CHAPTER V.

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

--SHAKSPEARE.

I sprang to my feet with all the eagerness of joy, and was about to rush into the arms of Pio, when he suddenly checked my enthusiasm by extinguishing the light. I stood still and erect, like one petrified into stone. That moment I felt a hand upon my arm, then around my waist, and ere I could collect my thoughts, was distinctly lifted from the ground. But I was carried only a few steps. On touching the floor with my feet, I was planted firmly, and the arms of my companion were tightly drawn around my own so as to prevent me from raising them. The next instant, and the stone upon which we stood suddenly slid from its position, and gradually sank perpendicularly,--we still retaining our position upon it.

Our descent was not rapid, nor did I deem it very secure; for the trap-door trembled under us, and more than once seemed to touch the shaft into which we were descending. A few moments more and we landed securely upon a solid pavement. My companion then disengaged his hold, and stepping off a few paces, pronounced the words "_We are here_!" in the royal tongue, and immediately a panel slid from the side of the apartment, and a long passage-way, lighted at the further end by a single candle, displayed itself to view. Into that passage we at once entered, and without exchanging a single word, walked rapidly toward the light.

The light stood upon a stone stand about four feet high, at the intersection of these passages. We took the one to the left, and advanced twenty or thirty yards, when Pio halted. On coming up to him, he placed his mouth close to the wall, and exclaimed as before. "We are here." A huge block of granite swung inward, and we entered a small but well-lighted apartment, around which were hanging several costly and magnificent suits of Palenquin costume.

Hastily seizing two of them, Pio commenced arraying himself in one, and requested me by a gesture to don the other. With a little assistance, I soon found myself decked from head to foot in a complete suit of regal robes--_panache_, sash, and sandals inclusive.

When all was completed, Pio, for the first time, addressed me as follows: "Young stranger, whoever you may be, or to whatever nation you may belong, matters but little to me. The attendant guardian spirit of our race and country has conducted you hither, in the most mysterious manner, and now commands me to have you instructed in the most sacred lore of the Aztecs. Your long residence in this palace has fully convinced you of the danger to which we are both exposed; I in revealing and you in acquiring the key to the interpretation of the historical records of my country. I need not assure you that our lives are both forfeited, should the slightest suspicion be aroused in the breasts of the Princess or the nobility.

"You are now dressed in the appropriate costume of a student of our literature, and must attend me nightly at the gathering of the Queen's kindred to be instructed in the art. Express no surprise at anything you see or hear; keep your face concealed as much as possible, fear nothing, and follow me."

At a preconcerted signal given by Pio, a door flew open and we entered the vestibule of a large and brilliantly illuminated chamber.

As soon as we passed the entrance I saw before me not less than two hundred young persons of both sexes, habited in the peculiar garb of students, like our own. We advanced slowly and noiselessly, until we reached two vacant places, prepared evidently beforehand for us. Our entrance was not noticed by the classes, nor by those whom I afterwards recognized as teachers. All seemed intent upon the problem before them, and evinced no curiosity to observe the new comers. My own curiosity at this moment was intense, and had it not been for the prudent cautions constantly given me by Pio, by touching my robes or my feet, an exposure most probably would have occurred the first night of my initiation, and the narrative of these adventures never been written.

My presence of mind, however, soon came to my assistance, and before the evening was over, I had, by shrewdly noticing the conduct of others, shaped my own into perfect conformity with theirs, and rendered detection next to impossible.

It now becomes necessary to digress a moment from the thread of my story, and give an accurate description of the persons I beheld around me, the chamber in which we were gathered, and the peculiar mode of instruction pursued by the sages.

The scholars were mostly young men and women, averaging in age about twenty years. They all wore the emblem of royalty, which I at once recognized in the _panache_ of Quezale plumes that graced their heads. They stood in semi-circular rows, the platform rising as they receded from the staging in front, like seats in an amphitheatre. Upon the stage were seated five individuals--two of the male, and three of the female sex. An old man was standing up, near the edge of the stage, holding in his hands two very cunningly-constructed instruments. At the back of the stage, a very large, smooth tablet of black marble was inserted in the wall, and a royal personage stood near it, upon one side, with a common piece of chalk in his right hand, and a cotton napkin in the left. This reminded me but too truthfully of the fourth book of Euclid and Nassau Hall; and I was again reminded of the great mathematician before the assembly broke up, and of his reply to that King of Sicily, who inquired if there were no easy way of acquiring mathematics. "None, your Highness," replied the philosopher; "there is no royal road to learning." Labor, I soon found, was the only price, even amongst the Aztecs, at which knowledge could be bought. Each student was furnished with the same species of instruments which the old man before-mentioned held in his hands.

The one held in the left hand resembled a white porcelain slate, only being much larger than those in common use. It was nearly twenty inches square, and was divided by mathematical lines into thirty-six compartments. It was covered over with a thin crystal, resembling glass, which is found in great quantities in the neighboring mountains, and is perfectly transparent. The crystal was raised about the one eighth of an inch from the surface of the slate, and allowed a very fine species of black sand to move at will between them. The instrument carried in the right hand resembled the bow of a common violin, more than anything else. The outer edge was constructed of a beautiful yellow wood, polished, and bent into the arc of a quarter circle; whilst a mass of small cords, made of the native hemp, united the two ends.

The method of using the bow was this: The slate was shaken violently once or twice, so as to distribute the black sand equally over the white surface, and then the bow was drawn perpendicularly down the edge of the slate, very rapidly, so as to produce a quick whistling sound. The effect produced upon the grains of sand was truly wonderful to the uninitiated in the laws of acoustics. They arranged themselves into peculiar figures, sometimes in the form of a semicircle, sometimes into that of a spiral, sometimes into a perfect circle, or a cone, or a rhomboid, or an oval, dependent entirely upon two things: first, the place where the slate was held by the left hand; and second, the point where the bow was drawn across the edge. As the slate was subdivided into thirty-six compartments, by either one of which it could be held, and as there was a corresponding point, across which the bow could be drawn, there were seventy-two primitive sounds that might be produced by means of this simple contrivance. Each of these sounds inherently and necessarily produced a different figure upon the slate, and there were consequently just seventy-two initial letters in the Aztec alphabet.

The mode of instruction was extremely simple. A word was pronounced by the aged teacher at the front of the stage, written upon his slate, exhibited to the scholar at the black tablet, and by him copied upon it. The whole class then drew down their bows, so as to produce the proper sound, and the word itself, or its initial letter, was immediately formed upon the slate.

After the seventy-two primitive letters or sounds had been learned, the next step was the art of combining them, so as not only to produce single words, but very often whole sentences. Thus the first hieroglyphic carved upon the tablet, on the back wall of the altar, in Casa No. 3 (forming the frontispiece of the second volume of Stephens's Travels in Central America), expresses, within itself, the name, date of birth, place of nativity, and parentage, of _Xixencotl_, the first king of the twenty-third dynasty of the Aztecs.

The hieroglyphics of the Aztecs are all of them both symbolical and phonetic. Hence, in almost every one we observe, first, the primitive sound or initial letter, and its various combinations; and, secondly, some symbolic drawing, as a human face, for instance, or an eagle's bill, or a fish, denoting some peculiar characteristic of the person or thing delineated.

But to return to the Hall of Students. The men and women on the stage were placed there as critics upon the pronunciation of each articulate sound. They were selected from the wisest men and best elocutionists in the kingdom, and never failed to detect the slightest error in the pronunciation of the tutor.

The royal tongue of the Aztecs is the only one now in existence that is based upon natural philosophy and the laws of sound. It appeals both to the eye and ear of the speaker, and thus the nicest shades of thought may be clearly expressed. There is no such thing as _stilted_ language amongst them, and logomachy is unknown.

And here I may be permitted to observe that a wider field for research and discovery lies open in the domain of _sound_ than in any other region of science. The laws of harmony, even, are but imperfectly understood, and the most accomplished musicians are mere tyros in the great science of acoustics. There is every reason to believe that there is an intimate but yet undiscovered link between _number_, _light_, and _sound_ whose solution will astonish and enlighten the generations that are to succeed our own. _When God spake the worlds into being, the globular form they assumed was not accidental, nor arbitrary, but depended essentially upon the tone of the great Architect, and the medium in which it resounded._

Let the natural philosophers of the rising generation direct their especial attention toward the fields I have indicated, and the rewards awaiting their investigations will confer upon them immortality of fame.

There is a reason why the musical scale should not mount in whole tones up to the octave; why the mind grasps decimals easier than vulgar fractions, and why, by the laws of light, the blood-red tint should be heavier than the violet. Let Nature, in these departments, be studied with the same care that Cuvier explored the organization of insects, that Liebig deduced the property of acids, and that Leverrier computed the orbit of that unseen world which his genius has half created, and all the wonderful and beautiful secrets now on the eve of bursting into being from the dark domain of sound, color, and shape, will at once march forth into view, and take their destined places in the ranks of human knowledge.

Then the science of computation will be intuitive, as it was in the mind of Zerah Colburn; the art of music creative, as in the plastic voices of Jehovah; and the great principles of light and shape and color divine, as in the genius of Swedenborg and the imagination of Milton.

I have now completed the outline of the sketch, which in the foregoing pages I proposed to lay before the world.

The peculiar circumstances which led me to explore the remains of the aboriginal Americans, the adventures attending me in carrying out that design, the mode of my introduction into the Living City, spoken of by Stephens, and believed in by so many thousands of enlightened men, and above all, the wonderful and almost incredible character of the people I there encountered, together with a rapid review of their language and literature, have been briefly but faithfully presented to the public.

It but remains for me now to present my readers with a few specimens of Aztec literature, translated from the hieroglyphics now mouldering amid the forests of Chiapa; to narrate the history of my escape from the Living City of the aborigines; to bespeak a friendly word for the forthcoming history of one of the earliest, most beautiful, and unfortunate of the Aztec queens, copied _verbatim_ from the annals of her race, and to bid them one and all, for the present, a respectful adieu.

Before copying from the blurred and water-soaked manuscript before me, a single extract from the literary remains of the monumental race amongst whom I have spent three years and a half of my early manhood, it may not be deemed improper to remark that a large work upon this subject is now in course of publication, containing the minutest details of the domestic life, public institutions, language, and laws of that interesting people.

The extracts I present to the reader may be relied upon as exactly correct, since they are taken from the memoranda made upon the spot.

Directly in front of the throne, in the great audience-chamber described in the preceding chapter, and written in the most beautiful hieroglyphic extant, I found the following account of the origin of the land:

The Great Spirit, whose emblem is the sun, held the water-drops out of which the world was made, in the hollow of his hand. He breathed a tone, and they rounded into the great globe, and started forth on the errand of counting up the years.

Nothing existed but water and the great fishes of the sea. One eternity passed. The Great Spirit sent a solid star, round and beautiful, but dead and no longer burning, and plunged it into the depths of the oceans. Then the winds were born, and the rains began to fall. The animals next sprang into existence. They came up from the star-dust like wheat and maize. The round star floated upon the waters, and became the dry land; and the land was high, and its edges steep. It was circular, like a plate, and all connected together.

The marriage of the land and the sea produced man, but his spirit came from the beams of the sun.

Another eternity passed away, and the earth became too full of people. They were all white, because the star fell into the cold seas, and the sun could not darken their complexions.

Then the sea bubbled up in the middle of the land, and the country of the Aztecs floated off to the west. Wherever the star cracked open, there the waters rose up and made the deep sea.

When the east and the west come together again, they will fit like a garment that has been torn.

Then followed a rough outline of the western coasts of Europe and Africa, and directly opposite the coasts of North and South America. The projections of the one exactly fitted the indentations of the other, and gave a semblance of truth and reality to the wild dream of the Aztec philosopher. Let the geographer compare them, and he will be more disposed to wonder than to sneer.

I have not space enough left me to quote any further from the monumental inscriptions, but if the reader be curious upon this subject, I recommend to his attention the publication soon to come out, alluded to above.

# # # # #

Some unusual event certainly had occurred in the city. The great plaza in front of the palace was thronged with a countless multitude of men and women, all clamoring for a sacrifice! a sacrifice!

Whilst wondering what could be the cause of this commotion, I was suddenly summoned before the Princess in the audience-chamber, so often alluded to before.

My surprise was great when, upon presenting myself before her, I beheld, pinioned to a heavy log of mahogany, a young man, evidently of European descent.

The Princess requested me to interpret for her to the stranger, and the following colloquy took place. The conversation was in the French language.

Q. "Who are you, and why do you invade my dominions?"

A. "My name is Armand de L'Oreille. I am a Frenchman by birth. I was sent out by Lamartine, in 1848, as attaché to the expedition of M. de Bourbourg, whose duties were to explore the forests in the neighborhood of Palenque, to collate the language of the Central-American Indians, to copy the inscriptions on the monuments, and, if possible, to reach the LIVING CITY mentioned by Waldeck, Dupaix, and the American traveler Stephens."

Q. "But why are you alone? Where is the party to which you belonged?"

A. "Most of them returned to Palenque, after wandering in the wilderness a few days. Five only determined to proceed; of that number I am the only survivor."

Here the interview closed.

The council and the queen were not long in determining the fate of M. de L'Oreille. It was unanimously resolved that he should surrender his life as a forfeit to his temerity.

The next morning, at sunrise, was fixed for his death. He was to be sacrificed upon the altar, on the summit of the great Teocallis--an offering to _Quetzalcohuatl_, the first great prince of the Aztecs. I at once determined to save the life of the stranger, if I could do so, even at the hazard of my own. But fate ordained it otherwise. I retired earlier than usual, and lay silent and moody, revolving on the best means to accomplish my end.

Midnight at length arrived; I crept stealthily from my bed, and opened the door of my chamber, as lightly as sleep creeps over the eyelids of children. But----

[Here the MS. is so blotted, and saturated with saltwater, as to be illegible for several pages. The next legible sentences are as follows.--ED.]

Here, for the first time, the woods looked familiar to me. Proceeding a few steps, I fell into the trail leading toward the modern village of Palenque, and, after an hour's walk, I halted in front of the _cabilda_ of the town.

I was followed by a motley crowd to the office of the Alcalde, who did not recognize me, dressed as I was in skins, and half loaded down with rolls of MS., made from the bark of the mulberry. I related to him and M. de Bourbourg my adventures; and though the latter declared he had lost poor Armand and his five companions, yet I am persuaded that neither of them credited a single word of my story.

Not many days after my safe arrival at Palenque, I seized a favorable opportunity to visit the ruins of _Casa Grande_. I readily found the opening to the subterranean passage heretofore described, and after some troublesome delays at the various landing-places, I finally succeeded in reaching the very spot whence I had ascended on that eventful night, nearly three years before, in company with the Aztec Princess.

After exploring many of the mouldering and half-ruined apartments of this immense palace, I accidentally entered a small room, that at first seemed to have been a place of sacrifice; but, upon closer inspection, I ascertained that, like many of those in the "Living City," it was a chapel dedicated to the memory of some one of the princes of the Aztec race.

In order to interpret the inscriptions with greater facility, I lit six or seven candles, and placed them in the best positions to illuminate the hieroglyphics. Then turning, to take a view of the grand tablet in the middle of the inscription, my astonishment was indescribable, when I beheld the exact features, dress and _panache_ of the Aztec maiden, carved in the everlasting marble before me.

[Decoration]

VIII.

_THE MOTHER'S EPISTLE._

Sweet daughter, leave thy tasks and toys, Throw idle thoughts aside, And hearken to a mother's voice, That would thy footsteps guide; Though far across the rolling seas, Beyond the mountains blue, She sends her counsels on the breeze, And wafts her blessings too.

To guard thy voyage o'er life's wave, To guide thy bark aright, To snatch thee from an early grave, And gild thy way with light, Thy mother calls thee to her side, And takes thee on her knee, In spite of oceans that divide, And thus addresses thee:

I.

Learn first this lesson in thy youth, Which time cannot destroy, To love and speak and act the truth-- 'Tis life's most holy joy; Wert thou a queen upon a throne, Decked in each royal gem, This little jewel would alone Outshine thy diadem.

II.

Next learn to conquer, as they rise, Each wave of passion's sea; Unchecked, 'twill sweep the vaulted skies, And vanquish heaven and thee; Lashed on by storms within thy breast, These billows of the soul Will wreck thy peace, destroy thy rest, And ruin as they roll!

III.

But conquered passions were no gain, Unless where once they grew There falls the teardrop, like the rain, And gleams the morning dew; Sow flowers within thy virgin heart, That spring from guileless love; Extend to each a sister's part, Take lessons of the dove.

IV.

But, daughter, empty were our lives, And useless all our toils, If that within us, which survives Life's transient battle-broils, Were all untaught in heavenly lore, Unlearned in virtue's ways, Ungifted with religion's store, Unskilled our God to praise.

V.

Take for thy guide the Bible old, Consult its pages fair Within them glitter gems and gold, Repentance, Faith, and Prayer; Make these companions of thy soul; Where e'er thy footsteps roam, And safely shalt thou reach thy goal, In heaven--the angel's home!

[Decoration]

IX.

_LEGENDS OF LAKE BIGLER._

I.--THE HAUNTED ROCK.

A great many years ago, ere the first white man had trodden the soil of the American continent, and before the palaces of Uxmal and Palenque were masses of shapeless ruins--whilst the splendid structures, now lining the banks of the Gila with broken columns and fallen domes were inhabited by a nobler race than the cowardly Pimos or the Ishmaelitish Apaches, there lived and flourished on opposite shores of Lake Bigler two rival nations, disputing with each other for the supremacy of this inland sea, and making perpetual war in order to accomplish the object of their ambition.

The tribe dwelling upon the western shore was called the Ako-ni-tas, whilst those inhabiting what is now the State of Nevada were known by the name of Gra-so-po-itas. Each nation was subdivided into smaller principalities, over which subordinate sachems, or chiefs, presided. In number, physical appearance, and advance in the arts of civilization, both very much resembled, and neither could be said to have decidedly the pre-eminence.

At the time my story commences, Wan-ta-tay-to was principal chief or king of the Ako-ni-tas, or, as they were sometimes designated, O-kak-o-nitas, whilst Rhu-tog-au-di presided over the destinies of the Gra-so-po-itas. The language spoken by these tribes were dialects of the same original tongue, and could be easily understood the one by the other. Continued intercourse, even when at war, had assimilated their customs, laws and religion to such a degree that it often became a matter of grave doubt as to which tribe occasional deserters belonged. Intermarriage between the tribes was strictly forbidden, and punished with death in all cases, no matter what might be the rank, power or wealth of the violators of the law.

At this era the surface of the lake was about sixty feet higher than at the present time. Constant evaporation, or perhaps the wearing channel of the Truckee, has contributed to lower the level of the water, and the same causes still continue in operation, as is clearly perceptible by the watermarks of previous years. Thousands of splendid canoes everywhere dotted its surface; some of them engaged in the peaceful avocations of fishing and hunting, whilst the large majority were manned and armed for immediate and deadly hostilities.

The year preceding that in which the events occurred herein related, had been a very disastrous one to both tribes. A great many deaths had ensued from casualties in battle; but the chief source of disaster had been a most terrific hurricane, which had swept over the lake, upsetting, sinking, and destroying whole fleets of canoes, with all persons aboard at the time. Amongst the lost were both the royal barges, with the sons and daughters of the chiefs. The loss had been so overwhelming and general that the chief of the O-kak-o-nitas had but one solitary representative of the line royal left, and that was a beloved daughter named Ta-kem-ena. The rival chieftain was equally unfortunate, for his entire wigwam had perished with the exception of Mo-ca-ru-po, his youngest son. But these great misfortunes, instead of producing peace and good-will, as a universal calamity would be sure to do in an enlightened nation, tended only to embitter the passions of the hostile kings and lend new terrors to the war. At once made aware of what the other had suffered, each promulgated a sort of proclamation, offering an immense reward for the scalp of his rival's heir.

Wan-ta-tay-to declared that he would give one half his realm to whomsoever brought the body of Mo-ca-ru-po, dead or alive, within his lines; and Rhu-tog-au-di, not to be outdone in extravagance, registered an oath that whosoever captured Ta-kem-ena, the beautiful daughter of his enemy, should be rewarded with her patrimonial rights, and also be associated with him in ruling his own dominions.

As is universally the case with all American Indians, the females are equally warlike and sometimes quite as brave as the males. Ta-kem-ena was no exception to this rule, and she accordingly made instant preparations to capture or kill the heir to the throne of her enemy. For this purpose she selected a small, light bark canoe, and resolved all alone to make the attempt. Nor did she communicate her intention to any one else. Her father, even, was kept in profound ignorance of his daughter's design.

About the same time, a desire for fame, and a thirsting for supreme power, allured young Mo-ca-ru-po into the lists of those who became candidates for the recent reward offered by his father. He, too, determined to proceed alone.

It was just at midnight, of a beautiful moonlight evening, that the young scions of royalty set forth from opposite shores of the lake, and stealthily paddled for the dominions of their enemies. When about half across the boats came violently into collision. Each warrior seized arms for the conflict. The light of the full moon, riding at mid-heavens, fell softly upon the features of the Princess, and at the same time illuminated those of the young Prince.

The blows from the uplifted battle-axes failed to descend. The poisoned arrows were returned to their quivers. Surprise gave place quickly to admiration--that to something more human--pity followed close in the rear, and love, triumphant everywhere, paralyzed the muscles, benumbed the faculties, and captured the souls of his victims. Pouring a handful of the pure water of the lake upon each other's heads, as a pledge of love, and a ceremonial of marriage, in another moment the two were locked in each other's arms, made man and wife by the yearnings of the soul, and by a destiny which naught but Omnipotent Power could avert. What were the commands of kings, their threats, or their punishments, in the scale with youth, and hope, and love?

Never did those transparent waters leap more lightly beneath the moonbeams than upon this auspicious night. Hate, revenge, fame, power, all were forgotten in the supreme delights of love.

Who, indeed, would not be a lover? The future takes the hue of the rainbow, and spans the whole earth with its arch. The past fades into instant oblivion, and its dark scenes are remembered no more. Every beautiful thing looks lovelier--spring's breath smells sweeter--the heavens bend lower--the stars shine brighter. The eyes, the lips, the smiles of the loved one, bankrupt all nature. The diamond's gleam, the flower's blush, the fountain's purity, are all _her_ own! The antelope's swiftness, the buffalo's strength, the lion's bravery, are but the reflex of _his_ manly soul!

Fate thus had bound these two lovers in indissoluble bonds: let us now see what it had left in reserve.

The plashing of paddles aroused the lovers from their caressing. Quickly leaping into his own boat, side by side, they flew over the exultant waves, careless for the moment whither they went, and really aimless in their destination. Having safely eluded their pursuers, if such they were, the princes now consulted as to their future course. After long and anxious debate it was finally determined that they should part for the present, and would each night continue to meet at midnight at the majestic rock which towered up from the waves high into the heavens, not far from what is now known as Pray's Farm, that being the residence and headquarters of the O-kak-oni-ta tribe.

Accordingly, after many protestations of eternal fidelity, and warned by the ruddy gleam along the eastern sky, they parted.

Night after night, for many weeks and months, the faithful lovers met at the appointed place, and proved their affection by their constancy. They soon made the discovery that the immense rock was hollow, and contained a magnificent cave. Here, safe from all observation, the tardy months rolled by, both praying for peace, yet neither daring to mention a termination of hostilities to their sires. Finally, the usual concomitants of lawful wedlock began to grow manifest in the rounded form of the Princess--in her sadness, her drooping eyes, and her perpetual uneasiness whilst in the presence of her father. Not able any longer to conceal her griefs, they became the court scandal, and she was summoned to the royal presence and required to name her lover. This, of course, she persisted in refusing, but spies having been set upon her movements, herself and lover were surrounded and entrapped in the fatal cave.

In vain did she plead for the life of the young prince, regardless of her own. His doom was sealed. An embassador was sent to Rhu-tog-au-di, announcing the treachery of his son, and inviting that chief to be present at the immolation of both victims. He willingly consented to assist in the ceremonies. A grand council of the two nations was immediately called, in order to determine in what manner the death penalty should be inflicted. After many and grave debates, it was resolved that the lovers should be incarcerated in the dark and gloomy cave where they had spent so many happy hours, and there starve to death.

It was a grand gala-day with the O-kak-oni-tas and the Gra-sop-o-itas. The mighty chiefs had been reconciled, and the wealth, power and beauty of the two realms turned out in all the splendor of fresh paint and brilliant feathers, to do honor to the occasion. The young princes were to be put to death. The lake in the vicinity of the rock was alive with canoes. The hills in the neighborhood were crowded with spectators. The two old kings sat in the same splendid barge, and followed close after the bark canoe in which the lovers were being conveyed to their living tomb. Silently they gazed into each other's faces and smiled. For each other had they lived; with one another were they now to die. Without food, without water, without light, they were hurried into their bridal chamber, and huge stones rolled against the only entrance.

Evening after evening the chiefs sat upon the grave portals of their children. At first they were greeted with loud cries, extorted by the gnawing of hunger and the agony of thirst. Gradually the cries gave way to low moans, and finally, after ten days had elapsed, the tomb became as silent as the lips of the lovers. Then the huge stones were, by the command of the two kings, rolled away, and a select body of warriors ordered to enter and bring forth their lifeless forms. But the west wind had sprung up, and just as the stones were taken from the entrance, a low, deep, sorrowful sigh issued from the mouth of the cave. Startled and terrified beyond control, the warriors retreated hastily from the spot; and the weird utterances continuing, no warriors could be found brave enough to sound the depths of that dreadful sepulchre. Day after day canoes crowded about the mouth of the cave, and still the west wind blew, and still the sighs and moans continued to strike the souls of the trembling warriors.

Finally, no canoe dared approach the spot. In paddling past they would always veer their canoes seaward, and hurry past with all the speed they could command.

