Part 19

One of the most remarkable sights is the dog-fancier--a strapping six-foot dandy, leading after him, with silken strings, a whole brood of nasty little poodles. This fellow is a type of the class; you meet them everywhere at every Continental city. There are thousands of them in Frankfort, men strangely infatuated on the subject of little dogs. Now pardon me if I devote some serious reflections to this extraordinary and unreasonable propensity, which, I fear, is rapidly taking root in the hearts of the American people, especially the female portion of our population. In men it is often excusable; they may be driven to it by unrequited affection. I never see a fine-looking fellow leading a gang of little poodle-dogs after him, that I don't imagine he has had some dreadful experience in the line of true love; but with the opposite sex the case is quite different. "If women have one weakness more marked than another," says Mrs. Beecher Stowe, in a very eloquent passage of the "Minister's Wooing," "it is toward veneration. They are born worshippers--makers of silver shrines for some divinity or other, which, of course, they always think fell straight down from heaven." And, in illustration of this very just remark, she refers to instances where celebrated preachers and divines have stood like the image that Nebuchadnezzar the king set up, "and all womankind, coquettes and flirts not excepted, have been ready to fall down and worship, even before the sound of cornet, flute, harp, sackbut, and so forth," where the most gifted and accomplished of the sex "have turned away from the flattery of admirers, to prostrate themselves at the feet of a genuine hero, who never moved them except by heroic deeds and the rhetoric of a noble life"--a most striking and beautiful trait in woman's character to which all homage should be rendered. She clingeth unto man, even as the ivy clingeth unto the oak. But does anybody pretend to tell me that man is always the lucky recipient of this devotion? Alas, no! Not always for him is it that women are burdened with this load of "fealty, faith, and reverence more than they know what to do with;" not always for him is it that "They stand like a hedge of sweet peas, throwing out fluttering tendrils everywhere for something high and strong to climb by." Alas! man is but a cipher among the objects of woman's heroic devotion. I have a lady in my eye who from early youth has bestowed the tenderest affections of her heart upon poll-parrots; another, who for years has wept over the woes of a little chicken; who would abandon her midnight slumber to minister to the afflictions of a lame turkey, and insensible to the appeals of her lover, only relax in her severity when moved by the plaintive mewing of a cat; another, who, in the bosom of her family, and tenderly adored by her husband, has long since yielded to the fascinating allurement of a sewing-machine, and wrapped around its cogwheels, cotton spools, and hammering needles the poetry of a romantic attachment; and, lastly, the particular case in point, at which I marvel most of all, three most bewitching young ladies, of acknowledged beauty, who are hopelessly and irrevocably gone in love with--what do you think? Not a man, erect and noble, with the brow of Jove and eye of Mars; not even a horse, the paragon of beautiful and intelligent animals, or a lion, the king of the forest; but a miserable, dirty, nasty, little lapdog; a snappish, foul-eyed inodorous, sneaking little brute, which even the very cats hold in contempt! And yet they love it; at least they say so, and I have no reason to dispute their word. Have I not heard them, morning, noon, and night, protest their devotion to the dear little Fidel--the precious, beautiful little Fidel--the adorable love of a little Fidel! Oh, it is enough to make the angels weep to see the grace and fondness with which this horrid little wretch is caught up in those tender white arms, and hugged to those virgin bosoms and kissed by those pouting and honeyed lips! Faugh! It drives me mad. What is the use of wasting so much sweetness when there are thousands of good, honest fellows actually pining away from unrequited affection? brave sons of toil, ready at a moment's notice to be caressed by these sweet-pea vines, who are throwing out their fluttering tendrils for something high and strong to cling to. I leave it to any honest miner, if it is not provoking to the last degree to see the noblest capacity of woman's nature thus cruelly and wastefully perverted--the choicest affections devoted to a miserable, disgusting, and unsympathizing little monster--the very honey of their lips lavished on that foul and mucous nose, which, if it knows anything, must know some thing not fit to be mentioned to polite ears. Heaven! how often have I longed to have a good fair kick at one of these pampered little brutes. Only think of the care taken of them, while widows and orphans are shivering in the cold and perishing of hunger. The choicest pieces of meat cut up for them, potatoes and gravy mixed, delicate morsels of bread; the savory mess put before them by delicate hands, and swallowed into their delicate stomachs, and too often rejected by those delicate organs, to the detriment of the carpet. And then, when this delectable subject of woman's adoration is rubbed, and scrubbed, and pitied, and physicked, and thoroughly combed out from head to foot, with every love-lock of his glossy hair filtered of its fleas, how tenderly he is laid upon the bed or clasped in the embraces of beauty! Shade of Cupid! what a happy thing it is to be a lapdog! Well might the immortal Bard of Avon prefer to be a dog that bayed the moon rather than an indifferent poet. For my part, I'd sooner be wrapped in the arms of beauty than be King of the Cannibal Islands. That strange infatuation of feminine instinct which lends to the head-dress, at an approaching bridal, a degree of importance to which the expected groom can never aspire; which sees the destinies of the whole matrimonial career centred in the fringe of a nightgown; which seeks advice and consolation in the pattern of a reception-dress; which would shrink from the fearful sacrifice of liberty but for the magic power of new bonnets, new gloves, and embroidered handkerchiefs--that we can all understand; these are woman's coy devices to tantalize mankind; these are the probationary tortures inflicted upon him through mere wantonness and love of mischief. But when the richest treasures of her affection, the most divine essence of her being, the Promethean spark warm from her virgin heart, for which worlds are lost and won--when these are cast away upon a nauseous little lapdog, ye gods! what can poor mortals do but abandon their humanity! It is shocking to think of such competition, but how can we help it if young ladies give themselves up to dog worship? I sincerely trust this Continental fashion may never take root in California. Should it do so, farewell all hope for the honest sons of toil; it will then be the greatest of good fortunes to be born a lapdog!

