and blossoms, and the tender heads of the young growing maize were
drooping in weakness and sorrow, when from his lofty mountain lodge
came forth Tu-toch-a-nu-lah. In his hand he held the magic calumet.
Seating himself on a rocky height whence he could smile down upon
his faithful people, he smoked, and blew the perfumed clouds toward
heaven. It was early in the morning, and the red-glowing Sun Father
was just rising from behind the mountains, his thirsty beams greedily
drinking the lovely diamond-like dew-drops that tremblingly hung upon
the verdure of the valley.
“At the further end of the valley was a mighty gray dome of time-worn
granite, smooth and round as though made and polished by human hands.
As the circling smoke rings rose from the sachem’s calumet, the gentle
breeze bore them slowly to the southward, where they lingered in
fantastic wreaths about the dome. The sun gilded with its brilliant
beams the rocky summit and pierced the hovering clouds of perfumed
pipe smoke as with golden arrows. The dome was surrounded as it were
with a splendid halo, such as the chieftain had never before seen.
As he gazed, the sky above the dome was illumined as by a gigantic,
surpassingly beautiful rainbow.
“The smoke now faded away and there in a blaze of golden glory sat a
maiden! Beautiful was she, beyond all the women Tu-toch-a-nu-lah had
ever seen. She was not like the dusky, dark-eyed, raven-haired maidens
of his tribe, for her skin was like the warm and radiant glow of
the fiery setting sun on the calm still waters of the blue Pacific.
Red were her cheeks like the roses of the valley. Her hair, like the
ripened maize in autumn, fell over her white shoulders and about her
lovely form as falls the sparkling spray of the beautiful cataract--the
Bridal Veil, Po-ho-no--like golden water rippling over rocks of silver.
Shining fair was her brow as though illumined by the pale, soft beauty
of moonlight, and deep and dark was the liquid blue of her eyes, like
the shaded pools of the verdant valley, far, far below. Small and
shining was her foot, like a tuft of feathery snow twinkling through
the boughs of the pines and firs in winter--like the spring of a fairy
bow was its graceful arch. Over her dimpled, ivory shoulders fluttered
two delicate wings of rose-like cloud. As his eyes fell upon her she
called to him. Sweet and sad was her voice as the call of the night
bird of the forest.
“The Sachem sprang to his feet and stood and gazed in speechless
wonder. The precious red calumet fell unheeded to the ground, whence it
bounded off the rocky ledge and went clattering down to a fragmentary
fate on the cruel jagged rocks below.
“The beautiful maiden smiled upon him, and whispered softly as
she held out her arms lovingly, entreatingly toward him. ‘I, thy
Tis-sa-ack, am here. Oh, Tu-toch-a-nu-lah, come’--then gliding swiftly
up the smooth and dangerous rocky dome, she vanished over its rounded
top.
“As springs the startled deer from his leafy covert in the woods,
so, with heart aflame, sprang Tu-toch-a-nu-lah in pursuit of the
lovely maiden. Swift and sure of foot was he like the panther of the
mountains, alert was he of ear like the wolf of the prairie, keen was
his eye as that of the eagle, yet hopeless was his pursuit. The soft
and beautiful down from her snowy wings was wafted back, veiling her
from his enamored eyes and enveloping him in a feathery cloud denser
than the mist of the morning. When the mountain breeze had borne
the obscuring cloud away and he could once more see, the maiden had
disappeared. There was naught upon the dome but a rosy haze that was
fast dissolving before the merciless rays of the Sun Father. Far below
him he saw the smoke of the cheerful camp fires of his people--the
people who loved him and whom he loved. But he turned again and gazed
longingly at the rocky dome.
“So fell the wise and mighty chieftain before the arrows of all
conquering Love. He at last was as other men--touched by the divine
fire.
* * * * *
“The ardent passion of new found love leaves room for no other
sentiment, and his people soon found Th-toch-a-nu-lah sadly changed.
He went no more upon the hunt or fierce foray; the savage bear no
longer cowered and trembled at the dread sound of his footstep amid
the mountains; his enemies blanched not, nor quaked with fear at the
thunder of his voice. The sachem was no longer the wise counsellor and
devoted ruler; he was like a new and strange being, and his neglected
people marvelled much, and beheld the change with sorrow.
