The Visitor

              THE VISITOR.
TOCK, LUBIN & CO.
SACRAMENTO, CAL.
NOVEMBER, 1892.
f fo%  riih  to  receive   Thk Visitor
feriy. rrmit 'd the rate of two cents per is-
tm. if you v'vth tin next six issues, send
ge is not intended as a
■ rely to cover cost of
S- JITOR.]
\  MAKKTH   NOT  A
QUAKER."
AIDUrH ot novelty in search,
If in a (Quaker church;
■ e, gray-gowned dames,
ped math bonnet frames.
^Mf maul, with kerchief neat.
I. tlun shared my seat;
though not ill-graced
^Kridly rosebuds at her waist.
I>ut gold curls strayed,
hite m ck deftly played;
bad caueht her kerchief low,
; thr >.it full fair did show ?
iltduitnl disturbed her prayer;
wth her bonnet's flare;
limpid eyts met mine,
i as decade wine.
lance. I longed to fly;
. dared not pass her by;
swift to my Maker,
" maketh not a Quaker !
THANKSGIVING DAY.
e annual message of the
ites of our country nnd
cived, calling on us to
st. in reviewing the moi-
the past year, and in d<-
: ' the outpouring of our
s of thankfulness that
h a review.
• not be coininandi d. for,
Iml our wealth, our time,
re cannot command our
ule,   thanksgiving, love,
ll of   similar sentiments are the
hagnage  of the heart.    They are
Dot  subject   to control.
■ ■•■ of a high quality  of
M tli iiikfnl shows 11 moral eleva-
ititude is observed, you
f finding nobility of charac-
\1    istrates are wise, there
such a day. mat can tend
11 a humane sentiment
.oi^'ii our patriotism, and
!e of personal responsi-
:< How-men.
Is that we all have much
1 thankful for.   The very blessiug of
^Kftatic joy of existence, is enough
k« * daily hymn of thanksgiving to
iful L'ower, that for want of a
ic we call God—the Good.    The
it we live is sufficient to bow
romhip and move the heart to
Hh
::try, liowever, other reasons
h a day  are abundant.
s of a land where the
11 that can be enjoyed by a peo-
-; wher^e science, in her
linking man happier ;   where
i noil nngrudging system  of
> enlightenment to all;
generously permitted to
ther, after the dictates
where tolerance abounds
I pre lominates —that we inherit
mid privileges is a fruitful cause
giving.     When,  too,   we   re-
1 the industries of Americaand
nre being benefited by Ameri-
oountry stands first in
s. that law and order prevail,
re  are sovereigns,  that
nli is being more fully recog-
ing of gratitude and rev-
.. joyously repeat those
iik (iod, I, too, am an
fd be thankful to the Father of all
e, plagueand famine have been
<     d; that sickness has not led to death;
r
ti:
that where the dire angel has been, the survivors have not become indifferent to the
duties of life. The greatest of blessings—
peace—has been ours, and so the whole land
sends up, freely and willingly, its hymn of
praise and thanksgiving. The pathless
prairie and the unbroken woodland chant a
hymn that hills and valleys re-echo. From
the ice bound Hudson to the sunny banks
of the Cairibean Sea, from the mighty Atlantic to the broad Pacific there arises a
thousand hallelujahs from the orchestra of
every human heart, that "there has been
peace within our land, and prosperity within its borders."
The Visitor naturally joins in this sentiment that must flow from the hearts of its
readers. Thanksgiving to God, however,
must not begin and end with the word of
prayer and praise.    It has its practical side,
Written for The Visitor.]
MISS SYBIL SANDERSON.
THE history of Miss Sanderson reads
almost like a romance. As the daughter
of the late Judge Sanderson, she was reared
in a cultured home, surrounded by all the
luxuries of wealth. Discovering forae years
ago that her voice was of unusual compass
and sweetness, she gave up home ties and
social pleasures and resolutely sailed for
Europe, to enter upon a long course of
musical and dramatic study.
Miss Sanderson began her studies under
the celebrated Madame Marchesi of Paris,
and afterwards uuder Massenet, who is
recognized as the greatest living composer.
Massenet wrote for her " Esclarmonde,"
a grand opera, which will be a permanent
addition to the music of all time.   The spe-
FAMOUS    CALIFORNIANS
MISS   SYBIL   SANDERSON.
[Illustrated for The Visitor.]
too. Our prosperity from the material
standpoint, points to the need that we be
spiritually prosperous also. A nation's, as
an individual's, greatness is measured, not
by material power, but the power put forth
for right. The measure of a country's true
growth is righteousness, not commercial
greatness, nor naval su] remacy, nor large
deposits in its treasury, nor vast possessions. For righteousness is purity of life.
