isited all the art-galleries, a treat that had
been a lifelong heart's desire. In New York she had at once made her
home with Dr. Ewer's widow and children, but, in the end, she went to
Morristown, New Jersey, where, it was said, she again happily met and
renewed her friendship with Bret Harte's accomplished and delightful
wife and her attractive children, while Bret Harte himself was
sojourning in Europe, a successful author. Mrs. John F. Swift, her
long-time appreciative friend, Charley Stoddard, myself, and others,
contributed to her pleasure by letters till the close of her perfect
life at Morristown, New Jersey, on February 9, 1906. No other woman has
left a more lasting impress on the California community. But back to
Rich Bar! Back to the gold-fields! DAME SHIRLEY is abroad, and again
she is weaving her wizard spell!

"ALONE"

A REMINISCENCE OF MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI

_By_ SHIRLEY LEE

Beneath thy spirit-eyes I stand alone,
Nor deem thee of the dead
As mournfully I gaze, sad-hearted one,
On that calm brow and head.

The starry crown of genius could not save
From woman's gift of grief;
The moaning billows o'er thy breast that have
Emblem thy life too brief.

O Margaret! my weak heart-pulses shiver
In wordless woe for thee,
Thy wasted tenderness, thy love that never
Might its fruition see.

Thou hadst no youth, O wondrous child! no youth
Haloed thy later life;
Sternly thy girl heart sought its solemn truth
In battle and in strife.

In thine own Northern home didst thou not live
"Alone," always "alone"?
What heart to thine uplifted heart could give
Ever an answering tone?

In suffering, labor, strife, we saw thee stand
With lips that would not moan,
While shone thy regal brow and eyes with grand
Aspirings all thine own.

At last among thy Romans thou didst find
A shrine for that large heart;
It understood thee not, the Northern mind,
But coldly shrunk apart,

When those pale lips--from whence, an hour agone,
Flew out, like rifted light,
Winged words of wit--murmured their wailed "Alone"
To the pitying midnight.

And I have read thy life, its mournful story
Of loneliness and blight;
But o'er its close there shines a solemn glory,
A setting star's trailed light