“Every morning was Tu-toch-a-nu-lah to be found eagerly wending his way
to the rocky dome where he first saw the lovely Tis-sa-ack. He laid
love offerings of wild flowers and the fruit of the bread pine upon the
rocky dome, and awaited her coming with all the ardor of one upon whose
heart love has but newly smiled. But only when he was far distant from
the dome on which she sat enthroned would the beautiful maiden appear
before his dazzled vision.
“Pursue her as quickly as he might, he caught her not. He heard but
the faint and far-away sound of her footsteps, gentle as the falling
of an autumn leaf, and the soft rustle of her wings as the unpitying
wind blew their snowy, bewildering down into his longing eyes. He might
devour with passionate glances her beautiful, shining form; he might in
thought revel in her glory of golden hair; he might even look from afar
into the limpid depths of her gentle blue eyes, yet was he never to
clasp his loved one to his bosom. Struck dumb by her wondrous beauty,
never did he speak before her, and never again did her sweet-toned
voice fall like the tinkle of rippling brooks upon his enamored ear.
“And with the full blossoming of the flower of love in the heart of
the sagamore came neglect of duty. His all absorbing passion swallowed
up all regard for the welfare of his people--all remembrance of the
beautiful valley for which he had ever so tenderly cared. The world
was lost and found in Tis-sa-ack. So all consuming was his passion for
her, so constant his thoughts of her, that the crops of Yosemite were
neglected--aye, forgotten, and they, being without rain and deprived
of his tender care, drooped their delicate heads mournfully and
shrank away and died. The breezes whistled and sighed sadly through
the juiceless blades of the wild corn that rustled in shrivelled dry
response that had naught of life in it. The grass and leaves lost their
freshness and turned autumnal brown--sure harbinger of death. The
flowers lost their freshness and beauty and their petals fell to the
dry earth, one by one, while the bee no longer stored sweet honey in
the hollow trees.
“Dazzled were the eyes of Tu-toch-a-nu-lah by the shining wings, golden
hair and ivory throat of the beautiful maiden, and he saw none of this.
Love had blinded him to all save its object.
“But the fair Tis-sa-ack looked down upon the unhappy neglected valley
with eyes of sorrow, as she stood in the early morning upon the mighty
dome. As she gazed she wept with compassion, and kneeling down on the
smooth, unfeeling rock she besought the Great Spirit to be merciful
unto the beautiful valley of Yosemite and bring forth again the
beautiful flowers and green trees and shrubs, the delicate grasses,
nodding firs and waving maize.
“Then, with an awful crash as of thunder, beneath her feet the great
dome was riven asunder, and the melting snows of the Nevada gushed
through the wonderful gorge as if by magic! A lovely lake formed
between the steep walls of living rock, and a gently murmuring river
started therefrom on its meandering, life-giving course through the
parched and thirsty valley.
“And then came a wonderful transformation. The valley was infused with
new life. The flowers and trees, the withered grass and the yellowing
maize raised their dying heads and smiled with joy as the stream of
life crept silently through the parched soil at their shrunken roots.
The breeze was laden with the perfumed thanks of the blossoms; the
freshened blades of the wild corn rustled and shivered with pleasure
as the moisture laden air softly caressed them. The mighty trees were
thrilled with delight as the sap, with velvet footfall, ran up their
trunks, bringing life and energy and renewed vigor. All was peace and
happiness again, and the valley of the Yosemite was once more verdant
and beautiful.
“But the mysterious maiden, for whom the valley had so sadly
suffered--she who had so successfully appealed to the Manitou--was seen
no more. As she flew swiftly as flies the swallow, away toward the
western skies, there to fade from the sachem’s sight forever, myriads
of delicate downy tufts were wafted from her lovely wings. They fell
upon the margin of the new and beautiful lake, and where they fell may
to-day be seen thousands on thousands of fragrant little white violets.
“And Tu-toch-a-nu-lah is still wandering sadly about the world seeking
her whom he loved and lost. Ere he left his ancestral home, to return
no more, that the noble race of Yosemite might never forget him he
carved the outlines of his god-like head upon the haughty rock that
bears his name. There it will forever stand, steadfastly gazing toward
the dome whereon he found and lost Tis-sa-ack, the beloved--the first
and last love of his noble heart.
