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Francis Bret Harte (Ôðýíñèñ Áðåò Ãàðò) Cadet Grey CANTO I I Act first, scene first. A study. Of a kind Half cell, half salon, opulent yet grave; Rare books, low-shelved, yet far above the mind Of common man to compass or to crave; Some slight relief of pamphlets that inclined The soul at first to trifling, till, dismayed By text and title, it drew back resigned, Nor cared with levity to vex a shade That to itself such perfect concord made. II Some thoughts like these perplexed the patriot brain Of Jones, Lawgiver to the Commonwealth, As on the threshold of this chaste domain He paused expectant, and looked up in stealth To darkened canvases that frowned amain, With stern-eyed Puritans, who first began To spread their roots in Georgius Primus' reign, Nor dropped till now, obedient to some plan, Their century fruit,—the perfect Boston man. III Somewhere within that Russia-scented gloom A voice catarrhal thrilled the Member's ear: "Brief is our business, Jones. Look round this room! Regard yon portraits! Read their meaning clear! These much proclaim MY station. I presume YOU are our Congressman, before whose wit And sober judgment shall the youth appear Who for West Point is deemed most just and fit To serve his country and to honor it." IV "Such is my son! Elsewhere perhaps 'twere wise Trial competitive should guide your choice. There are some people I can well surmise Themselves must show their merits. History's voice Spares me that trouble: all desert that lies In yonder ancestor of Queen Anne's day, Or yon grave Governor, is all my boy's,— Reverts to him; entailed, as one might say; In brief, result in Winthrop Adams Grey!" V He turned and laid his well-bred hand, and smiled, On the cropped head of one who stood beside. Ah me! in sooth it was no ruddy child Nor brawny youth that thrilled the father's pride; 'Twas but a Mind that somehow had beguiled From soulless Matter processes that served For speech and motion and digestion mild, Content if all one moral purpose nerved, Nor recked thereby its spine were somewhat curved. VI He was scarce eighteen. Yet ere he was eight He had despoiled the classics; much he knew Of Sanskrit; not that he placed undue weight On this, but that it helped him with Hebrew, His favorite tongue. He learned, alas! too late, One can't begin too early,—would regret That boyish whim to ascertain the state Of Venus' atmosphere made him forget That philologic goal on which his soul was set. VII He too had traveled; at the age of ten Found Paris empty, dull except for art And accent. "Mabille" with its glories then Less than Egyptian "Almees" touched a heart Nothing if not pure classic. If some men Thought him a prig, it vexed not his conceit, But moved his pity, and ofttimes his pen, The better to instruct them, through some sheet Published in Boston, and signed "Beacon Street." VIII From premises so plain the blind could see But one deduction, and it came next day. "In times like these, the very name of G. Speaks volumes," wrote the Honorable J. "Inclosed please find appointment." Presently Came a reception to which Harvard lent Fourteen professors, and, to give esprit, The Liberal Club some eighteen ladies sent, Five that spoke Greek, and thirteen sentiment. IX Four poets came who loved each other's song, And two philosophers, who thought that they Were in most things impractical and wrong; And two reformers, each in his own way Peculiar,—one who had waxed strong On herbs and water, and such simple fare; Two foreign lions, "Ram See" and "Chy Long," And several artists claimed attention there, Based on the fact they had been snubbed elsewhere. X With this indorsement nothing now remained But counsel, Godspeed, and some calm adieux; No foolish tear the father's eyelash stained, And Winthrop's cheek as guiltless shone of dew. A slight publicity, such as obtained In classic Rome, these few last hours attended. The day arrived, the train and depot gained, The mayor's own presence this last act commended The train moved off and here the first act ended. CANTO II I Where West Point crouches, and with lifted shield Turns the whole river eastward through the pass; Whose jutting crags, half silver, stand revealed Like bossy bucklers of Leonidas; Where buttressed low against the storms that wield Their summer lightnings where her eaglets swarm, By Freedom's cradle Nature's self has steeled Her heart, like Winkelried, and to that storm Of leveled lances bares her bosom warm. II But not to-night. The air and woods are still, The faintest rustle in the trees below, The lowest tremor from the mountain rill, Come to the ear as but the trailing flow Of spirit robes that walk unseen the hill; The moon low sailing o'er the upland farm, The moon low sailing where the waters fill The lozenge lake, beside the banks of balm, Gleams like a chevron on the river's arm. III All space breathes languor: from the hilltop high, Where Putnam's bastion crumbles in the past, To swooning depths where drowsy cannon lie And wide-mouthed mortars gape in slumbers vast; Stroke upon stroke, the far oars glance and die On the hushed bosom of the sleeping stream; Bright for one moment drifts a white sail by, Bright for one moment shows a bayonet gleam Far on the level plain, then passes as a dream. IV Soft down the line of darkened battlements, Bright on each lattice