Centuries passed away; the level of the lake had sunk many feet; the last scions of the O-kak-oni-tas and the Gra-sop-o-itas had mouldered many years in the burying-grounds of their sires, and a new race had usurped their old hunting grounds. Still no one had ever entered the haunted cave.

One day, late in the autumn of 1849, a company of emigrants on their way to California, were passing, toward evening, the month of the cavern, and hearing a strange, low, mournful sigh, seeming to issue thence, they landed their canoe and resolved to solve the mystery. Lighting some pitch-pine torches, they proceeded cautiously to explore the cavern. For a long time they could discern nothing. At length, in the furthest corner of the gloomy recess, they found two human skeletons, with their bony arms entwined, and their fleshless skulls resting upon each other's bosoms. The lovers are dead, but the old cave still echoes with their dying sobs.

II.--DICK BARTER'S YARN; OR, THE LAST OF THE MERMAIDS.

Well, Dick began, you see I am an old salt, having sailed the seas for more than forty-nine years, and being entirely unaccustomed to living upon the land. By some accident or other, I found myself, in the winter of 1849, cook for a party of miners who were sluicing high up the North Fork of the American. We had a hard time all winter, and when spring opened, it was agreed that I and a comrade named Liehard should cross the summit and spend a week fishing at the lake. We took along an old Washoe Indian, who spoke Spanish, as a guide. This old man had formerly lived on the north margin of the lake, near where Tahoe City is now situated, and was perfectly familiar with all the most noted fishing grounds and chief points of interest throughout its entire circuit.

We had hardly got started before he commenced telling us of a remarkable struggle, which he declared had been going on for many hundred years between a border tribe of Indians and the inhabitants of the lake, whom he designated as Water-men, or "_hombres de las aguas_." On asking if he really meant to say that human beings lived and breathed like fish in Lake Bigler, he declared without any hesitation that such was the fact; that he had often seen them; and went on to describe a terrific combat he witnessed a great many years ago, between a Pol-i-wog chief and _a man of the water_. On my expressing some doubt as to the veracity of the statement, he proffered to show us the very spot where it occurred; and at the same time expressed a belief that by manufacturing a whistle from the bark of the mountain chinquapin, and blowing it as the Pol-i-wogs did, we might entice some of their old enemies from the depths of the lake. My curiosity now being raised tip-toe, I proceeded to interrogate Juan more closely, and in answer I succeeded in obtaining the following curious particulars:

The tribe of border Indians called the Pol-i-wogs were a sort of amphibious race, and a hybrid between the Pi-Utes and the mermaids of the lake. They were of a much lighter color than their progenitors, and were distinguished by a great many peculiar characteristics. Exceedingly few in number, and quarrelsome in the extreme, they resented every intrusion upon the waters of the lake as a personal affront, and made perpetual war upon neighboring tribes. Hence, as Juan remarked, they soon became extinct after the invasion of the Washoes. The last of them disappeared about twenty-five years ago. The most noted of their peculiarities were the following:

First. Their heads were broad and extremely flat; the eyes protuberant, and the ears scarcely perceptible--being a small opening closed by a movable valve shaped like the scale of a salmon. Their mouths were very large, extending entirely across the cheeks, and bounded by a hard rim of bone, instead of the common lip. In appearance, therefore, the head did not look unlike an immense catfish head, except there were no fins about the jaws, and no feelers, as we call them.

Second. Their necks were short, stout, and chubby, and they possessed the power of inflating them at will, and thus distending them to two or three times their ordinary size.

Third. Their bodies were long, round, and flexible. When wet, they glistened in the sun like the back of an eel, and seemed to possess much greater buoyancy than those of common men. But the greatest wonder of all was a kind of loose membrane, that extended from beneath their shoulders all the way down their sides, and connected itself with the upper portion of their thighs. This loose skin resembled the wings of the common house bat, and when spread out, as it always did in the water, looked like the membrane lining of the legs and fore feet of the chipmunk.

Fourth. The hands and feet were distinguished for much greater length of toe and finger; and their extremities grew together like the toes of a duck, forming a complete web betwixt all the fingers and toes.

The Pol-i-wogs lived chiefly upon fish and oysters, of which there was once a great abundance in the lake. They were likewise cannibals, and ate their enemies without stint or compunction. A young Washoe girl was considered a feast, but a lake maiden was the _ne plus ultra_ of luxuries. The Washoes reciprocated the compliment, and fattened upon the blubber of the Pol-i-wogs. It is true that they were extremely difficult to capture, for, when hotly pursued, they plunged into the lake, and by expert swimming and extraordinary diving, they generally managed to effect their escape.

Juan having exhausted his budget concerning the Pol-i-wogs, I requested him to give us as minute a description of the Lake Mermaids. This he declined for the present to do, alleging as an excuse that we would first attempt to capture, or at least to see one for ourselves, and if our hunt was unsuccessful, he would then gratify our curiosity.

It was some days before we came in sight of this magnificent sheet of water. Finally, however, after many perilous adventures in descending the Sierras, we reached the margin of the lake. Our first care was to procure trout enough to last until we got ready to return. That was an easy matter, for in those days the lake was far more plentifully supplied than at present. We caught many thousands at a place where a small brook came down from the mountains, and formed a pool not a great distance from its entrance into the lake, and this pool was alive with them. It occupied us but three days to catch, clean, and sun-dry as many as our single mule could carry, and having still nearly a week to spare we determined to start off in pursuit of the mermaids.

Our guide faithfully conducted us to the spot where he beheld the conflict between the last of the Pol-i-wogs and one of the water-men. As stated above, it is nearly on the spot where Tahoe City now stands. The battle was a fierce one, as the combatants were equally matched in strength and endurance, and was finally terminated only by the interposition of a small party of Washoes, our own guide being of the number. The struggle was chiefly in the water, the Pol-i-wog being better able to swim than the mermaid was to walk. Still, as occasion required, a round or two took place on the gravelly beach. Never did old Spain and England engage in fiercer conflict for the dominion of the seas, than now occurred between Pol-i-wog and Merman for the mastery of the lake. Each fought, as the Roman fought, for Empire. The Pol-i-wog, like the last of the Mohicans, had seen his tribe melt away, until he stood, like some solitary column at Persepolis, the sole monument of a once gorgeous temple. The water chieftain also felt that upon his arm, or rather tail, everything that made life desirable was staked. Above all, the trident of his native sea was involved.

The weapons of the Pol-i-wog were his teeth and his hind legs. Those of the Merman were all concentrated in the flop of his scaly tail. With the energy of a dying alligator, he would encircle, with one tremendous effort, the bruised body of the Pol-i-wog, and floor him beautifully on the beach. Recovering almost instantly, the Pol-i-wog would seize the Merman by the long black hair, kick him in the region of the stomach, and grapple his windpipe between his bony jaws, as the mastiff does the infuriated bull.

Finally, after a great many unsuccessful attempts to drag the Pol-i-wog into deep water, the mermaid was seized by her long locks and suddenly jerked out upon the beach in a very battered condition. At this moment, the Washoes with a yell rushed toward the combatants, but the Pol-i-wog seeing death before him upon water and land equally, preferred the embraces of the water nymphs to the stomachs of the landsmen, and rolling over rapidly was soon borne off into unfathomable depths by the triumphant Merman.

Such was the story of Juan. It resembled the condition of the ancient Britons, who, being crowded by the Romans from the sea, and attacked by the Picts from the interior, lamented their fate as the most unfortunate of men. "The Romans," they said, "drive us into the land; there we are met by the Picts, who in turn drive us into the sea. We must perish in either event. Those whom enemies spare, the waves devour."

Our first step was to prepare a chinquapin whistle. The flute was easily manufactured by Juan himself, thuswise: He cut a twig about eighteen inches in length, and not more than half an inch in diameter, and peeling the bark from the ends an inch or so, proceeded to rub the bark rapidly with a dry stick peeled perfectly smooth. In a short time the sap in the twig commenced to exude from both ends. Then placing the large end between his teeth he pulled suddenly, and the bark slipped off with a crack in it. Then cutting a small hole in the form of a parallelogram, near the upper end, he adjusted a stopper with flattened surface so as to fit exactly the opening. Cutting off the end of the stopple even with the bark and filling the lower opening nearly full of clay, he declared the work was done. As a proof of this, he blew into the hollow tube, and a low, musical sound was emitted, very flute-like and silvery. When blown harshly, it could be heard at a great distance, and filled the air with melodious echoes.

Thus equipped, we set out upon our search. The first two days were spent unsuccessfully. On the third we found ourselves near what is now called Agate Beach. At this place a small cove indents the land, which sweeps round in the form of a semi-circle. The shore is literally packed with agates and crystals. We dug some more than two feet deep in several places, but still could find no bottom to the glittering floor. They are of all colors, but the prevailing hues are red and yellow. Here Juan paused, and lifting his whistle to his lips, he performed a multitude of soft, gentle airs, which floated across the calm waves like a lover's serenade breathes o'er the breast of sleeping beauty. It all seemed in vain. We had now entirely circumnavigated the lake, and were on the eve of despairing utterly, when suddenly we beheld the surface of the lake, nearly a quarter of a mile from the shore, disturbed violently, as if some giant whale were floundering with a harpoon in its side. In a moment more the head and neck of one of those tremendous serpents that of late years have infested the lake, were uplifted some ten or fifteen feet above the surface. Almost at the same instant we beheld the head, face and hair, as of a human being, emerge quickly from the water, and look back toward the pursuing foe. The truth flashed upon us instantaneously. Here was a mermaid pursued by a serpent. On they came, seemingly regardless of our presence, and had approached to within twenty yards of the spot where we stood, when suddenly both came to a dead halt. Juan had never ceased for a moment to blow his tuneful flute, and it now became apparent that the notes had struck their hearing at the same time. To say that they were charmed would but half express their ecstatic condition. They were absolutely entranced.

The huge old serpent lolled along the waters for a hundred feet or so, and never so much as shook the spray from his hide. He looked like Milton's portrait of Satan, stretched out upon the burning marl of hell. In perfect contrast with the sea monster, the beautiful mermaiden lifted her pallid face above the water, dripping with the crystal tears of the lake, and gathering her long raven locks, that floated like the train of a meteor down her back, she carelessly flung them across her swelling bosom, as if to reproach us for gazing upon her beauteous form. But there my eyes were fastened! If she were entranced by the music, I was not less so with her beauty. Presently the roseate hues of a dying dolphin played athwart her brow and cheeks, and ere long a gentle sigh, as if stolen from the trembling chords of an Eolian harp, issued from her coral lips. Again and again it broke forth, until it beat in full symphony with the cadences of Juan's rustic flute.

My attention was at this moment aroused by the suspicious clicking of my comrade's rifle. Turning around suddenly, I beheld Liehard, with his piece leveled at the unconscious mermaid.

"Great God!" I exclaimed! "Liehard, would you commit murder?" But the warning came too late, for instantaneously the quick report of his rifle and the terrific shriek of the mermaid broke the noontide stillness; and, rearing her bleeding form almost entirely out of the water, she plunged headlong forwards, a corpse. Beholding his prey, powerless within his grasp, the serpent splashed toward her, and, ere I could cock my rifle, he had seized her unresisting body, and sank with it into the mysterious caverns of the lake. At this instant, I gave a loud outcry, as if in pain. On opening my eyes, my wife was bending over me, the midday sun was shining in my face, Dick Barter was spinning some confounded yarn about the Bay of Biscay and the rum trade of Jamaica, and the sloop _Edith Beaty_ was still riding at anchor off the wild glen, and gazing tranquilly at her ugly image in the crystal mirror of Lake Bigler.

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

X.

_ROSENTHAL'S ELAINE._

I stood and gazed far out into the waste; No dip of oar broke on the listening ear; But the quick rippling of the inward flood Gave warning of approaching argosy.

Adown the west, the day's last fleeting gleam Faded and died, and left the world in gloom. Hope hung no star up in the murky east To cheer the soul, or guide the pilgrim's way. Black frown'd the heavens, and black the answering earth Reflected from her watery wastes the night.

Sudden, a plash! then silence. Once again The dripping oar dipped in its silver blade, Parting the waves, as smiles part beauty's lips. Betwixt me and the curtain of the cloud, Close down by the horizon's verge, there crept From out the darkness, barge and crew and freight, Sailless and voiceless, all! Ah! Then I knew I stood upon the brink of Time. I saw Before me Death's swift river sweep along And bear its burden to the grave. "Elaine!" One seamew screamed, in solitary woe; "Elaine! Elaine!" stole back the echo, weird And musical, from off the further shore. Then burst a chorus wild, "Elaine! Elaine!" And gazing upward through the twilight haze, Mine eyes beheld King Arthur's phantom Court. There stood the sturdy monarch: he who drove The hordes of Hengist from old Albion's strand; And, leaning on his stalwart arm, his queen, The fair, the false, but trusted Guinevere! And there, like the statue of a demi-god, In marble wrought by some old Grecian hand, With eyes downcast, towered Lancelot of the Lake. Lavaine and Torre, the heirs of Astolat, And he, the sorrowing Sire of the Dead, Together with a throng of valiant knights And ladies fair, were gathered as of yore, At the Round Table of bold Arthur's Court. There, too, was Tristram, leaning on his lance, Whose eyes alone of all that weeping host Swam not in tears; but indignation burned Red in their sockets, like volcanic fires, And from their blazing depths a Fury shot Her hissing arrows at the guilty pair. Then Lancelot, advancing to the front, With glance transfixed upon the canvas true That sheds immortal fame on ROSENTHAL, Thus chanted forth his Requiem for the Dead:

Fresh as the water in the fountain, Fair as the lily by its side, Pure as the snow upon the mountain, Is the angel Elaine! My spirit bride!

Day after day she grew fairer, As she pined away in sorrow, at my side; No pearl in the ocean could be rarer Than the angel Elaine! My spirit bride!

The hours passed away all unheeded, For love hath no landmarks in its tide. No child of misfortune ever pleaded In vain To Elaine! My spirit bride!

Here, where sad Tamesis is rolling The wave of its sorrow-laden tide, Forever on the air is heard tolling The refrain Of Elaine! My spirit bride!

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

XI.

_THE TELESCOPIC EYE._

A LEAF FROM A REPORTER'S NOTE-BOOK.

For the past five or six weeks, rumors of a strange abnormal development of the powers of vision of a youth named Johnny Palmer, whose parents reside at South San Francisco, have been whispered around in scientific circles in the city, and one or two short notices have appeared in the columns of some of our contemporaries relative to the prodigious _lusus naturæ_, as the scientists call it.

Owing to the action taken by the California College of Sciences, whose members comprise some of our most scientific citizens, the affair has assumed such importance as to call for a careful and exhaustive investigation.

Being detailed to investigate the flying stories, with regard to the powers of vision claimed for a lad named John or "Johnny" Palmer, as his parents call him, we first of all ventured to send in our card to Professor Gibbins, the President of the California College of Sciences. It is always best to call at the fountain-head for useful information, a habit which our two hundred thousand readers on this coast can never fail to see and appreciate. An estimable gentleman of the African persuasion, to whom we handed our "pasteboard," soon returned with the polite message, "Yes, sir; _in_. Please walk up." And so we followed our conductor through several passages almost as dark as the face of the _cicerone_, and in a few moments found ourselves in the presence of, perhaps, the busiest man in the city of San Francisco.

Without any flourish of trumpets, the Professor inquired our object in seeking him and the information we desired. "Ah," said he, "that is a long story. I have no time to go into particulars just now. I am computing the final sheet of Professor Davidson's report of the Transit of Venus, last year, at Yokohama and Loo-Choo. It must be ready before May, and it requires six months' work to do it correctly."

"But," I rejoined, "can't you tell me where the lad is to be found?"

"And if I did, they will not let you see him."

"Let me alone for that," said I, smiling; "a reporter, like love, finds his way where wolves would fear to tread."

"Really, my dear sir," quickly responded the Doctor, "I have no time to chat this morning. Our special committee submitted its report yesterday, which is on file in that book-case; and if you will promise not to publish it until after it has been read in open session of the College, you may take it to your sanctum, run it over, and clip from it enough to satisfy the public for the present."

Saying this, he rose from his seat, opened the case, took from a pigeon-hole a voluminous written document tied up with red tape, and handed it to me, adding, "Be careful!" Seating himself without another word, he turned his back on me, and I sallied forth into the street.

Reaching the office, I scrutinized the writing on the envelope, and found it as follows: "Report of Special Committee--Boy Palmer--Vision--Laws of Light--Filed February 10, 1876--Stittmore, Sec." Opening the document, I saw at once that it was a full, accurate, and, up to the present time, complete account of the phenomenal case I was after, and regretted the promise made not to publish the entire report until read in open session of the College. Therefore, I shall be compelled to give the substance of the report in my own words, only giving _verbatim_ now and then a few scientific phrases which are not fully intelligible to me, or susceptible of circumlocution in common language.

The report is signed by Doctors Bryant, Gadbury and Golson, three of our ablest medical men, and approved by Professor Smyth, the oculist. So far, therefore, as authenticity and scientific accuracy are concerned, our readers may rely implicitly upon the absolute correctness of every fact stated and conclusion reached.

The first paragraph of the report gives the name of the child, "John Palmer, age, nine years, and place of residence, South San Francisco, Culp Hill, near Catholic Orphan Asylum;" and then plunges at once into _in medias res_.

It appears that the period through which the investigation ran was only fifteen days; but it seems to have been so thorough, by the use of the ophthalmoscope and other modern appliances and tests, that no regrets ought to be indulged as to the brevity of the time employed in experiments. Besides, we have superadded a short and minute account of our own, verifying some of the most curious facts reported, with several tests proposed by ourselves and not included in the statement of the scientific committee.

To begin, then, with the beginning of the inquiries by the committee. They were conducted into a small back room, darkened by old blankets hung up at the window, for the purpose of the total exclusion of daylight; an absurd remedy for blindness, recommended by a noted quack whose name adorns the extra fly-leaf of the San Francisco _Truth Teller_. The lad was reclining upon an old settee, ill-clad and almost idiotic in expression. As the committee soon ascertained, his mother only was at home, the father being absent at his customary occupation--that of switch-tender on the San Jose Railroad. She notified her son of the presence of strangers and he rose and walked with a firm step toward where the gentlemen stood, at the entrance of the room. He shook them all by the hand and bade them good morning. In reply to questions rapidly put and answered by his mother, the following account of the infancy of the boy and the accidental discovery of his extraordinary powers of vision was given:

He was born in the house where the committee found him, nine years ago the 15th of last January. Nothing of an unusual character occurred until his second year, when it was announced by a neighbor that the boy was completely blind, his parents never having been suspicious of the fact before that time, although the mother declared that for some months anterior to the discovery she had noticed some acts of the child that seemed to indicate mental imbecility rather than blindness. From this time forward until a few months ago nothing happened to vary the boy's existence except a new remedy now and then prescribed by neighbors for the supposed malady. He was mostly confined to a darkened chamber, and was never trusted alone out of doors. He grew familiar, by touch and sound, with the forms of most objects about him, and could form very accurate guesses of the color and texture of them all. His conversational powers did not seem greatly impaired, and he readily acquired much useful knowledge from listening attentively to everything that was said in his presence. He was quite a musician, and touched the harmonicon, banjo and accordeon with skill and feeling. He was unusually sensitive to the presence of light, though incapable of seeing any object with any degree of distinctness; and hence the attempt to exclude light as the greatest enemy to the recovery of vision. It was very strange that up to the time of the examination of the committee, no scientific examination of the boy's eye had been made by a competent oculist, the parents contenting themselves with the chance opinions of visitors or the cheap nostrums of quacks. It is perhaps fortunate for science that this was the case, as a cure for the eye might have been an extinction of its abnormal power.

On the evening of the 12th of December last (1875), the position of the child's bed was temporarily changed to make room for a visitor. The bed was placed against the wall of the room, fronting directly east, with the window opening at the side of the bed next to the head. The boy was sent to bed about seven o'clock, and the parents and their visitor were seated in the front room, spending the evening in social intercourse. The moon rose full and cloudless about half-past seven o'clock, and shone full in the face of the sleeping boy.

Something aroused him from slumber, and when he opened his eyes the first object they encountered was the round disk of her orb. By some oversight the curtain had been removed from the window, and probably for the first time in his life he beheld the lustrous queen of night swimming in resplendent radiance, and bathing hill and bay in effulgent glory. Uttering a cry, equally of terror and delight, he sprang up in bed and sat there like a statue, with eyes aglare, mouth open, finger pointed, and astonishment depicted on every feature. His sudden, sharp scream brought his mother to his side, who tried for some moments in vain to distract his gaze from the object before him. Failing even to attract notice, she called in her husband and friend, and together they besought the boy to lie down and go to sleep, but to no avail. Believing him to be ill and in convulsions, they soon seized him, and were on the point of immersing him in a hot bath, when, with a sudden spring, he escaped from their grasp and ran out the front door. Again he fixed his unwinking eyes upon the moon, and remained speechless for several seconds. At length, having seemingly satisfied his present curiosity, he turned on his mother, who stood wringing her hands in the doorway and moaning piteously, and exclaimed, "I can see the moon yonder, and it is so beautiful that I am going there to-morrow morning, as soon as I get up."

"How big does it look?" said his mother.

"So big," he replied, "that I cannot see it all at one glance--as big as all out of doors."

"How far off from you does it seem to be?"

"About half a car's distance," he quickly rejoined.

It may be here remarked that the boy's idea of distance had been measured all his life by the distance from his home to the street-car station at the foot of the hill. This was about two hundred yards, so that the reply indicated that the moon appeared to be only one hundred yards from the spectator. The boy then proceeded of his own accord to give a very minute description of the appearance of objects which he beheld, corresponding, of course, to his poverty of words with which to clothe his ideas.

His account of things beheld by him was so curious, wonderful and apparently accurate, that the little group about him passed rapidly from a conviction of his insanity to a belief no less absurd--that he had become, in the cant lingo of the day, a seeing, or "clairvoyant" medium. Such was the final conclusion to which his parents had arrived at the time of the visit of the scientific committee. He had been classed with that credulous school known to this century as spiritualists, and had been visited solely by persons of that ilk heretofore.

The committee having fully examined the boy, and a number of independent witnesses, as to the facts, soon set about a scientific investigation of the true causes of of the phenomenon. The first step, of course, was to examine the lad's eye with the modern ophthalmoscope, an invention of Professor Helmholtz, of Heidelberg, a few years ago, by means of which the depths of this organ can be explored, and the smallest variations from a healthy or normal condition instantaneously detected.

The mode of using the instrument is as follows: The room is made perfectly dark; a brilliant light is then placed near the head of the patient, and the rays are reflected by a series of small mirrors into his eye, as if they came from the eye of the observer; then, by looking through the central aperture of the instrument, the oculist can examine the illuminated interior of the eyeball, and perceive every detail of structure, healthy or morbid, as accurately and clearly as we can see any part of the exterior of the body. No discomfort arises to the organ examined, and all its hidden mysteries can be studied and understood as clearly as those of any other organ of the body.

This course was taken with John Palmer, and the true secret of his mysterious power of vision detected in an instant.

On applying the ophthalmoscope, the committee ascertained in a moment that the boy's eye was abnormally shaped. A natural, perfect eye is perfectly round. But the eye examined was exceedingly flat, very thin, with large iris, flat lens, immense petira, and wonderfully dilated pupil. The effect of the shape was at once apparent. It was utterly impossible to see any object with distinctness at any distance short of many thousands of miles. Had the eye been elongated inward, or shaped like an egg--to as great an extent, the boy would have been effectually blind, for no combination of lens power could have placed the image of the object beyond the coat of the retina. In other words, there are two common imperfections of the human organ of sight; one called _myopia_, or "near-sightedness;" the _presbyopia_, or "far-sightedness."

"The axis being too long," says the report, "in myopic eyes, parallel rays, such as proceed from distant objects, are brought to a focus at a point so far in front of the retina, that only confused images are formed upon it. Such a malformation, constituting an excess of refractive power, can only be neutralized by concave glasses, which give such a direction to rays entering the eye as will allow of their being brought to a focus at a proper point for distant perception."

"Presbyopia is the reverse of all this. The antero-posterior axis of such eyes being too short, owing to the flat plate-like shape of the ball, their refractive power is not sufficient to bring even parallel rays to a focus upon the retina, but is adapted for convergent rays only. Convex glasses, in a great measure, compensate for this quality by rendering parallel rays convergent; and such glasses, in ordinary cases, bring the rays to a focus at a convenient distance from the glass, corresponding to its degree of curvature." But in the case under examination, no glass or combination of glasses could be invented sufficiently concave to remedy the malformation. By a mathematical problem of easy solution, it was computed that the nearest distance from the unaided eye of the patient at which a distinct image could be formed upon the retina, was two hundred and forty thousand miles, a fraction short of the mean distance of the moon from the earth; and hence it became perfectly clear that the boy could see with minute distinctness whatever was transpiring on the surface of the moon.

Such being the undeniable truth as demonstrated by science, the declaration of the lad assumed a far higher value than the mere dicta of spiritualists, or the mad ravings of a monomaniac; and the committee at once set to work to glean all the astronomical knowledge they could by frequent and prolonged night interviews with the boy.

It was on the night of January 9, 1876, that the first satisfactory experiment was tried, testing beyond all cavil or doubt the powers of the subject's eye. It was full moon, and that luminary rose clear and dazzlingly bright. The committee were on hand at an early hour, and the boy was in fine condition and exuberant spirits. The interview was secret, and none but the members of the committee and the parents of the child were present. Of course the first proposition to be settled was that of the inhabitability of that sphere. This the boy had frequently declared was the case, and he had on several previous occasions described minutely the form, size and means of locomotion of the Lunarians. On this occasion he repeated in almost the same language, what he had before related to his parents and friends, but was more minute, owing to the greater transparency of the atmosphere and the experience in expression already acquired.

