came, in great delight; for with the Colonel's wife was little Ethel, whom he tenderly loved. She was ten years old, and many a time had he carried her in his arms when she was a baby. She was as glad to see him as if he had been of her own blood, and he had saved up for her the best specimens he found. Robert and the Colonel did not agree about the management of the ranch. Robert, when the Colonel's family came, sulked for a while, and then said he would go back to Kentucky, the Colonel could have the ranch, and he wanted all that he could claim back there. They finally agreed upon these terms, and then Robert said Abe must go back with him. Then the brothers quarreled. The Colonel said no; their mother had promised Abe his freedom, that was why he had been allowed to work for himself. Robert didn't say much, but it was evident he did n't like it. All this little Ethel told Abe; and that her papa would keep the bargain with him; but the negro was much alarmed, for he knew that going back to Kentucky meant to lose Julia. Robert went away and it was thought he would soon go home. But he only went to the city and stopped. Abe went on working for Moses (the Colonel), who soon went away to Los Angeles to, get more fruit trees for the ranch. He had not been gone many days, when Robert came back and brought a strange man with him. They supposed he had come to say goodby before he went away for good. But that night, after all had grown quiet and every one was asleep, Abe heard a tap on his window. He went to it and found little Ethel. "Lawd bless yo', chile," he said, "fo' de Lawd's sake what's de matter? Yo' moder sick?" "No, Uncle Abe," she replied, "but I came to tell you something you ought to know." Wha''s it, chile? "Grandma is dead, back in Kentucky. And Uncle Robert and the strange man have come to take you back there." The negro nearly fainted with fright. "Who tole yo' dat, Missy?" asked he. "Uncle told mamma at supper of grandma's death, and asked her if papa knew of it. And afterwards I heard the man ask uncle if that was the boy that took the horses away. And when uncle said it was, he said 'All right, we'll have him off in the morning before the old woman gets up, and he'll be on the steamer before the Colonel knows anything about it.' "O good Lawd," said Abe, "wha' 'll I do?" "Go hide somewhere till papa comes, and he won't let them take you." "Missy Ethel, I'll do it. Kin yo' git me a little grub?" She went away and pretty soon came back with a loaf of bread and some raw ham in a flour sack. Abe was dressed by this time, and taking the sack over his shoulder, shook her little hand and was off. He had heard the people say it was fourteen miles to the Sacramento River, and started in that direction. Soon the moon came up and gave light enough for him to make his way through the tules. Before daylight he got to the woods and was not longer afraid of being seen. All day he lay in the woods, thinking what to do. Being away he determined not to go back again, as it might only make trouble for the Colonel, who perhaps would not be able to keep him from being carried off. He saw the steamboats pass up and down the river, and once some men rowed close to him in a boat. Just at dark, when everything was quiet, he undressed and putting his clothes and what food he had left in a bundle on his head, started to swim across the river. He had looked out for a place to cross before it was dark. He was a good swimmer, but was nearly spent before that broad river was crossed, but at last he found bottom. Next day he went to the edge of the woods, and could see the snow-caps to the east, but they seemed a long way off. Once there, he knew he would be safe. "It took me on'y a couple days, Marse George, to reach 'e mountins, and I had de luck to come heah befo' dey was any miners on dis yer creek to speak of. I git Indian Jim to buy me rocker and bring it ober, and de urr tools and all de tings I buy, so nobody knows I's here." I was not so absorbed in the eager pursuit of wealth that I had remained oblivious to the political condition and history of the State of which I was a citizen. The younger generation of Californians know nothing of the stirring scenes enacted in Congress in those days, save what has come down to them in the pages of history, but the pioneers, the men who made the State, were the living, interested witnesses of the struggle which shook the country from center to circumference, as the friends of California battled for her admission to the Union, which was violently opposed by the slaveholding States, as a violation of the custom prevailing ever since the Missouri compromise of admitting a slave and a free State at the same time. California by its size, its growth to State population in a night, its wealth, and above all by the aggressive and intelligent character of its people, could not be kept out; and yet there was no slave Territory that could be admitted with it to keep the equilibrium of the Senate. I had listened to the negro's rude narrative intently, with the full knowledge that while there was much to doubt, there was nothing impossible in what he said, and I may go further and say there was nothing improbable. Believing they had a right to take their "property" into any part of the territory of the United States, many, especially from the border States, had brought negro servants with them on coming to California, and these people found themselves in the anomalous condition of having voluntarily brought slave property into a State which, by its organic law, prohibited slavery or involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for crime. In most cases, the owners made a contract with their former slaves to work faithfully for them for an agreed time, or pay a stipulated sum for