ROB MORRIS

Robert Morris, who is generally bracketed with Albert Pike as the most distinguished writer and craftsman American Masonry has produced, was born near Boston, Massachusetts, August 31, 1818. He was made a Mason in Mississippi, in 1846, and this was the beginning of a Masonic career almost without parallel in the history of the fraternity. Morris, of course, received all of the higher degrees in Masonry, but the most momentous thing he did as a craftsman was to establish the Order of the Eastern Star in 1850--the year he became a Kentuckian. In September, 1854, while living in southern Kentucky, Morris wrote his most celebrated poem, entitled _The Level and the Square_, which was first published in his magazine, _The American Freemason_, of Louisville, Kentucky. Rudyard Kipling lifted a line from it for his equally famous poem, _The Mother Lodge_. Although Morris revised his lines many times, the original version is far and away the finest. In 1858 he was elected Grand Master of the Grand Lodge of Kentucky; and two years later he removed his residence to La Grange, Kentucky, the little town with which his fame is intertwined. Morris wrote several well-known religious songs, _Sweet Galilee_, being the best of them. He was the author of many books upon Masonry, his _Lights and Shadows of Freemasonry_ (Louisville, 1852), being the first work in Masonic belles-lettres. This was followed by his _History of the Morgan Affair_ (New York, 1852); _Life in the Triangle_ (1853); _The Two Saints John_ (1854); _Code of Masonic Law_ (Louisville, 1855), the pioneer work on Masonic jurisprudence; _Masonic Book of American Adoptive Rights_ (1855); _History of Freemasonry in Kentucky_ (Frankfort, 1859), his most important historical work; _Synopsis of Masonic Laws_ (1859); _Tales of Masonic Life_ (1860); _Masonic Odes and Poems_ (New York, 1864); _Biography of Eli Bruce_ (1867); _Dictionary of Freemasonry_ (1872); _Manual of the Queen of the South_ (1876); _Knights Templar's Trumpet_ (1880); _Freemasonry in the Holy Land_ (New York, 1882), an excellent work; _The Poetry of Freemasonry_ (New York, 1884), upon the publication of which, the author was invited to New York City and crowned "The Poet Laureate of Freemasonry," December 17, 1884; and, _Magnum Opus_ (1886). Morris was one of the foremost numismatics of his day and generation in America, his works on this science being _The Twelve Caesars_, and _Numismatic Pilot_. He was also the author of several works designed especially for the officers of a Masonic lodge; and he edited in thirty volumes _The Universal Masonic Library_, besides editing from time to time four Masonic magazines. Rob Morris, to give him the name by which he is best known, died at La Grange, Kentucky, July 31, 1888.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _History of Kentucky_, by R. H. Collins (Covington, Kentucky, 1882); _Appletons' Cyclopaedia of American Biography_ (New York, 1888, v. iv).