The Lunarians are not formed at all like ourselves. They are less in height, and altogether of a different appearance. When fully grown, they resemble somewhat a chariot wheel, with four spokes, converging at the center or axle. They have four eyes in the head, which is the axle, so to speak, and all the limbs branch out directly from the center, like some sea-forms known as "Radiates." They move by turning rapidly like a wheel, and travel as fast as a bird through the air. The children are undeveloped in form, and are perfectly round, like a pumpkin or orange. As they grow older, they seem to drop or absorb the rotundity of the whole body, and finally assume the appearance of a chariot wheel.

They are of different colors, or nationalities--bright red, orange and blue being the predominant hues. The reds are in a large majority. They do no work, but sleep every four or five hours. They have no houses, and need none. They have no clothing, and do not require it. There being no night on the side of the moon fronting the sun, and no day on the opposite side, all the inhabitants, apparently at a given signal of some kind, form into vast armies, and flock in myriads to the sleeping grounds on the shadow-side of the planet. They do not appear to go very far over the dark rim, for they reappear in immense platoons in a few hours, and soon spread themselves over the illuminated surface. They sleep and wake about six times in one ordinary day of twenty-four hours. Their occupations cannot be discerned; they must be totally different from anything upon the earth.

The surface of the moon is all hill and hollow. There are but few level spots, nor is there any water visible. The atmosphere is almost as refined and light as hydrogen gas. There is no fire visible, nor are there any volcanoes. Most of the time of the inhabitants seems to be spent in playing games of locomotion, spreading themselves into squares, circles, triangles, and other mathematical figures. They move always in vast crowds. No one or two are ever seen separated from the main bodies. The children also flock in herds, and seem to be all of one family. Individualism is unknown. They seem to spawn like herring or shad, or to be propagated like bees, from the queen, in myriads. Motion is their normal condition. The moment after a mathematical figure is formed, it is dissolved, and fresh combinations take place, like the atoms in a kaleidoscope. No other species of animal, bird, or being exist upon the illuminated face of the moon.

The shrubbery and vegetation of the moon is all metallic. Vegetable life nowhere exists; but the forms of some of the shrubs and trees are exceedingly beautiful. The highest trees do not exceed twenty-five feet, and they appear to have all acquired their full growth. The ground is strewn with flowers, but they are all formed of metals--gold, silver, copper, and tin predominating. But there is a new kind of metal seen everywhere on tree, shrub and flower, nowhere known on the earth. It is of a bright vermilion color, and is semi-transparent. The mountains are all of bare and burnt granite, and appear to have been melted with fire. The committee called the attention of the boy to the bright "sea of glass" lately observed near the northern rim of the moon, and inquired of what it is composed. He examined it carefully, and gave such a minute description of it that it became apparent at once to the committee that it was pure mercury or quicksilver. The reason why it has but very recently shown itself to astronomers is thus accounted for: it appears close up to the line of demarcation separating the light and shadow upon the moon's disk; and on closer inspection a distinct cataract of the fluid--in short, a metallic Niagara, was clearly seen falling from the night side to the day side of the luminary. It has already filled up a vast plain--one of the four that exist on the moon's surface--and appears to be still emptying itself with very great rapidity and volume. It covers an area of five by seven hundred miles in extent, and may possibly deluge one half the entire surface of the moon. It does not seem to occasion much apprehension to the inhabitants, as they were soon skating, so to speak, in platoons and battalions, over and across it. In fact, it presents the appearance of an immense park, to which the Lunarians flock, and disport themselves with great gusto upon its polished face. One of the most beautiful sights yet seen by the lad was the formation of a new figure, which he drew upon the sand with his finger.

The central heart was of crimson-colored natives; the one to the right of pale orange, and the left of bright blue. It was ten seconds in forming, and five seconds in dispersing. The number engaged in the evolution could not be less than half a million.

Thus has been solved one of the great astronomical questions of the century.

The next evening the committee assembled earlier, so as to get a view of the planet Venus before the moon rose. It was the first time that the lad's attention had been drawn to any of the planets, and he evinced the liveliest joy when he first beheld the cloudless disk of that resplendent world. It may here be stated that his power of vision, in looking at the fixed stars, was no greater or less than that of an ordinary eye. They appeared only as points of light, too far removed into the infinite beyond to afford any information concerning their properties. But the committee were doomed to a greater disappointment when they inquired of the boy what he beheld on the surface of Venus. He replied, "Nothing clearly; all is confused and watery; I see nothing with distinctness." The solution of the difficulty was easily apprehended, and at once surmised. The focus of the eye was fixed by nature at 240,000 miles, and the least distance of Venus from the earth being 24,293,000 miles, it was, of course, impossible to observe that planet's surface with distinctness. Still she appeared greatly enlarged, covering about one hundredth part of the heavens, and blazing with unimaginable splendor.

Experiments upon Jupiter and Mars were equally futile, and the committee half sorrowfully turned again to the inspection of the moon.

The report then proceeds at great length to give full descriptions of the most noted geographical peculiarities of the lunar surface, and corrects many errors fallen into by Herschel, Leverrier and Proctor. Professor Secchi informs us that the surface of the moon is much better known to astronomers than the surface of the earth is to geographers; for there are two zones on the globe within the Arctic and Antarctic circles, that we can never examine. But every nook and cranny of the illuminated face of the moon has been fully delineated, examined and named, so that no object greater than sixty feet square exists but has been seen and photographed by means of Lord Rosse's telescope and De la Ruis' camera and apparatus. As the entire report will be ordered published at the next weekly meeting of the College, we refrain from further extracts, but now proceed to narrate the results of our own interviews with the boy.

It was on the evening of the 17th of February, 1876, that we ventured with rather a misgiving heart to approach Culp Hill, and the humble residence of a child destined, before the year is out, to become the most celebrated of living beings. We armed ourselves with a pound of sugar candy for the boy, some _muslin-de-laine_ as a present to the mother, and a box of cigars for the father. We also took with us a very large-sized opera-glass, furnished for the purpose by M. Muller. At first we encountered a positive refusal; then, on exhibiting the cigars, a qualified negative; and finally, when the muslin and candy were drawn on the enemy, we were somewhat coldly invited in and proffered a seat. The boy was pale and restless, and his eyes without bandage or glasses. We soon ingratiated ourself into the good opinion of the whole party, and henceforth encountered no difficulty in pursuing our investigations. The moon being nearly full, we first of all verified the tests by the committee. These were all perfectly satisfactory and reliable. Requesting, then, to stay until after midnight, for the purpose of inspecting Mars with the opera-glass, we spent the interval in obtaining the history of the child, which we have given above.

The planet Mars being at this time almost in dead opposition to the sun, and with the earth in conjunction, is of course as near to the earth as he ever approaches, the distance being thirty-five millions of miles. He rises toward midnight, and is in the constellation Virgo, where he may be seen to the greatest possible advantage, being in perigee. Mars is most like the earth of all the planetary bodies. He revolves on his axis in a little over twenty-four hours, and his surface is pleasantly variegated with land and water, pretty much like our own world--the land, however, being in slight excess. He is, therefore, the most interesting of all the heavenly bodies to the inhabitants of the earth.

Having all things in readiness, we directed the glass to the planet. Alas, for all our calculations, the power was insufficient to clear away the obscurity resulting from imperfect vision and short focus.

Swallowing the bitter disappointment, we hastily made arrangements for another interview, with a telescope, and bade the family good night.

There is but one large telescope properly mounted in the city, and that is the property and pride of its accomplished owner, J. P. Manrow, Esq. We at once procured an interview with that gentleman, and it was agreed that on Saturday evening the boy should be conveyed to his residence, picturesquely situated on Russian Hill, commanding a magnificent view of the Golden Gate and the ocean beyond.

At the appointed hour the boy, his parents and myself presented ourselves at the door of that hospitable mansion. We were cordially welcomed, and conducted without further parley into the lofty observatory on the top of the house. In due time the magnificent tube was presented at the planet, but it was discovered that the power it was set for was too low. It was then gauged for 240,000 diameters, being the full strength of the telescope, and the eye of the boy observer placed at the eye-glass. One cry of joy, and unalloyed delight told the story! Mars, and its mountains and seas, its rivers, vales, and estuaries, its polar snow-caps and grassy plains--its inhabitants, palaces, ships, villages and cities, were all revealed, as distinctly, clearly and certainly, as the eye of Kit Carson, from the summits of the Sierra Nevada range, beheld the stupendous panorama of the Sacramento Valley, and the snow-clad summits of Mount Hood and Shasta Butte.

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

XII.

_THE EMERALD ISLE._

Chaos was ended. From its ruins rolled The central Sun, poised on his throne of gold; The changeful Moon, that floods the hollow dome Of raven midnight with her silvery foam; Vast constellations swarming all around, In seas of azure, without line or bound, And this green globe, rock-ribbed and mountain-crown'd.

The eye of God, before His hand had made Man in His image, this wide realm surveyed; O'er hill and valley, over stream and wood, He glanced triumphant, and pronounced it "good." But ere He formed old Adam and his bride, He called a shining seraph to His side, And pointing to our world, that gleamed afar, And twinkled on creation's verge, a star, Bade him float 'round this new and narrow span And bring report if all were ripe for Man. The angel spread his fluttering pinions fair, And circled thrice the circumambient air; Quick, then, as thought, he stood before the gate Where cherubs burn, and minist'ring spirits wait. Nor long he stood, for God beheld his plume, Already tarnished by terrestrial gloom, And beck'ning kindly to the flurried aid, Said, "Speak your wish; if good, be it obeyed." The seraph raised his gem-encircled hand, Obeisance made, at heaven's august command, And thus replied, in tones so bold and clear, That angels turned and lent a listening ear: "Lord of all systems, be they near or far, Thrice have I circled 'round yon beauteous Star, I've seen its mountains rise, its rivers roll, Its oceans sweep majestic to each pole; Its floors in mighty continents expand, Or dwindle into specs of fairy-land; Its prairies spread, its forests stretch in pride, And all its valleys dazzle like a bride; Hymns have I heard in all its winds and streams, And beauty seen in all its rainbow gleams. But whilst the LAND can boast of every gem That sparkles in each seraph's diadem; Whilst diamonds blaze 'neath dusk Golconda's skies, And rubies bleed where Alps and Andes rise; Whilst in Brazilian brooks the topaz shines, And opals burn in California mines; Whilst in the vales of Araby the Blest The sapphire flames beside the amethyst: The pauper Ocean sobs forever more, Ungemm'd, unjeweled, on its wailing shore!"

"What wouldst thou do?" responded heaven's great King. "Add music to the song the breakers sing!" The strong-soul'd seraph cried, "I'd make yon sea Rival in tone heaven's sweetest minstrelsy; I'd plant within the ocean's bubbling tide An island gem, of every sea the pride! So bright in robes of ever-living green, In breath so sweet, in features so serene, Such crystal streams to course its valleys fair, Such healthful gales to purify its air, Such fertile soil, such ever-verdant trees, Angels should name it 'EMERALD OF THE SEAS!'"

The seraph paused, and downward cast his eyes, Whilst heav'nly hosts stood throbbing with surprise. Again the Lord of all the realms above, Supreme in might, but infinite in love, With no harsh accent in His tones replied: "Go, drop this Emerald in the envious tide!"

Quick as the lightning cleaves the concave blue, The seraph seized the proffer'd gem, and flew Until he reached the confines of the earth, Still struggling in the throes of turbid birth; And there, upon his self-sustaining wing, Sat poised, and heard our globe her matins sing; Beheld the sun traverse the arching sky, The sister Moon walk forth in majesty; Saw every constellation rise and roll Athwart the heaven, or circle round the pole. Nor did he move, until our spotted globe Had donned for him her morn and evening robe; Till on each land his critic eye was cast, And every ocean rose, and heav'd, and pass'd; Then, like some eagle pouncing on its prey, He downward sail'd, through bellowing clouds and spray, To where he saw the billows bounding free, And dropped the gem within the stormy sea!

And would'st thou know, Chief of St. Patrick's band, Where fell this jewel from the seraph's hand? What ocean caught the world-enriching prize? O! Child of Moina, homeward cast your eyes! Lo! in the midst of wat'ry deserts wide, Behold the EMERALD bursting through the tide, And bearing on its ever vernal-sod The monogram of seraph, and of God!

Its name, the sweetest human lips e'er sung, First trembled on an angel's fervid tongue; Then chimed Æolian on the evening air, Lisped by an infant, in its mother prayer; Next roared in war, with battle's flag unfurl'd; Now, gemm'd with glory, gather'd through the world! What name! Perfidious Albion, blush with shame: It is thy sister's! ERIN IS THE NAME!

Once more the seraph stood before the throne Of dread Omnipotence, pensive and alone. "What hast thou done?" Heaven's Monarch sadly sigh'd. "I dropped the jewel in the flashing tide," The seraph said; but saw with vision keen A mightier angel stalk upon the scene, Whose voice like grating thunder smote his ear And taught his soul the mystery of fear.

"Because thy heart with impious pride did swell, And dared make better what thy God made well; Because thy hand did fling profanely down On Earth a jewel wrenched from Heaven's bright crown, The Isle which thine own fingers did create Shall reap a blessing and a curse from fate!"

THE CURSE.

Far in the future, as the years roll on, And all the pagan ages shall have flown; When Christian virtues, flaming into light, Shall save the world from superstition's night; Erin, oppress'd, shall bite the tyrant's heel, And for a thousand years enslaved shall kneel; Her sons shall perish in the field and flood, Her daughters starve in city, wold, and wood; Her patriots, with their blood, the block shall stain, Her matrons fly behind the Western main; Harpies from Albion shall her strength consume, And thorns and thistles in her gardens bloom. But, curse of curses thine, O! fated land: Traitors shall thrive where statesmen ought to stand!

THE BLESSING.

But past her heritage of woe and pain, A far more blest millennium shall reign; Seedlings of heroes shall her exiles be, Where'er they find a home beyond the sea; Bright paragons of beauty and of truth, Her maidens all shall dazzle in their youth; And when age comes, to dim the flashing eye, Still gems of virtue shall they live, and die! No braver race shall breathe beneath the sun Than thine, O! Erin, ere the goal be won.

Wherever man shall battle for the right, There shall thy sons fall thickest in the fight; Wherever man shall perish to be free, There shall thy martyrs foremost be! And O! when thy redemption is at hand, Soldiers shall swell thy ranks from every land! Heroes shall flock in thousands to thy shore, And swear thy soil is FREE FOREVERMORE! Then shall thy harp be from the willow torn, And in yon glitt'ring galaxy be borne! Then shall the Emerald change its verdant crest, And blaze a Star co-equal with the rest!

The sentence pass'd, the doomsman felt surprise, For tears were streaming from the seraph's eyes.

"Weep not for Erin," once again he spoke, "But for thyself, that did'st her doom provoke; I bear a message, seraph, unto thee, As unrelenting in its stern decree. For endless years it is thy fate to stand, The chosen guardian of the SHAMROCK land. Three times, as ages wind their coils away, Incarnate on yon Island shalt thou stray.

"First as a Saint, in majesty divine, The world shall know thee by this potent sign: From yonder soil, where pois'nous reptiles dwell, Thy voice shall snake and slimy toad expel. Next as a Martyr, pleading in her cause, Thy blood shall flow to build up Albion's laws. Last as a Prophet and a Bard combined, Rebellion's fires shall mould thy patriot mind. In that great day, when Briton's strength shall fail, And all her glories shiver on the gale; When winged chariots, rushing through the sky, Shall drop their faggots, blazing as they fly, Thy form shall tower, a hero 'midst the flames, And add one more to Erin's deathless names!"

Exiles of Erin! gathered here in state, Such is the story of your country's fate. Six thousand years in strife have rolled away, Since Erin sprang from billowy surf and spray; In that drear lapse, her sons have never known One ray of peace to gild her crimson zone. Cast back your glance athwart the tide of years, Behold each billow steeped with Erin's tears, Inspect each drop that swells the mighty flood, Its purple globules smoke with human blood!

Come with me now, and trace the seraph's path, That has been trodden since his day of wrath. Lo! in the year when Attila the Hun Had half the world in terror overrun, On Erin's shore there stood a noble youth, The breath of honor and the torch of truth. His was the tongue that taught the Celtic soul Christ was its Saviour, Heaven was its goal! His was the hand that drove subdued away, The venom horde that lured but to betray; His were the feet that sanctified the sod, Erin redeemed, and gave her back to God! The gray old Earth can boost no purer fame Than that whose halos gild ST. PATRICK'S name!

Twelve times the centuries builded up their store Of plots, rebellions, gibbets, tears and gore; Twelve times centennial annivers'ries came, To bless the seraph in St. Patrick's name. In that long night of treach'ry and gloom, How many myriads found a martyr's tomb! Beside the waters of the dashing Rhone In exile starved the bold and blind TYRONE. Beneath the glamour of the tyrant's steel Went out in gloom the soul of great O'NEILL. What countless thousands, children of her loin, Sank unanneal'd beneath the bitter Boyne! What fathers fell, what mothers sued in vain, In Tredah's walls, on Wexford's gory plain, When Cromwell's shaven panders slaked their lust, And Ireton's fiends despoiled the breathless dust!

Still came no seraph, incarnate in man, To rescue Erin from the bandit clan. Still sad and lone, she languished in her chains, That clank'd in chorus o'er her martyrs' manes.

At length, when Freedom's struggle was begun Across the seas, by conq'ring Washington, When CURRAN thunder'd, and when GRATTAN spoke, The guardian seraph from his slumber woke. Then guilty Norbury from his vengeance fled, FITZGERALD fought, and glorious WOLFE TONE bled. Then EMMET rose, to start the battle-cry, To strike, to plead, to threaten, and to die! Immortal Emmet! happier in thy doom, Though uninscrib'd remains thy seraph tomb, Than the long line of Erin's scepter'd foes, Whose bones in proud mausoleums repose; More noble blood through Emmet's pulses rings Than courses through ten thousand hearts of kings!

Thus has the seraph twice redeem'd his fate, And roamed a mortal through this low estate; Again obedient to divine command, His final incarnation is at hand.

THE PROPHECY.

Scarce shall yon sun _five times_ renew the year, Ere Erin's guardian Angel shall appear, Not as a priest, in holy garb arrayed; Not as a patriot, by his cause betray'd, Shall he again assume a mortal guise, And tread the earth, an exile from the skies. But like the lightning from the welkin hurl'd, His eye shall light, his step shall shake the world!

Ye sons of Erin! from your slumbers start! Feel ye no vengeance burning in your heart? Are ye but scions of degenerate slaves? Shall tyrants spit upon your fathers' graves? Is all the life-blood stagnant in your veins? Love ye no music but the clank of chains? Hear ye no voices ringing in the air, That chant in chorus wild, _Prepare_, PREPARE! Hark! on the winds there comes a prophet sound,-- The blood of Abel crying from the ground,-- Pealing in tones of thunder through the world, "ARM! ARM! The Flag of Erin is unfurl'd!"

On some bold headland do I seem to stand, And watch the billows breaking 'gainst the land; Not in lone rollers do their waters poor, But the vast ocean rushes to the shore.

So flock in millions sons of honest toil, From ev'ry country, to their native soil; Exiles of Erin, driven from her sod, By foes of justice, mercy, man, and God! Ærial chariots spread their snowy wings, And drop torpedoes in the halls of kings. On every breeze a thousand banners fly, And Erin's seraph swells the battle-cry:-- "Strike! till the Unicorn shall lose the crown! Strike! till the Eagle tears the Lion down! Strike! till proud Albion bows her haughty head! Strike! for the living and the martyr'd dead! Strike! for the bones that fill your mothers' graves! Strike! till your kindred are no longer slaves! Strike! till fair Freedom on the world shall smile! For God! for Truth! and FOR THE EMERALD ISLE!"

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

XIII.

_THE EARTH'S HOT CENTER._

The following extracts from the report of the Hon. John Flannagan, United States Consul at Bruges, in Belgium, to the Secretary of State, published in the Washington City _Telegraph_ of a late date, will fully explain what is meant by the "Great Scare in Belgium."

Our extracts are not taken continuously, as the entire document would be too voluminous for our pages. But where breaks appear we have indicated the hiatus in the usual manner by asterisks, or by brief explanations.

GEN. FLANNAGAN'S REPORT.

BRUGES, December 12, 1872.

To THE HON. HAMILTON FISH, Secretary of State.

SIR: In pursuance of special instructions recently received from Washington (containing inclosures from Prof. Henry of the Smithsonian Institute, and Prof. Lovering of Harvard), I proceeded on Wednesday last to the scene of operations at the "International Exploring Works," and beg leave to submit the following circumstantial report:

Before proceeding to detail the actual state of affairs at Dudzeele, near the line of canal connecting Bruges with the North Sea, it may not be out of place to furnish a succinct history of the origin of the explorations out of which the present alarming events have arisen. It will be remembered by the State Department that during the short interregnum of the provisional government of France, under Lamartine and Cavaignac, in 1848, a proposition was submitted by France to the governments of the United States, Great Britain and Russia, and which was subsequently extended to King Leopold of Belgium, to create an "International Board for Subterranean Exploration" in furtherance of science, and in order, primarily, to test the truth of the theory of igneous central fusion, first propounded by Leibnitz, and afterward embraced by most of contemporary geologists; but also with the further objects of ascertaining the magnetic condition of the earth's crust, the variations of the needle at great depths, and finally to set at rest the doubts of some of the English mineralogists concerning the permanency of the coal measures, about which considerable alarm had been felt in all the manufacturing centers of Europe.

The protocol of a quintuple treaty was finally drawn by Prof. Henry, of the Smithsonian Institute, and approved by Sir Roderick Murchison, at that time President of the Royal Society of Great Britain. To this project Arago lent the weight of his great name, and Nesselrode affixed the approval of Russia, it being one of the last official acts performed by that veteran statesman.

The programme called for annual appropriations by each of the above-named powers of 100,000 francs (about $20,000 each), the appointment of commissioners and a general superintendent, the selection of a site for prosecuting the undertaking, and a board of scientific visitors, consisting of one member from each country.

It is unnecessary to detail the proceedings for the first few months after the organization of the commission. Prof. Watson, of Chicago, the author of a scientific treatise called "Prairie Geology," was selected by President Fillmore, as the first representative of the United States; Russia sent Olgokoff; France, Ango Jeuno; England, Sir Edward Sabine, the present President of the Royal Society; and Belgium, Dr. Secchi, since so famous for his spectroscopic observations on the fixed stars. These gentlemen, after organizing at Paris, spent almost an entire year in traveling before a site for the scene of operations was selected. Finally, on the 10th of April, 1849, the first ground was broken for actual work at Dudzeele, in the neighborhood of Bruges, in the Kingdom of Belgium.

The considerations which led to the choice of this locality were the following: First, it was the most central, regarding the capitals of the parties to the protocol; secondly, it was easy of access and connected by rail with Brussels, Paris and St. Petersburg, and by line of steamers with London, being situated within a short distance of the mouth of the Hond or west Scheldt; thirdly, and perhaps as the most important consideration of all, it was the seat of the deepest shaft in the world, namely, the old salt mine at Dudzeele, which had been worked from the time of the Romans down to the commencement of the present century, at which time it was abandoned, principally on account of the intense heat at the bottom of the excavation, and which could not be entirely overcome except by the most costly scientific appliances.

There was still another reason, which, in the estimation of at least one member of the commission, Prof. Watson, overrode them all--the exceptional increase of heat with depth, which was its main characteristic.

The scientific facts upon which this great work was projected, may be stated as follows: It is the opinion of the principal modern geologists, based primarily upon the hypothesis of Kant (that the solar universe was originally an immense mass of incandescent vapor gradually cooled and hardened after being thrown off from the grand central body--afterward elaborated by La Place into the present nebular hypothesis)--that "the globe was once in a state of igneous fusion, and that as its heated mass began to cool, an exterior crust was formed, first very thin, and afterward gradually increasing until it attained its present thickness, which has been variously estimated at from ten to two hundred miles. During the process of gradual refrigeration, some portions of the crust cooled more rapidly than others, and the pressure on the interior igneous mass being unequal, the heated matter or lava burst through the thinner parts, and caused high-peaked mountains; the same cause also producing all volcanic action." The arguments in favor of this doctrine are almost innumerable; these are among the most prominent:

_First._ The form of the earth is just that which an igneous liquid mass would assume if thrown into an orbit with an axial revolution similar to that of our earth. Not many years ago Professor Faraday, assisted by Wheatstone, devised a most ingenious apparatus by which, in the laboratory of the Royal Society, he actually was enabled, by injecting a flame into a vacuum, to exhibit visibly all the phenomena of the formation of the solar universe, as contended for by La Place and by Humboldt in his "Cosmos."

_Secondly._ It is perfectly well ascertained that heat increases with depth, in all subterranean excavations. This is the invariable rule in mining shafts, and preventive measures must always be devised and used, by means generally of air apparatus, to temper the heat as the depth is augmented, else deep mining would have to be abandoned. The rate of increase has been variously estimated by different scientists in widely distant portions of the globe. A few of them may be mentioned at this place, since it was upon a total miscalculation on this head that led to the present most deplorable results.

The editor of the _Journal of Science_, in April, 1832, calculated from results obtained in six of the deepest coal mines in Durham and Northumberland, the mean rate of increase at one degree of Fahrenheit for a descent of forty-four English feet.

In this instance it is noticeable that the bulb of the thermometer was introduced into cavities purposely cut into the solid rock, at depths varying from two hundred to nine hundred feet. The Dolcoath mine in Cornwall, as examined by Mr. Fox, at the depth of thirteen hundred and eighty feet, gave on average result of four degrees for every seventy-five feet.

Kupffer compared results obtained from the silver mines in Mexico, Peru and Freiburg, from the salt wells of Saxony, and from the copper mines in the Caucasus, together with an examination of the tin mines of Cornwall and the coal mines in the north of England, and found the average to be at least one degree of Fahrenheit for every thirty-seven English feet. Cordier, on the contrary, considers this amount somewhat overstated and reduces the general average to one degree Centigrade for every twenty-five metres, or about one degree of Fahrenheit for every forty-five feet English measure.

