Etc. [pp. 382-386]

384
ETC.
perfect true wife to me. I told her, too, that never
should any other head rest in her' little home;' that
I would walk through the coming years alone with
her memory, and go pure to her, with the old love
stainless and faithful. Happy words they were to
her! - dear, blessed promises for one who was entering upon the life that is endless, and for one who believed she would carry with her and preserve for me
the love that had made her career here so happy.
"She spoke of her children -her'poor motherless
children,' and what would become of them. I told
her, that, so far as I could, I would be a mother to
them-would instruct them with all my capacity, according to her plans and ideas; would dedicate and
yield up my life to them; would especially try to impart to them a religious education - lead them to
church, and, so far as I could do, give them the example of a Christian life. She could not reply, but
crept closer, closer, and laid her dear lips in grateful
love against my own.'And, Precious, promise me
that you will not wander aimless and homeless. Hate
a home; gather our children into it, and let them feel
they have such a refuge in the world. Promise me
this.' I did so, and she went on:'Darling, if you
will, I would like Lide to have all my things. I
would like to send her something special from this
bed. If you have no objection, give her the turquoise set you brought me from Paris. Send them to
her in my name, with my blessing and love. Tell
her, dear Rob, she will never know how much her
poor mamma loved her. God grant that she may
grow up to be all you desire and a comfort to you.'"
Though designed for circulation exclusively among the members and near relatives of
the bereaved family, there is much material
in this remarkable volume which would be
generally read with pleasure, and which
might be given to the public without violating the sensitive reserve and sacredness of
private grief.
THE inauguration of a social literary society in San Francisco promises good things to
come. Editors, authors, and artists are to
form the nucleus of "The Bohemian Club,"
around which may revolve others-presumably scholarly men-not actively engaged in
artistic or literary pursuits. The idea takes
us back to the days of genial Kit North,
Coleridge, the Ettrick Shepherd, and the
"Noctes Ambrosianoe " of Biackwood's Magazine. What choice fare obtained in that society of choice spirits! With what keenbladed activity they dissected trembling
authors, driven by Heaven knows what
mental insanity to lay crude and unripe creations upon the altar of public opinion! Yet,
if they bore hard upon ideas of inheritance
[APRIL,
and tricks of expression, they criticised discriminatingly and fairly. They spent no
vapid evenings in restless balancings between
the merits of Tweedledee and Tweedledum.
In the attrition of mind with mind, they
reached intellectual altitudes never attained
in any carefully pruned manuscript. The
elixir, the aroma, the sparkle of those conversations was too brilliant and evanescent to
be condensed between the pages of a printed
volume. Imagine the opulence of those
golden hours, when delicate humor and ethereal wit pricked their way delicately along
the edges of Fancy, or shot boldly across
some sober dissertation, exploding in racy
bon-mot or bubble of laughter, which was but
as foam on the rich wine of the feast. Is "The
Bohemian" to be thus modeled? or will it
evolve from its larger circle talent more diversified, a broader humor, and a wider range
of thought and imagination? We can imagine stories of peril and adventure from menand there are such among us-who have been
probing the reticent mystery of the Arctic seas;
or tropical experiences from travelers who
have seen the soft lips of languid rivers sucking
the poison of luxuriant overgrowth, and exhaling it again in a miasma of fever and death.
We can fancy revelations from the few who
stand before the gates of spiritual mysteries,
demanding admittance like the great crusader
at the doors of Jerusalem; or hints of warmth
and color in art studies awakening an interest which all the clumsy copies of the "old
masters " have failed to arouse. Shall a poet
spring full - fledged from the inner circle of
"The Bohemian" capable of wresting from
Nature her deepest meanings, and giving us
word - paintings rivaling Bierstadt's revelations in form and color? The cold, rich
gloom of our brown hills; the sparkle of our
mountain lakes; the gray clouds, mingling
with the soft mist, shading our horizon, are
yet to find adequate expression. Who knows
but, under the developing influences of "The
Bohemian Club," genius may take nobler
flights, and talents find a wider range, than
heretofore. As a now famous member of the
"Century Club" once obiserved: "No man is
conscious of his own powers till tested by
those of others-realizing in intellectual fellowship his highest aspirations."
Let us temper our enthusiasm, however,