THE LEVEL AND THE SQUARE

[From _The American Freemason_ (Louisville, Kentucky, September 15, 1854)]

We meet upon the Level and we part upon the Square: What words of precious meaning those words Masonic are! Come let us contemplate them, they are worthy of our thought-- With the highest and the lowest, and the rarest they are fraught.

We meet upon the Level, though from every station come-- The King from out his palace and the poor man from his home; For the one must leave his diadem without the Mason's door, And the other finds his true respect upon the checkered floor.

We part upon the Square for the world must have its due; We mingle with its multitude, a cold, unfriendly crew; But the influence of our gatherings in memory is green, And we long, upon the Level, to renew the happy scene.

There's a world where all are equal--we are hurrying towards it fast-- We shall meet upon the Level there when the gates of death are passed; We shall stand before the Orient, and our Master will be there To try the blocks we offer His unerring square.

We shall meet upon the Level there, but never thence depart: There's a mansion--'tis all ready for each zealous, faithful heart:-- There's a Mansion and a welcome, and a multitude is there, Who have met upon the Level and been tried upon the Square.

Let us meet upon the Level, then, while laboring patient here-- Let us meet and let us labor tho' the labor seem severe; Already in the western sky the signs bid us prepare, To gather up our working tools and part upon the square.

Hands around, ye faithful Ghiblimites, the bright, fraternal chain, We part upon the Square below to meet in heaven again;-- Oh, what words of precious meaning those words Masonic are-- We meet upon the Level and we part upon the Square.

AMELIA B. WELBY

Mrs. Amelia B. Welby, Kentucky's most famous female poet of the mid-century, was born at St. Michael's, Maryland, February 3, 1819. When she was fifteen years old her family removed to Louisville, Kentucky, the city of her fame. In 1837, George D. Prentice, with his wonderful nose for finding female verse-makers, added Amelia to his already long and ever-increasing list. He printed her first poem in his _Journal_, and crowned her as the finest branch of his poetical tree. His declaration that she possessed the divine afflatus meant nothing, as he had said the same thing about many another sentimental single lady, pining upon the peaks of poesy. But Edgar Allan Poe and Rufus W. Griswold soon separated her from the versifiers and placed her among the poets, and thus her fame has come down to us with fragrance. In June, 1838, Amelia was married to George Welby, a Louisville merchant, who also held her to be a poet born in the purple. Mrs. Welby's verse became well-known and greatly admired in many parts of the country, and, in response to numerous requests for a volume of her work, she collected her _Journal_ verse and published it under the title of _Poems by Amelia_ (Boston, 1845). A second edition was published the following year, and by 1860 the volume was said to be in its seventeenth edition! Robert W. Weir's illustrated edition of her poems was issued in 1850, and this is the most desirable form in which her work has been preserved. These various editions will at once convey some idea of her great popularity. With Poe, Prentice, and Griswold singing her praises, and the public purchasing her poems as rapidly as they could be made into books, Amelia's fame seemed secure. To-day, however, no one has read any of her verse save _The Rainbow_, which has been set down as her best poem, and she has become essentially an historical personage, the keepsake of Kentucky letters. While the greater number of her poems are quite unreadable, her elegy for Miss Laura M. Thurston, a sister versifier, is well done and her finest piece of work. Mrs. Welby died at Louisville, May 3, 1852, when but thirty-three years of age. Had she lived longer, and the poetic appreciation of the American people suffered no change, the heights to which she would have attained can be but vaguely guessed at.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Female Poets of America_, by R. W. Griswold (Philadelphia, 1856); _The Poets and Poetry of the West_, by W. T. Coggeshall (Columbus, 1860).