_Thirdly._ That the lavas taken from all parts of the world, when subjected to chemical analysis, indicate that they all proceed from a common source; and

_Fourthly._ On no other hypothesis can we account for the change of climate indicated by fossils.

The rate of increase of heat in the Dudzeele shaft was no less than one degree Fahrenheit for every thirty feet English measure.

At the time of recommencing sinking in the shaft on the 10th of April, 1849, the perpendicular depth was twenty-three hundred and seventy feet, the thermometer marking forty-eight degrees Fahrenheit at the surface; this would give the enormous heat of one hundred and twenty-seven degrees Fahrenheit at the bottom of the mine. Of course, without ventilation no human being could long survive in such an atmosphere, and the first operations of the commission were directed to remedy this inconvenience.

The report then proceeds to give the details of a very successful contrivance for forcing air into the shaft at the greatest depths, only a portion of which do we deem it important to quote, as follows:

The width of the Moer-Vater, or Lieve, at this point, was ten hundred and eighty yards, and spanned by an old bridge, the stone piers of which were very near together, having been built by the emperor Hadrian in the early part of the second century. The rise of the tide in the North Sea, close at hand, was from fifteen to eighteen feet, thus producing a current almost as rapid as that of the Mersey at Liverpool. The commissioners determined to utilize this force, in preference to the erection of expensive steam works at the mouth of the mine. A plan was submitted by Cyrus W. Field, and at once adopted. Turbine wheels were built, covering the space betwixt each arch, movable, and adapted to the rise and fall of the tide. Gates were also constructed between each arch, and a head of water, ranging from ten to fifteen feet fall, provided for each turn of the tide--both in the ebb and the flow, so that there should be a continuous motion to the machinery. Near the mouth of the shaft two large boiler-iron reservoirs were constructed, capable of holding from one hundred and fifty thousand to two hundred thousand cubic feet of compressed air, the average rate of condensation being about two hundred atmospheres. These reservoirs were properly connected with the pumping apparatus of the bridge by large cast-iron mains, so that the supply was continuous, and at an almost nominal cost. It was by the same power of compressed air that the tunneling through Mount St. Gothard was effected for the Lyons and Turin Railway, just completed.

The first operations were to enlarge the shaft so as to form an opening forty by one hundred feet, English measure. This consumed the greater part of the year 1849, so that the real work of sinking was not fairly under way until early in 1850. But from that period down to the memorable 5th of November, 1872, the excavation steadily progressed. I neglected to state at the outset that M. Jean Dusoloy, the state engineer of Belgium, was appointed General Superintendent, and continued to fill that important office until he lost his life, on the morning of the 6th of November, the melancholly details of which are hereinafter fully narrated.

As the deepening progressed the heat of the bottom continued to increase, but it was soon observed in a different ratio from the calculations of the experts. After attaining the depth of fifteen thousand six hundred and fifty feet,--about the height of Mt. Blanc--which was reached early in 1864, it was noticed, for the first time, that the laws of temperature and gravitation were synchronous; that is, that the heat augmented in a ratio proportioned to the square of the distance from the surface downward. Hence the increase at great depths bore no relation at all to the apparently gradual augmentation near the surface. As early as June, 1868, it became apparent that the sinking, if carried on at all, would have to be protected by some atheromatous or adiathermic covering. Professor Tyndall was applied to, and, at the request of Lord Palmerston, made a vast number of experiments on non-conducting bodies. As the result of his labors, he prepared a compound solution about the density of common white lead, composed of selenite alum and sulphate of copper, which was laid on three or four thicknesses, first upon the bodies of the naked miners--for in all deep mines the operatives work _in puris naturalibus_--and then upon an oval-shaped cage made of papier mache, with a false bottom, enclosed within which the miners were enabled to endure the intense heat for a shift of two hours each day. The drilling was all done by means of the diamond-pointed instrument, and the blasting by nitro-glycerine from the outset; so that the principal labor consisted in shoveling up the debris and keeping the drill-point _in situ_.

Before proceeding further it may not be improper to enumerate a few of the more important scientific facts which, up to the 1st of November of the past year, had been satisfactorily established. First in importance is the one alluded to above--the rate of increase of temperature as we descend into the bowels of the earth. This law, shown above to correspond exactly with the law of attraction or gravitation, had been entirely overlooked by all the scientists, living or dead. No one had for a moment suspected that heat followed the universal law of physics as a material body ought to do, simply because, from the time of De Saussure, heat had been regarded only as a force or _vis viva_ and not as a ponderable quality.

But not only was heat found to be subject to the law of inverse ratio of the square of the distance from the surface, but the atmosphere itself followed the same invariable rule. Thus, while we know that water boils at the level of the sea at two hundred and twelve degrees Fahrenheit, it readily vaporizes at one hundred and eighty-five degrees on the peak of Teneriffe, only fifteen thousand feet above that level. This, we know, is owing to the weight of the superincumbent atmosphere, there being a heavier burden at the surface than at any height above it. The rate of decrease above the surface is perfectly regular, being one degree for every five hundred and ninety feet of ascent. But the amazing fact was shown that the weight of the atmosphere increased in a ratio proportioned to the square of the distance downward.... The magnetic needle also evinced some curious disturbance, the dip being invariably upward. Its action also was exceedingly feeble, and the day before the operations ceased it lost all polarity whatever, and the finest magnet would not meander from the point of the compass it happened to be left at for the time being. As Sir Edward Sabine finely said, "The hands of the magnetic clock stopped." But the activity of the needle gradually increased as the surface was approached.

All electrical action also ceased, which fully confirms the theory, of Professor Faraday, that "electricity is a force generated by the rapid axial revolution of the earth, and that magnetic attraction in all cases points or operates at right angles to its current." Hence electricity, from the nature of its cause, must be superficial.

Every appearance of water disappeared at the depth of only 9000 feet. From this depth downward the rock was of a basaltic character, having not the slightest appearance of granite formation--confirming, in a most remarkable manner, the discovery made only last year, that all _granites_ are of _aqueous_, instead of _igneous_ deposition. As a corollary from the law of atmospheric pressure, it was found utterly impossible to vaporize water at a greater depth than 24,000 feet, which point was reached in 1869. No amount of heat affected it in the least perceptible manner, and on weighing the liquid at the greatest depth attained, by means of a nicely adjusted scale, it was found to be of a density expressed thus: 198,073, being two degrees or integers of atomic weight heavier than gold, at the surface.

The report then proceeds to discuss the question of the true figure of the earth, whether an oblate spheroid, as generally supposed, or only truncated at the poles; the length of a degree of longitude at the latitude of Dudzeele, 51 deg. 20 min. N., and one or two other problems. The concluding portion of the report is reproduced in full.

For the past twelve months it was found impossible to endure the heat, even sheltered as the miners were by the atmospheric cover and cage, for more than fifteen minutes at a time, so that the expense of sinking had increased geometrically for the past two years. However, important results had been obtained, and a perpendicular depth reached many thousands of feet below the deepest sea soundings of Lieutenant Brooks. In fact, the enormous excavation, on the 1st of November, 1872, measured perpendicularly, no less than 37,810 feet and 6 inches from the floor of the shaft building! The highest peak of the Himalayas is only little over 28,000 feet, so that it can at once be seen that no time had been thrown away by the Commissioners since the inception of the undertaking, in April, 1849.

The first symptoms of alarm were felt on the evening of November 1. The men complained of a vast increase of heat, and the cages had to be dropped every five minutes for the greater part of the night; and of those who attempted to work, at least one half were extricated in a condition of fainting, but one degree from cyncope. Toward morning, hoarse, profound and frequent subterranean explosions were heard, which had increased at noon to one dull, threatening and continuous roar. But the miners went down bravely to their tasks, and resolved to work as long as human endurance could bear it. But this was not to be much longer; for late at night, on the 4th, after hearing a terrible explosion, which shook the whole neighborhood, a hot sirocco issued from the bottom, which drove them all out in a state of asphyxia. The heat at the surface became absolutely unendurable, and on sending down a cage with only a dog in it, the materials of which it was composed took fire, and the animal perished in the flames. At 3 o'clock A. M. the iron fastenings to another cage were found fused, and the wire ropes were melted for more than 1000 feet at the other end. The detonations became more frequent, the trembling of the earth at the surface more violent, and the heat more oppressive around the mouth of the orifice. A few minutes before 4 o'clock a subterranean crash was heard, louder than Alpine thunder, and immediately afterward a furious cloud of ashes, smoke and gaseous exhalation shot high up into the still darkened atmosphere of night. At this time at least one thousand of the terrified and half-naked inhabitants of the neighboring village of Dudzeele had collected on the spot, and with wringing hands and fearful outcries bewailed their fate, and threatened instant death to the officers of the commission, and even to the now terrified miners. Finally, just before dawn, on the 5th of November, or, to be more precise, at exactly twenty minutes past 6 A. M., molten lava made its appearance at the surface!

The fright now became general, and as the burning buildings shed their ominous glare around, and the languid stream of liquid fire slowly bubbled up and rolled toward the canal, the scene assumed an aspect of awful sublimity and grandeur. The plains around were lit up for many leagues, and the foggy skies intensified and reduplicated the effects of the illumination. Toward sunrise the flow of lava was suspended for nearly an hour, but shortly after ten o'clock it suddenly increased its volume, and, as it cooled, formed a sort of saucer-shaped funnel, over the edges of which it boiled up, broke, and ran off in every direction. It was at this period that the accomplished Dusoloy, so long the Superintendent, lost his life. As the lava slowly meandered along, he attempted to cross the stream by stepping from one mass of surface cinders to another. Making a false step, the floating rock upon which he sprang suddenly turned over, and before relief could be afforded his body was consumed to a crisp. I regret to add that his fate kindled no sympathy among the assembled multitude; but they rudely seized his mutilated remains, and amid jeers, execrations, and shouts of triumph, attached a large stone to the half-consumed corpse and precipitated it into the canal. Thus are the heroes of science frequently sacrificed to the fury of a plebeian mob.

It would afford me a pleasure to inform the department that the unforeseen evils of our scientific convention terminated here. But I regret to add that such is very far from being the case. Indeed, from the appearance of affairs this morning at the volcanic crater--for such it has now become--the possible evils are almost incalculable. The Belgian Government was duly notified by telegraph of the death of the Superintendent and the mutinous disposition of the common people about Bruges, and early on the morning of the 6th of November a squad of flying horse was dispatched to the spot to maintain order. But this interference only made matters worse. The discontent, augmented by the wildest panic, became universal, and the mob reigned supreme. Nor could the poor wretches be greatly condemned; for toward evening the lava current reached the confines of the old village of Dudzeele, and about midnight set the town on fire. The lurid glare of the conflagration awakened the old burghers of Bruges from their slumbers and spread consternation in the city, though distant several miles from the spot. A meeting was called at the Guildhall at dawn, and the wildest excitement prevailed. But after hearing explanations from the members of the commission, the populace quietly but doggedly dispersed. The government from this time forward did all that power and prudence combined could effect to quell the reign of terror around Bruges. In this country the telegraph, being a government monopoly, has been rigorously watched and a cordon of military posts established around the threatened district, so that it has been almost impossible to convey intelligence of this disaster beyond the limits of the danger. In the mean time, a congress of the most experienced scientists was invited to the scene for the purpose of suggesting some remedy against the prospective spread of the devastation. The first meeting took place at the old Guildhall in Bruges and was strictly private, none being admitted except the diplomatic representatives of foreign governments, and the members elect of the college. As in duty bound, I felt called on to attend, and shall in this place attempt a short synopsis of the proceedings.

Professor Palmieri, of Naples, presided, and Dr. Kirchoff officiated as secretary.

Gassiot, of Paris, was the first speaker, and contended that the theory of nucleatic fusion, now being fully established it only remained to prescribe the laws governing its superficial action. "There is but one law applicable, that I am aware of," said he, "and that is the law which drives from the center of a revolving body all fluid matter toward the circumference, and forcibly ejects it into space, if possible, in the same manner that a common grindstone in rapid motion will drive off from its rim drops of water or other foreign unattached matter. Thus, whenever we find a vent or open orifice, as in the craters of active volcanoes, the incandescent lava boils up and frequently overflows the top of the highest peak of the Andes."

Palmieri then asked the speaker "if he wished to be understood as expressing the unqualified opinion that an orifice once being opened would continue to flow forever, and that there was no law governing the quantity or regulating the level to which it could rise?"

Gassiot replied in the affirmative.

The Neapolitan philosopher then added: "I dissent _in toto_ from the opinion of M. Gassiot. For more than a quarter of a century I have studied the lava-flows of Vesuvius, Ætna and Stromboli, and I can assure the Congress that the Creator has left no such flaw in His mechanism of the globe. The truth is, that molten lava can only rise about 21,000 feet above the level of the sea, owing to the balance-wheel of terrestrial gravitation, which counteracts at that height all centrifugal energy. Were this not so, the entire contents of the globe would gush from the incandescent center and fly off into surrounding space."

M. Gassiot replied, "that true volcanoes were supplied by nature with _circumvalvular lips_, and hence, after filling their craters, they ceased to flow. But in the instance before us no such provision existed, and the only protection which he could conceive of consisted in the smallness of the orifice; and he would therefore recommend his Majesty King Leopold to direct all his efforts to confine the aperture to its present size."

Palmieri again responded, "that he had no doubt but that the crater at Dudzeele would continue to flow until it had built up around itself basaltic walls to the height of many hundreds, perhaps thousands, of feet, and that the idea of setting bounds to the size of the mouth of the excavation was simply ridiculous."

Gassiot interrupted, and was about to answer in a very excited tone, when Prof. Palmieri "disclaimed any intention of personal insult, but spoke from a scientific standpoint." He then proceeded: "The lava bed of Mount Ætna maintains a normal level of 7000 feet, while Vesuvius calmly reposes at a little more than one half that altitude. On the other hand, according to Prof. Whitney, of the Pacific Survey, Mount Kilauea, in the Sandwich Islands, bubbles up to the enormous height of 17,000 feet. It cannot be contended that the crater of Vesuvius is not a true nucleatic orifice, because I have demonstrated that the molten bed regularly rises and falls like the tides of the ocean when controlled by the moon." It was seen at once that the scientists present were totally unprepared to discuss the question in its novel and most important aspects; and on taking a vote, at the close of the session, the members were equally divided between the opinions of Gassiot and Palmieri. A further session will take place on the arrival of Prof. Tyndall, who has been telegraphed for from New York, and of the great Russian geologist and astronomer, Tugenieff.

In conclusion, the damage already done may be summed up as follows: The destruction of the Bruges and Hond Canal by the formation of a basaltic dyke across it more than two hundred feet wide, the burning of Dudzeele, and the devastation of about thirty thousand acres of valuable land. At the same time it is utterly impossible to predict where the damage may stop, inasmuch as early this morning the mouth of the crater had fallen in, and the flowing stream had more than doubled in size.

In consideration of the part hitherto taken by the Government of the United States in originating the work that led to the catastrophe, and by request of M. Musenheim, the Belgian Foreign Secretary, I have taken the liberty of drawing upon the State Department for eighty-seven thousand dollars, being the sum agreed to be paid for the cost of emigration to the United States of two hundred families (our own pro rata) rendered homeless by the conflagration of Dudzeele.

I am this moment in receipt of your telegram dated yesterday, and rejoice to learn that Prof. Agassiz has returned from the South Seas, and will be sent forward without delay.

With great respect, I have the honor to be your obedient servant,

JOHN FLANNAGAN, United States Consul at Bruges.

P.S.--Since concluding the above dispatch, Professor Palmieri did me the honor of a special call, and, after some desultory conversation, approached the all-absorbing topic of the day, and cautiously expressed his opinion as follows: Explaining his theory, as announced at the Congress, he said that "Holland, Belgium, and Denmark, being all low countries, some portions of each lying below the sea-level, he would not be surprised if the present outflow of lava devastated them all, and covered the bottom of the North Sea for many square leagues with a bed of basalt." The reason given was this: "That lava must continue to flow until, by its own action, it builds up around the volcanic crater a rim or cone high enough to afford a counterpoise to the centrifugal tendency of axial energy; and that, as the earth's crust was demonstrated to be exceptionally thin in the north of Europe, the height required in this instance would be so great that an enormous lapse of time must ensue before the self-created cone could obtain the necessary altitude. Before _Ætna_ attained its present secure height, it devastated an area as large as France; and Prof. Whitney has demonstrated that some center of volcanic action, now extinct, in the State of California, threw out a stream that covered a much greater surface, as the basaltic table mountains, vulgarly so called, extend north and south for a distance as great as from Moscow to Rome." In concluding his remarks, he ventured the prediction that "the North Sea would be completely filled up, and the British Islands again connected with the Continent."

J. F., U.S.C.

[Decoration]

XIV.

_WILDEY'S DREAM._

A blacksmith stood, at his anvil good, Just fifty years ago, And struck in his might, to the left and right, The iron all aglow. And fast and far, as each miniature star Illumined the dusky air, The sparks of his mind left a halo behind, Like the aureola of prayer.

And the blacksmith thought, as he hammered and wrought, Just fifty years ago, Of the sins that start in the human heart When _its_ metal is all aglow; And he breathed a prayer, on the evening air, As he watched the fire-sparks roll, That with hammer and tongs, _he_ might right the wrongs That environ the human soul!

When he leaned on his sledge, not like minion or drudge, With center in self alone, But with vision so grand, it embraced every land, In the sweep of its mighty zone; O'er mountain and main, o'er forest and plain, He gazed from his swarthy home, Till rafter and wall, grew up in a hall, That covered the world with its dome!

'Neath that bending arch, with a tottering march All peoples went wailing by, To the music of groan, of sob, and of moan, To the grave that was yawning nigh, When the blacksmith rose and redoubled his blows On the iron that was aglow, Till his senses did seem to dissolve in a dream, Just fifty years ago.

He thought that he stood upon a mountain chain, And gazed across an almost boundless plain; Men of all nations, and of every clime, Of ancient epochs, and of modern time, Rose in thick ranks before his wandering eye, And passed, like waves, in quick succession by.

First came Osiris, with his Memphian band Of swarth Egyptians, darkening all the land; With heads downcast they dragged their limbs along, Laden with chains, and torn by lash and thong. From morn till eve they toiled and bled and died, And stained with blood the Nile's encroaching tide. Slowly upon the Theban plain there rose Old Cheop's pride, a pyramid of woes; And millions sank unpitied in their graves, With tombs inscribed--"Here lies a realm of slaves."

Next came great Nimrod prancing on his steed, His serried ranks, Assyrian and Mede, By bold Sennacherib moulded into one, By bestial Sardanapalus undone. He saw the walls of Babylon arise, Spring from the earth, invade the azure skies, And bear upon their airy ramparts old Gardens and vines, and fruit, and flowers of gold. Beneath their cold and insalubrious shade All woes and vices had their coverts made; Lascivious incest o'er the land was sown, From peasant cabin to imperial throne, And that proud realm, so full of might and fame, Went down at last in blood, and sin, and shame.

Then came the Persian, with his vast array Of armed millions, fretting for the fray, Led on by Xerxes and his harlot horde, Where billows swallowed, and where battle roared. On every side there rose a bloody screen, Till mighty Alexander closed the scene. Behold that warrior! in his pomp and pride, Dash through the world, and over myriads ride; Plant his proud pennon on the Gangean stream, Pierce where the tigers hide, mount where the eagles scream, And happy only amid war's alarms, The clank of fetters, and the clash of arms; And moulding man by battle-fields and blows, To one foul mass of furies, fiends and foes. Such, too, the Roman, vanquishing mankind, Their fields to ravage, and their limbs to bind; Whose proudest trophy, and whose highest good, To write his fame with pencil dipped in blood; To stride the world, like Ocean's turbid waves, And sink all nations into servient slaves.

As passed the old, so modern realms swept by, Woe in all hearts, and tears in every eye; Crimes stained the noble, famine crushed the poor; Poison for kings, oppression for the boor; Force by the mighty, fraud by the feebler shown; Mercy a myth, and charity unknown.

The Dreamer sighed, for sorrow filled his breast; Turned from the scene and sank to deeper rest. "Come!" cried a low voice full of music sweet, "Come!" and an angel touched his trembling feet. Down the steep hills they wend their toilsome way, Cross the vast plain that on their journey lay; Gain the dark city, through its suburbs roam, And pause at length within the dreamer's home.

Again he stood at his anvil good With an angel by his side, And rested his sledge on its iron edge And blew up his bellows wide; He kindled the flame till the white heat came, Then murmured in accent low: "All ready am I your bidding to try So far as a mortal may go."

'Midst the heat and the smoke the angel spoke, And breathed in his softest tone, "Heaven caught up your prayer on the evening air As it mounted toward the throne. God weaveth no task for mortals to ask Beyond a mortal's control, And with hammer and tongs you shall right the wrongs That encompass the human soul.

"But go you first forth 'mong the sons of the earth, And bring me a human heart That throbs for its kind, spite of weather and wind, And acts still a brother's part. The night groweth late, but here will I wait Till dawn streak the eastern skies; And lest you should fail, spread _my_ wings on the gale, And search with _my_ angel eyes."

The dreamer once more passed the open door, But plumed for an angel's flight; He sped through the world like a thunderbolt hurled When the clouds are alive with light; He followed the sun till his race was won, And probed every heart and mind; But in every zone man labored alone For himself and not for his kind.

All mournful and flushed, his dearest hopes crushed, The dreamer returned to his home, And stood in the flare of the forge's red glare, Besprinkled with dew and foam. "The heart you have sought must be tempered and taught In the flame that is all aglow." "No heart could I find that was true to its kind, So I left all the world in its woe."

Then the stern angel cried: "In your own throbbing side Beats a heart that is sound to the core; Will you give your own life to the edge of the knife For the widowed, the orphaned, and poor?" "Most unworthy am I for my brothers to die, And sinful my sorrowing heart; But strike, if you will, to redeem or to kill, With life I am willing to part."

Then he threw ope his vest and bared his broad breast To the angel's glittering blade; Soon the swift purple tide gushed a stream red and wide From the wound that the weapon had made. With a jerk and a start he then plucked out his heart, And buried it deep in the flame That flickered and fell like the flashes of hell O'er the dreamer's quivering frame.

"Now with hammer and tongs you may right all the wrongs That environ the human soul; But first, you must smite with a Vulcan's might The heart in yon blistering bowl." Quick the blacksmith arose, and redoubling his blows, Beat the heart that was all aglow, Till its fiery scars like a shower of stars Illumined the night with their flow.

Every sling of his sledge reopened the edge Of wounds that were healed long ago; And from each livid chasm leaped forth a phantasm Of passion, of sin, or of woe. But he heeded no pain as he hammered amain, For the angel was holding the heart, And cried at each blow, "Strike high!" or "Strike low!" "Strike hither!" or "Yonder apart!"

So he hammered and wrought, and he toiled and fought Till Aurora peeped over the plain; When the angel flew by and ascended the sky, _But left on the anvil a chain!_ Its links were as bright as heaven's own light, As pure as the fountain of youth; And bore on each fold in letters of gold, This token--LOVE, FRIENDSHIP AND TRUTH.

The dreamer awoke, and peered through the smoke At the anvil that slept by his side; And then in a wreath of flower-bound sheath, The triple-linked chain he espied. Odd Fellowship's gem is that bright diadem, Our emblem in age and in youth; For our hearts we must prove in the fire of LOVE, And mould with the hammer of TRUTH.

[Decoration]

XV.

_WHITHERWARD._

By pursuing the analogies of nature, the human mind reduces to order the vagaries of the imagination, and bodies them forth in forms of loveliness and in similitudes of heaven.

By an irrevocable decree of Nature's God, all his works are progressive in the direction of himself. This law is traceable from the molehill up to the mountain, from the mite up to the man. Geology, speaking to us from the depths of a past eternity, from annals inscribed upon the imperishable rock, utters not one syllable to contradict this tremendous truth. Millions of ages ago, she commenced her impartial record, and as we unroll it to-day, from the coal-bed and the marble quarry, we read in creation's dawn as plainly as we behold in operation around us, the mighty decree--ONWARD AND UPWARD, FOREVER!

In the shadowy past this majestic globe floated through the blue ether, a boiling flood of lava. The elements were then unborn. Time was not; for as yet the golden laws of Kepler had not emerged from chaos. The sun had not hemmed his bright-eyed daughters in, nor marked out on the azure concave the paths they were to tread. The planets were not worlds, but shot around the lurid center liquid masses of flame and desolation. Comets sported at random through the sky, and trailed after them their horrid skirts of fire. The Spirit of God had not "moved upon the face of the waters," and rosy Chaos still held the scepter in his hand. But changes were at work. As the coral worm toils on in the unfathomable depths of ocean, laying in secret the foundations of mighty continents, destined as the ages roll by to emerge into light and grandeur, so the laws of the universe carried on their everlasting work.

An eternity elapsed, and the age of fire passed away. A new era dawned upon the earth. The gases were generated, and the elements of air and water overspread the globe. Islands began to appear, at first presenting pinnacles of bare and blasted granite; but gradually, by decay and decomposition, changing into dank marshes and fertile plains.

One after another the sensational universe now springs into being. This but prepared the way for the animated, and that in turn formed the groundwork and basis for the human. Man then came forth, the result of all her previous efforts--nature's pet, her paragon and her pride.

Reason sits enthroned upon his brow, and the soul wraps its sweet affections about his heart; angels spread their wings above him, and God calls him His child. He treads the earth its acknowledged monarch, and commences its subjection. One by one the elements have yielded to his sway, nature has revealed her hoariest secrets to his ken, and heaven thrown wide its portals to his spirit. He stands now upon the very acme of the visible creation, and with straining eye, and listening ear, and anxious heart, whispers to himself that terrific and tremendous word--WHITHERWARD!