“Sometimes, when the fragrant morning breeze sweeps gently round and
round the rocky dome, the maidens of the Yosemite whisper one to
another, saying:
“‘Hark! Tis-sa-ack the loved and lost one, is calling the brave
Tu-toch-a-nu-lah.’”
A GREAT CITY’S SHAME
Over the entrance of what was once the Iroquois Theater, hangs a
head, which the sculptor probably intended for the Goddess of Music.
As I gaze upon the head its outlines become first blurred and then
transformed. A Death’s head stands out in bold relief! The noble image
of the Indian Chieftain that was once there, has been consigned to the
Limbo of the Forgotten--to the Valley of Dead Lumber. The Death’s head
grins and grins--grins sardonically. One can almost hear a chuckle,
as the horrid thing looks down upon the heedless, hurrying crowd in
the busy street. Seeing the thing above the door as I passed by in the
midst of the throng to-day, I wondered why it grinned,--why it did not
weep. Did it grin because it knew how soulless were the human things
that inspired the hand which carved it; because it and the men who
placed it there were of the same brotherhood of ghouls; because it felt
that it was a grim satire upon humanity?
Have men whose hearts are adamant, whose souls are sordid, the right to
stamp their own shamelessness upon a helpless block of stone; the right
to hang it where it must perforce reflect their own cold, calculating,
emotion defying inner consciousness upon the man in the street?
Beneath the grinning head, and flanking it below on either side, are
impudently assertive, glaring legends that proclaim in lurid blatant
type--“The Iroquois is no more.” The new temple of Thespis which,
Phœnix like, has risen from the ashes of the old, is a “Music Hall.”
More harshly grating than all is the legend which announces that the
new place of amusement will open to-night. Thus have insensate paint,
paper and ink become accessories to a crime.
Yes, to-night the theater re-opens. “Refined Vaudeville” with a
“Galaxy of Stars,” the bill boards say. And as the players caper about
and sing, dance and perpetrate their quips and jokes, will they not
see? They will gaze out upon the audience that applauds, and how can
they fail to see the wraiths of that other audience? They will all
be there, those ghostly ones. Sitting bolt upright where they died,
piled row upon row in the aisles, massed in bewildering tangles at
the doors--those delusive doors that would not open--they will all be
there. And will _they_ applaud, think you?
In this commercial age there is little room for sentiment. A people
that will permit the fair face of Nature to be disfigured by the
painter of patent medicine ads; that will gaze calmly upon a pictured
ham or the announcement of the birth of a new “liver-pad” on the
Palisades; that will tolerate on our boulevards flaming advertisements
of the latest thing in corsets or “union suits,” is not likely to
protest against a Death’s head that merely grins over the gate of a
charnel house. And yet the people know. They have read of the awful
things that lie behind that awful grin. Many of them have suffered,
still more have seen. A few, a very few, go by on the other side of the
street with suffused eyes averted, and great sobs of agony welling up
in their throats.
“An’ I should live a thousand years,” I could not forget. Many horrible
sights had I seen; much suffering had I witnessed; the faces of the
dead had long since ceased to be a novelty to me and were no longer
awesome;--I fancied I had grown callous. But that awful fire! Would
that I could blunt the memory of it. Would that I might shelve it as
but another experience in the land of Work-a-day.
As I looked upon the Death’s head, it seemed to single me out from the
crowd, leering at me triumphantly. Did it note my emotion and gloat
over it?
I raged inwardly and was tempted to--But, had I seized a paving stone
and smashed that vile image to bits, I could not have made them
understand. Least of all could I have compelled the understanding of
that huge policeman, who stood idly by, swinging his club in a way that
suggested danger to sentimental cranks. When that team of horses swung
around the corner, narrowly missing a woman who, bundles in arms and
children at her side, was frantically trying to cross the street, the
officer was gazing at a figure of Gambrinus in the saloon window across
the way. He had appetites, but no sentiment, that man in blue.
Standing there in the street, jostled and elbowed by the surging crowd
that had no time for dreaming, there rose before me a picture which the
Death’s head also saw;--its expression showed that.
When on that fateful afternoon the call came for physicians to succor
the hapless victims of that pitiless massacre of the innocents, there
was no hesitancy upon the part of all who were within call. They
hastened to respond, and stood not upon the order of their going.
