very bitter.  It culminated in a wanton and cowardly attack on a tribe of peaceful Indians encamped on an island opposite Eureka, and men, women, and children were ruthlessly killed.  Harte was temporarily in charge of the paper and he denounced the outrage in unmeasured terms.  The better part of the community sustained him, but a violent minority resented his strictures and he was seriously threatened and in no little danger.  Happily he escaped, but the incident resulted in his return to San Francisco.  The massacre occurred on February 5, 1860, which fixes the approximate time of Harte’s becoming identified with San Francisco.

His experience was of great advantage to him in that he had learned to do something for which there was a demand.  He could not earn much as a compositor, but his wants were simple and he could earn something.  He soon secured a place on the Golden Era, and it became the doorway to his career.  He was soon transferred to the editorial department and contributed freely.

For four years he continued on the Golden Era.  These were years of growth and increasing accomplishment.  He did good work and made good friends.  Among those whose interest he awakened were Mrs. Jessie Benton Fremont and Thomas Starr King.  Both befriended and encouraged him.  In the critical days when California hung in the balance between the North and the South, and Starr King, by his eloquence, fervor, and magnetism, seemed to turn the scale, Bret Harte did his part in support of the friend he loved.  Lincoln had called for a hundred thousand volunteers, and at a mass meeting Harte contributed a noble poem, “The Reveille,” which thrillingly read by Starr King brought the mighty audience to its feet with cheers for the Union.  He wrote many virile patriotic poems at this period.

In March, 1864, Starr King, of the glowing heart and golden tongue, preacher, patriot, and hero, fell at his post, and San Francisco mourned him and honored him as seldom falls to the lot of man.  At his funeral the Federal authorities ordered the firing of a salute from the forts in the harbor, an honor, so far as I know, never before accorded a private citizen.

Bret Harte wrote a poem of rare beauty in expression of his profound grief and his heartfelt appreciation: 

  RELIEVING GUARD.

  Came the relief.  “What, sentry, ho! 
    How passed the night through thy long waking?”
  “Cold, cheerless, dark—­as may befit
    The hour before the dawn is breaking.”

  “No sight? no sound?” “No; nothing save
    The plover from the marshes calling,
  And in yon western sky, about
    An hour ago, a star was falling.”

  “A star?  There’s nothing strange in that.” 
    “No, nothing; but, above the thicket,
  Somehow it seemed to me that God
    Somewhere had just relieved a picket.”

This is not only good poetry; it reveals deep and fine feeling.