Late one afternoon in April, I was sitting on the grassy slope of Telegraph Hill, watching the waves of sunset as they rolled in from the west, and broke in crimson spray upon the peaks of the Contra Costa hills. I was alone; and, as my custom is, was ruminating upon the grand problem of futurity. The broad and beautiful bay spread out like a sea of silver at my feet, and the distant mountains, reflecting the rays of the setting sun, seemed to hem it in with barriers of gold. The city lay like a tired infant at evening in its mother's arms, and only at intervals disturbed my reflections by its expiring sobs. The hours of business I well knew had passed, and the heavy iron door had long since grated on its hinges, and the fire-proof shutter been bolted for the night. But I felt that my labors had just commenced. The duties of my profession had swallowed up thought throughout the long hours devoted to the cares of life, and it was not until I was released from their thraldom that I found myself in truth a slave. The one master-thought came back into my brain, until it burned its hideous image there in letters of fire--WHITHERWARD! WHITHERWARD!

The past came up before me with its long memories of Egyptian grandeur, with its triumphs of Grecian art, with its burden of Roman glory. Italy came with her republics, her "starry" Galileo, and her immortal Buonarotti. France flashed by, with her garments dyed in blood, and her Napoleons in chains. England rose up with her arts and her arms, her commerce and her civilization, her splendor and her shame. I beheld Newton gazing at the stars, heard Milton singing of Paradise, and saw Russell expiring on the scaffold. But ever and anon a pale, thorn-crowned monarch, arrayed in mock-purple, and bending beneath a cross, would start forth at my side, and with uplifted eye, but speechless lip, point with one hand to the pages of a volume I had open on my knee, and with the other to the blue heaven above. Judea would then pass with solemn tread before me. Her patriarchs, her prophets and her apostles, her judges, her kings, and her people, one by one came and went like the phantasmagoria of a dream. The present then rose up in glittering robes, its feet resting upon the mounds of Nimrod, its brow encircled with a coronet of stars, pillaging, with one hand, the cloud above of its lightnings, and sending them forth with the other, bridled and subdued, to the uttermost ends of the earth.

But this was not all. Earth's physical history also swept by in full review. All nature lent her stores, and with an effort of mind, by no means uncommon for those who have long thought upon a single subject, I seemed to possess the power to generalize all that I had ever heard, read or seen, into one gorgeous picture, and hang it up in the wide heavens before me.

The actual scenery around me entirely disappeared, and I beheld an immense pyramid of alabaster, reared to the very stars, upon whose sides I saw inscribed a faithful history of the past. Its foundations were in deep shadow, but the light gradually increased toward the top, until its summit was bathed in the most refulgent lustre.

Inscribed in golden letters I read on one of its sides these words, in alternate layers, rising gradually to the apex: "_Granite_, _Liquid_, _Gas_, _Electricity_;" on another, "_Inorganic_, _Vegetable_, _Animal_, _Human_;" on the third side, "_Consciousness_, _Memory_, _Reason_, _Imagination_;" and on the fourth, "_Chaos_, _Order_, _Harmony_, _Love_."

At this moment I beheld the figure of a human being standing at the base of the pyramid, and gazing intently upward. He then placed his foot upon the foundation, and commenced climbing toward the summit. I caught a distinct view of his features, and perceived that they were black and swarthy like those of the most depraved Hottentot. He toiled slowly upward, and as he passed the first layer, he again looked toward me, and I observed that his features had undergone a complete transformation. They now resembled those of an American Indian. He passed the second layer; and as he entered the third, once more presented his face to me for observation. Another change had overspread it, and I readily recognized in him the tawny native of Malacca or Hindoostan. As he reached the last layer, and entered its region of refulgent light, I caught a full glimpse of his form and features, and beheld the high forehead, the glossy ringlets, the hazel eye, and the alabaster skin of the true Caucasian.

I now observed for the first time that the pyramid was left unfinished, and that its summit, instead of presenting a well-defined peak, was in reality a level plain. In a few moments more, the figure I had traced from the base to the fourth layer, reached the apex, and stood with folded arms and upraised brow upon the very summit. His lips parted as if about to speak, and as I leaned forward to hear, I caught, in distinct tone and thrilling accent, that word which had so often risen to my own lips for utterance, and seared my very brain, because unanswered--WHITHERWARD!

"Whitherward, indeed!" exclaimed I, aloud, shuddering at the sepulchral sound of my voice. "Home," responded a tiny voice at my side, and turning suddenly around, my eyes met those of a sweet little school-girl, with a basket of flowers upon her arm, who had approached me unobserved, and who evidently imagined I had addressed her when I spoke. "Yes, little daughter," replied I, "'tis time to proceed homeward, for the sun has ceased to gild the summit of Diavolo, and the evening star is visible in the west. I will attend you home," and taking her proffered hand, I descended the hill, with the dreadful word still ringing in my ears, and the fadeless vision still glowing in my heart.

# # # # #

Midnight had come and gone, and still the book lay open on my knee. The candle had burned down close to the socket, and threw a flickering glimmer around my chamber; but no indications of fatigue or slumber visited my eyelids. My temples throbbed heavily, and I felt the hot and excited blood playing like the piston-rod of an engine between my heart and brain.

I had launched forth on the broad ocean of speculation, and now perceived, when too late, the perils of my situation. Above me were dense and lowering clouds, which no eye could penetrate; around me howling tempests, which no voice could quell; beneath me heaving billows, which no oil could calm. I thought of Plato struggling with his doubts; of Epicurus sinking beneath them; of Socrates swallowing his poison; of Cicero surrendering himself to despair. I remembered how all the great souls of the earth had staggered beneath the burden of the same thought, which weighed like a thousand Cordilleras upon my own; and as I pressed my hand upon my burning brow, I cried again and again--WHITHERWARD! WHITHERWARD!

I could find no relief in philosophy; for I knew her maxims by heart from Zeno and the Stagirite down to Berkeley and Cousin. I had followed her into all her hiding-places, and courted her in all her moods. No coquette was ever half so false, so fickle, and so fair. Her robes are woven of the sunbeams, and a star adorns her brow; but she sits impassive upon her icy throne, and wields no scepter but despair. The light she throws around is not the clear gleam of the sunshine, nor the bright twinkle of the star; but glances in fitful glimmerings on the soul, like the aurora on the icebergs of the pole, and lightens up the scene only to show its utter desolation.

The Bible lay open before me, but I could find no comfort there. Its lessons were intended only for the meek and humble, and my heart was cased in pride. It reached only to the believing; I was tossed on an ocean of doubt. It required, as a condition to faith, the innocence of an angel and the humility of a child; I had long ago seared my conscience by mingling in the busy scenes of life, and was proud of my mental acquirements. The Bible spoke comfort to the Publican; I was of the straight sect of the Pharisees. Its promises were directed to the poor in spirit, whilst mine panted for renown.

At this moment, whilst heedlessly turning over its leaves and scarcely glancing at their contents, my attention was arrested by this remarkable passage in one of Paul's epistles: "That was not _first_ which is spiritual, but that which was natural, and _afterward_ that which is spiritual. Behold, I show you a mystery: _we shall not all sleep_, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump."

Again and again I read this text, for it promised more by reflection than at first appeared in the words. Slowly a light broke in on the horizon's verge, and I felt, for the first time in my whole life, that the past was not all inexplicable, nor the future a chaos, but that the human soul, lit up by the torch of science! and guided by the prophecies of Holy Writ, might predict the path it is destined to tread, and read in advance the history of its final enfranchisement. St. Paul evidently intended to teach the doctrine of _progress_, even in its applicability to man. He did not belong to that narrow-minded sect in philosophy, which declares that the earth and the heavens are finished; that man is the crowning glory of his Maker, and the utmost stretch of His creative power; that henceforth the globe which he inhabits is barren, and can produce no being superior to himself. On the contrary, he clearly intended to teach the same great truth which modern science is demonstrating to all the world, that progression is nature's first law, and that even in the human kingdom the irrevocable decree has gone forth--ONWARD AND UPWARD, FOREVER!

Such were my reflections when the last glimmer of the candle flashed up like a meteor, and then as suddenly expired in night. I was glad that the shadows were gone. Better, thought I, is utter darkness than that poor flame which renders it visible. But I had suddenly grown rich in thought. A clue had been furnished to the labyrinth in which I had wandered from a child; a hint had been planted in the mind which it would be impossible ever to circumscribe or extinguish. One letter had been identified by which, like Champollion le Jeune, I could eventually decipher the inscription on the pyramid. What are these spectral apparitions which rear themselves in the human mind, and are called by mortals _hints_? Whence do they come? Who lodges them in the chambers of the mind, where they sprout and germinate, and bud and blossom, and bear?

The Florentine caught one as it fell from the stars, and invented the telescope to observe them. Columbus caught another, as it was whispered by the winds, and they wafted him to the shores of a New World. Franklin beheld one flash forth from the cloud, and he traced the lightnings to their bourn. Another dropped from the skies into the brain of Leverrier, and he scaled the very heavens, till he unburied a star.

Rapidly was my mind working out the solution of the problem which had so long tortured it, based upon the intimation it had derived from St. Paul's epistle, when most unexpectedly, and at the same time most unwelcomely, I fell into one of those strange moods which can neither be called sleep nor consciousness, but which leave their impress far more powerfully than the visions of the night or the events of the day.

I beheld a small egg, most beautifully dotted over, and stained. Whilst my eye rested on it, it cracked; an opening was made _from within_, and almost immediately afterward a bird of glittering plumage and mocking song flew out, and perched on the bough of a rose-tree, beneath whose shadow I found myself reclining. Before my surprise had vanished, I beheld a painted worm at my feet, crawling toward the root of the tree which was blooming above me. It soon reached the trunk, climbed into the branches, and commenced spinning its cocoon. Hardly had it finished its silken home, ere it came forth in the form of a gorgeous butterfly, and, spreading its wings, mounted toward the heavens. Quickly succeeding this, the same pyramid of alabaster, which I had seen from the summit of Telegraph Hill late in the afternoon, rose gradually upon the view. It was in nowise changed; the inscriptions on the sides were the same, and the identical figure stood with folded arms and uplifted brow upon the top. I now heard a rushing sound, such as stuns the ear at Niagara, or greets it during a hurricane at sea, when the shrouds of the ship are whistling to the blast, and the flashing billows are dashing against her sides.

Suddenly the pyramid commenced changing its form, and before many moments elapsed it had assumed the rotundity of a globe, and I beheld it covered with seas, and hills, and lakes, and mountains, and plains, and fertile fields. But the human figure still stood upon its crest. Then came forth the single blast of a bugle, such as the soldier hears on the morn of a world-changing battle. Cæsar heard it at Pharsalia, Titus at Jerusalem, Washington at Yorktown, and Wellington at Waterloo.

No lightning flash ever rended forest king from crest to root quicker than the transformation which now overspread the earth. In a second of time it became as transparent as crystal, and as brilliant as the sun. But in every other respect it preserved its identity. On casting my eyes toward the human being, I perceived that he still preserved his position, but his feet did not seem to touch the earth. He appeared to be floating upon its arch, as the halcyon floats in the atmosphere. His features were lit up with a heavenly radiance, and assumed an expression of superhuman beauty.

The thought crossed my mind, Can this be a spirit? As sudden as the question came forth the response, "I am." But, inquired my mind, for my lips did not move, you have never passed the portals of the grave? Again I read in his features the answer, "For ages this earth existed as a natural body, and all its inhabitants partook of its characteristics; gradually it approached the spiritual state, and by a law like that which transforms the egg into the songster, or the worm into the butterfly, it has just accomplished one of its mighty cycles, and now gleams forth with the refulgence of the stars. I did not die, but passed as naturally into the spiritual world as the huge earth itself. Prophets and apostles predicted this change many hundred years ago; but the blind infatuation of our race did not permit them to realize its truth. Your own mind, in common with the sages of all time, long brooded over the idea, and oftentimes have you exclaimed, in agony and dismay--WHITHERWARD! WHITHERWARD!

"The question is now solved. The revolution may not come in the year allotted you, but so surely as St. Paul spoke inspiration, so surely as science elicits truth, so surely as the past prognosticates the future, the natural world must pass into the spiritual, and everything be changed in the twinkling of an eye. Watch well! your own ears may hear the clarion note, your own eyes witness the transfiguration."

Slowly the vision faded away, and left me straining my gaze into the dark midnight which now shrouded the world, and endeavoring to calm my heart, which throbbed as audibly as the hollow echoes of a drum. When the morning sun peeped over the Contra Costa range, I still sat silent and abstracted in my chair, revolving over the incidents of the night, but thankful that, though the reason is powerless to brush away the clouds which obscure the future, yet the imagination may spread its wings, and, soaring into the heavens beyond them, answer the soul when in terror she inquires--WHITHERWARD!

[Decoration]

XVI.

_OUR WEDDING-DAY._

I.

A dozen springs, and more, dear Sue, Have bloomed, and passed away, Since hand in hand, and heart to heart, We spent our wedding-day. Youth blossomed on our cheeks, dear Sue, Joy chased each tear of woe, When first we promised to be true, That morning long ago.

II.

Though many cares have come, dear Sue, To checker life's career, As down its pathway we have trod, In trembling and in fear. Still in the darkest storm, dear Sue, That lowered o'er the way, We clung the closer, while it blew, And laughed the clouds away.

III.

'Tis true, our home is humble, Sue, And riches we have not, But children gambol round our door, And consecrate the spot. Our sons are strong and brave, dear Sue, Our daughters fair and gay, But none so beautiful as you, Upon our wedding-day.

IV.

No grief has crossed our threshold, Sue, No crape festooned the door, But health has waved its halcyon wings, And plenty filled our store. Then let's be joyful, darling Sue, And chase dull cares away, And kindle rosy hope anew, As on our wedding-day.

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

XVII.

_THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW._

One more flutter of time's restless wing, One more furrow in the forehead of spring; One more step in the journey of fate, One more ember gone out in life's grate; One more gray hair in the head of the sage, One more round in the ladder of age; One leaf more in the volume of doom, And one span less in the march to the tomb, Since brothers, we gathered around bowl and tree, And Santa Claus welcomed with frolic and glee.

How has thy life been speeding Since Aurora, at the dawn, Peeped within thy portals, leading The babe year, newly born?

Has thy soul been scorched by sorrow, Has some spectre nestled there? And with every new to-morrow, Sowed the seeds of fresh despair? Rise from thy grief, my brothers! Burst its chain with strength sublime, For behold! I bring another, And a fairer child of time.

Has the year brought health and riches? Have thy barns been brimming o'er? Will thy stature fit the niches Hewn for Hercules of yore? Are thy muscles firm as granite? Are thy thousands safe and sound? Behold! the rolling planet Starts on a nobler round.

But perhaps across thy vision Death had cast its shadow there, And thy home, once all elysian, Now crapes an empty chair; Or happier, thy dominions, Spreading broad and deep and strong, Re-echo 'neath love's pinions To a pretty cradle song!

Whate'er thy fortunes, brother! God's blessing on your head; Joy for the living mother, Peace with the loving dead.

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

XVIII.

_A PAIR OF MYTHS:_

BEING A CHAPTER FROM AN UNPUBLISHED WORK.

Eight days passed away unreckoned, and still I remained unconscious of everything occurring around me. The morning of the ninth dawned, dragged heavily along, and noon approached, whilst I lay in the same comatose state. No alteration had taken place, except that a deeper and sounder sleep seemed to have seized upon me; a symptom hailed by my physician with joy, but regarded by my mother with increased alarm.

Suddenly, the incautious closing of my chamber door, as my sister, Miss Lucy Stanly, then in her fifteenth year, entered the apartment, aroused me from slumber and oblivion.

Abed at noonday! What did it betoken? I endeavored to recall something of the past, but memory for a long time refused its aid, and I appeared as fatally and irremediably unconscious as ever. Gradually, however, my shattered mind recovered its faculties, and in less than an hour after my awakening, I felt perfectly restored. No pain tormented me, and no torpor benumbed my faculties. I rapidly reviewed, mentally, the occurrences of the day before, when, as I imagined, the disaster had happened, and resolved at once to rise from my bed and prosecute my intended journey.

At this moment my father entered the apartment, and observing that I was awake, ventured to speak to me kindly and in a very low tone. I smiled at his uneasiness, and immediately relieved him from all apprehension, by conversing freely and intelligibly of the late catastrophe. His delight knew no bounds. He seized my hand a thousand times, and pressed it again and again to his lips. At length, remembering that my mother was ignorant of my complete restoration, he rushed from the room, in order to be the first to convey the welcome intelligence.

My bed was soon surrounded by the whole family, chattering away, wild with joy, and imprinting scores of kisses on my lips, cheeks and forehead. The excitement proved too severe for me in my weak condition, and had not the timely arrival of the physician intervened to clear my chamber of every intruder, except Mamma Betty, as we all called the nurse, these pages in all probability would never have arrested the reader's eye. As it was, I suddenly grew very sick and faint; everything around me assumed a deep green tinge, and I fell into a deathlike swoon.

Another morning's sun was shining cheerily in at my window, when consciousness again returned. The doctor was soon at my side, and instead of prescribing physic as a remedy, requested my sister to sit at my bedside, and read in a low tone any interesting little story she might select. He cautioned her not to mention, even in the most casual manner, _Mormonism_, _St. Louis_, or the _Moselle_, which order she most implicitly obeyed; nor could all my ingenuity extract a solitary remark in relation to either.

My sister was not very long in making a selection; for, supposing what delighted herself would not fail to amuse me, she brought in a manuscript, carefully folded, and proceeded at once to narrate its history. It was written by my father, as a sort of model or sampler for my brothers and sisters, which they were to imitate when composition-day came round, instead of "hammering away," as he called it, on moral essays and metaphysical commonplaces. It was styled

THE KING OF THE NINE-PINS: A MYTH.

Heinrich Schwarz, or Black Hal, as he was wont to be called, was an old toper, but he was possessed of infinite good humor, and related a great many very queer stories, the truth of which no one, that I ever heard of, had the hardihood to doubt; for Black Hal had an uncommon share of "Teutonic pluck" about him, and was at times very unceremonious in the display of it. But Hal had a weakness--it was not liquor, for that was his strength--which he never denied; _Hal was too fond of nine-pins_. He had told me, in confidence, that "many a time and oft" he had rolled incessantly for weeks together. I think I heard him say that he once rolled for a month, day and night, without stopping a single moment to eat or to drink, or even to catch his breath.

I did not question his veracity at the time; but since, on reflection, the fact seems almost incredible; and were it not that this sketch might accidentally fall in his way, I might be tempted to show philosophically that such a thing could not possibly be. And yet I have read of very long fasts in my day--that, for instance, of Captain Riley in the Great Sahara, and others, which will readily occur to the reader. But I must not episodize, or I shall not reach my story.

Black Hal was sitting late one afternoon in a Nine-Pin Alley, in the little town of Kaatskill, in the State of New York--it is true, for he said so--when a tremendous thunder-storm invested his retreat. His companions, one by one, had left him, until, rising from his seat and gazing around, he discovered that he was alone. The alley-keeper, too, could nowhere be found, and the boys who were employed to set up the pins had disappeared with the rest. It was growing very late, and Hal had a long walk, and he thought it most prudent to get ready to start home. The lightning glared in at the door and windows most vividly, and the heavy thunder crashed and rumbled and roared louder than he had ever heard it before. The rain, too, now commenced to batter down tremendously, and just as night set in, Hal had just got ready to set out. Hal first felt uneasy, next unhappy, and finally miserable. If he had but a boy to talk to! I'm afraid Hal began to grow scared. A verse that he learned in his boyhood, across the wide sea, came unasked into his mind. It always came there precisely at the time he did not desire its company. It ran thus:

"Oh! for the might of dread Odin The powers upon him shed, For a sail in the good ship Skidbladnir,[A-236] And a talk with Mimir's head!"[B-236]

[Footnote A-236: The ship Skidbladnir was the property of Odin. He could sail in it on the most dangerous seas, and yet could fold it up and carry it in his pocket.]

[Footnote B-236: Mimir's head was always the companion of Odin. When he desired to know what was transpiring in distant countries, he inquired of Mimir, and always received a correct reply.]

This verse was repeated over and over again inaudibly. Gradually, however, his voice became a little louder, and a little louder still, until finally poor Hal hallooed it vociferously forth so sonorously that it drowned the very thunder. He had repeated it just seventy-seven times, when suddenly a monstrous head was thrust in at the door, and demanded, in a voice that sounded like the maelstrom, "What do _you_ want with Odin?" "Oh, nothing--nothing in the world, I thank you, sir," politely responded poor Hal, shaking from head to foot. Here the head was followed by the shoulders, arms, body and legs of a giant at least forty feet high. Of course he came in on all fours, and approached in close proximity to Black Hal. Hal involuntarily retreated, as far as he could, reciting to himself the only prayer he remembered, "Now I lay me down to sleep," etc.

The giant did not appear desirous of pursuing Hal, being afraid--so Hal said--that he would draw his knife on him. But be the cause what it might, he seated himself at the head of the nine-pin alley, and shouted, "Stand up!" As he did so, the nine-pins at the other end arose and took their places.

"Now, sir," said he, turning again to Hal, "I'll bet you an ounce of your blood I can beat you rolling."

Hal trembled again, but meekly replied, "Please, sir, we don't bet _blood_ nowadays--we bet _money_."

"Blood's my money," roared forth the giant. "Fee, fo, fum!" Hal tried in vain to hoist the window.

"Will you bet?"

"Yes, sir," said Hal; and he thought as it was only _an ounce_, he could spare that without much danger, and it might appease the monster's appetite.

"Roll first!" said the giant.

"Yes, sir," replied Hal, as he seized what he supposed to be the largest and his favorite ball.

"What are you doing with Mimir's head?" roared forth the monster.

"I beg your pardon, most humbly," began Hal, as he let the bloody head fall; "I did not mean any harm."

"Rumble, bang-whang!" bellowed the thunder.

Hal fell on his knees and recited most devoutly, "Now I lay me down," etc.

"Roll on! roll on! I say," and the giant seized poor Hal by the collar and set him on his feet.

He now selected a large ball, and poising it carefully in his hand, ran a few steps, and sent it whirling right in among the nine-pins; but what was his astonishment to behold them jump lightly aside, and permit the ball to pass in an avenue directly through the middle of the alley. Hal shuddered. The second and third ball met with no better success. Odin--for Hal said it was certainly he, as he had Mimir's head along--now grasped a ball and rolled it with all his might; but long before it reached the nine-pins, they had, every one of them, tumbled down, and lay sprawling on the alley.

"Two spares!" said the giant, as he grinned most gleefully at poor Hal. "Get up!" and up the pins all stood instantly. Taking another ball, he hurled it down the alley, and the same result followed. "Two more spares!" and Odin shook his gigantic sides with laughter.

"I give up the game," whined out Hal.

"Then you lose double," rejoined Odin.

Hal readily consented to pay two ounces, for he imagined, by yielding at once, he would so much the sooner get rid of his grim companion. As he said so, Odin pulled a pair of scales out of his coat pocket, made proportionably to his own size. He poised them upon a beam in the alley, and drew forth what he denominated two ounces, and put them in one scale. Each ounce was about the size of a twenty-eight pound weight, and was quite as heavy.

"Ha! ha! ha!! Ha! ha! ha!!! Ha! ha! ha!!!!" shouted the giant, as he grasped the gasping and terrified gambler. He soon rolled up his sleeves, and bound his arm with a pocket handkerchief. Next he drew forth a lancet as long as a sword, and drove the point into the biggest vein he could discover. Hal screamed and fainted. When he returned to consciousness, the sun was shining brightly in at the window, and the sweet rumbling of the balls assured him that he still lay where the giant left him. On rising to his feet he perceived that a large coagulum of blood had collected where his head rested all night, and that he could scarcely walk from the effects of his exhaustion. He returned immediately home and told his wife all that had occurred; and though, like some of the neighbors, she distrusted the tale, yet she never intimated her doubts to Black Hal himself. The alley-keeper assured me in a whisper, one day, that upon the very night fixed on by Hal for the adventure, he was beastly drunk, and had been engaged in a fight with one of his boon companions, who gave him a black eye and a bloody nose. But the alley-keeper was always jealous of Black Hal's superiority in story telling; besides, he often drank too much himself, and I suspect he originated the report he related to me in a fit of wounded pride, or drunken braggadocio. One thing is certain, he never ventured to repeat the story in the presence of Black Hal himself.

# # # # #

In spite of the attention I endeavored to bestow on the marvelous history of Black Hal and his grim companion, my mind occasionally wandered far away, and could only find repose in communing with her who I now discovered for the first time held in her own hands the thread of my destiny. Lucy was not blind to these fits of abstraction, and whenever they gained entire control of my attention, she would pause, lay down the manuscript, and threaten most seriously to discontinue the perusal, unless I proved a better listener. I ask no man's pardon for declaring that my sister was an excellent reader. Most brothers, perhaps think the same of most sisters; but there _was_ a charm in Lucy's accent and a distinctness in her enunciation I have never heard excelled. Owing to these qualities, as much, perhaps, as to the strangeness of the story, I became interested in the fate of the drunken gambler, and when Lucy concluded, I was ready to exclaim, "And pray where is Black Hal now?"

My thoughts took another direction, however, and I impatiently demanded whether or not the sample story had been imitated. A guilty blush assured me quite as satisfactorily as words could have done, that Miss Lucy had herself made an attempt, and I therefore insisted that as she had whetted and excited the appetite, it would be highly unfraternal--(particularly in my present very precarious condition)--that parenthesis settled the matter--to deny me the means of satisfying it.

"But you'll laugh at me," timidly whispered my sister.

"Of course I shall," said I, "if your catastrophe is half as melancholy as Black Hal's. But make haste, or I shall be off to St. Louis. But pray inform me, what is the subject of your composition?"

"The Origin of Marriage."

"I believe, on my soul," responded I, laughing outright, "you girls never think about anything else."

