LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 2045, 13 September 1880, Page 3

LITERATURE.

A MONTE FLAT PASTORAL, HOW OLD MAN PLUNKETT WENT HOME. By Bret Hartb. I think we all loved him. Even after he mismanaged the affairs of the Amity Ditch Company, we commiserated him, although most of ns wore stockholders and lost heavily. I remember that the blacksmith went so far as to say that “them chaps as put that responsibility on the old man oughter be lynched.” But the blacksmith was not a stockholder, and the expression was looked upon as an excusable extravagance of a large sympathising nature, that, when combined with a powerful frame, was unworthy of notice. At least that was the way they put it. Yet I think there was a general feeling of regret that this misfortune would interfere with the old man’s long cherished plan of “going home,” Indeed for the last ten years he had been ‘going home.’ He was going home after a six months’ sojourn at Monte Flat, He was going home after the first rains. He was going home when the rains were over. He was going home when he had cut the timber on Buckeye Hill, when there was pasture on Dowe’a Flat, when be struck pay-dirt on Eureka Hill, when the Amity Company paid its first dividend, when the election was over, when he had received an answer from his wife. And so the years rolled by, the spring rains came and went, the woods of Buckeye Hill were level with the ground, the pasture of Dow’s Flat grew sere and dry, Eureka Hill yielded its pay-dirt and swamped its owner, the first dividends of the Amity Company were made from the assessments of stockholders, there were new county officers at Monte Flat, his wife’s answer had changed into a persistent question, and still old man Plunkett remained. It is only fair to say that he had made several distinct essays towards going. Five years before he had bidden good-bye to Monte Hill with much effusion and handshaking. But he never got any further than the next town. Here ho was induced to trade the sorrel colt he was riding for a bay mare—a transaction that at once opened to his lively fancy a vista of vast and successful future speculation. A few days after, Abner Dean of Angel’s received a letter from him stating that he was going to Visalia to buy horses. ‘ I am satisfied,’wrote Plunkett, with that elevated rhetoric for which his correspondence was remarkable, * I am satisfied that we are at last developing the real resources of California, The world will yet look to Dow’s Flat as the great stock-raising centre. In view of the interests involved, I have deferred my departure for a month.” It was two before ho again returned to vis, penniless. Six months later he was again enabled to start for the Eastern States, and this time he got as far as San Francisco. I have before mo a letter which I received a few days after his arrival, from which I venture to give an extract: —“ Yon know, my dear boy, that I have always believed that gambling, as it is absurdly called, is still in its infancy in California, I have always maintained that a perfect system might be invented by which the game of poker may be made to yield a certain peremtage to the intelligent player. I am not at liberty at present to disclose the system, hut before leaving this city I intend to perfect it.” He seems to have done so, and returned to Monte Flat with 2 dels. 37 cents, the absolute remainder of his capital, after such perfection. It was not until 1868 that he appeared to have finally succeeded in going home. He left ns by the overland route —a route which he declared would give great opportunity for the discovery of undeveloped resources. His last letter was dated Virginia City. He was absent three years. At the close of a very hot day in midsummer he alighted from the Wingdam stage with hair and beard powdered with dnst and age. There was a certain shyness about his groating, quite different from his usual frank volubility ; that did not, however, impress us a? any accession of character. For some days he was

reserved regarding tia recent visit, contenting himself with asserting, with more or Jess aggressiveness, that he had ‘ always said he was going home and now he had been there.’ Later ho grew more communicative, and spoke freely and critically of the manner* and customs of New York and Boston, com-, msntod on the social changes in the years of his absence, and, I remember, was very hard upon what ha deemed the follies incidental to a high state of cmliration. Still later he darkly alluded to the moral laxity of the higher places of Eastern society ; bat it was not long before he completely tore away the veil and revealed the naked wickedness of New York social life in a way I even now ahudder to recall, Vinons intoxication. It appeared, was a common habit cf the first ladles of the city; immoralities which he scaroEly dared name were daily practised by the refined of both sexes ; ciggird'iness and greed were the common vices of the rich. ■I have always asserted,’ he continued, ‘ that corruption must exist where luxary and riches are rampant, and capital is not used to develop the natural resources of the country. Think you—l will take mine without sugar.’ It is possible that some of these painful details crept into the local journals. I remember an editorial in the ‘ Monte Flat Monitor.’ entitled ’The Effete East,’ in which the fatal decadence oi New Yord and New England were elaborately stated, end California offered as a means cf natural salvation. ‘Perhaps,’ said the ‘ Monitor, ’ ‘we might add that Calaveras county offers superior inducements to the Eastern visitor with capital.’ Later he spoke of his family. The daughter ho had left a child had grown into beautiful womanhood ; the son was already taller and larger thin his father, and in a playful trial of strength, “the young rascal.” added Plunkett, with a voice broken with paternal pride and humourous objurgation, had twice thrown his doting parent to the ground. But it was of his daughter he chiefly spoke. Perhaps emboldened by the evident interest which masculine Monte Flat held in feminine beauty, he expatiated at some length on her various charms and accomplishments, and finally produced her photograph—that of a very pretty girl—to their infinite peril. But his account of his first meeting with her was so peculiar that I must fain give it aftew his own [methods, which were, perhaps, some shades less precise end elegant than his written style. * Yon see, boys, it’s always been my opinion that a man ought to be able to tell his own flesh and blood by instinct. It’s tea years since I’d seen my Malindy, and she was then only seven, and about so high. Eo when I went to New T ork, what did Ido? Did I go straight to my house and aak for my wife and daughter, like other folks ? No, sir. I rigged myself up as a pedlar, as a pedlar, sir. and I rung the bell. When the servant cams to the door, I wanted—don’t you see—to show the ladies some trinkets. Then there was a voice over the banisters says,

‘ Don’t want anything—send him away.’ ‘ Some nice laces, ma’am, smuggled, 1 I says, looking up, ' Get out, you wretch,’ says she.

