CHAPTER I.

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.

6. A list of minor punctuation and spelling error corrections is located

at the end of this e-text.

CAXTON'S BOOK:

A COLLECTION OF

ESSAYS, POEMS, TALES AND SKETCHES.

BY THE LATE

W. H. RHODES.

_EDITED BY DANIEL O'CONNELL._

SAN FRANCISCO:

A. L. BANCROFT AND COMPANY.

1876.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1876,

BY SUSAN RHODES,

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D.C.

SAN FRANCISCO:

A. L. BANCROFT AND COMPANY,

PRINTERS AND BINDERS.

PREFACE.

The sketches and poems in this volume were written at a time when the

author was engaged in the practice of a laborious profession. It was the

intention of Mr. Rhodes to collect them from the various newspapers and

periodicals in which they had appeared, and publish them in book-form

whenever he could obtain a respite from his arduous duties. But before

he carried out his long-cherished object he died, in the prime of his

manhood and the ripeness of his literary life. Many of his poems were

written for the monthly gatherings of the Bohemian Club. There, when

Caxton's name was announced, his literary friends thronged about him,

confident of the rich treat the brain of their beloved poet had provided

for them. His wit was keen and sparkling, without a shade of malice; and

many an anecdote, that began with some delightful absurdity, closed in a

pathos that showed the great versatility of Caxton's genius. The Case of

Summerfield, which is perhaps the most ingenious of the tales in that

peculiar vein, was widely copied and warmly praised for the originality

of its plan and the skill of its execution. The editor of this work has

observed, as far as lay in his power, the intention of the author in

the selection of those compositions which Mr. Rhodes had put aside for

compilation. With such a mass and variety of material (for Caxton had

been a busy worker) it was difficult to select from productions all of

which were excellent. Few liberties have been taken with them; for,

indeed, Caxton was himself so conscientious in the arrangement and

correction of his manuscript, that, with the exception of some slight

and unimportant alterations, this book goes before his friends and the

public in the same order as the author would have chosen had he been

spared to perform the task.

IN MEMORIAM.

At the time when, according to custom, Mr. Rhodes's death was formally

announced to the several Courts of Record in San Francisco, one of the

learned Judges urged the publication of his writings in some form which

would give the bar a permanent memorial of one of it's most esteemed

members, and to them their proper place in American literature. This has

been accomplished by the present volume. It is sincerely to be hoped

that while it will largely add to Mr. Rhodes's reputation, it may also

serve to furnish a most interesting family some substantial aid in the

struggle with life, from which the beloved husband and tender father has

unhappily been removed.

William Henry Rhodes was born July 16, 1822, in Windsor, North Carolina.

His mother died when he was six years old, and his father, Col. E. A.

Rhodes, sent him to Princeton, New Jersey, to be educated at the seat of

learning established there. Col. Rhodes was subsequently appointed

United States Consul at Galveston, Texas, and without completing his

college course, the son followed his father to his new home. There he

diligently pursued his studies. He found many young men like himself,

ambitious and zealous in acquiring information, and these he associated

with himself in literary and debating clubs, where the most important

matters of natural science and political economy were discussed. The

effect of this self-bestowed education was most marked. It remained with

him all his life. He was thoroughly versed in the political history of

the country, and possessed an amount of knowledge concerning the career,

motives and objects of politics, parties and public men, which, had he

ever chosen to embark in public life, would have made him distinguished

and successful. No one ever discussed with him the questions connected

with the theory of our government without a thorough respect for the

sincerity of his convictions, and the ability with which they were

maintained. He was, in theory, a thorough partisan of the Southern

political and constitutional school of ideas, and never abandoned them.

But he advocated them without passion or apparent prejudice, and at all

times shrunk from active connection with politics as a trade. He was an

idealist in law, in science and government, and perhaps his early

training, self-imposed and self-contained, had much to do with his

peculiarities.

In 1844, he entered Harvard Law School, where he remained for two years.