I provoked no reply, and the manuscript being unfolded, my sister thus attempted to elucidate

THE ORIGIN OF MARRIAGE.

Professor Williams having ceased his manipulations, my eyes involuntarily closed, and I became unconscious to everything occurring around me. There's truth in mesmerism, after all, thought I, and being in the clairvoyant state, I beheld a most beautiful comet at this moment emerging from the constellation Taurus, and describing a curve about the star Zeta, one of the Pleiades. Now for a trip through infinite space! and as this thought entered my brain, I grasped a hair in the tail of the comet as it whizzed by me.

I climbed up the glittering hair until I found myself seated very comfortably on the comet's back, and was beginning to enjoy my starlit ramble exceedingly, when I was suddenly aroused from my meditations by the song of a heavenly minstrel, who, wandering from star to star and system to system, sang the fate of other worlds and other beings to those who would listen to his strains and grant him the rites of hospitality. As I approached, his tones were suddenly changed, his voice lowered into a deeper key, and gazing intently at me, or at what evidenced my presence to his sight, thus began:

The flaming sword of the cherub, which had waved so frightfully above the gate of the garden of Eden, had disappeared; the angel himself was gone; and Adam, as he approached the spot where so lately he had enjoyed the delights of heaven, beheld with astonishment and regret that Paradise and all its splendors had departed from the earth forever. Where the garden lately bloomed, he could discover only the dark and smouldering embers of a conflagration; a hard lava had incrusted itself along the golden walks; the birds were flown, the flowers withered, the fountains dried up, and desolation brooded over the scene.

"Ah!" sighed the patriarch of men, "where are now the pleasures which I once enjoyed along these peaceful avenues? Where are all those beautiful spirits, given by Heaven to watch over and protect me? Each guardian angel has deserted me, and the rainbow glories of Paradise have flown. No more the sun shines out in undimmed splendor, for clouds array him in gloom; the earth, forgetful of her verdure and her flowers, produces thorns to wound and frosts to chill me. The very air, once all balm and zephyrs, now howls around me with the voice of the storm and the fury of the hurricane. No more the notes of peace and happiness greet my ears, but the harsh tones of strife and battle resound on every side. Nature has kindled the flames of discord in her own bosom, and universal war has begun his reign!"

And then the father of mankind hid his face in the bosom of his companion, and wept the bitter tears of contrition and repentance.

"Oh, do not weep so bitterly, my Adam," exclaimed his companion. "True, we are miserable, but all is not yet lost; we have forfeited the smiles of Heaven, but we may yet regain our lost place in its affections. Let us learn from our misfortunes the anguish of guilt, but let us learn also the mercy of redemption. We may yet be happy."

"Oh, talk not of happiness now," interrupted Adam; "that nymph who once wailed at our side, attentive to the beck, has disappeared, and fled from the companionship of such guilty, fallen beings as ourselves, forever."

"Not forever, Adam," kindly rejoined Eve; "she may yet be lurking among these groves, or lie hid behind yon hills."

"Then let us find her," quickly responded Adam; "you follow the sun, sweet Eve, to his resting-place, whilst I will trace these sparkling waters to their bourn. Let us ramble this whole creation o'er; and when we have found her, let us meet again on this very spot, and cling to her side, until the doom of death shall overtake us."

And the eye of Adam beamed with hope, then kindled for the first time on earth in the bosom of man; and he bade Eve his first farewell, and started eastward in his search.

Eve turned her face to the west, and set out on her allotted journey.

The sun had shone a hundred times in midsummer splendor, and a hundred times had hid himself in the clouds of winter, and yet no human foot had trod the spot where the garden of Eden once bloomed. Adam had in vain traced the Euphrates to the sea, and climbed the Himalaya Mountains. In vain had he endured the tropical heats on the Ganges, and the winter's cold in Siberia. He stood at last upon the borders of that narrow sea which separates Asia from America, and casting a wistful glance to the far-off continent, exclaimed: "In yon land, so deeply blue in the distance, that it looks like heaven, Happiness may have taken refuge. Alas! I cannot pursue her there. I will return to Eden, and learn if Eve, too, has been unsuccessful."

And then he took one more look at the distant land, sighed his adieu, and set out on his return.

Poor Eve! First child of misery, first daughter of despair! Poor Eve, with the blue of heaven in her eye, and the crimson of shame upon her lip! Poor Eve, arrayed in beauty, but hastening to decay--she, too, was unsuccessful.

Wandering in her westward way, the azure waters of the Mediterranean soon gleamed upon her sight. She stood at length upon the pebbly shore, and the glad waves, silent as death before, when they kissed her naked feet, commenced that song still heard in their eternal roar. A mermaid seemed to rise from the waters at her feet, and to imitate her every motion. Her long dark tresses, her deep blue eyes, her rosy cheek, her sorrowful look, all were reflected in the mermaid before her.

"Sweet spirit," said Eve, "canst thou inform me where the nymph Happiness lies concealed? She always stood beside us in the garden of Eden; but when we were driven from Paradise we beheld her no more."

The lips of the mermaid moved, but Eve could hear no reply.

Ah! mother of mankind, the crystal waters of every sea, reflecting thy lovely image, still faithful to their trust, conceal a mermaid in their bosom for every daughter of beauty who looks upon them!

Neither the orange groves of the Arno, nor the vineyards of France; neither the forests of Germania, nor the caves of Norway, concealed the sought-for nymph. Eve explored them all. Her track was imprinted in the sands of Sahara, by the banks of the Niger, on the rocks of Bengola, in the vales of Abyssinia--but all in vain.

"O Happiness! art thou indeed departed from our earth? How can we live without thee? Come, Death," cried Eve; "come now, and take me where thou wilt. This world is a desert, for Happiness has left it desolate."

A gentle slumber soon overcame the wearied child of sorrow, and in her sleep a vision came to comfort her. She dreamed that she stood before an aged man, whose hoary locks attested that the snows of many winters had whitened them, and in whose glance she recognized the spirit of Wisdom.

"Aged Father," said Eve, "where is Happiness?" and then she burst into a flood of tears.

"Comfort thyself, Daughter," mildly answered the old man; "Happiness yet dwells on earth, but she is no longer visible. A temple is built for her in every mortal's bosom, but she never ascends her throne until welcomed there by the child of Honor and Love."

The morning sun aroused Eve from her slumber, but did not dispel the memory of her dream. "I will return to Eden, and there await until the child of Honor and Love shall enthrone in my bosom the lost nymph Happiness;" and saying this, she turned her face to the eastward, and thinking of Adam and her vision, journeyed joyfully along.

The sun of Spring had opened the flowers and clothed the woods in verdure; had freed the streams from their icy fetters, and inspired the warbling world with harmony, when two forlorn and weary travelers approached the banks of the river Pison; that river which had flowed through the garden of Eden when the first sunshine broke upon the world. A hundred years had rolled away, and the echo of no human voice had resounded through the deserted groves. At length the dusky figures emerged from the overshadowing shrubbery, and raised their eyes into each other's faces. One bound--one cry--and they weep for joy in each other's arms.

Adam related his sad and melancholy story, and then Eve soon finished hers. But no sooner had she told her dream, than Adam, straining her to his bosom, exclaimed:

"There is no mystery here, my Eve. If Happiness on earth be indeed the child of Honor and Love, it must be in Matrimony alone. What else now left us on earth can lay claim to the precious boon? Approved by heaven, and cherished by man, in the holy bonds of Matrimony it must consist; and if this be all, we need seek no further; it is ours!"

They then knelt in prayer, and returned thanks to Heaven, that though the garden of Eden was a wild, and the nymph Happiness no longer an angel at their side, yet that her spirit was still present in every bosom where the heart is linked to Honor and Love by the sacred ties of Matrimony.

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

XIX.

_THE LAST OF HIS RACE._

No further can fate tempt or try me, With guerdon of pleasure or pain; Ere the noon of my life has sped by me, The last of my race I remain. To that home so long left I might journey; But they for whose greeting I yearn, Are launched on that shadowy ocean Whence voyagers never return.

My life is a blank in creation, My fortunes no kindred may share; No brother to cheer desolation, No sister to soften by prayer; No father to gladden my triumphs, No mother my sins to atone; No children to lean on in dying-- I must finish my journey alone!

In that hall, where their feet tripp'd before me, How lone would now echo my tread! While each fading portrait threw o'er me The chill, stony smile of the dead. One sad thought bewilders my slumbers, From eve till the coming of dawn: I cry out in visions, "_Where are they_?" And echo responds, "_They are gone_!"

But fain, ere the life-fount grows colder, I'd wend to that lone, distant place, That row of green hillocks, where moulder The rest of my early doom'd race. There slumber the true and the manly, There slumber the spotless and fair; And when my last journey is ended, My place of repose be it there!

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

XX.

_THE TWO GEORGES._

Between the years of our Lord 1730 and 1740, two men were born on opposite sides of the Atlantic Ocean, whose lives were destined to exert a commanding influence on the age in which they lived, as well as to control the fortunes of many succeeding generations.

One was by birth a plain peasant, the son of a Virginia farmer; the other an hereditary Prince, and the heir of an immense empire. It will be the main object of this sketch to trace the histories of these two individuals, so dissimilar in their origin, from birth to death, and show how it happened that one has left a name synonymous with tyranny, whilst the other will descend to the lowest posterity, radiant with immortal glory, and renowned the world over as the friend of virtue, the guardian of liberty, and the benefactor of his race.

Go with me for one moment to the crowded and splendid metropolis of England. It is the evening of the 4th of June 1734. Some joyful event must have occurred, for the bells are ringing merrily, and the inhabitants are dressed in holiday attire. Nor is the circumstance of a private nature, for banners are everywhere displayed, the vast city is illuminated, and a thousand cannon are proclaiming it from their iron throats. The population seem frantic with joy, and rush tumultuously into each other's arms, in token of a national jubilee. Tens of thousands are hurrying along toward a splendid marble pile, situated on a commanding eminence, near the river Thames, whilst from the loftiest towers of St. James's Palace the national ensigns of St. George and the Red Cross are seen floating on the breeze. Within one of the most gorgeously furnished apartments of that royal abode, the wife of Frederic, Prince of Wales, and heir apparent to the British Empire, has just been delivered of a son. The scions of royalty crowd into the bed-chamber, and solemnly attest the event as one on which the destiny of a great empire is suspended. The corridors are thronged with dukes, and nobles, and soldiers, and courtiers, all anxious to bend the supple knee, and bow the willing neck, to power just cradled into the world. A Royal Proclamation soon follows, commemorating the event, and commanding British subjects everywhere, who acknowledge the honor of Brunswick, to rejoice, and give thanks to God for safely ushering into existence George William Frederic, heir presumptive of the united crowns of Great Britain and Ireland. Just twenty-two years afterward that child ascended the throne of his ancestors as King George the Third.

Let us now turn our eyes to the Western Continent, and contemplate a scene of similar import, but under circumstances of a totally different character. It is the 22d February, 1732. The locality is a distant colony, the spot the verge of an immense, untrodden and unexplored wilderness, the habitation a log cabin, with its chinks filled in with clay, and its sloping roof patched over with clapboards. Snow covers the ground, and a chill wintery wind is drifting the flakes, and moaning through the forest. Two immense chimneys stand at either end of the house, and give promise of cheerful comfort and primitive hospitality within, totally in contrast with external nature. There are but four small rooms in the dwelling, in one of which Mary Ball, the wife of Augustine Washington, has just given birth to a son. No dukes or marquises or earls are there to attest the humble event. There are no princes of the blood to wrap the infant in the insignia of royalty, and fold about his limbs the tapestried escutcheon of a kingdom. His first breath is not drawn in the center of a mighty capitol, the air laden with perfume, and trembling to the tones of soft music and the "murmurs of low fountains." But the child is received from its Mother's womb by hands imbrowned with honest labor, and laid upon a lowly couch, indicative only of a backwoodsman's home and an American's inheritance. He, too, is christened George, and forty-three years afterward took command of the American forces assembled on the plains of old Cambridge.

But if their births were dissimilar, their rearing and education were still more unlike. From his earliest recollection the Prince heard only the language of flattery, moved about from palace to palace, just as caprice dictated, slept upon the cygnet's down, and grew up in indolence, self-will and vanity, a dictator from his cradle. The peasant boy, on the other hand, was taught from his infancy that labor was honorable, and hardships indispensable to vigorous health. He early learned to sleep alone amid the dangers of a boundless wilderness, a stone for his pillow, and the naked sod his bed; whilst the voices of untamed nature around him sang his morning and his evening hymns. Truth, courage and constancy were early implanted in his mind by a mother's counsels, and the important lesson of life was taught by a father's example, that when existence ceases to be useful it ceases to be happy.

Early manhood ushered them both into active life; the one as king over extensive dominions, the other as a modest, careful, and honest district surveyor.

Having traced the two Georges to the threshold of their career, let us now proceed one step further, and take note of the first great public event in the lives of either.

For a long time preceding the year 1753 the French had laid claim to all the North American continent west of the Alleghany Mountains, stretching in an unbroken line from Canada to Louisiana. The English strenuously denied this right, and when the French commandant on the Ohio, in 1753, commenced erecting a fort near where the present city of Pittsburg stands, and proceeded to capture certain English traders, and expel them from the country, Dinwiddie, Governor of Virginia, deemed it necessary to dispatch an agent on a diplomatic visit to the French commandant, and demand by what authority he acted, by what title he claimed the country, and order him immediately to evacuate the territory.

George Washington, then only in his twenty-second year, was selected by the Governor for this important mission.

It is unnecessary to follow him, in all his perils, during his wintery march through the wilderness. The historian of his life has painted in imperishable colors his courage, his sagacity, his wonderful coolness in the midst of danger, and the success which crowned his undertaking. The memory loves to follow him through the trackless wilds of the forest, accompanied by only a single companion, and making his way through wintery snows, in the midst of hostile savages and wild beasts for more than five hundred miles, to the residence of the French commander. How often do we not shudder, as we behold the treacherous Indian guide, on his return, deliberately raising his rifle, and leveling it at that majestic form; thus endeavoring, by an act of treachery and cowardice, to deprive Virginia of her young hero! And oh! with what fervent prayers do we not implore a kind Providence to watch over his desperate encounter with the floating ice, at midnight, in the swollen torrent of the Alleghany, and rescue him from the wave and the storm. Standing bareheaded on the frail raft, whilst in the act of dashing aside some floating ice that threatened to ingulf him, the treacherous oar was broken in his hand, and he is precipitated many feet into the boiling current. Save! oh, save him heaven! for the destinies of millions yet unborn hang upon that noble arm!

Let us now recross the ocean. In the early part of the year 1764 a ministerial crisis occurs in England, and Lord Bute, the favorite of the British monarch, is driven from the administration of the government. The troubles with the American colonists have also just commenced to excite attention, and the young King grows angry, perplexed, and greatly irritated. A few days after this, a rumor starts into circulation that the monarch is sick. His attendants look gloomy, his friends terrified, and even his physicians exhibit symptoms of doubt and danger. Yet he has no fever, and is daily observed walking with uncertain and agitated step along the corridors of the palace. His conduct becomes gradually more and more strange, until doubt gives place to certainty, and the royal medical staff report to a select committee of the House of Commons that the King is threatened with _insanity_. For six weeks the cloud obscures his mental faculties, depriving him of all interference with the administration of the government, and betokening a sad disaster in the future. His reason is finally restored, but frequent fits of passion, pride and obstinacy indicate but too surely that the disease is seated, and a radical cure impossible.

Possessed now of the chief characteristics of George Washington and George Guelph, we are prepared to review briefly their conduct during the struggle that ensued between the two countries they respectively represented.

Let us now refer to the first act of disloyalty of Washington, the first indignant spurn his high-toned spirit evinced under the oppressions of a king.

Not long after his return from the west, Washington was offered the chief command of the forces about to be raised in Virginia, to expel the French; but, with his usual modesty, he declined the appointment, on account of his extreme youth, but consented to take the post of lieutenant-colonel. Shortly afterward, on the death of Colonel Fry, he was promoted to the chief command, but through no solicitations of his own. Subsequently, when the war between France and England broke out in Europe, the principal seat of hostilities was transferred to America, and his Gracious Majesty George III sent over a large body of troops, _under the command of favorite officers_. But this was not enough. An edict soon followed, denominated an "Order to settle the rank of the officers of His Majesty's forces serving in America." By one of the articles of this order, it was provided "that all officers commissioned by the King, should take precedence of those of the same grade commissioned by the governors of the respective colonies, although their commissions might be of junior date;" and it was further provided, that "when the troops served together, the provincial officers should enjoy no rank at all." This order was scarcely promulgated--indeed, before the ink was dry--ere the Governor of Virginia received a communication informing him that _George Washington was no longer a soldier_. Entreaties, exhortations, and threats were all lavished upon him in vain; and to those who, in their expostulations, spoke of the defenseless frontiers of his native State, he patriotically but nobly replied: "I will serve my country when I can do so without dishonor."

In contrast with this attitude of Washington, look at the conduct of George the Third respecting the colonies, after the passage of the Stamp Act. This act was no sooner proclaimed in America, than the most violent opposition was manifested, and combinations for the purpose of effectual resistance were rapidly organized from Massachusetts to Georgia. The leading English patriots, among whom were Burke and Barré, protested against the folly of forcing the colonies into rebellion, and the city of London presented a petition to the King, praying him to dismiss the Granville ministry, and repeal the obnoxious act. "It is with the utmost astonishment," replied the King, "that I find any of my subjects capable of encouraging the rebellious disposition that unhappily exists in some of my North American colonies. Having entire confidence in the wisdom of my parliament, the great council of the realm, I will steadily pursue those measures which they have recommended for the support of the constitutional rights of Great Britain." He heeded not the memorable words of Burke, that afterward became prophetic. "There are moments," exclaimed this great statesman, "critical moments in the fortunes of all states when they who are too weak to contribute to your prosperity may yet be strong enough to complete your ruin." The Boston port bill passed, and the first blood was spilt at Lexington.

It is enough to say of the long and bloody war that followed, that George the Third, by his obstinacy, contributed more than any other man in his dominion to prolong the struggle, and affix to it the stigma of cruelty, inhumanity and vengeance; whilst Washington was equally the soul of the conflict on the other side, and by his imperturbable justice, moderation and firmness, did more than by his arms to convince England that her revolted colonists were invincible.

It is unnecessary to review in detail the old Revolution. Let us pass to the social position of the two Georges in after-life.

On the 2d August, 1786, as the King was alighting from his carriage at the gate of St. James, an attempt was made on his life by a woman named Margaret Nicholson, who, under pretense of presenting a petition, endeavored to stab him with a knife which was concealed in the paper. The weapon was an old one, and so rusty that, on striking the vest of the King, it bent double, and thus preserved his life. On the 29th October, 1795, whilst his majesty was proceeding to the House of Lords, a ball passed through both windows of the carriage. On his return to St. James the mob threw stones into the carriage, several of which struck the King, and one lodged in the cuff of his coat. The state carriage was completely demolished by the mob. But it was on the 15th May, 1800, that George the Third made his narrowest escapes. In the morning of that day, whilst attending the field exercise of a battalion of guards, one of the soldiers loaded his piece with a bullet and discharged it at the King. The ball fortunately missed its aim, and lodged in the thigh of a gentleman who was standing in the rear. In the evening of the same day a more alarming circumstance occurred at the Drury Lane Theatre. At the moment when the King entered the royal box, a man in the pit, on the right-hand side of the orchestra, suddenly stood up and discharged a large horse-pistol at him. The hand of the would-be assassin was thrown up by a bystander, and the ball entered the box just above the head of the King.

Such were the public manifestations of affection for this royal tyrant. He was finally attacked by an enemy that could not be thwarted, and on the 20th December, 1810, he became a confirmed lunatic. In this dreadful condition he lingered until January, 1820, when he died, having been the most unpopular, unwise and obstinate sovereign that ever disgraced the English throne. He was forgotten as soon as life left his body, and was hurriedly buried with that empty pomp which but too often attends a despot to the grave.

His whole career is well summed up by Allan Cunningham, his biographer, in few words: "Throughout his life he manifested a strong disposition to be his own minister, and occasionally placed the kingly prerogatives in perilous opposition to the resolutions of the nation's representatives. His interference with the deliberations of the upper house, as in the case of Fox's Indian bill, was equally ill-judged and dangerous. _The separation of America from the mother country, at the time it took place, was the result of the King's personal feelings and interference with the ministry._ The war with France was, in part at least, attributable to the views and wishes of the sovereign of England. His obstinate refusal to grant any concessions to his Catholic subjects, kept his cabinet perpetually hanging on the brink of dissolution, and threatened the dismemberment of the kingdom. He has been often praised for firmness, but it was in too many instances the firmness of obstinacy; a dogged adherence to an opinion once pronounced, or a resolution once formed."

The mind, in passing from the unhonored grave of the prince to the last resting-place of the peasant boy, leaps from a kingdom of darkness to one of light.

Let us now return to the career of Washington. Throughout the Revolutionary War he carried, like Atropos, in his hand the destinies of millions; he bore, like Atlas, on his shoulders the weight of a world. It is unnecessary to follow him throughout his subsequent career. Honored again and again by the people of the land he had redeemed from thraldom, he has taken his place in death by the side of the wisest and best of the world's benefactors. Assassins did not unglory him in life, nor has oblivion drawn her mantle over him in death. The names of his great battle-fields have become nursery words, and his principles have imbedded themselves forever in the national character. Every pulsation of our hearts beats true to his memory. His mementoes are everywhere around and about us. Distant as we are from the green fields of his native Westmoreland, the circle of his renown has spread far beyond our borders. In climes where the torch of science was never kindled; on shores still buried in primeval bloom; amongst barbarians where the face of liberty was never seen, the Christian missionary of America, roused perhaps from his holy duties by the distant echo of the national salute, this day thundering amidst the billows of every sea, or dazzled by the gleam of his country's banner, this day floating in every wind of heaven, pauses over his task as a Christian, and whilst memory kindles in his bosom the fires of patriotism, pronounced in the ear of the enslaved pagan the venerated name of WASHINGTON!

Nor are the sons of the companions of Washington alone in doing justice to his memory. Our sisters, wives and mothers compete with us in discharging this debt of national gratitude. With a delicacy that none but woman could exhibit, and with a devotion that none but a daughter could feel, they are now busy in executing the noble scheme of purchasing his tomb, in order for endless generations to stand sentinel over his remains. Take them! take them to your hearts, oh! ye daughters of America; enfold them closer to your bosom than your first-born offspring; build around them a mausoleum that neither time nor change can overthrow; for within them germinates the seeds of liberty for the benefit of millions yet unborn. Wherever tyranny shall lift its Medusan head, wherever treason shall plot its hellish schemes, wherever disunion shall unfurl its tattered ensign, there, oh there, sow them in the hearts of patriots and republicans! For from these pale ashes there shall spring, as from the dragon's teeth sown by Cadmus of old on the plains of Heber, vast armies of invincible heroes, sworn upon the altar and tomb at Mount Vernon, to live as freemen, or as such to die!

[Decoration]

XXI.

_MASONRY._

Oh, sacred spirit of Masonic love, Offspring of Heaven, the angels' bond above, Guardian of peace and every social tie, How deep the sources of thy fountains lie! How wide the realms that 'neath thy wings expand, Embracing every clime, encircling every land!

Beneath the aurora of the Polar skies, Where Greenland's everlasting glaciers rise, The Lodge mysterious lifts its snow-built dome, And points the brother to a sunnier home; Where Nilus slays the sacrificial kid, Beneath the shadow of her pyramid, Where magian suns unclasp the gaping ground, And far Australia's golden sands abound; Where breakers thunder on the coral strand, To guard the gates of Kamehameha's land; Wherever man, in lambskin garb arrayed, Strikes in defense of innocence betrayed; Lifts the broad shield of charity to all, And bends in anguish o'er a brother's fall; Where the bright symbol of Masonic truth, Alike for high and low, for age or youth, Flames like yon sun at tropic midday's call, And opes the universal eye on all! What though in secret all your alms be done, Your foes all vanquished and your trophies won? What though a veil be o'er your Lodges thrown, And brother only be to brother known?

In secret, God built up the rolling world; In secret, morning's banners are unfurled; In secret, spreads the leaf, unfolds the flower, Revolve the spheres, and speeds the passing hour. The day is noise, confusion, strife, turmoil, Struggles for bread, and sweat beneath the toil. The night is silence--progress without jars, The rest of mortals and the march of stars! The day for work to toiling man was given; But night, to lead his erring steps to Heaven. All hail! ye brethren of the mystic tie! Who feed the hungry, heed the orphan's cry; Who clothe the naked, dry the widow's tear, Befriend the exile, bear the stranger's bier; Stand round the bedside when the fluttering soul Bursts her clay bonds and parteth for her goal; God speed you in the noble path you tread, Friends of the living, mourners o'er the dead.

May all your actions, measured on the square, Be just and righteous, merciful and fair; Your thoughts flow pure, in modesty of mind, Along the equal level of mankind; Your words be troweled to truth's perfect tone, Your fame be chiseled in unblemished stone, Your hearts be modeled on the plummet's line, Your faith be guided by the Book divine; And when at last the gavel's beat above Calls you from labor to the feast of love, May mighty Boaz, pillar'd at that gate Which seraphs tyle and where archangels wait, Unloose the bandage from your dazzled eyes, Spell out the _Password_ to Arch-Royal skies; Upon your bosom set the signet steel, Help's sign disclose, and Friendship's grip reveal; Place in your grasp the soul's unerring rod, And light you to the Temple of your God!

[Decoration]

XXII.

_POLLOCK'S EUTHANASIA._

He is gone! the young, and gifted! By his own strong pinions lifted To the stars;

Where he strikes, with minstrels olden, Choral harps, whose strings are golden, Deathless bars.

There, with Homer's ghost all hoary, Not with years, but fadeless glory, Lo! he stands;

And through that open portal, We behold the bards immortal Clasping hands!