I knew the voice, boys, it was my wife 5 it was my wife; sure as a gun—thar wasn’t any instinct thar. * May be the young ladies wants somethin’,’ I said. ■ Lid yon hear me?’ says she, and with that she jumps forward and I left. * It’s ten years, boys, since I’ve seen the old womsn, but somehow, when ehe fet.hed that leap, I naterally left. 5 He had been standing beside the bar —his usual attitude—when he made this speech, but at this point he half-faced his auditors with a look that was very effective. Indeed, a few who had exhibited some signs of scepticism and lack of interest at once assumed an appearance of intense gratification and cariosity as he went on. ‘Well, by bangin’ round there fora day or two, I found out at last it was to be Melindy’s birthday next week, and that she was goin’ to have a big patty. lieli ya what, boys, it weren’t no slouch of a reception. The whole house was bloomin’ with flowers, and blazin’ with lights, and there was no end of servants and plate and refreshments and fixin’a—’ * Uncle Joe.’ ‘Well V

‘ Where did they get the money ?’ Plunkett faced his interlocutor with a severe glance. ‘ I always said,’ he replied slowly, ■ that when I wont homo I’d send on ahead of mo a draft for 10,000 dole. I always said that, didn’t I ’ Eh ? And I said I was goin’ home—and I’ve been home —haven’t 1 ? Well ?’

Either there was something irresistibly conclusive in this logic, or else the desire to hear the remainder of Plunkett’s story wso stronger; but there was no more interruption. His ready good-humor quickly returned, and with a slight chuckle he went on.

“I went to the biggest jewellery shop in town, and I bought a pair of diamond earrings and put them in my pocket, and went to the house. ‘ What name V says the chap who opened the door, and he looked like a cross ’twixt a restaurant waiter and a parson. ‘Skeesicks,’ said I. He takes mo in, and pretty soon my wife comes sailin’ into the parlor and says, ‘Excuse me, bet I don’t think I recognise the name.’ She was mighty polite, for I had on a red whig and side whiskers. ‘ A friend of your husbands from California, ma’am, with a present for yonr daughter. Miss ——end I mads as I had forgot the name. But ail of a sudden a voice said, ‘ That's too thin, ’ and in walked Melindy. ‘lt s playin’ it rather low down, father, to pretend you don’t known your daughter’s name —ain’t it now? How are you, old man ?’ And with thst she tears oft my whig and whiskers, and throws her arms around my neck—instinct, sir, pure instinct!”

Emboldened by the laughter which followed his description of. the filial utterances of Melinda, ho again repeated her speech, with more or less elaboration joining in with, and indeed often leading, the hilarity that accompanied it, and returning to it with more or less incoherency several times during the evening. And so at various times, and at various places—but chiefly in bar-rooms —did this Ulysses of Monte Flat recount the story of his wanderings. There were several discrepancies in his statement, there was sometimes considerable prolixity of detail, there was occasional change of character and scenery, there was once or twice an absolute change In the denouement, but always the fact of his having visited his wifa and children remained. Of course in sceptical community like that of Monte F.'at—a community accustomed to great expectation and small realisation, a community wherein, to use the local dialect, ‘ they got the color and struck hardpan,’ more frequently than any other mining camp— in such a community the fullest credence was not always given to old man Plunkett’s facts. There was only one exception to the general unbelief—Henry York, of Sandy Bar. It was he who waa always an attentive listener; it was his scant puree that had often furnished Plunkett with means to pursue his unprofitable speculations ; it was to him that the charms of Melinda were more frequently rehearsed ; it was he that had borrowed her photograph — and it was he that, sitting alone in his little cabin one night, kissed that photograph until his honest handsome face glowed again in firelight. It was dusty in Monte Flat. The reins of the long dry season were crumbling everywhere ; everywhere the dying summer had strewn its red ashes a foot deop, or exhaled its last breath in a red cloud above the troubled highways. The alders and cottonwoods that marked lino ot the watercourses were grimy with nnst, ana looked as if they might have taken root in the open air; the gleaming stones of the parched watercourses themselves were as dry bines in the valley of death. The dusty sunset at times painted the flanks of the distant hills a dull coppery hue ; on other daj r s there was an odd, indefinable earthquake halo on the volcanic cones of the farther coast spurs ; again an acrid resinous smoka from the burning wood on Beavytrea Hill smarted the oyea and choked the free breath of Monte Flat, or a fierce wind, driving everything—including the shrivelled summer like a curled leaf—before it, swept down the flanks of the Sierras and chased the inhabitants to the doors of their cabins, and shcck its red fist in at their windowo. And cn such a night as this—the duat having in some way choked the wheels of material progress in Monte Flat—most of the inhabitants were gathered listlessly in the gilded bar-room of the Moquelumne Hotel, spitting silently at the red-hot stove that tempered the mountain winds to the shorn lambs of Monte Flat, and waiting for the rain. {To is tifntinwty