Here, as at home among his young friends, he was a master-spirit and

leader. He was an especial favorite of his instructors; was noted for

his studious and exemplary habits, while his genial and courteous

manners won the lasting friendship of his classmates and companions. His

fondness for weaving the problems of science with fiction, which became

afterwards so marked a characteristic of his literary efforts, attracted

the especial attention of his professors; and had Mr. Rhodes devoted

himself to this then novel department of letters, he would have become,

no doubt, greatly distinguished as a writer; and the great master of

scientific fiction, Jules Verne, would have found the field of his

efforts already sown and reaped by the young Southern student. But his

necessities and parental choice, conspired to keep him at "the lawless

science of the law;" and literature become an incident of life, rather

than its end and aim. He never really loved the law. He rather lived by

it than in it. He became a good lawyer, but was an unwilling

practitioner. He understood legal principles thoroughly. He loved the

higher lessons of truth and justice, of right and wrong, _fas et nefas_,

which they illustrated; but he bent himself to the necessary details of

professional life--to the money-getting part of it--with a peculiar and

constantly increasing reluctance. The yoke of labor galled him, and

always more severely. An opportunity to speak and write what was most

pleasing to his taste, which set him free as a liberated prisoner of

thought, his untrammeled and wandering imagination extravagantly

interweaving scientific principles, natural forces, and elemental facts,

in some witch's dance of fancy, where he dissolved in its alchemy,

earth, air and water, and created a world of his own, or destroyed that

beneath his feet, was of more value to him, though it brought him no

gain, than a stiff cause in courts which bound him to dry details of

weary facts and legal propositions, though every hour of his time

bestowed a golden reward.

His early professional life was passed in Galveston. He was measurably

successful in it, and won many friends by his gallant and chivalrous

advocacy of the causes intrusted to him. His personal popularity

elevated him to a Probate Judgeship in Texas. This office he filled with

honor; and at the expiration of his term, he returned, after a brief

sojourn in New York, to his native state and town, where he practiced

his profession until 1850. In this year he caught the inspiration of

adventure in the new El Dorado, and sailed for California. From that

time he continued a citizen of this State. He was widely known and

universally respected. He practiced his profession with diligence; but

mind and heart were inviting him to the life and career of a man of

letters; and he was every day sacrificed to duty, as he esteemed it. He

was too conscientious to become indifferent to his clients' interests:

but he had no ambition for distinction as a jurist. He was utterly

indifferent to the profits of his labors. He cared nothing for money, or

for those who possessed it. His real life and real enjoyments were of a

far different sort; and his genius was perpetually bound to the altar,

and sacrificed by a sense of obligation, and a pride which never

permitted him to abandon the profession for which he was educated. Like

many another man of peculiar mental qualities, he distrusted himself

where he should have been most confident. The writer has often discussed

with Mr. Rhodes his professional and literary life, urged him to devote

himself to literature, and endeavored to point out to him the real road

to success. But he dreaded the venture; and like a swift-footed blooded

horse, fit to run a course for a man's life, continued on his way,

harnessed to a plow, and broke his heart in the harness!

William Henry Rhodes will long be remembered by his contemporaries at

the Bar of California as a man of rare genius, exemplary habits, high

honor, and gentle manners, with wit and humor unexcelled. His writings

are illumined by powerful fancy, scientific knowledge, and a reasoning

power which gave to his most weird imaginations the similitude of truth

and the apparel of facts. Nor did they, nor do they, do him justice. He

could have accomplished far more had circumstances been propitious to

him. That they were not, is and will always be a source of regret. That,

environed as he was, he achieved so much more than his fellows, has made

his friends always loyal to him while living, and fond in their memories

of him when dead. We give his productions to the world with

satisfaction, not unmingled with regret that what is, is only the faint

echo, the unfulfilled promise of what might have been. Still, may we

say, and ask those who read these sketches to say with us, as they lay

down the volume: "_Habet enim justam venerationem, quicquid excellit._"

