ADD: Poetry by Bret Harte (1836-1902)

Subject: lyrics request: Society Upon the Stanislaw
From: John Coggins
Date: 28 Sep 97 - 06:19 PM

Can anyone supply lyrics which continue the song:

I reside on Table Mountain and my name is Truthful James,

I am not of small deceits nor of any sinful gains,

But I will tell in simple language what I know about the row,

That broke up our society upon the Stanislaw

'Hope so.

Subject: Lyr Add: SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS (Bret Harte)
From: Jim Dixon
Date: 10 Aug 05 - 07:51 PM

Copied from http://bartelby.org/102/199.html
From Thomas R. Lounsbury, ed. (1838–1915). Yale Book of American Verse. 1912.

THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS
Francis Bret Harte. 1839–1902

I RESIDE at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;
I am not up to small deceit or any sinful games;
And I'll tell in simple language what I know about the row
That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.

But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan
For any scientific gent to whale his fellowman,
And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim,
To lay for that same member for to "put a head" on him.

Now nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see
Than the first six months' proceedings of that same Society,
Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones
That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones.

Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there,
From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare;
And Jones then asked the chair for a suspension of the rules,
Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules.

Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at fault,
It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault;
He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown,
And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town.

Now I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent
To say another is an ass,—at least, to all intent;
Nor should the individual who happens to be meant
Reply by heaving rocks at him, to any great extent.

Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order, when
A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen,
And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor,
And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.

For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage
In a warfare with the remnants of a palæozoic age;
And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin,
Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in.

And this is all I have to say of these improper games,
For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;
And I've told in simple language what I know about the row
That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.

[Allmusic.com doesn't list this poem/song.]

Subject: Lyr Add: The Society Upon the Stanislaus
From: Monologue John
Date: 03 Apr 23 - 05:08 PM

THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS
(Frances Bret Harte)

I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;
I am not up to small deceit or any sinful games;
And I'll tell in simple language what I know about the row
That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.

But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan
For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man,
And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim,
To lay for that same member for to “put a head” on him.

Now nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see
Than the first six months' proceedings of that same Society,
Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones
That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones.

Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there,
From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare;
And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the rules,
Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules.

Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at fault,
It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault;
He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown,
And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town.

Now I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent
To say another is an ass,-at least, to all intent;
Nor should the individual who happens to be meant
Reply by heaving rocks at him, to any great extent.

Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order, when
A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen,
And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor,
And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.

For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage
In a warfare with the remnants of a palaeozoic age;
And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin,
Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in.

And this is all I have to say of these improper games,


For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;


And I've told in simple language what I know about the row
That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.

Subject: ADD: Her Letter (Bret Harte)
From: Monologue John
Date: 06 Jun 23 - 08:35 AM

HER LETTER
(Bret Harte)

I'm sitting alone by the fire,
Dressed just as I came from the dance,
In a robe even you would admire,
—It cost a cool thousand in France;
I'm bediamonded out of all reason,
My hair is done up in a cue:
In short, sir, "the belle of the season"
Is wasting an hour on you.

A dozen engagements I've broken;
I left in the midst of a set;
Likewise a proposal, half spoken,
That waits—on the stairs—for me yet.
They say he'll be rich—when he grows up,
—And then he adores me indeed.
And you, sir, are turning your nose up,
Three thousand miles off, as you read.

"And how do I like my position?"
"And what do I think of New York?"
"And now, in my higher ambition,
With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?"
"And isn't it nice to have riches,
And diamonds and silks, and all that?"
"And aren't it a change to the ditches
And tunnels of Poverty Flat?"

Well yes,—if you saw us out driving
Each day in the park, four-in-hand;
If you saw poor dear mamma contriving
To look supernaturally grand,
—If you saw papa's picture, as taken
By Brady, and tinted at that,
—You'd never suspect he sold bacon
And flour at Poverty Flat.

And yet, just this moment, when sitting
In the glare of the grand chandelier,
In the bustle and glitter befitting
The "finest soiree of the year,"
—In the mists of a gaze de chambéry
And the hum of the smallest of talk,
—Somehow, Joe, I thought of "The Ferry,"
And the dance that we had on "The Fork";

Of Harrison's barn, with its muster
Of flags festooned over the wall;
Of the candles that shed their soft lustre
And tallow on head-dress and shawl;
Of the steps that we took to one fiddle;
Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis;
And how I once went down the middle
With the man that shot Sandy McGee;

Of the moon that was quietly sleeping
On the hill, when the time came to go;
Of the few baby peaks that were peeping
From under their bed-clothes of snow;
Of that ride,—that to me was the rarest;
Of—the something you said at the gate:
Ah, Joe, then I wasn't an heiress
To "the best-paying lead in the state."

Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funny
To think, as I stood in the glare
Of fashion and beauty and money,
That I should be thinking, right there,
Of some one who breasted highwater,
And swam the North Fork, and all that,
Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter,
The Lily of Poverty Flat.


But goodness! what nonsense I'm writing!
(Mamma says my taste still is low,)
Instead of my triumphs reciting,
I'm spooning on Joseph,—heigh-ho!
And I'm to be "finished" by travel,
Whatever's the meaning of that,
—O, why did papa strike pay gravel
In drifting on Poverty Flat?


Good-night,—here's the end of my paper;
Good-night,—if the longitude please,
—For maybe, while wasting my taper,
Your sun's climbing over the trees.
But know, if you haven't got riches,
And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that,
That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches,
And you've struck it,—on Poverty Flat.

---

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Lily_of_Poverty_Flat

Subject: RE: ADD: Poetry by Bret Harte (1836-1902)
From: leeneia
Date: 07 Jun 23 - 12:28 PM

I'm a geologist, and I like the way "the Society upon the Stanislaus" reflects nineteenth century life. In those days the world was agog at the discoveries of fossils, especially dinosaur fossils. Newspapers on both sides of the pond reported on discoveries in Kansas and Colorado, and no doubt exhibits and lectures were thronged.

The "old red sandstone" in the poem is a joke about the Old Red Sandstone, a famous rock formation. The Encyclopedia Britannica says, "Old Red Sandstone, thick sequence of Devonian rocks (formed from 416 million to 359.2 million years ago) that are continental rather than marine in origin and occur in northwestern Europe, Scandinavia, Greenland, and northeastern Canada."

There's more interesting information in the Britannica article. If you are ever heading for Denver, Colorado, see if you can visit the Sternberg Museum in Hayes, Kansas, where you will see some of the famous fossils that set the world on fire back in the day.