THE RAINBOW

[From _Poems by Amelia_ (Boston, 1845)]

I sometimes have thoughts, in my loneliest hours, That lie on my heart like the dew on the flowers, Of a ramble I took one bright afternoon When my heart was as light as a blossom in June; The green earth was moist with the late fallen showers, The breeze fluttered down and blew open the flowers, While a single white cloud, to its haven of rest On the white-wing of peace, floated off in the west.

As I threw back my tresses to catch the cool breeze, That scattered the rain-drops and dimpled the seas, Far up the blue sky a fair rainbow unrolled Its soft-tinted pinions of purple and gold. 'Twas born in a moment, yet, quick as its birth It had stretched to the uttermost ends of the earth, And, fair, as an angel, it floated as free, With a wing on the earth and a wing on the sea.

How calm was the ocean! how gentle its swell! Like a woman's soft bosom it rose and it fell; While its light sparkling waves, stealing laughingly o'er, When they saw the fair rainbow, knelt down on the shore. No sweet hymn ascended, no murmur of prayer, Yet I felt that the spirit of worship was there, And bent my young head, in devotion and love, 'Neath the form of the angel, that floated above.

How wide was the sweep of its beautiful wings! How boundless its circle! how radiant its rings! If I looked on the sky, 'twas suspended in air; If I looked on the ocean, the rainbow was there; Thus forming a girdle, as brilliant and whole As the thoughts of the rainbow, that circled my soul. Like the wing of the Deity, calmly unfurled, It bent from the cloud and encircled the world.

There are moments, I think, when the spirit receives Whole volumes of thought on its unwritten leaves, When the folds of the heart in a moment unclose Like the innermost leaves from the heart of a rose. And thus, when the rainbow had passed from the sky, The thoughts it awoke were too deep to pass by; It left my full soul, like the wing of a dove, All fluttering with pleasure, and fluttering with love.

I know that each moment of rapture or pain But shortens the links in life's mystical chain; I know that my form, like that bow from the wave, Must pass from the earth, and lie cold in the grave; Yet O! when death's shadows my bosom encloud, When I shrink at the thought of the coffin and shroud, May Hope, like the rainbow, my spirit enfold In her beautiful pinions of purple and gold.

ON THE DEATH OF A SISTER POET

[From _The Poets and Poetry of the West_, edited by W. T. Coggeshall (Columbus, Ohio, 1860)]

She has passed, like a bird, from the minstrel throng, She has gone to the land where the lovely belong! Her place is hush'd by her lover's side, Yet his heart is full of his fair young bride; The hopes of his spirit are crushed and bowed As he thinks of his love in her long white shroud; For the fragrant sighs of her perfumed breath Were kissed from her lips by his rival--Death.

Cold is her bosom, her thin white arms All mutely crossed o'er its icy charms, As she lies, like a statue of Grecian art, With a marbled brow and a cold hushed heart; Her locks are bright, but their gloss is hid; Her eye is sunken 'neath its waxen lid: And thus she lies in her narrow hall-- Our fair young minstrel--the loved of all.

Light as a bird's were her springing feet, Her heart as joyous, her song as sweet; Yet never again shall that heart be stirred With its glad wild songs like a singing bird: Ne'er again shall the strains be sung, That in sweetness dropped from her silver tongue; The music is o'er, and Death's cold dart Hath broken the spell of that free, glad heart.

Often at eve, when the breeze is still, And the moon floats up by the distant hill, As I wander alone 'mid the summer bowers, And wreathe my locks with the sweet wild flowers, I will think of the time when she lingered there, With her mild blue eyes and her long fair hair; I will treasure her name in my bosom-core; But my heart is sad--I can sing no more.