W. H. L. B.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

_PREFACE_ 3

_IN MEMORIAM_ 5

I. _THE CASE OF SUMMERFIELD_ 13

II. _THE MERCHANTS' EXCHANGE_ 34

III. _THE DESERTED SCHOOLHOUSE_ 37

IV. _FOR AN ALBUM_ 50

V. _PHASES IN THE LIFE OF JOHN POLLEXFEN_ 52

VI. _THE LOVE-KNOT_ 94

VII. _THE AZTEC PRINCESS_ 95

VIII. _THE MOTHER'S EPISTLE_ 154

IX. _LEGENDS OF LAKE BIGLER_ 156

X. _ROSENTHAL'S ELAINE_ 171

XI. _THE TELESCOPIC EYE_ 174

XII. _THE EMERALD ISLE_ 190

XIII. _THE EARTH'S HOT CENTER_ 199

XIV. _WILDEY'S DREAM_ 212

XV. _WHITHERWARD_ 218

XVI. _OUR WEDDING DAY_ 229

XVII. _THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW_ 231

XVIII. _A PAIR OF MYTHS_ 233

XIX. _THE LAST OF HIS RACE_ 247

XX. _THE TWO GEORGES_ 249

XXI. _MASONRY_ 260

XXII. _POLLOCK'S EUTHANASIA_ 262

XXIII. _SCIENCE, LITERATURE, AND ART DURING THE

FIRST HALF OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY_ 264

XXIV. _THE ENROBING OF LIBERTY_ 276

XXV. _A CAKE OF SOAP_ 279

XXVI. _THE SUMMERFIELD CASE_ 280

XXVII. _THE AVITOR_ 291

XXVIII. _LOST AND FOUND_ 293

[Decoration]

CAXTON'S BOOK.

I.

_THE CASE OF SUMMERFIELD._

The following manuscript was found among the effects of the late

Leonidas Parker, in relation to one Gregory Summerfield, or, as he was

called at the time those singular events first attracted public notice,

"The Man with a Secret." Parker was an eminent lawyer, a man of firm

will, fond of dabbling in the occult sciences, but never allowing this

tendency to interfere with the earnest practice of his profession. This

astounding narrative is prefaced by the annexed clipping from the

"Auburn Messenger" of November 1, 1870:

A few days since, we called public attention to the singular

conduct of James G. Wilkins, justice of the peace for the "Cape

Horn" district, in this county, in discharging without trial a

man named Parker, who was, as we still think, seriously

implicated in the mysterious death of an old man named

Summerfield, who, our readers will probably remember, met so

tragical an end on the line of the Central Pacific Railroad, in

the month of October last. We have now to record another bold

outrage on public justice, in connection with the same affair.

The grand jury of Placer County has just adjourned, without

finding any bill against the person named above. Not only did

they refuse to find a true bill, or to make any presentment, but

they went one step further toward the exoneration of the

offender: they specially _ignored_ the indictment which our

district attorney deemed it his duty to present. The main facts

in relation to the arrest and subsequent discharge of Parker may

be summed up in few words:

It appears that, about the last of October, one Gregory

Summerfield, an old man nearly seventy years of age, in company

with Parker, took passage for Chicago, _via_ the Pacific

Railroad, and about the middle of the afternoon reached the

neighborhood of Cape Horn, in this county. Nothing of any special

importance seems to have attracted the attention of any of the

passengers toward these persons until a few moments before

passing the dangerous curve in the track, overlooking the North

Fork of the American River, at the place called Cape Horn. As our

readers are aware, the road at this point skirts a precipice,

with rocky perpendicular sides, extending to the bed of the

stream, nearly seventeen hundred feet below. Before passing the

curve, Parker was heard to comment upon the sublimity of the

scenery they were approaching, and finally requested the old man

to leave the car and stand upon the open platform, in order to

obtain a better view of the tremendous chasm and the mountains

just beyond. The two men left the car, and a moment afterwards a

cry of horror was heard by all the passengers, and the old man

was observed to fall at least one thousand feet upon the crags

below. The train was stopped for a few moments, but, fearful of a

collision if any considerable length of time should be lost in an

unavailing search for the mangled remains, it soon moved on

again, and proceeded as swiftly as possible to the next station.

There the miscreant Parker was arrested, and conveyed to the

office of the nearest justice of the peace for examination. We

understand that he refused to give any detailed account of the

transaction, only that "the deceased either fell or was thrown

off from the moving train."