their freedom, as Abe's masters had done. The California legislatures came to the relief of the owners, by the passage of laws granting them the power of its courts to enforce the return of unwilling slaves, or "fugitives from labor," as they were styled in the statutes, to the State or Territory from which they had been brought. The penalties inflicted upon those who from humanitarian motives, or otherwise, interfered with the process of this court, were quite severe, yet I do not recollect of any instance now where a slave was taken back against his will. Generally, those brought here had been favorites at home, and if they did not choose to return, their masters gave them a comparatively liberal chance. In many instances, the mere expression of a desire to be free was sufficient to obtain the boon; in other instances still the slave had family ties at home which attracted him back as strongly as his owner was attracted. Sometimes, but not often, there was trouble between the two, but these were individual cases, and public sentiment was always found upon the side of the slave. While placing a good deal of faith in Abe's narrative, I could not help feeling a little doubtful as to the extent of the resources he claimed to have. I knew that to those who, like him, have toiled a lifetime in the sun that others may rest in the shade, a little sum of money oft-times looks like fabulous wealth. So his description of his "slathers of gold" was rather an apocryphal declaration to But I thought I would humor the poor fellow, so I asked him : "Why are you willing to trust me with so much, Abe? You don't know that I won't take what you have, and leave you to yourself again." "Fo' de Lawd, Marse; but I hain't a bit afeahd o' dat. I wan' a frien'; I mus' git out o' dis trouble or I'll go plumb crazy, shuah. Maybe yo' is a bad man, sah, but I doan' tink it. I kain't lib dis way, fearin' all de time dey 'll come an' drag me off. I's seed yo' lots ob times dis winter, an' 'membered yo' from de Consumnes Rio dat summer." "Well, where is your gold dust, Abe?" "Step to 'e do', Marse. Doan' yo' see a big libe oak, an' a little libe oak, an' a bush atween 'em wid ashes round it ?” "Yes, I do." "Four foot souf o' dat bush it's buried. Now, Marse, yo' write back to Kintuck, to Majah Sibley, de lawyah man. Tell him what yo' wants, an' he'll ten' to it. An' Marse, if dey do cotch me afo' it's done, promise me dat yo' will hunt me up afo' yo' do anythin' else." "Don't talk in that discouraging strain, Abe; I'll promise to do my best, and that's all any one can do." "Dat's 'nough, sah. Now, s'posen' I neber get well, Marse, yo' take dat dust, divide it in free parts; one is to buy Jule, an' gib her a little sumfin'; one part is fo' little Missy Ethel when she gits to be a lady; an' one part yo' keep for yo'self." While I pitied the poor devil, I could hardly keep from smiling, nay, laughing right out, as he gravely said this. For I, too, now began to think him crazy as a loon. The surroundings of the place were not at all favorable for any contrary expectation to be entertained. But I thought I would humor him in his fancies. "All right, Abe, my boy. We'll do just as you want to have us. I don't suppose you have such a thing about the house as a bit of paper and pencil, have you?" No, he had not. "Then I'll bring up one the next time I come, and you shall tell me where to write to that Kentucky lawyer, and find out what is to be done." "Bress you, Marse, I feels glad now. If Marse Robert doan' catch me pretty soon, he woan' get me 't all. But I tinks ebery little while I hears 'em comin', an' ef dey should, de Lawd hab mercy on me." The return of Indian Jim stopped any further confidences, and I began to think of returning home. Jim had evidently been mining, for there was a little dust in the gold pan he had brought home with him. Talking with Jim, I learned that he had been with Abe nearly all the time that hombre had lived there, and that they had worked together. It appeared from Jim's story that he was not one of the Indians native to that place, which accounted to me for the fact that he did not live in the rancheria. In the mining craze of early years, the partly civilized Indians of the now min. ing counties shared. Sometimes they would leave their valley homes for months at a time, and by working in the shallow, easily worked creeks and gulches, with bar and wooden bowl make money enough to have a good (Indian) time. Jim understood our language well, and appeared to be steadier and more industrious than the majority of his class. His information to me confirmed me in the belief that Abe's boasted wealth was chimerical. According to Jim's account they were not making wages even at the best. I mentioned to the Indian Abe's fear of something without telling imaginary pursuers. him what, and found that Jim had noticed this trait; in fact, Abe's present illness was the result of exposure during a bitter storm when he was hiding from T. E. Jones. [CONTINUED IN NEXT NUMBER. RECENT FICTION.-II. FEWER books are at hand for review this month than last, but of a much higher average of merit. The shoals of summer novels of former years have this year largely passed the OVERLAND by, possibly not encouraged by the treatment they have received. This inures to the benefit of our readers; for it is not very edifying to see petty offenders put into the stocks, and the readers of literary reviews are not of the class that enjoy such spectacles. Far more congenial is it to write and read of books where the word of praise may be spoken heartily, and where the expectation raised of good things will be answered on turning from the review to the books themselves. Since all the books to be reviewed are good books, the thread of presentation chosen is the chronological one of the time of the story, beginning at the present and going backwards. The thread is a long one, for it reaches back to the time of Charlemagne. First in this arrangement, if drama should be included at all, comes Mr. Howells's farces,' as being essentially of the present in setting and in their spirit. Mrs. Roberts and Willis Campbell cannot be imagined, save with the adjuncts of elevators, Pullman cars, and the current modes. 