! Rang Gabriel!

In the tower that is left the tale to tell Of Gabriel, the Archangel.

Oil of the olive was thine; 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!

And every note of every bell Sang Gabriel! Rang Gabriel!

In the tower that is left the tale to tell Of Gabriel, the Archangel.

Seed o' the corn was thine-- 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 G.o.d were rife.

What then wert thou, and what art now, After the weary strife?

And every note of every bell Sang Gabriel! Rang Gabriel!

In the tower that is left the tale to tell Of Gabriel, the Archangel.

Where are they now, O, bells?

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.

And every note of every bell Sang Gabriel! Rang Gabriel!

In the tower that is left the tale to tell Of Gabriel, the Archangel.

Where are they now, O tower!

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?

And every note of every bell Sang Gabriel! Rang Gabriel!

In the tower that is left the tale to tell Of Gabriel, the Archangel.

CHARLES WARREN STODDARD.

IN THE FOOTPRINTS OF THE PADRES

[Ill.u.s.tration: View of Montgomery, Post and Market Streets, San Francisco, 1858]

OLD DAYS IN EL DORADO

I.

"STRANGE COUNTRIES FOR TO SEE"