Humanity cried for aid--that was enough. When I arrived at the scene,
only a few moments after the occurrence of the frightful disaster,
the firemen had just forced their way into the foyer. The air within
had begun to be barely breathable. Noticing several firemen groping
their way up one of the marble stairways, I followed them. The air
was so full of pungent smoke that objects were with great difficulty
to be made out. At the top of the stairs, on the landing just outside
the only door that was open in the front of the theater, the firemen
met with an obstruction--a solid, monstrous cube of human bodies, as
high as one could reach. This ghastly mass of bodies was free upon two
sides--at the upper steps of the main stair and at the top of several
steps leading to a main balcony within the foyer. On the other side the
mass was hemmed in by the wall of the stairway. Behind it were piled
the bodies of other human beings who had tried to climb over those
in front and had failed. These last extended from the choked up door
almost to the lower balcony rail within the theater. There was another
door, but this was closed tight, and staunchly held by a strong lock
and a heavy something behind it.
Seeing this wall of bodies I stopped short;--I confess it. The awful
shock of it all came over me. For a moment I felt my knees give way
beneath me. I grew faint and sick,--and then started back the way I had
come. Half way down the stairs I stopped, and pulling myself together
went back to duty. And then I stayed, like a soldier who runs away at
the first volley of shot, but comes back and fights to the end.
The firemen were pulling at the mass of bodies, vainly trying to
dislodge them. Several of the men climbed on top of the awful pile and
tried to disentangle the bodies, bruising and crushing the while the
upturned faces and helpless limbs with their cruel boots.
Alas! The mass of bodies was not to be untangled until too late, far
too late. And yet, the pile was free upon two sides, and it looked
easy enough to extricate those who were there. And so we tugged, and
strained, and pulled, and pried at them. “My God!” I thought. “If we
can only break the dead-lock and get them started!”
“Break the dead-lock?” Well, perhaps we might have done so if we had
worked longer and more systematically. But the firemen said, “It’s no
use.”
A big policeman who stood idly by, too dignified to help in the work of
rescue, said to me, “Gwan out o’ that!”
“But,” I answered, “I’m a doctor. Some of these people _must_ be alive.
I can’t go away without trying to get a body out. If I get only one out
we may break the lock.”
And again he said, “Gwan out o’ that, or I’ll--” and he brandished his
club menacingly.
And so I went “out o’ that.” I climbed over the bannister and on to
the balcony and attacked the bodies from the other side, unnoticed by
the officer and free from interference by the firemen, who had all
gone, save two or three whose feet were still grinding and crushing the
inanimate forms on the top of the pile.
Again I tugged and pulled at the bodies, this time with better success.
Down in one corner of the mass, protected somewhat by the marble pillar
forming the arch which connected the landing with the balcony, lay a
little boy of perhaps ten years of age. I drew him out quite easily. He
still breathed. Next to him lay the body of a grey haired woman. Her
face was gashed across by a blow from the boot of some one caught in
the death struggles of that pile. As I dragged her body from beneath
the towering mass of death, an opera glass, innocent accessory to
murder, fell from her nerveless hand and clattered upon the marble
floor of the balcony. She, too, was alive.
Curiosity seekers had by this time entered the building. I impressed
several of them into service, and between us we carried the bodies of
the old woman and the boy down the stair by which they had climbed to
their deaths, to the street, and into the restaurant next-door, which
was rapidly becoming transformed into a morgue and hospital emergency
ward. Leaving the poor creatures to the care of some of my brother
physicians, I rushed back to that pile of bodies--to again attempt to
break that awful dead-lock.
As I re-entered the door of the theater I heard a man wildly
expostulating with several policemen. He madly insisted on entering,
and they as strenuously refused to allow him to do so. His voice
seemed familiar, and I turned to look. He sprang past the opposing arms
of the officers, grasped me by the shoulders and cried, “My God! man,
can’t you help me? My daughters are in there somewhere!” He was one of
my oldest and dearest friends. I had watched his children grow up from
babyhood to childhood, from childhood to womanhood and loved them.
“Surely,” I said, “you are mistaken.”
“No, no, I am sure!” he cried, in agony. “Help me to find them, oh,
help me to find them!”