1 The Sleeping Car, and Other Farces. By William D. Howells. Boston: Houghton, Mifflin, & Co.: 1889. For sale in San Francisco by Samuel Carson & Co. The volume at hand contains four plays: The Parlor Car, The Sleeping Car, The Register, and The Elevator. All of them have been printed before, and have been found so available for amateur presentation that few of our readers can have failed to see one or more of them, or at least to read them. They require some ingenuity, it is true, to set them with good effect on the amateur stage, but it is not beyond the compass of unprofessional skill to represent the scenes sufficiently well to satisfy the unexacting public for which the amateur caters. The acting calls for more care and intelligence than in most private theatrical plays, but here again. the amateurs have not been found wanting, and these plays have been produced in San Francisco, as in the Eastern cities, with the points well made, and the introduction of much clever "business." The reason for this lies in the fact that they are so modern, and the characters and scenes to be represented are so true to Mr. Howells's realistic school, that the society man or woman can be at home in these parts. The amateur fails in heroics and trips over his sword, but he is not awkward in these farces, because he has but to behave as he always does. Much has been said about Mr. Howells's lack of gallantry, as shown in these farces. One critic has been so carping as to say that Howells's women "make seven different kinds of fool of themselves." It is true that much of the fun lies in the setting forth of the illogicalities and irrelevances of the woman mind, but if one stops to go over the plays, he will see that the men fare not so much better. In the Parlor Car, if Miss Galbraith catches her dress in the window purposely, Mr. Richards is not a whit more ingenuous in the matter of his nap; in the Sleeping Car, Mr. Roberts shines not at all in comparison with his wife, in spite of her rattle-patedness; in the Register, Grinnidge and Ransome are as ready to eavesdrop as their sister woman; and in the Elevator there is nothing to choose in the matter of absurdity between the men and women till Willis Campbell arrives with his grain of common sense, like the lady from Philadelphia. But none of Howells's flings are ill natured, and the farces — as farces should -amuse from beginning to end by their lightness and sparkle, their clean fun and clever hits. The mirror he holds up to human nature is true in the main, with just enough of a freakish twist to it to bring a smile at the likeness and yet unlikeness of the grotesque result. Leaving farce and drollery we turn to more serious matter in Blanche Willis Howard's The Open Door. It is the story of a young German officer made a hopeless cripple by an accident,- suddenly changed from the most vigorous activity to lifelong pain and helplessness. The "open door" is the one that stands before every man as the last bitter resource when life presses too heavily,— suicide. The young man gathers in a little black book, as food for his melancholy musings, all the literature he can find on self-destruction, from the words of the ancient philosophers down to clippings of current newspaper accounts of the rash acts of hapless lovers. His 1 The Open Door. By Blanche Willis Howard. mother, who with her pet dog "does " the comedy of the story, is of the suspicious, selfish, "misunderstood" type, and has a regular succession of companions, who arrive with applause and depart in a few weeks or months amid a shower of metaphorical brickbats. The heroine of the story is a young baroness, a distant relative, who comes to take her turn in this insecure position. Of course she and the crippled son soon love each other, though the lady has to do the love-making to overcome his honorable reluctance to link her life with his wrecked one. The time of the story is the present, the scene rural Germany. So much for the barest outline of the framework of the story, which is managed with great skill. The hero and heroine are kept apart so far by his gloomy humors that it is half through the book before they exchange six words, and another quarter before before they arrive at a conversation in any degree confidential, but of course when the ice is broken events move rapidly. The study of these two main characters is very careful, his bitter but manly thoughts, and gradual yielding to the softening influence of time, the great healer,-- her firmness and pride under the insults heaped upon her by the old Countess, her sturdy resistance to the narrowing dictates of society as represented by the Countess and the parasitic Frau Major, her tenderness for the crippled Count always growing stronger because unexpressed, and her earnest efforts to do the good she finds to do, —all these are drawn with sympathetic and loving touch till the result is a real creation, and Hugo and Gabrielle take their welcome places in that literary world which seems little less real than the living. The lesser characters are as strong in their way. There is Lipps, the faithful serving man, who turns his master four Boston: Houghton, Mifflin, & Co.: 1889. For sale in times a night in the early stages of per San Francisco by Samuel Carson & Co. fect helplessness, and hides the pistols |