I could no more; I veiled my wearied eyes. I said, "Is this indeed the High Ideal? If so, give me plain faces, common skies, The homely and the real." But no, this limbo is _not_ that fair land, Beloved of soaring fancies, hearts ecstatic; 'Tis the Fools' Paradise of a small band, Queer, crude, absurd, erratic. I turned, and murmured, as I passed away, "Such limbos of mimetic immaturity Have no abiding hold e'en on to-day, Of fame no calm security." For over all there hung a glamour queer, A sense of something odd the spirit daunted, And said, like a witch-whisper in the ear, "This place is haunted!" _Punch_, May 18, 1878. * * * * * FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 6: "Bonnie Jean's" maiden name.] Bret Harte. The humorous writings of this author are as widely read, and as keenly appreciated, in England as in the United States, and when the prose portion of this collection is reached his _Sensation Novels Condensed_ will be fully considered. In these he has admirably hit off the peculiarities of style of such varied writers as Miss Braddon, Victor Hugo, Charles Lever, Lord Lytton, Alexander Dumas, F. Cooper, Captain Marryat, Charles Dickens, Charlotte Brontë, and Wilkie Collins; whilst in _Lothaw_ he produced a clever little parody of Lord Beaconsfield's _Lothair_. Bret Harte has ably described both the comic and the pathetic sides of the wild life of the Californian miners, with which he is thoroughly familiar; and his best known poems deal with phases of life in that part of the world, where the Chinese element enters largely into the population. For convenience of comparison, the original "Heathen Chinee" is given below, followed by the parodies:-- PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES. _Table Mountain_, 1870. Which I wish to remark-- And my language is plain-- That for ways that are dark, And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar, Which the same I would rise to explain. Ah Sin was his name; And I will not deny In regard to the same What that name might imply; But his smile it was pensive and childlike, As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. It was August the third, And quite soft was the skies; Which it might be inferred That Ah Sin was likewise; Yet he played it that day upon William And me in a way I despise. Which we had a small game And Ah Sin took a hand. It was Euchre. The same He did not understand; But he smiled as he sat by the table, With a smile that was childlike and bland. Yet the cards they were stocked In a way that I grieve, And my feelings were shocked At the state of Nye's sleeve: Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, And the same with intent to deceive.