of the barrack walls, Where the low arching sallyport indents, Seen through its gloom beyond, the moonbeam falls. All is repose save where the camping tents Mock the white gravestones farther on, where sound No morning guns for reveille, nor whence No drum-beat calls retreat, but still is ever found Waiting and present on each sentry's round. V Within the camp they lie, the young, the brave, Half knight, half schoolboy, acolytes of fame, Pledged to one altar, and perchance one grave; Bred to fear nothing but reproach and blame, Ascetic dandies o'er whom vestals rave, Clean-limbed young Spartans, disciplined young elves, Taught to destroy, that they may live to save, Students embattled, soldiers at their shelves, Heroes whose conquests are at first themselves. VI Within the camp they lie, in dreams are freed From the grim discipline they learn to love; In dreams no more the sentry's challenge heed, In dreams afar beyond their pickets rove; One treads once more the piny paths that lead To his green mountain home, and pausing hears The cattle call; one treads the tangled weed Of slippery rocks beside Atlantic piers; One smiles in sleep, one wakens wet with tears. VII One scents the breath of jasmine flowers that twine The pillared porches of his Southern home; One hears the coo of pigeons in the pine Of Western woods where he was wont to roam; One sees the sunset fire the distant line Where the long prairie sweeps its levels down; One treads the snow-peaks; one by lamps that shine Down the broad highways of the sea-girt town; And two are missing,—Cadets Grey and Brown! VIII Much as I grieve to chronicle the fact, That selfsame truant known as "Cadet Grey" Was the young hero of our moral tract, Shorn of his twofold names on entrance-day. "Winthrop" and "Adams" dropped in that one act Of martial curtness, and the roll-call thinned Of his ancestors, he with youthful tact Indulgence claimed, since Winthrop no more sinned, Nor sainted Adams winced when he, plain Grey, was "skinned." IX He had known trials since we saw him last, By sheer good luck had just escaped rejection, Not for his learning, but that it was cast In a spare frame scarce fit for drill inspection; But when he ope'd his lips a stream so vast Of information flooded each professor, They quite forgot his eyeglass,—something past All precedent,—accepting the transgressor, Weak eyes and all of which he was possessor. X E'en the first day he touched a blackboard's space— So the tradition of his glory lingers— Two wise professors fainted, each with face White as the chalk within his rapid fingers: All day he ciphered, at such frantic pace, His form was hid in chalk precipitation Of every problem, till they said his case Could meet from them no fair examination Till Congress made a new appropriation. XI Famous in molecules, he demonstrated From the mess hash to many a listening classful; Great as a botanist, he separated Three kinds of "Mentha" in one julep's glassful; High in astronomy, it has been stated He was the first at West Point to discover Mars' missing satellites, and calculated Their true positions, not the heavens over, But 'neath the window of Miss Kitty Rover. XII Indeed, I fear this novelty celestial That very night was visible and clear; At least two youths of aspect most terrestrial, And clad in uniform, were loitering near A villa's casement, where a gentle vestal Took their impatience somewhat patiently, Knowing the youths were somewhat green and "bestial"— (A certain slang of the Academy, I beg the reader won't refer to me). XIII For when they ceased their ardent strain, Miss Kitty Glowed not with anger nor a kindred flame, But rather flushed with an odd sort of pity, Half matron's kindness, and half coquette's shame; Proud yet quite blameful, when she heard their ditty She gave her soul poetical expression, And being clever too, as she was pretty, From her high casement warbled this confession,— Half provocation and one half repression:— NOT YET Not yet, O friend, not yet! the patient stars Lean from their lattices, content to wait. All is illusion till the morning bars Slip from the levels of the Eastern gate. Night is too young, O friend! day is too near; Wait for the day that maketh all things clear. Not yet, O friend, not yet! Not yet, O love, not yet! all is not true, All is not ever as it seemeth now. Soon shall the river take another blue, Soon dies yon light upon the mountain brow. What lieth dark, O love, bright day will fill; Wait for thy morning, be it good or ill. Not yet, O love, not yet! XIV The strain was finished; softly as the night Her voice died from the window, yet e'en then Fluttered and fell likewise a kerchief white; But that no doubt was accident, for when She sought her couch she deemed her conduct quite Beyond the reach of scandalous commenter,— Washing her hands of either gallant wight, Knowing the moralist might compliment her,— Thus voicing Siren with the words of Mentor. XV She little knew the youths below, who straight Dived for her kerchief, and quite overlooked The pregnant moral she would inculcate; Nor dreamed the less how little Winthrop brooked Her right to doubt his soul's maturer state. Brown—who was Western, amiable, and new— Might take the moral and accept his fate; The which he did, but, being stronger too, Took the white kerchief, also, as his due. XVI They did not quarrel, which no doubt seemed queer To those who knew not how their friendship blended; Each was opposed, and each the other's peer, Yet each the other in some things transcended. Where Brown lacked culture, brains,—and oft, I fear, Cash in his pocket,—Grey of course supplied him; Where Grey lacked frankness, force, and faith sincere, Brown of his manhood suffered none to chide him, But in his faults stood manfully beside him. XVII In academic walks and studies grave, In the camp drill and martial occupation, They helped each other: but just here I crave Space for the reader's full imagination,— The fact is patent, Grey became a slave! A tool, a fag, a "pleb"! To state it plainer, All that blue blood and ancestry e'er gave Cleaned guns, brought water!