Hark! how Rome's great epic master Sings, that death is no disaster To the wise;

Fame on earth is but a menial, But it reigns a king perennial In the skies!

Albion's blind old bard heroic, Statesman, sage, and Christian stoic, Greets his son;

Whilst in pæans wild and glorious, Like his "Paradise victorious," Sings, Well done!

Lo! a bard with forehead pendent, But with glory's beams resplendent As a star;

Slow descends from regions higher, With a crown and golden lyre In his car.

All around him, crowd as minions, Thrones and sceptres, and dominions, Kings and Queens;

Ages past and ages present, Lord and dame, and prince and peasant, His demesnes!

Approach! young bard hesperian, Welcome to the heights empyrean, Thou did'st sing,

Ere yet thy trembling fingers Struck where fame immortal lingers, In the string.

Kneel! I am the bard of Avon, And the Realm of song in Heaven Is my own;

Long thy verse shall live in story, And thy Lyre I crown with glory, And a throne!

[Decoration]

XXIII.

_SCIENCE, LITERATURE AND ART DURING THE FIRST HALF OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY._

Looking back into the past, and exploring by the light of authentic history, sacred as well as profane, the characteristics of former ages, the merest tyro in learning cannot fail to perceive that certain epochs stand prominently out on the "sands of time," and indicate vast activity and uncommon power in the human mind.

These epochs are so well marked that history has given them a designation, and to call them by their name, conjures up, as by the wand of an enchanter, the heroic representatives of our race.

If, for instance, we should speak of the era of Solomon, in sacred history, the memory would instantly picture forth the pinnacles of the Holy Temple, lifting themselves into the clouds; the ear would listen intently to catch the sweet intonations of the harp of David, vocal at once with the prophetic sorrows of his race, and swelling into sublime ecstasy at the final redemption of his people; the eye would glisten at the pomp and pageantry of the foreign potentates who thronged his court, and gloat with rapture over the beauty of the young Queen of Sheba, who journeyed from a distant land to seek wisdom at the feet of the wisest monarch that ever sat upon a throne. We should behold his ships traversing every sea, and pouring into the lap of Israel the gold of Ophir, the ivory of Senegambia, and the silks, myrrh, and spices of the East.

So, too, has profane history its golden ages, when men all seemed to be giants, and their minds inspired.

What is meant when we speak of the age of Pericles? We mean all that is glorious in the annals of Greece. We mean Apelles with his pencil, Phidias with his chisel, Alcibiades with his sword. We seem to be strolling arm-in-arm with Plato, into the academy, to listen to the divine teachings of Socrates, or hurrying along with the crowd toward the theatre, where Herodotus is reading his history, or Euripides is presenting his tragedies. Aspasia rises up like a beautiful apparition before us, and we follow willing slaves at the wheels of her victorious chariot. The whole of the Peloponnesus glows with intellect like a forge in blast, and scatters the trophies of Grecian civilization profusely around us. The Parthenon lifts its everlasting columns, and the Venus and Apollo are moulded into marble immortality.

Rome had her Augustan age, an era of poets, philosophers, soldiers, statesmen, and orators. Crowded into contemporary life, we recognize the greatest general of the heathen world, the greatest poet, the greatest orator, and the greatest statesman of Rome. Cæsar and Cicero, Virgil and Octavius, all trod the pavement of the capitol together, and lent their blended glory to immortalize the Augustan age.

Italy and Spain and France and England have had their golden age. The eras of Lorenzo the Magnificent, of Ferdinand and Isabella, of Louis Quatorze and of Elizabeth, can never be forgotten. They loom up from the surrounding gloom like the full moon bursting upon the sleeping seas; irradiating the night, clothing the meanest wave in sparkling silver, and dimming the lustre of the brightest stars. History has also left in its track mementoes of a different character. In sacred history we have the age of Herod; in profane, the age of Nero. We recognize at a glance the talismanic touch of the age of chivalry, and the era of the Crusades, and mope our way in darkness and gloom along that opaque track, stretching from the reign of Justinian, in the sixth century, to the reign of Edward the Third, in the fourteenth, and known throughout Christendom as the "Dark Ages." Let us now take a survey of the field we occupy, and ascertain, if possible, the category in which our age shall be ranked by our posterity.

But before proceeding to discuss the characteristics of our epoch, let us define more especially what that epoch embraces.

It does not embrace the American nor the French Revolution, nor does it include the acts or heroes of either. The impetus given to the human mind by the last half of the eighteenth century, must be carefully distinguished from the impulses of the first half of the nineteenth. The first was an era of almost universal war, the last of almost uninterrupted peace. The dying ground-swell of the waves after a storm belong to the tempest, not to the calm which succeeds. Hence the wars of Napoleon, the literature and art of his epoch, must be excluded from observation, in properly discussing the true characteristics of our era.

De Staël and Goethe and Schiller and Byron; Pitt and Nesselrode, Metternich and Hamilton; Fichte and Stewart and Brown and Cousin; Canova, Thorwaldsen and La Place, though all dying since the beginning of this century, belong essentially to a former era. They were the ripened fruits of that grand uprising of the human mind which first took form on the 4th day of July, 1776. Our era properly commences with the downfall of the first Napoleon, and none of the events connected therewith, either before or afterward, can be philosophically classed in the epoch we represent, but must be referred to a former period. Ages hence, then, the philosophic critic will thus describe the first half of the nineteenth century:

"The normal state of Christendom was peace. The age of steel that immediately went before it had passed. It was the Iron age.

"Speculative philosophy fell asleep; literature declined; Skepticism bore sway in religion, politics, and morals; Utility became the universal standard of right and wrong, and the truths of every science and the axioms of every art were ruthlessly subjected to the _experimentum crucis_. Everything was liable to revision. The verdicts pronounced in the olden time against Mohammed and Mesmer and Robespierre were set aside, and a new trial granted. The ghosts of Roger Bacon and Emanuel Swedenborg were summoned from the Stygian shore to plead their causes anew before the bar of public opinion. The head of Oliver Cromwell was ordered down from the gibbet, the hump was smoothed down on the back of Richard III, and the sentence pronounced by Urban VIII against the 'starry Galileo' reversed forever. Aristotle was decently interred beneath a modern monument inscribed thus: '_In pace requiescat_;' whilst Francis Bacon was rescued from the sacrilegious hands of kings and peers and parliament, and canonized by the unanimous consent of Christendom. It was the age of tests. Experiment governed the world. Germany led the van, and Humboldt became the impersonation of his times."

Such unquestionably will be the verdict of the future, when the present time, with all its treasures and trash, its hopes and realizations, shall have been safely shelved and labeled amongst the musty records of bygone generations.

Let us now examine into the grounds of this verdict more minutely, and test its accuracy by exemplifications.

I. And first, who believes now in _innate ideas_? Locke has been completely superseded by the materialists of Germany and France, and all speculative moral philosophy exploded. The audiences of Edinburgh and Brown University interrupt Sir William Hamilton and Dr. Wayland in their discourses, and, stripping off the plumage from their theses, inquisitively demand, "_Cui bono_?" What is the use of all this? How can we apply it to the every-day concerns of life? We ask you for bread and you have given us a stone; and though that stone be a diamond, it is valueless, except for its glitter. No philosopher can speculate successfully or even satisfactorily to himself, when he is met at every turn by some vulgar intruder into the domains of Aristotle and Kant, who clips his wings just as he was prepared to soar into the heavens, by an offer of copartnership to "speculate," it may be, in the price of pork. Hence, no moral philosopher of our day has been enabled to erect any theory which will stand the assaults of logic for a moment. Each school rises for an instant to the surface, and sports out its little day in toss and tribulation, until the next wave rolls along, with foam on its crest and fury in its roar, and overwhelms it forever. As with its predecessor, so with itself.

"The eternal surge Of Time and Tide rolls on and bears afar Their bubbles: as the old burst, new emerge, Lashed from the foam of ages."

II. But I have stated that this is an age of _literary decline_. It is true that more books are written and published, more newspapers and periodicals printed and circulated, more extensive libraries collected and incorporated, and more ink indiscriminately spilt, than at any former period of the world's history. In looking about us we are forcibly reminded of the sarcastic couplet of Pope, who complains--

"That those who cannot write, and those who can, All scratch, all scrawl, and scribble to a man."

Had a modern gentleman all the eyes of Argus, all the hands of Briareus, all the wealth of Croesus, and lived to the age of Methuselah, his eyes would all fail, his fingers all tire, his money all give out, and his years come to an end, long before he perused one tenth of the annual product of the press of Christendom at the present day. It is no figure of rhetoric to say that the press groans beneath the burden of its labors. Could the types of Leipsic and London, Paris and New York, speak out, the Litany would have to be amended, and a new article added, to which they would solemnly respond: "Spare us, good Lord!"

A recent publication furnishes the following statistical facts relating to the book trade in our own country: "Books have multiplied to such an extent in the United States that it now takes 750 paper-mills, with 2000 engines in constant operation, to supply the printers, who work day and night, endeavoring to keep their engagements with publishers. These tireless mills produce 270,000,000 pounds of paper every year. It requires a pound and a quarter of old rags for one pound of paper, thus 340,000,000 pounds of rags were consumed in this way last year. There are about 300 publishers in the United States, and near 10,000 book-sellers who are engaged in the task of dispensing literary pabulum to the public."

It may appear somewhat paradoxical to assert that literature is declining whilst books and authors are multiplying to such a fearful extent. Byron wrote:

"'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print; A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't."

True enough; but books are not always literature. A man may become an author without ceasing to be an ignoramus. His name may adorn a title-page without being recorded _in ære perenne_. He may attempt to write himself up a very "lion" in literature, whilst good master Slender may be busily engaged "in writing him down an ass."

Not one book in a thousand is a success; not one success in ten thousand wreathes the fortunate author with the laurel crown, and lifts him up into the region of the immortals. Tell me, ye who prate about the _literary glory_ of the nineteenth century, wherein it consists? Whose are

"The great, the immortal names That were not born to die?"

I cast my eyes up the long vista toward the Temple of Fame, and I behold hundreds of thousands pressing on to reach the shining portals. They jostle each other by the way, they trip, they fall, they are overthrown and ruthlessly trampled into oblivion, by the giddy throng, as they rush onward and upward. One, it may be two, of the million who started out, stand trembling at the threshold, and with exultant voices cry aloud for admittance. One perishes before the summons can be answered; and the other, awed into immortality by the august presence into which he enters, is transformed into imperishable stone.

Let us carefully scan the rolls of the literature of our era, and select, if we can, poet, orator, or philosopher, whose fame will deepen as it runs, and brighten as it burns, until future generations shall drink at the fountain and be refreshed, and kindle their souls at the vestal flame and be purified, illuminated and ennobled.

In poetry, aye, in the crowded realms of song, who bears the sceptre?--who wears the crown? America, England, France and Germany can boast of bards _by the gross_, and rhyme _by the acre_, but not a single poet. The _poeta nascitur_ is not here. He may be on his way--and I have heard that he was--but this generation must pass before he arrives. Is he in America? If so, which is he? Is it Poe, croaking sorrowfully with his "Raven," or Willis, cooing sweetly with his "Dove"? Is it Bryant, with his "Thanatopsis," or Prentice, with his "Dirge to the Dead Year"? Perhaps it is Holmes, with his "Lyrics," or Longfellow, with his "Idyls." Alas! is it not self-evident that we have no poet, when it is utterly impossible to discover any two critics in the land who can find him?

True, we have lightning-bugs enough, but no star; foot-hills, it may be, in abundance, but no Mount Shasta, with its base built upon the everlasting granite, and its brow bathed in the eternal sunlight.

In England, Tennyson, the Laureate, is the spokesman of a clique, the pet poet of a princely circle, whose rhymes flow with the docility and harmony of a limpid brook, but never stun like Niagara, nor rise into sublimity like the storm-swept sea.

Béranger, the greatest poet of France of our era, was a mere song-writer; and Heine, the pride of young Germany, a mere satirist and lyrist. Freiligrath can never rank with Goethe or Schiller; and Victor Hugo never attain the heights trodden by Racine, Corneille, or Boileau.

In oratory, where shall we find the compeer of Chatham or Mirabeau, Burke or Patrick Henry? I have not forgotten Peel and Gladstone, nor Lamartine and Count Cavour, nor Sargent S. Prentiss and Daniel Webster. But Webster himself, by far the greatest intellect of all these, was a mere debater, and the spokesman of a party. He was an eloquent speaker, but can never rank as an orator with the rhetoricians of the last century.

And in philosophy and general learning, where shall we find the equal of that burly old bully, Dr. Sam Johnson? and yet Johnson, with all his learning, was a third-rate philosopher.

In truth, the greatest author of our era was a mere essayist. Beyond all controversy, Thomas Babington Macaulay was the most polished writer of our times. With an intellect acute, logical and analytic; with an imagination glowing and rich, but subdued and under perfect control; with a style so clear and limpid and concise, that it has become a standard for all who aim to follow in the path he trod, and with a learning so full and exact, and exhaustive, that he was nicknamed, when an undergraduate, the "Omniscient Macaulay;" he still lacks the giant grasp of thought, the bold originality, and the intense, earnest enthusiasm which characterize the master-spirits of the race, and identify them with the eras they adorn.

III. As in literature, so in what have been denominated by scholars the _Fine Arts_. The past fifty years has not produced a painter, sculptor, or composer, who ranks above mediocrity in their respective vocations. Canova and Thorwaldsen were the last of their race; Sir Joshua Reynolds left no successor, and the immortal Beethoven has been superseded by negro minstrelsy and senseless pantomime. The greatest architect of the age is a railroad contractor, and the first dramatist a cobbler of French farces.

IV. But whilst the highest faculty of the mind--the imagination--has been left uncultivated, and has produced no worthy fruit, the next highest, the casual, or the one that deals with causes and effects, has been stimulated into the most astonishing fertility.

Our age ignores fancy, and deals exclusively with fact. Within its chosen range it stands far, very far pre-eminent over all that have preceded it. It reaps the fruit of Bacon's labors. It utilizes all that it touches. It stands thoughtfully on the field of Waterloo, and estimates scientifically the manuring properties of bones and blood. It disentombs the mummy of Thotmes II, sells the linen bandages for the manufacture of paper, burns the asphaltum-soaked body for firewood, and plants the pint of red wheat found in his sarcophagus, to try an agricultural experiment. It deals in no sentimentalities; it has no appreciation of the sublime. It stands upon the ocean shore, but with its eyes fixed on the yellow sand searching for gold. It confronts Niagara, and, gazing with rapture at its misty shroud, exclaims, in an ecstasy of admiration, "Lord, what a place to sponge a coat!" Having no soul to save, it has no religion to save it. It has discovered that Mohammed was a great benefactor of his race, and that Jesus Christ was, after all, a mere man; distinguished, it is true, for his benevolence, his fortitude and his morality, but for nothing else. It does not believe in the Pope, nor in the Church, nor in the Bible. It ridicules the infallibility of the first, the despotism of the second, and the chronology of the third. It is possessed of the very spirit of Thomas; it must "touch and handle" before it will believe. It questions the existence of spirit, because it cannot be analyzed by chemical solvents; it questions the existence of hell, because it has never been scorched; it questions the existence of God, because it has never beheld Him.

It does, however, believe in the explosive force of gunpowder, in the evaporation of boiling water, in the head of the magnet, and in the heels of the lightnings. It conjugates the Latin verb _invenio_ (to find out) through all its voices, moods and tenses. It invents everything; from a lucifer match in the morning to kindle a kitchen fire, up through all the intermediate ranks and tiers and grades of life, to a telescope that spans the heavens in the evening, it recognizes no chasm or hiatus in its inventions. It sinks an artesian well in the desert of Sahara for a pitcher of water, and bores through the Alleghanies for a hogshead of oil. From a fish-hook to the Great Eastern, from a pocket deringer to a columbiad, from a sewing machine to a Victoria suspension bridge, it oscillates like a pendulum.

Deficient in literature and art, our age surpasses all others in science. Knowledge has become the great end and aim of human life. "I want to know," is inscribed as legibly on the hammer of the geologist, the crucible of the chemist, and the equatorial of the astronomer, as it is upon the phiz of a regular "Down-Easter." Our age has inherited the chief failing of our first mother, and passing by the "Tree of Life in the midst of the Garden," we are all busily engaged in mercilessly plundering the Tree of Knowledge of all its fruit. The time is rapidly approaching when no man will be considered a gentleman who has not filed his _caveat_ in the Patent Office.

The inevitable result of this spirit of the age begins already to be seen. The philosophy of a cold, blank, calculating materialism has taken possession of all the avenues of learning. Epicurus is worshiped instead of Christ. Mammon is considered as the only true savior. _Dum Vivimus Vivamus_, is the maxim we live by, and the creed we die by. We are all iconoclasts. St. Paul has been superseded by St. Fulton; St John by St. Colt; St. James by St. Morse; St. Mark by St. Manry; and St. Peter has surrendered his keys to that great incarnate representative of this age, St. Alexandre Von Humboldt.

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

XXIV.

_THE ENROBING OF LIBERTY._

The war-drum was silent, the cannon was mute, The sword in its scabbard lay still, And battle had gathered the last autumn fruit That crimson-dyed river and rill, When a Goddess came down from her mansion on high, To gladden the world with her smile, Leaving only her robes in the realm of the sky, That their sheen might no mortal beguile.

As she lit on the earth she was welcomed by Peace, Twin sisters in Eden of yore-- But parted forever when fetter-bound Greece Drove her exiled and chained from her shore; Never since had the angel of Liberty trod In virginal beauty below; But, chased from the earth, she had mounted to God, Despoiled of her raiment of snow.

Our sires gathered round her, entranced by her smile, Remembering the footprints of old She had graven on grottoes, in Scio's sweet Isle, Ere the doom of fair Athens was told. "I am naked," she cried; "I am homeless on earth; Kings, Princes, and Lords are my foes, But I stand undismayed, though an orphan by birth, And condemned to the region of snows."

"Hail, Liberty! hail"--our fathers exclaim-- "To the glorious land of the West! With a diadem bright we will honor thy name, And enthrone thee America's guest; We will found a great nation and call it thine own, And erect here an altar to thee, Where millions shall kneel at the foot of thy throne And swear to forever be free!"

Then each brought a vestment her form to enrobe, And screen her fair face from the sun, And thus she stood forth as the Queen of the globe When the work of our Fathers was done.

A circlet of stars round her temples they wove, That gleamed like Orion's bright band, And an emblem of power, the eagle of Jove, They perched like a bolt in her hand; On her forehead, a scroll that contained but a line Was written in letters of light, That our great "Constitution" forever might shine, A sun to illumine the night.

Her feet were incased in broad sandals of gold, That riches might spring in her train; While a warrior's casque, with its visor uproll'd, Protected her tresses and brain; Round her waist a bright girdle of satin was bound, Formed of colors so blended and true, That when as a banner the scarf was unwound, It floated the "Red, White and Blue."

Then Liberty calm, leant on Washington's arm, And spoke in prophetical strain: "Columbia's proud hills I will shelter from ills, Whilst her valleys and mountains remain; But palsied the hand that would pillage the band Of sisterhood stars in my crown, And death to the knave whose sword would enslave, By striking your great charter down.

"Your eagle shall soar this western world o'er, And carry the sound of my name, Till monarchs shall quake and its confines forsake, If true to your ancestral fame! Your banner shall gleam like the polar star's beam, To guide through rebellion's Red sea, And in battle 'twill wave, both to conquer and save, If borne by the hands of the free!"

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

XXV.

_A CAKE OF SOAP._

I stood at my washstand, one bright sunny morn, And gazed through the blinds at the upbringing corn, And mourn'd that my summers were passing away, Like the dew on the meadow that morning in May.

I seized, for an instant, the Iris-hued soap, That glowed in the dish, like an emblem of hope, And said to myself, as I melted its snows, "The longer I use it, the lesser it grows."

For life, in its morn, is full freighted and gay, And fair as the rainbow when clouds float away; Sweet-scented and useful, it sheds its perfume, Till wasted or blasted, it melts in the tomb.

Thus day after day, whilst we lather and scrub, Time wasteth and blasteth with many a rub, Till thinner and thinner, the soap wears away, And age hands us over to dust and decay.

Oh Bessie! dear Bess! as I dream of thee now, With the spice in thy breath, and the bloom on thy brow, To a cake of pure Lubin thy life I compare, So fragrant, so fragile, and so debonair!

But fortune was fickle, and labor was vain, And want overtook us, with grief in its train, Till, worn out by troubles, death came in the blast; But _thy_ kisses, like Lubin's, were sweet to the last!

[Decoration]

XXVI.

_THE SUMMERFIELD CASE._

The following additional particulars, as sequel to the Summerfield homicide, have been furnished by an Auburn correspondent:

MR. EDITOR: The remarkable confession of the late Leonidas Parker, which appeared in your issue of the 13th ultimo, has given rise to a series of disturbances in this neighborhood, which, for romantic interest and downright depravity, have seldom been surpassed, even in California. Before proceeding to relate in detail the late transactions, allow me to remark that the wonderful narrative of Parker excited throughout this county sentiments of the most profound and contradictory character. I, for one, halted between two opinions--horror and incredulity; and nothing but subsequent events could have fully satisfied me of the unquestionable veracity of your San Francisco correspondent, and the scientific authenticity of the facts related.

The doubt with which the story was at first received in this community--and which found utterance in a burlesque article in an obscure country journal, the Stars and Stripes, of Auburn--has finally been dispelled and we find ourselves forced to admit that we stand even now in the presence of the most alarming fate. Too much credit cannot be awarded to our worthy coroner for the promptitude of his action, and we trust that the Governor of the State will not be less efficient in the discharge of his duty.

[Since the above letter was written the following proclamation has been issued.--P. J.]

PROCLAMATION OF THE GOVERNOR.

=$10,000 REWARD!=

DEPARTMENT OF STATE.

By virtue of the authority in me vested, I do hereby offer the above reward of ten thousand dollars, in gold coin of the United States, for the Arrest of Bartholomew Graham, familiarly known as Black Bart. Said Graham is accused of the murder of C. P. Gillson, late of Auburn, county of Placer, on the 14th ultimo. He is five feet ten inches and a half in height, thick set, has a mustache sprinkled with gray, grizzled hair, clear blue eyes, walks stooping, and served in the late civil war under Price and Quantrell, in the Confederate army. He may be lurking in some of the mining-camps near the foot-hills, as he was a Washoe teamster during the Comstock excitement. The above reward will be paid for him, _dead or alive_, as he possessed himself of an important secret by robbing the body of the late Gregory Summerfield.

By the Governor: H. G. NICHOLSON, Secretary of State.

Given at Sacramento, this the fifth day of June, 1871.

Our correspondent continues:

I am sorry to say that Sheriff Higgins has not been so active in the discharge of his duty as the urgency of the case required, but he is perhaps excusable on account of the criminal interference of the editor above alluded to. But I am detaining you from more important matters. Your Saturday's paper reached here at 4 o'clock, Saturday, 13th May, and, as it now appears from the evidence taken before the coroner, several persons left Auburn on the same errand, but without any previous conference. Two of these were named respectively Charles P. Gillson and Bartholomew Graham, or, as he was usually called, "Black Bart." Gillson kept a saloon at the corner of Prickly Ash Street and the Old Spring Road; and Black Bart was in the employ of Conrad & Co., keepers of the Norfolk livery stable. Gillson was a son-in-law of ex-Governor Roberts, of Iowa, and leaves a wife and two children to mourn his untimely end. As for Graham, nothing certain is known of his antecedents. It is said that he was engaged in the late robbery of Wells & Fargo's express at Grizzly Bend, and that he was an habitual gambler. Only one thing about him is certainly well known: he was a lieutenant in the Confederate army, and served under General Price and the outlaw Quantrell. He was a man originally of fine education, plausible manners and good family; but strong drink seems early in life to have overmastered him, and left him but a wreck of himself. But he was not incapable of generous, or rather, romantic, acts; for, during the burning of the Putnam House, in this town, last summer, he rescued two ladies from the flames. In so doing he scorched his left hand so seriously as to contract the tendons of two fingers, and this very scar may lead to his apprehension. There is no doubt about his utter desperation of character, and, if taken at all, it will probably be not alive.

So much for the persons concerned in the tragedy at the Flat.

Herewith I inclose copies of the testimony of the witnesses examined before the coroner's jury, together with the statement of Gillson, taken _in articulo mortis_:

DEPOSITION OF DOLLIE ADAMS.

STATE OF CALIFORNIA, } ss. County of Placer. }

Said witness, being duly sworn, deposed as follows, to wit: My name is Dollie Adams; my age forty-seven years; I am the wife of Frank G. Adams, of this township, and reside on the North Fork of the American River, below Cape Horn, on Thompson's Flat; about one o'clock P. M., May 14, 1871, I left the cabin to gather wood to cook dinner for my husband and the hands at work for him on the claim; the trees are mostly cut away from the bottom, and I had to climb some distance up the mountain side before I could get enough to kindle the fire; I had gone about five hundred yards from the cabin, and was searching for small sticks of fallen timber, when I thought I heard some one groan, as if in pain; I paused and listened; the groaning became more distinct, and I started at once for the place whence the sounds proceeded; about ten steps off I discovered the man whose remains lie there (pointing to the deceased), sitting up, with his back against a big rock; he looked so pale that I thought him already dead, but he continued to moan until I reached his side; hearing me approach, he opened his eyes, and begged me, "For God's sake, give me a drop of water!" I asked him, "What is the matter?" He replied, "I am shot in the back." "Dangerously?" I demanded. "Fatally!" he faltered. Without waiting to question him further, I returned to the cabin, told Zenie--my daughter--what I had seen, and sent her off on a run for the men. Taking with me a gourd of water, some milk and bread--for I thought the poor gentleman might be hungry and weak, as well as wounded--I hurried back to his side, where I remained until "father"--as we all call my husband--came with the men. We removed him as gently as we could to the cabin; then sent for Dr. Liebner, and nursed him until he died, yesterday, just at sunset.