CHARLES W. WEBBER

Charles Wilkins Webber, the foremost Kentucky writer of prose fiction and adventure of the old school, was born at Russellville, Kentucky, May 29, 1819, the son of Dr. Augustine Webber, a noted Kentucky physician. In 1838 young Webber went to Texas where he was with the Rangers for several years. He later returned to Kentucky and studied medicine at Transylvania University, Lexington, which he soon abandoned for a brief course at Princeton Theological Seminary, with the idea of entering the Presbyterian ministry. A short time afterwards, however, he settled at New York as a literary man. Webber was connected with several newspapers and periodicals, being associate editor of _The Whig Review_ for about two years. His first book, called _Old Hicks, the Guide_ (New York, 1848) was followed by _The Gold Mines of the_ _Gila_ (New York, 1849, two vols.). In 1849 Webber organized an expedition to the Colorado country, but it utterly failed. Several of his other books were now published: _The Hunter-Naturalist_ (Philadelphia, 1851); _Tales of the Southern Border_ (1852; 1853); _Texas Virago_ (1852); _Wild Girl of Nebraska_ (1852); _Spiritual Vampirism_ (Philadelphia, 1853); _Jack Long, or the Shot in the Eye_ (London, 1853), his masterpiece; _Adventures with Texas Rifle Rangers_ (London, 1853); _Wild Scenes in the Forest and Prairie_ (London, 1854); and his last book, _History of Mystery_ (Philadelphia, 1855). In 1855 Webber joined William Walker's expedition to Central America, and in the battle of Rivas, he was mortally wounded. He died at Nicaragua, April 11, 1856, in the thirty-seventh year of his age. Webber's career is almost as interesting as his stories. In fact, he put so much of his life into his works that all of them may be said to be largely autobiographical.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Cyclopaedia of American Literature_, by E. A. and G. L. Duyckinck (New York, 1856); Appletons' _Cyclopaedia of American Biography_ (New York, 1888, v. vi).

TROUTING ON JESSUP'S RIVER

[From _Wild Scenes in the Forest and Prairie, or the Romance of Natural History_ (London, 1854)]

"The Bridge" at Jessup's River is well known to sportsmen; and to this point we made our first flyfishing expedition. The eyes of Piscator glistened at the thought, and early was he busied with hasty fingers through an hour of ardent preparation amongst his varied and complicated tackle. Now was his time for triumph. In all the ruder sports in which we had heretofore been engaged, I, assisted by mere chance, had been most successful; but now the infallible certainty of skill and science were to be demonstrated in himself, and the orthodoxy of flies vindicated to my unsophisticated sense.

The simple preparations were early completed; the cooking apparatus, which was primitive enough to suit the taste of an ascetic, consisted in a single frying-pan. The blankets, with the guns, ammunition, rods, etc., were all disposed in the wagon of our host, which stood ready at the door. It was a rough affair, with stiff wooden springs, like all those of the country, and suited to the mountainous roads they are intended to traverse, rather than for civilized ideas of comfort. We, however, bounded into the low-backed seat; and if it had been cushioned to suit royalty, we could not have been more secure than we were of such comfort as a backwood sportsman looks for. We soon found ourselves rumbling, pitching, and jolting, over a road even worse than that which brought us first to the lake. It seemed to me that nothing but the surprising docility of the ponies which drew us, could have saved us, strong wagon and all, from being jolted to atoms. I soon got tired of this, and sprang out with my gun, determined to foot it ahead, in the hope of seeing a partridge or red squirrel.

We arrived at the "bridge" about the middle of the afternoon. There we found an old field called Wilcox's clearing, and, like all places I had seen in this fine grazing region, it was still well sodded down in blue grass and clover. Our luggage having been deposited in the shantee, consisting almost entirely of boards torn from the old house, which were leaned against the sides of two forks placed a few feet apart, we set off at once for the falls, a short distance above. This was merely an initial trial, to obtain enough for dinner, and find the prognostics of the next day's sport in feeling the manner of the fish.