“Come with me,” I replied, as I sprang up the stairs. Pointing to the
pile of bodies on the landing, I said, “If they were in the theater
at all, let us hope that they have either escaped or are here in this
pile. Help me, Harry, let us try to get these bodies free.”
Imprisoned in the mass of bodies, hanging several feet above the floor,
caught only by the lower limbs, with the head, trunk and arms perfectly
free, was the body of a powerful man. Surely this one could be removed.
My friend, one of the strongest men I know, assisted me, and we pulled
at the body until--well, until my poor friend weakened and fled. And
then two other sturdy men came to my aid, and we tugged at the body
until a policeman drove us away. And my dear friend’s children were in
that heap of dead all the while!
Not until the theater proper was entered, and the bodies that were
heaped up behind them removed, did it become possible to remove the
dead upon the landing. Oh, the pity of it! There they lay, apparently
outside the zone of danger and death. And the hands that would fain
have saved them were impotent. Untangle them? Think of a lot of huge
angle-worms massed together; give those angle-worms legs and arms to
twist and intertwine, hands to grip in the death throes, and heads to
interlock, and you may understand. And yet, perhaps not,--I myself
could not understand, nor believe, had I not seen.
Looking back upon that awful scene of desolation I can find but one
crumb of comfort--only one consolation. At the time I felt that many
in that pile of human forms must surely be alive and could be saved,
if only they could be extricated. Oh, the horror of the idea! It
overwhelmed me then. But now as my mind reverts to that scene of death,
I am sure that very few could have been alive, surer still that none
were conscious. I recall that not a sound came from those lost ones.
Not a cry for help, not a moan of distress, not even a sigh to indicate
that life was still there. Oh, the awful stillness of it all! The
stillness of the dead lying on the dripping slabs of a morgue. The
stillness of the subjects lying upon the tables of the dissecting room.
Even the man whose trunk and head were free gave forth no sound. He was
caught only up to his hips. Had he been alive, surely he would have
made some sign. He was not crushed, save perhaps as to his lower limbs,
and that could not have been mortal. The weight of bodies does not
crush limbs as does machinery. No, he certainly must have been dead.
And why did all these people fall upon the landing? Of what did they
die?
Plunging in the dark, pell mell through that one narrow door, the poor
creatures stumbled down several steps that led from the door to the
landing. Cunningly devised trap this--wise architect that designed it.
Those who went down, rose not again. They lay crushed by the weight of
the tangled up scores of other hapless ones who followed after. A small
part of the crowd, those who were not caught in the tangle, flowed, as
it were, over the top. A few, just a very few, thus escaped.
As the helpless creatures lay there in that fearful jam, at the only
available exit in the front of the house, the smoke, and flame, and
noxious gases were drawn irresistibly to that same door. They too,
sought an exit at the front, and found only that death trap. The
draught must have been fierce, the flames like a breath from hell.
While the still breathing, palpitating mass of crushed and bruised
humanity lay there imprisoned, the smoke and gases were sucked through
the door into the foyer, diffusing themselves through the writhing
human hecatomb, and giving those not yet dead a painless _coup de
grace_. How soon it must have been over! How useless the emotions
that shook my very soul as I gazed upon the slaughtered ones. And how
solacing the conclusions with which calm retrospection has replaced the
horrible immediate impressions of the scene itself.
Merciful indeed, the smoke and those noxious gases, especially for
those luckless ones who lay on the top of the pile of victims. These
were scorched and burned--not badly, but enough to show that with the
death-dealing smoke and gases the flames came also. A fearful gust or
two--perhaps only one, and the work was done.
And the scene at the open door of death was but a fragment of the
frightful holocaust. Death’s barbecue lay behind that heap of bodies.
Towering up behind that other front door which would not open, were
scores of blackened bodies, some burned and distorted out of all
semblance to their living form. Still others sat upright where Death
had surprised them. They died in their seats without resistance,
overcome doubtless, by the deadly gases.
There, standing erect, like soldiers, packed like sardines, on a
stair case behind a locked iron gate, was row on row of dead, who
had lost their lives trying to escape from the gallery to join the
panic-stricken ones in the lower balcony. Hopeless effort--what matter
where they died? As well meet death face to face, there upon that
inner stair behind that merciless trap gate, as in that pile upon the
landing--perhaps better, who knows?