Question by the Coroner: Did you hear his statement, taken down by the Assistant District Attorney?--A. I did.

Q. Did you see him sign it?--A. Yes, sir.

Q. Is this your signature thereto as witness?--A. It is, sir.

(Signed) DOLLIE ADAMS.

DEPOSITION OF MISS X. V. ADAMS.

Being first duly sworn, witness testified as follows: My name is Xixenia Volumnia Adams; I am the daughter of Frank G. Adams and the last witness; I reside with them on the Flat, and my age is eighteen years; a little past 1 o'clock on Sunday last my mother came running into the house and informed me that a man was dying from a wound, on the side-hill, and that I must go for father and the boys immediately. I ran as fast as my legs would carry me to where they were "cleaning up," for they never cleaned up week-days on the Flat, and told the news; we all came back together and proceeded to the spot where the wounded man lay weltering in his blood; he was cautiously removed to the cabin, where he lingered until yesterday sundown, when he died.

Question. Did he speak after he reached the cabin? A. He did frequently; at first with great pain, but afterward more audibly and intelligibly.

Q. What did he say? A. First, to send for Squire Jacobs, the Assistant District Attorney, as he had a statement to make; and some time afterward, to send for his wife; but we first of all sent for the doctor.

Q. Who was present when he died? A. Only myself; he had appeared a great deal easier, and his wife had lain down to take a short nap, and my mother had gone to the spring and left me alone to watch; suddenly he lifted himself spasmodically in bed, glared around wildly and muttered something inaudible; seeing me, he cried out, "Run! run! run! He has it! Black Bart has got the vial! Quick! or he'll set the world afire! See, he opens it! Oh, my God! Look! look! look! Hold his hands! tie him! chain him down! Too late! too late! oh the flames! Fire! fire! fire!" His tone of voice gradually strengthened until the end of his raving; when he cried "fire!" his eyeballs glared, his mouth quivered, his body convulsed, and before Mrs. Gillson could reach his bedside he fell back stone dead.

(Signed) X. V. ADAMS.

The testimony of Adams corroborated in every particular that of his wife and daughter, but set forth more fully the particulars of his demoniac ravings. He would taste nothing from a glass or bottle, but shuddered whenever any article of that sort met his eyes. In fact, they had to remove from the room the cups, tumblers, and even the castors. At times he spoke rationally, but after the second day only in momentary flashes of sanity.

The deposition of the attending physician, after giving the general facts with regard to the sickness of the patient and his subsequent demise, proceeded thus:

I found the patient weak, and suffering from loss of blood and rest, and want of nourishment; occasionally sane, but for the most part flighty and in a comatose condition. The wound was an ordinary gunshot wound, produced most probably by the ball of a navy revolver, fired at the distance of ten paces. It entered the back near the left clavicle, beneath the scapula, close to the vertebrae between the intercostal spaces of the fifth and sixth ribs; grazing the pericardium it traversed the mediastinum, barely touching the oesophagus, and vena azygos, but completely severing the thoracic duct, and lodging in the xiphoid portion of the sternum. Necessarily fatal, there was no reason, however, why the patient could not linger for a week or more; but it is no less certain that from the effect of the wound he ultimately died. I witnessed the execution of the paper shown to me--as the statement of deceased--at his request; and at the time of signing the same he was in his perfect senses. It was taken down in my presence by Jacobs, the Assistant District Attorney of Placer County, and read over to the deceased before he affixed his signature. I was not present when he breathed his last, having been called away by my patients in the town of Auburn, but I reached his bedside shortly afterward. In my judgment, no amount of care or medical attention could have prolonged his life more than a few days.

(Signed) KARL LIEBNER, M. D.

The statement of the deceased was then introduced to the jury as follows:

PEOPLE OF THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA } _vs._ } BARTHOLOMEW GRAHAM. }

_Statement and Dying Confession of Charles P. Gillson, taken in articulo mortis by George Simpson, Notary Public._

On the morning of Sunday, the 14th day of May, 1871, I left Auburn alone in search of the body of the late Gregory Summerfield, who was reported to have been pushed from the cars at Cape Horn, in this county, by one Leonidas Parker, since deceased. It was not fully light when I reached the track of the Central Pacific Railroad. Having mined at an early day on Thompson's Flat, at the foot of the rocky promontory now called Cape Horn, I was familiar with the zigzag paths leading down that steep precipice. One was generally used as a descent, the other as an ascent from the cañon below. I chose the latter, as being the freest from the chance of observation. It required the greatest caution to thread the narrow gorge; but I finally reached the rocky bench, about one thousand feet below the grade of the railroad. It was now broad daylight, and I commenced cautiously the search for Summerfield's body. There is quite a dense undergrowth of shrubs thereabouts, lining the interstices of the granite rocks so as to obscure the vision even at a short distance. Brushing aside a thick manzanita bush, I beheld the dead man at the same instant of time that another person arrived like an apparition upon the spot. It was Bartholomew Graham, known as "Black Bart." We suddenly confronted each other, the skeleton of Summerfield lying exactly between us. Our recognition was mutual. Graham advanced and I did the same; he stretched out his hand and we greeted one another across the prostrate corpse.

Before releasing my hand, Black Bart exclaimed in a hoarse whisper, "Swear, Gillson, in the presence of the dead, that you will forever be faithful, never betray me, and do exactly as I bid you, as long as you live!"

I looked him full in the eye. Fate sat there, cold and remorseless as stone. I hesitated; with his left hand he slightly raised the lappels of his coat, and grasped the handle of a navy revolver.

"Swear!" again he cried.

As I gazed, his eyeballs assumed a greenish tint, and his brow darkened into a scowl. "As your confederate," I answered, "never as your slave."

"Be it so!" was his only reply.

The body was lying upon its back, with the face upwards. The vultures had despoiled the countenance of every vestige of flesh, and left the sockets of the eyes empty. Snow and ice and rain had done their work effectually upon the exposed surfaces of his clothing, and the eagles had feasted upon the entrails. But underneath, the thick beaver cloth had served to protect the flesh, and there were some decaying shreds left of what had once been the terrible but accomplished Gregory Summerfield. A glance told us all these things. But they did not interest me so much as another spectacle, that almost froze my blood. In the skeleton gripe of the right hand, interlaced within the clenched bones, gleamed the wide-mouthed vial which was the object of our mutual visit. Graham fell upon his knees, and attempted to withdraw the prize from the grasp of its dead possessor. But the bones were firm, and when he finally succeeded in securing the bottle, by a sudden wrench, I heard the skeleton fingers snap like pipe-stems.

"Hold this a moment, whilst I search the pockets," he commanded.

I did as directed.

He then turned over the corpse, and thrusting his hand into the inner breast-pocket, dragged out a roll of MSS., matted closely together and stained by the winter's rains. A further search eventuated in finding a roll of small gold coin, a set of deringer pistols, a mated double-edged dirk, and a pair of silver-mounted spectacles. Hastily covering over the body with leaves and branches cut from the embowering shrubs, we shudderingly left the spot.

We slowly descended the gorge toward the banks of the American River, until we arrived in a small but sequestered thicket, where we threw ourselves upon the ground. Neither had spoken a word since we left the scene above described. Graham was the first to break the silence which to me had become oppressive.

"Let us examine the vial and see if the contents are safe."

I drew it forth from my pocket and handed it to him.

"Sealed hermetically, and perfectly secure," he added. Saying this he deliberately wrapped it up in a handkerchief and placed it in his bosom.

"What shall we do with our prize?" I inquired.

"_Our_ prize?" As he said this he laughed derisively, and cut a most scornful and threatening glance toward me.

"Yes," I rejoined firmly; "_our_ prize!"

"Gillson," retorted Graham, "you must regard me as a consummate simpleton, or yourself a Goliah. This bottle is mine, and _mine_ only. It is a great fortune for _one_, but of less value than a toadstool for _two_. I am willing to divide fairly. This secret would be of no service to a coward. He would not dare to use it. Your share of the robbery of the body shall be these MSS.; you can sell them to some poor devil of a printer, and pay yourself for your day's work."

Saying this he threw the bundle of MSS. at my feet; but I disdained to touch them. Observing this, he gathered them up safely and replaced them in his pocket. "As you are unarmed," he said, "it would not be safe for you to be seen in this neighborhood during daylight. We will both spend the night here, and just before morning return to Auburn. I will accompany you part of the distance."

With the _sangfroid_ of a perfect desperado, he then stretched himself out in the shadow of a small tree, drank deeply from a whisky flagon which he produced, and pulling his hat over his eyes, was soon asleep and snoring. It was a long time before I could believe the evidence of my own senses. Finally, I approached the ruffian, and placed my hand on his shoulder. He did not stir a muscle. I listened; I heard only the deep, slow breathing of profound slumber. Resolved not to be balked and defrauded by such a scoundrel, I stealthily withdrew the vial from his pocket, and sprang to my feet, just in time to hear the click of a revolver behind me. I was betrayed! I remember only a dash and an explosion--a deathly sensation, a whirl of the rocks and trees about me, a hideous imprecation from the lips of my murderer, and I fell senseless to the earth. When I awoke to consciousness it was past midnight. I looked up at the stars, and recognized Lyra shining full in my face. That constellation I knew passed the meridian at this season of the year after twelve o'clock, and its slow march told me that many weary hours would intervene before daylight. My right arm was paralyzed, but I put forth my left, and it rested in a pool of my own blood. "Oh, for one drop of water!" I exclaimed, faintly; but only the low sighing of the night blast responded. Again I fainted. Shortly after daylight I revived, and crawled to the spot where I was discovered on the next day by the kind mistress of this cabin. You know the rest. I accuse Bartholomew Graham of my assassination. I do this in the perfect possession of my senses, and with a full sense of my responsibility to Almighty God.

(Signed) C. P. GILLSON.

GEORGE SIMPSON, Notary Public. CHRIS. JACOBS, Assistant District Attorney.

DOLLIE ADAMS,} Witnesses. KARL LIEBNER,}

The following is a copy of the verdict of the coroner's jury:

COUNTY OF PLACER, } Cape Horn Township. }

_In re C. P. Gillson, late of said county, deceased._

We, the undersigned, coroner's jury, summoned in the foregoing case to examine into the causes of the death of said Gillson, do find that he came to his death at the hands of Bartholomew Graham, usually called "Black Bart," on Wednesday, the 17th May, 1871. And we further find said Graham guilty of murder in the first degree, and recommend his immediate apprehension.

(Signed) JOHN QUILLAN, PETER MCINTYRE, ABEL GEORGE, ALEX. SCRIBER, WM. A. THOMPSON. (Correct:) THOS. J. ALWYN, Coroner.

The above documents constitute the papers introduced before the coroner. Should anything of further interest occur, I will keep you fully advised.

POWHATTAN JONES.

* * * * *

Since the above was in type we have received from our esteemed San Francisco correspondent the following letter:

SAN FRANCISCO, June 8, 1871.

MR. EDITOR: On entering my office this morning I found A bundle of MSS. which had been thrown in at the transom over the door, labeled, "The Summerfield MSS." Attached to them was an unsealed note from one Bartholomew Graham, in these words:

DEAR SIR: These are yours: you have earned them. I commend to your especial notice the one styled "_De Mundo Comburendo_." At a future time you may hear again from

BARTHOLOMEW GRAHAM.

A casual glance at the papers convinces me that they are of great literary value. Summerfield's fame never burned so brightly as it does over this grave. Will you publish the MSS.?

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XXVII.

_THE AVITOR._

Hurrah for the wings that never tire-- For the nerves that never quail; For the heart that beats in a bosom of fire-- For the lungs whose cast-iron lobes respire Where the eagle's breath would fail!

As the genii bore Aladdin away, In search of his palace fair, On his magical wings to the land of Cathay, So here I will spread out my pinions to-day On the cloud-borne billows of air.

Up! up! to its home on the mountain crag, Where the condor builds its nest, I mount far fleeter than hunted stag, I float far higher than Switzer flag-- Hurrah for the lightning's guest!

Away, over steeple and cross and tower-- Away, over river and sea; I spurn at my feet the tempests that lower, Like minions base of a vanquished power, And mutter their thunders at me!

Diablo frowns, as above him I pass, Still loftier heights to attain; Calaveras' groves are but blades of grass-- Yosemite's sentinel peaks a mass Of ant-hills dotting a plain!

Sierra Nevada's shroud of snow, And Utah's desert of sand, Shall never again turn backward the flow Of that human tide which may come and go To the vales of the sunset land!

Wherever the coy earth veils her face With tresses of forest hair; Where polar pallors her blushes efface, Or tropical blooms lend her beauty and grace-- I can flutter my plumage there!

Where the Amazon rolls through a mystical land-- Where Chiapas buried her dead-- Where Central Australian deserts expand-- Where Africa seethes in saharas of sand-- Even there shall my pinions spread!

No longer shall earth with her secrets beguile, For I, with undazzled eyes, Will trace to their sources the Niger and Nile, And stand without dread on the boreal isle, The Colon of the skies!

Then hurrah for the wings that never tire-- For the sinews that never quail; For the heart that throbs in a bosom of fire-- For the lungs whose cast-iron lobes respire When the eagle's breath would fail!

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XXVIII.

_LOST AND FOUND._

'Twas eventide in Eden. The mortals stood, Watchful and solemn, in speechless sorrow bound. He was erect, defiant, and unblenched. Tho' fallen, free--deceived, but not undone. She leaned on him, and drooped her pensive brow In token of the character she bore-- _The world's first penitent_. Tears, gushing fast, Streamed from her azure eyes; and as they fled Beyond the eastern gate, where gleamed the swords Of guarding Cherubim, the flowers themselves Bent their sad heads, surcharged with dewy tears, Wept by the stare o'er man's immortal woe.

Far had they wandered, slow had been the pace, Grief at his heart and ruin on her face, Ere Adam turned to contemplate the spot Where Earth began, where Heaven was forgot. He gazed in silence, till the crystal wall Of Eden trembled, as though doomed to fall: Then bidding Eve direct her tear-dimmed eye To where the foliage kissed the western sky, They saw, with horror mingled with surprise, The wall, the garden, and the foliage rise! Slowly it mounted to the vaulted dome, And paused as if to beckon mortals home; Then, like a cloud when winds are all at rest, It floated gently to the distant west, And left behind a crimson path of light, By which to track the Garden in its flight!

Day after day, the exiles wandered on, With eyes still fixed, where Eden's smile last shone; Forlorn and friendless through the wilds they trod, Remembering Eden, but forgetting God, Till far across the sea-washed, arid plain, The billows thundered that the search was vain!

Ah! who can tell how oft at eventide, When the gay west was blushing like a bride, Fair Eve hath whispered in her children's ear, "Beyond yon cloud will Eden reappear!"

And thus, as slow millenniums rolled away, Each generation, ere it turned to clay, Has with prophetic lore, by nature blest, In search of Eden wandered to the West.

I cast my thoughts far up the stream of time, And catch its murmurs in my careless rhyme. I hear a footstep tripping o'er the down: Behold! 'tis Athens, in her violet crown. In fancy now her splendors reappear; Her fleets and phalanxes, her shield and spear; Her battle-fields, blest ever by the free,-- Proud Marathon, and sad Thermopylæ! Her poet, foremost in the ranks of fame, Homer! a god--but with a mortal's name; Historians, richest in primeval lore; Orations, sounding yet from shore to shore! Heroes and statesmen throng the enraptured gaze, Till glory totters 'neath her load of praise. Surely a clime so rich in old renown Could build an Eden, if not woo one down!

Lo! Plato comes, with wisdom's scroll unfurl'd, The proudest gift of Athens to the world! Wisest of mortals, say, for thou can'st tell, Thou, whose sweet lips the Muses loved so well, Was Greece the Garden that our fathers trod; When men, like angels, walked the earth with God? "Alas!" the great Philosopher replied, "Though I love Athens better than a bride, Her laws are bloody and her children slaves; Her sages slumber in empoisoned graves; Her soil is sterile, barren are her seas; Eden still blooms in the Hesperides, Beyond the pillars of far Hercules! Westward, amid the ocean's blandest smile, Atlantis blossoms, a perennial Isle; A vast Republic stretching far and wide, Greater than Greece and Macedon beside!"

The vision fades. Across the mental screen A mightier spirit stalks upon the scene; His tread shakes empires ancient as the sun; His voice resounds, and nations are undone; War in his tone and battle in his eye, The world in arms, a Roman dare defy! Throned on the summit of the seven hills, He bathes his gory heel in Tiber's rills; Stretches his arms across a triple zone, And dares be master of mankind, alone! All peoples send their tribute to his store; Wherever rivers glide or surges roar, Or mountains rise or desert plains expand, His minions sack and pillage every land. But not alone for rapine and for war The Roman eagle spreads his pinions far; He bears a sceptre in his talons strong, To guard the right, to rectify the wrong, And carries high, in his imperial beak, A shield armored to protect the weak.

Justice and law are dropping from his wing, Equal alike for consul, serf or king; Daggers for tyrants, for patriot-heroes fame, Attend like menials on the Roman name!

Was Rome the Eden of our ancient state, Just in her laws, in her dominion great, Wise in her counsels, matchless in her worth, Acknowledged great proconsul of the earth?

An eye prophetic that has read the leaves The sibyls scattered from their loosened sheaves, A bard that sang at Rome in all her pride, Shall give response;--let Seneca decide!

"Beyond the rocks where Shetland's breakers roar, And clothe in foam the wailing, ice-bound shore, Within the bosom of a tranquil sea, Where Earth has reared her _Ultima Thule_, The gorgeous West conceals a golden clime, The petted child, the paragon of Time! In distant years, when Ocean's mountain wave Shall rock a cradle, not upheave a grave, When men shall walk the pathway of the brine, With feet as safe as Terra watches mine, Then shall the barriers of the Western Sea Despised and broken down forever be; Then man shall spurn old Ocean's loftiest crest, And tear the secret from his stormy breast!"

Again the vision fades. Night settles down And shrouds the world in black Plutonian frown; Earth staggers on, like mourners to a tomb, Wrapt in one long millennium of gloom. That past, the light breaks through the clouds of war, And drives the mists of Bigotry afar; Amalfi sees her burial tomes unfurl'd, And dead Justinian rules again the world. The torch of Science is illumed once more; Adventure gazes from the surf-beat shore, Lifts in his arms the wave-worn Genoese, And hails Iberia, Mistress of the Seas!

What cry resounds along the Western main, Mounts to the stars, is echoed back again, And wakes the voices of the startled sea, Dumb until now, from past eternity?

"Land! land!" is chanted from the Pinta's deck; Smiling afar, a minute glory-speck, But grandly rising from the convex sea, To crown Colon with immortality, The Western World emerges from the wave, God's last asylum for the free and brave!

But where within this ocean-bounded clime, This fairest offspring of the womb of time,-- Plato's Atlantis, risen from the sea, Utopia's realm, beyond old Rome's Thule,-- Where shall we find, within this giant land, By blood redeemed, with Freedom's rainbow spann'd, The spot first trod by mortals on the earth, Where Adam's race was cradled into birth?

'Twas sought by Cortez with his warrior band, In realms once ruled by Montezuma's hand; Where the old Aztec, 'neath his hills of snow, Built the bright domes of silver Mexico. Pizarro sought it where the Inca's rod Proclaimed the prince half-mortal, demi-god, When the mild children of unblest Peru Before the bloodhounds of the conqueror flew, And saw their country and their race undone, And perish 'neath the Temple of the Sun! De Soto sought it, with his tawny bride, Near where the Mississippi's waters glide, Beneath the ripples of whose yellow wave He found at last both monument and grave. Old Ponce de Leon, in the land of flowers, Searched long for Eden 'midst her groves and bowers, Whilst brave La Salle, where Texan prairies smile, Roamed westward still, to reach the happy isle. The Pilgrim Fathers on the Mayflower's deck, Fleeing beyond a tyrant's haughty beck, In quest of Eden, trod the rock-bound shore, Where bleak New England's wintry surges roar; Raleigh, with glory in his eagle eye, Chased the lost realm beneath a Southern sky; Whilst Boone believed that Paradise was found In old Kentucky's "dark and bloody ground!"

In vain their labors, all in vain their toil; Doomed ne'er to breathe that air nor tread that soil. Heaven had reserved it till a race sublime Should launch its heroes on the wave of time!

Go with me now, ye Californian band, And gaze with wonder at your glorious land; Ascend the summit of yon middle chain, When Mount Diablo rises from the plain, And cast your eyes with telescopic power, O'er hill and forest, over field and flower. Behold! how free the hand of God hath roll'd A wave of wealth across your Land of Gold! The mountains ooze it from their swelling breast, The milk-white quartz displays it in her crest; Each tiny brook that warbles to the sea, Harps on its strings a golden melody; Whilst the young waves are cradled on the shore On spangling pillows, stuffed with golden ore!

Look northward! See the Sacramento glide Through valleys blooming like a royal bride, And bearing onward to the ocean's shore A richer freight than Arno ever bore! See! also fanned by cool refreshing gales, Fair Petaluma and her sister vales, Whose fields and orchards ornament the plain And deluge earth with one vast sea of grain! Look southward! Santa Clara smiles afar, As in the fields of heaven, a radiant star; Los Angeles is laughing through her vines; Old Monterey sits moody midst her pines; Far San Diego flames her golden bow, And Santa Barbara sheds her fleece of snow, Whilst Bernardino's ever-vernal down Gleams like an emerald in a monarch's crown! Look eastward! On the plains of San Joaquin Ten thousand herds in dense array are seen. Aloft like columns propping up the skies The cloud-kissed groves of Calaveras rise; Whilst dashing downward from their dizzy home The thundering falls of Yo Semite foam! Look westward! Opening on an ocean great, Behold the portal of the Golden Gate! Pillared on granite, destined e'er to stand The iron rampart of the sunset land! With rosy cheeks, fanned by the fresh sea-breeze, The petted child of the Pacific seas, See San Francisco smile! Majestic heir Of all that's brave, or bountiful, or fair, Pride of our land, by every wave carest, And hailed by nations, Venice of the West!

Where then is Eden? Ah! why should I tell, What every eye and bosom know so well? Why thy name the land all other lands have blest, And traced for ages to the distant West? Why search in vain throughout th' historic page For Eden's garden and the Golden Age? HERE, BROTHERS, HERE! NO FURTHER LET US ROAM; THIS IS THE GARDEN! EDEN IS OUR HOME!

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# # # # #

Transcriber's Notes:

1. Passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_.

2. Words in Bold are surrounded by =equal= signs.

3. Words in both Bold and Gothic Font are surrounded by bars and equal signs |=text=|.

4. Any footnotes in the original text have been placed directly under the paragraph or passage containing their anchors.

5. The following words with the [oe] ligature appeared in the original text: manoeuvre, Croesus, oesophagus. The ligature has been removed for the purpose of this e-text.

Punctuation corrections:

p. 30, removed double quote from unquoted passage (and deprecated the action)

p. 69, added closing quote to passage ("...responsibility at once.")

p. 124, added closing quote to passage ("...discovering one of them.")

p. 182, adding closing quote to passage ("...degree of curvature.")

Spelling corrections:

p. 69, "insenate" to "insensate" (Shall insensate nature)

p. 138, "pursuaded" to "persuaded" (2) (I was persuaded that)

p. 148, "Leverier" to "Leverrier" (2) (Leverrier computed the orbit)

p. 150, "hieroglyphi" to "hieroglyphic" (13) (beautiful hieroglyphic extant)

p. 153, "accidently" to "accidentally" (3) (I accidentally entered)

p. 161, "Okak-oni-tas" to "O-kak-oni-tas" (4) (with the O-kak-oni-tas)

p. 205, "amosphere" to "atmosphere" (18) (but the atmosphere)

p. 276, "liberty" to "Liberty" (the angel of Liberty)

Words used in this text for which spelling could not be verified, but that have been retained because they were used multiple times or were contained within quoted text:

p. 48, 288, "Goliah" (2) (possible alt. sp. of Goliath)

p. 181, "petira" (1) (flat lens, immense petira,)

p. 274, 287, "deringer" (2) (possible alt. sp. of derringer)

p. 286, "lappels" (1) (possible alt. sp. of lapels, in quoted material)

Word Variations occuring in this text which have been retained:

"bed-chamber" (1) and "bedchamber" (1)

"Cortes" (1) p.122 and "Cortez" (2) (another instance of "Cortes" also occurs on p. 111, however the person described is other than the "Cortez" who set out to conquer Mexico)

"enclose" (1) and "inclose(d) (ures)" (2)

"ever-living" (2) and "everliving" (1)

"every-day" (2) and "everyday" (1)

"Gra-so-po-itas" (2) and "Gra-sop-o-itas" (2)

"head-dress" (2) and "headdress" (1)

"melancholy" (3) and "melancholly" (1) (in a quoted "report")

"MERCHANTS'" (1) and "MERCHANT'S" (1) (in TOC and CHAPTER TITLE)

"O-kak-o-nitas" (2) and "O-kak-oni-tas" (3)

"right-about face" (1) and "right-about-faced" (1)

"sceptre" (4) and "scepter" (7)

"sea-shore" (1) and "seashore" (1)

"semi-circle" (2) and "semicircle" (1)

"wouldst" (1) and "would'st" (1)

Printer Corrections and Notes:

p. 11, Table of Contents: Chapter XI. "THE TELESCOPIC EYE" changed from p. 175 to 174 and Chapter XII. "THE EMERALD EYE from p. 191 to 190.

p. 201, italicised "First." and "Secondly", to conform with remaining recitations on succeeding page 202.

p. 227, "The thought crossed my mind, Can this be a spirit?" (is correctly capitalized. Direct question within a sentence.

Wherever the printer used a row of asterisks as a separator, the number of asterisks used has been standardized to 5.

Wherever the printer used blank space as a separator, a row of five number signs (#) appears.