The examination was postponed until the arrival of Parker's

counsel, O'Connell & Kilpatrick, of Grass Valley, and after they

reached Cape Horn not a single word could be extracted from the

prisoner. It is said that the inquisition was a mere farce; there

being no witnesses present except one lady passenger, who, with

commendable spirit, volunteered to lay over one day, to give in

her testimony. We also learn that, after the trial, the justice,

together with the prisoner and his counsel, were closeted in

secret session for more than two hours; at the expiration of

which time the judge resumed his seat upon the bench, and

discharged the prisoner!

Now, we have no desire to do injustice toward any of the parties

to this singular transaction, much less to arm public sentiment

against an innocent man. But we do affirm that _there is, there

must be_, some profound mystery at the bottom of this affair, and

we shall do our utmost to fathom the secret.

Yes, there is a secret and mystery connected with the disappearance of

Summerfield, and the sole object of this communication is to clear it

up, and place myself right in the public estimation. But, in order to do

so, it becomes essentially necessary to relate all the circumstances

connected with my first and subsequent acquaintance with Summerfield. To

do this intelligibly, I shall have to go back twenty-two years.

It is well known amongst my intimate friends that I resided in the late

Republic of Texas for many years antecedent to my immigration to this

State. During the year 1847, whilst but a boy, and residing on the

sea-beach some three or four miles from the city of Galveston, Judge

Wheeler, at that time Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Texas, paid

us a visit, and brought with him a gentleman, whom he had known several

years previously on the Sabine River, in the eastern part of that State.

This gentleman was introduced to us by the name of Summerfield. At that

time he was past the prime of life, slightly gray, and inclined to

corpulency. He was of medium height, and walked proudly erect, as though

conscious of superior mental attainments. His face was one of those

which, once seen, can never be forgotten. The forehead was broad, high,

and protuberant. It was, besides, deeply graven with wrinkles, and

altogether was the most intellectual that I had ever seen. It bore some

resemblance to that of Sir Isaac Newton, but still more to Humboldt or

Webster. The eyes were large, deep-set, and lustrous with a light that

seemed kindled in their own depths. In color they were gray, and whilst

in conversation absolutely blazed with intellect. His mouth was large,

but cut with all the precision of a sculptor's chiseling. He was rather

pale, but, when excited, his complexion lit up with a sudden rush of

ruddy flushes, that added something like beauty to his half-sad and

half-sardonic expression. A word and a glance told me at once, this is a

most extraordinary man.

Judge Wheeler knew but little of the antecedents of Summerfield. He was

of Northern birth, but of what State it is impossible to say definitely.

Early in life he removed to the frontier of Arkansas, and pursued for

some years the avocation of village schoolmaster. It was the suggestion

of Judge Wheeler that induced him to read law. In six months' time he

had mastered Story's Equity, and gained an important suit, based upon

one of its most recondite principles. But his heart was not in the legal

profession, and he made almost constant sallies into the fields of

science, literature and art. He was a natural mathematician, and was the

most profound and original arithmetician in the Southwest. He frequently

computed the astronomical tables for the almanacs of New Orleans,

Pensacola and Mobile, and calculated eclipse, transit and observations

with ease and perfect accuracy. He was also deeply read in metaphysics,

and wrote and published, in the old _Democratic Review_ for 1846, an

article on the "Natural Proof of the Existence of a Deity," that for

beauty of language, depth of reasoning, versatility of illustration, and

compactness of logic, has never been equaled. The only other

publication which at that period he had made, was a book that astonished

all of his friends, both in title and execution. It was called "The

Desperadoes of the West," and purported to give minute details of the

lives of some of the most noted duelists and blood-stained villains in

the Western States. But the book belied its title. It is full of

splendid description and original thought. No volume in the language

contains so many eloquent passages and such gorgeous imagery, in the

same space. His plea for immortality, on beholding the execution of one

of the most noted culprits of Arkansas, has no parallel in any living

language for beauty of diction and power of thought. As my sole object

in this communication is to defend myself, some acquaintance with the

mental resources of Summerfield is absolutely indispensable; for his

death was the immediate consequence of his splendid attainments. Of

chemistry he was a complete master. He describes it in his article on a

Deity, above alluded to, as the "Youngest Daughter of the Sciences, born

amid flames, and cradled in rollers of fire." If there were any one

science to which he was more specially devoted than to any and all

others, it was chemistry. But he really seemed an adept in all, and

shone about everywhere with equal lustre.

