* * * * *
That picture,—it was the first and last he painted in California. I kept it long, rejoicing in the admiration it excited, and only grieved that the poor comfort of the praises I daily heard lavished upon it could never reach him.
Once, when I was ill in Sacramento, my San Francisco house was burned, but not before its contents had been removed. In the hopeless scattering of furniture and trunks, this picture disappeared,—no one knew whither. I sought it everywhere, and advertised for it, but in vain. About a year afterward, I sailed for Honolulu. I had letters of introduction to some young American merchants there, one of whom hospitably made me his guest for several weeks. On the second day of my stay with him, he was showing me over his house, where, hanging against the wall in a spare room, I found,—not the Pintal picture, but a Chinese copy of it, faithful in its every detail. There were the several alterations I had suggested, and there the rich, warm colors that Pintal's taste had chosen. Of course, it was a copy. No doubt, my picture had been stolen at the fire, or found its way by mistake among the "traps" of other people. Then it had been sold at auction,—some Chinaman had bought it,—it had been shipped to Canton or Hong Kong,—some one of the thousand "artists" of China Street or the Victoria Road had copied it for the American market. A ship-load of Chinese goods—Canton crape shawls, camphor-boxes, carved toys, curiosities, and pictures—had been sold in Honolulu,—and here it was.
* * * * *
THE HOUSE THAT WAS JUST LIKE ITS NEIGHBORS.
Oh, the houses are all alike, you know,—
All the houses alike, in a row!
You'll see a hat-stand in the hall,
Against the painted and polished wall;
And the threaded sunbeams softly fall
On the long stairs, winding up, away
Up to the garret, lone and gray:
And you can hear, if you wait awhile,
Odd little noises to make you smile;
And minutes will be as long as a mile;—
Just as they would in the house below,
Were you in the entry waiting to go.
Oh, the houses are all alike, you know,—
All the houses alike, in a row!
And the world swings sadly to and fro,—
Mayhap the shining, but sure the woe!
For in the sunlight the shadows grow
Over the new name on the door,
Over the face unseen before.
Yet who shall number, by any art,
The chasms that keep so wide apart
The dancing step and the weary heart?
Oh, who shall guess that the polished wall
Is a headstone over his neighbor's hall?
Yet the houses are just alike, you know,—
All the houses alike, in a row!
And solemn sounds are heard at night,
And solemn forms shut out the light,
And hideous thoughts the soul affright:
Death and despair, in solemn state,
In the silent, vaulted chambers wait;
And up the stairs as your children go,
Spectres follow them, to and fro,—
Only a wall between them, oh!
And the darkest demons, grinning, see
The fairest angels that dwell with thee!
For the houses are all alike, you know,—
All the houses alike, in a row!
My chariot waited, gold and gay:
"I'll ride," I said, "to the woods to-day,—
Out to the blithesome woods away,—
Where the old trees, swaying thoughtfully,
Watch the breeze and the shadow's glee."
I smiled but once, with my joy elate,
For a chariot stood at my neighbor's gate,—
A grim old chariot, dark as fate.
"Oh, where are you taking my neighbor?" I cried.
And the gray old driver thus replied:—
"Where the houses are all alike, you know,—
Narrow houses, all in a row!
Unto a populous city," he saith:
"The road lies steep through the Vale of Death
Oh, it makes the old steeds gasp for breath!
There'll be a new name over the door,
In a place where he's never been before,—
Where the neighbors never visit, they say,—
Where the streets are echoless, night and day,
And the children forget their childish play.
And if you should live next door, I doubt
If you'd ever hear what they were about
Who lived in the next house in the row,—
Though the houses are all alike, you know!"