—was, in fact, retainer To Jones, whose uncle was a paper-stainer! XVIII How they bore this at home I cannot say: I only know so runs the gossip's tale. It chanced one day that the paternal Grey Came to West Point that he himself might hail The future hero in some proper way Consistent with his lineage. With him came A judge, a poet, and a brave array Of aunts and uncles, bearing each a name, Eyeglass and respirator with the same. XIX "Observe!" quoth Grey the elder to his friends, "Not in these giddy youths at baseball playing You'll notice Winthrop Adams! Greater ends Than these absorb HIS leisure. No doubt straying With Caesar's Commentaries, he attends Some Roman council. Let us ask, however, Yon grimy urchin, who my soul offends By wheeling offal, if he will endeavor To find— What! heaven! Winthrop! Oh! no! never!" XX Alas! too true! The last of all the Greys Was "doing police detail,"—it had come To this; in vain the rare historic bays That crowned the pictured Puritans at home! And yet 'twas certain that in grosser ways Of health and physique he was quite improving. Straighter he stood, and had achieved some praise In other exercise, much more behooving A soldier's taste than merely dirt removing. XXI But to resume: we left the youthful pair, Some stanzas back, before a lady's bower; 'Tis to be hoped they were no longer there, For stars were pointing to the morning hour. Their escapade discovered, ill 'twould fare With our two heroes, derelict of orders; But, like the ghost, they "scent the morning air," And back again they steal across the borders, Unseen, unheeded, by their martial warders. XXII They got to bed with speed: young Grey to dream Of some vague future with a general's star, And Mistress Kitty basking in its gleam; While Brown, content to worship her afar, Dreamed himself dying by some lonely stream, Having snatched Kitty from eighteen Nez Perces, Till a far bugle, with the morning beam, In his dull ear its fateful song rehearses, Which Winthrop Adams after put to verses. XXIII So passed three years of their novitiate, The first real boyhood Grey had ever known. His youth ran clear,—not choked like his Cochituate, In civic pipes, but free and pure alone; Yet knew repression, could himself habituate To having mind and body well rubbed down, Could read himself in others, and could situate Themselves in him,—except, I grieve to own, He couldn't see what Kitty saw in Brown! XXIV At last came graduation; Brown received In the One Hundredth Cavalry commission; Then frolic, flirting, parting,—when none grieved Save Brown, who loved our young Academician. And Grey, who felt his friend was still deceived By Mistress Kitty, who with other beauties Graced the occasion, and it was believed Had promised Brown that when he could recruit his Promised command, she'd share with him those duties. XXV Howe'er this was I know not; all I know, The night was June's, the moon rode high and clear; "'Twas such a night as this," three years ago, Miss Kitty sang the song that two might hear. There is a walk where trees o'erarching grow, Too wide for one, not wide enough for three (A fact precluding any plural beau), Which quite explained Miss Kitty's company, But not why Grey that favored one should be. XXVI There is a spring, whose limpid waters hide Somewhere within the shadows of that path Called Kosciusko's. There two figures bide,— Grey and Miss Kitty. Surely Nature hath No fairer mirror for a might-be bride Than this same pool that caught our gentle belle To its dark heart one moment. At her side Grey bent. A something trembled o'er the well, Bright, spherical—a tear? Ah no! a button fell! XXVII "Material minds might think that gravitation," Quoth Grey, "drew yon metallic spheroid down. The soul poetic views the situation Fraught with more meaning. When thy girlish crown Was mirrored there, there was disintegration Of me, and all my spirit moved to you, Taking the form of slow precipitation!" But here came "Taps," a start, a smile, adieu! A blush, a sigh, and end of Canto II. BUGLE SONG Fades the light, And afar Goeth day, cometh night; And a star Leadeth all, Speedeth all To their rest! Love, good-night! Must thou go When the day And the light Need thee so,— Needeth all, Heedeth all, That is best? CANTO III I Where the sun sinks through leagues of arid sky, Where the sun dies o'er leagues of arid plain, Where the dead bones of wasted rivers lie, Trailed from their channels in yon mountain chain; Where day by day naught takes the wearied eye But the low-rimming mountains, sharply based On the dead levels, moving far or nigh, As the sick vision wanders o'er the waste, But ever