It is patriotism. It is honesty in trade. It
is sanctity of the marriage law. It is the
law written by the finger of God. And if a
nation and its people be not uplifters of
righteousness, it is doomed, finally, to be
destroyed. Our thanksgiving then will only
be complete if with our prayer and praise
there is interwoven a determination to think
aright, to live aright, to do aright. If such
be the spirit evoked by Thanksgiving Day,
The Visitor feels that the best purpose of
the day will be realized, and a happier, a
better, a nobler manhood and womanhood
will eventually be developed through its
influence.
cial feature of the score in this opera is,
that it allows scope for the phenomenal
voice of Miss Sanderson. She takes clearly
and without difficulty "high G." It is said
that the only other person who has ever
really sung this high note, was Madame La
Bastadella, a songstress in Mozart's lime.
The fair songstress sang with unprecedented success in Belgium last year, and
during the winter in St. Petersburg, where
she was decorated personally by the Czar.
In addition to "Esclarmonde" and Massenet's " Manon Lescant," she has sung
Gounod's "Borneo and Juliet," iu which
her rare personal charms, as well as wonderful voice, contribute to success.
Miss Sanderson is about twenty-seven
years old, and has never been back to this
country since she first left it( Her musical
contracts will keep her in Europe for several years yet, after which she will return
to America as one of the greatest, if not
the greatest, prima donna in the world.
So much for the talents and pluck of a
California girl.
Written for The Visitor.]
THE   HEROINE   OF   CAMP   CHU-
ACA.
BY  SHARLOT   M.   HALL.
FIRST met her at a small
frontier post in Wyoming. She was a
guest in the family
of Captain Brown,
my school chum and
life-long friend.
I remember thinking it odd when my
friend's beautiful
and accomplished wife introduced Miss
Marre as her dearest friend. She was so
very plain, I thought, and then did not
think of her at all for days.
I have always had a habit of studying
carefully the people I chance to meet, and
alter I had made'the round of the more
attractive new arrivals, I came back to a
study of Miss Marre. I noticed then that
she was a plump little woman, with a pleasant round face aud features rather strongly
marked and expressive of much strength,
intelligence and kindliness. The eyes were
the only noticeable feature. They were, at
first glance, very ordinary eyes, pale grey
and rather small. But on looking closer,
they seimul full of a dim, misty light, that
would flash and darken in a rmsterious
way. They reminded me of nothing so
much as fine fire opals. They seemed to
hold, too, the shadow of an ever-present
sorrow, and the lines about the firm, kindly
mouth fell into sad curves the moment she
was in repose. I found that it was she, of
all our ladies, who found time to play with
the children and speak a cheering word to
all who were in trouble. She seemed to
shun the many attentions which our gallaut
officers were so ready to pay to all womankind, and made as few acquaintances as
possible.
Having analyzed and mentally labeled
her as a plain, common-place woman, I
never gave her another thought until we
met again five ytars later, in a way I shall
never forget.
I had been shifted about from post to
post, and finally sent to Fort Whipple,
Arizona, to await further orders. I was
smoking in my room one evening, when the
post surgeon came in aud said : " Roberts,
pack your traps at once. There's the devil
to pay! Yellow fever has broken out at
Camp Chuaca. The doctor is dead, and
the colonel says you are the ouly one that
can be spared to go."
I shivered—for the prospect was not
pleasant. Camp Chuaca was a small in
fantry post nearly two hundred miles from
Whipple. It was one of the most isolated,
and had the name of being the most unhealthy, of the posts in the department.
The trip meant at least five days of travel
over wild, rough mountain trails, through
a country peopled only by Indians and
Mexicans. However, I had no choice but
to obey orders, and five days of steady travel
brought me in sight of the post. A more
desolate sight I have never seen.
The sand hills, through which I had traveled all day, now opened out into a low
sandy plain, white with alkali, and dotted
with a few straggling clumps of grease-
wood. The post itself was a group of a
scant dozen ragged adobe huts, such as any
Greaser would have scorned.
Not a man was to be s>.en walking about,
but as I rode up to the largest building, I
saw that the veranda was lined with cots,
each cot holding a suffering man. Then a
door opened, and I heard a familiar voice
saying: "Oh, Dr. Roberts, I am so glad to
see you! Ride over to the captain's quarters, second house to the left. I will get
you coffee and supper as soon as I can leave
here."
A few minutes later I was shaking hands
with Miss Marre, and listening to her account of the epidemic. The captain was
out of danger, she thought, three-fourths of
the living men were in the hospital, and
nearly one-half of the original garrison
were dead. There was as yet little improvement in the condition of the sick, and little