An Egyptian Ode [pp. 403]

An Egyptian Ode.
How different is a mining camp from
all other places! Its mixed inhabitants
are seldom strangers to each other.
With those of only a few hours' acquaintanceship it is, "How are you, old Sock?"
or "Hallo, Shorty!" in a tone of easy
familiarity, born of a social sentiment
that is strong indeed in those who are
filled with similar hopes and ambitions;
and as all are interested in the success
of their neighborhood, it becomes a principle to have a personal acquaintance
with each other. There I was, one of five
thousand, in the cosmopolitan mixture
of all classes, men of all descriptions
drawn together for a common purpose.
The promise of rapid fortune, love of
adventure, the hope of suddenly acquiring high position, the exciting life, were
the lures that drew. Only those who
have known of this exhilaration are com
peten] judges of the noble natures and
generous hearts of the boomers of a mining camp in the zenith of its rich developments. It matters not if they never
know each others' correct names; should
they ever meet on the boulevards of
Paris, the busy thoroughfares of New
York. or on the streets of their more
congenial city, San Francisco, the same
bond of friendship would exist. The
millionaire puts out his elegantly gloved
fingers for a "shake" with the slickensoiled hand of the miner, and a "How
are you, old Pard," will come from the
lips of both in the same cordial tone it
did in the bygones of the rugged canions
of the Pacific slope. How often do we
hear, "Why, I met an old mining friend
today, whom I knew in'49," "spring of
'50," "winter of'52," or later of "'84 in
the Coeur d'Alenes."
Cecile I. Duton.
AN EGYPTIAN ODE.
[The following is a free translation of a prayer to the setting sun, enclosed with the mummy of the
Lady Anchpephir, now in the Boston Art Museum.]
THOU perfect one, when thou declinest to rest
Among the dwellers in the cloud-bound west,
Beyond the wide, fair region of the plains, —
The land of life, of flowers and sweet rains, Grant that the night-moth whirl and circle above her,
And round her chamber the spread-winged beetle hover,
Wheeling and sweeping and guarding her body in peace,
Yielding from care, in the star-lit chamber of slumber, release.
And while below the verge thou travelest,
Unto my lady give thou peace and rest.
[Villiam Herbert Carruth.
40.3