day by day against the sunset traced: II There moving through a poisonous cloud that stings With dust of alkali the trampling band Of Indian ponies, ride on dusky wings The red marauders of the Western land; Heavy with spoil, they seek the trail that brings Their flaunting lances to that sheltered bank Where lie their lodges; and the river sings Forgetful of the plain beyond, that drank Its life blood, where the wasted caravan sank. III They brought with them the thief's ignoble spoil, The beggar's dole, the greed of chiffonnier, The scum of camps, the implements of toil Snatched from dead hands, to rust as useless here; All they could rake or glean from hut or soil Piled their lean ponies, with the jackdaw's greed For vacant glitter. It were scarce a foil To all this tinsel that one feathered reed Bore on its barb two scalps that freshly bleed! IV They brought with them, alas! a wounded foe, Bound hand and foot, yet nursed with cruel care, Lest that in death he might escape one throe They had decreed his living flesh should bear: A youthful officer, by one foul blow Of treachery surprised, yet fighting still Amid his ambushed train, calm as the snow Above him; hopeless, yet content to spill His blood with theirs, and fighting but to kill. V He had fought nobly, and in that brief spell Had won the awe of those rude border men Who gathered round him, and beside him fell In loyal faith and silence, save that when By smoke embarrassed, and near sight as well, He paused to wipe his eyeglass, and decide Its nearer focus, there arose a yell Of approbation, and Bob Barker cried, "Wade in, Dundreary!" tossed his cap and—died. VI Their sole survivor now! his captors bear Him all unconscious, and beside the stream Leave him to rest; meantime the squaws prepare The stake for sacrifice: nor wakes a gleam Of pity in those Furies' eyes that glare Expectant of the torture; yet alway His steadfast spirit shines and mocks them there With peace they know not, till at close of day On his dull ear there thrills a whispered "Grey!" VII He starts! Was it a trick? Had angels kind Touched with compassion some weak woman's breast? Such things he'd read of! Faintly to his mind Came Pocahontas pleading for her guest. But then, this voice, though soft, was still inclined To baritone! A squaw in ragged gown Stood near him, frowning hatred. Was he blind? Whose eye was this beneath that beetling frown? The frown was painted, but that wink meant—Brown! VIII "Hush! for your life and mine! the thongs are cut," He whispers; "in yon thicket stands my horse. One dash!—I follow close, as if to glut My own revenge, yet bar the others' course. Now!" And 'tis done. Grey speeds, Brown follows; but Ere yet they reach the shade, Grey, fainting, reels, Yet not before Brown's circling arms close shut His in, uplifting him! Anon he feels A horse beneath him bound, and hears the rattling heels. IX Then rose a yell of baffled hate, and sprang Headlong the savages in swift pursuit; Though speed the fugitives, they hope to hang Hot on their heels, like wolves, with tireless foot. Long is the chase; Brown hears with inward pang The short, hard panting of his gallant steed Beneath its double burden; vainly rang Both voice and spur. The heaving flanks may bleed, Yet comes the sequel that they still must heed! X Brown saw it—reined his steed; dismounting, stood Calm and inflexible. "Old chap! you see There is but ONE escape. You know it? Good! There is ONE man to take it. You are he. The horse won't carry double. If he could, 'Twould but protract this bother. I shall stay: I've business with these devils, they with me; I will occupy them till you get away. Hush! quick time, forward. There! God bless you, Grey!" XI But as he finished, Grey slipped to his feet, Calm as his ancestors in voice and eye: "You do forget yourself when you compete With him whose RIGHT it is to stay and die: That's not YOUR duty. Please regain your seat; And take my ORDERS—since I rank you here!— Mount and rejoin your men, and my defeat Report at quarters. Take this letter; ne'er Give it to aught but HER, nor let aught interfere." XII And, shamed and blushing, Brown the letter took Obediently and placed it in his pocket; Then, drawing forth another, said, "I look For death as you do, wherefore take this locket And letter." Here his comrade's hand he shook In silence. "Should we both together fall, Some other man"—but here all speech forsook His lips, as ringing cheerily o'er all He heard afar his own dear bugle-call! XIII 'Twas his command and succor, but e'en then Grey fainted, with poor Brown, who had forgot He likewise had been wounded, and both men Were picked up quite unconscious of their lot. Long lay they in extremity, and when They both grew stronger, and once more exchanged Old vows and memories, one common "den" In hospital was theirs, and free they ranged, Awaiting orders, but no more estranged. XIV And yet 'twas strange—nor can I end my tale Without this moral, to be fair and just: They never sought to know why each did fail The prompt fulfillment of the other's trust. It was suggested they could not avail Themselves of either letter, since they were Duly dispatched to their address by mail By Captain X., who knew Miss Rover fair Now meant stout Mistress Bloggs of Blank Blank Square. Francis Bret Harte's other poems:
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