Many of these characteristics were mentioned by Judge Wheeler at the

time of Summerfield's visit to Galveston, but others subsequently came

to my knowledge, after his retreat to Brownsville, on the banks of the

Rio Grande. There he filled the position of judge of the District Court,

and such was his position just previous to his arrival in this city in

the month of September of the past year.

One day toward the close of last September, an old man rapped at my

office door, and on invitation came in, and advancing, called me by

name. Perceiving that I did not at first recognize him, he introduced

himself as Gregory Summerfield. After inviting him to a seat, I

scrutinized his features more closely, and quickly identified him as the

same person whom I had met twenty-two years before. He was greatly

altered in appearance, but the lofty forehead and the gray eye were

still there, unchanged and unchangeable. He was not quite so stout, but

more ruddy in complexion, and exhibited some symptoms, as I then

thought, of intemperate drinking. Still there was the old charm of

intellectual superiority in his conversation, and I welcomed him to

California as an important addition to her mental wealth.

It was not many minutes before he requested a private interview. He

followed me into my back office, carefully closed the door after him and

locked it. We had scarcely seated ourselves before he inquired of me if

I had noticed any recent articles in the newspapers respecting the

discovery of the art of decomposing water so as to fit it for use as a

fuel for ordinary purposes?

I replied that I had observed nothing new upon that subject since the

experiments of Agassiz and Professor Henry, and added that, in my

opinion, the expensive mode of reduction would always prevent its use.

In a few words he then informed me that he had made the discovery that

the art was extremely simple, and the expense attending the

decomposition so slight as to be insignificant.

Presuming then that the object of his visit to me was to procure the

necessary forms to get out a patent for the right, I congratulated him

upon his good fortune, and was about to branch forth with a description

of some of the great benefits that must ensue to the community, when he

suddenly and somewhat uncivilly requested me to "be silent," and listen

to what he had to say.

He began with some general remarks about the inequality of fortune

amongst mankind, and instanced himself as a striking example of the fate

of those men, who, according to all the rules of right, ought to be near

the top, instead of at the foot of the ladder of fortune. "But," said

he, springing to his feet with impulsive energy, "I have now the means

at my command of rising superior to fate, or of inflicting incalculable

ills upon the whole human race."

Looking at him more closely, I thought I could detect in his eye the

gleam of madness; but I remained silent and awaited further

developments. But my scrutiny, stolen as it was, had been detected, and

he replied at once to the expression of my face: "No, sir; I am neither

drunk nor a maniac; I am in deep earnest in all that I say; and I am

fully prepared, by actual experiment, to demonstrate beyond all doubt

the truth of all I claim."

For the first time I noticed that he carried a small portmanteau in his

hand; this he placed upon the table, unlocked it, and took out two or

three small volumes, a pamphlet or two, and a small, square,

wide-mouthed vial, hermetically sealed.

I watched him with profound curiosity, and took note of his slightest

movements. Having arranged his books to suit him, and placed the vial in

a conspicuous position, he drew up his chair very closely to my own, and

uttered in a half-hissing tone: "I demand one million dollars for the

contents of that bottle; and you must raise it for me in the city of

San Francisco within one month, or scenes too terrible even for the

imagination to conceive, will surely be witnessed by every living human

being on the face of the globe."

The tone, the manner, and the absurd extravagance of the demand, excited

a faint smile upon my lips, which he observed, but disdained to notice.

My mind was fully made up that I had a maniac to deal with, and I

prepared to act accordingly. But I ascertained at once that my inmost

thoughts were read by the remarkable man before me, and seemed to be

anticipated by him in advance of their expression.

"Perhaps," said I, "Mr. Summerfield, you would oblige me by informing me

fully of the grounds of your claim, and the nature of your discovery."

"That is the object of my visit," he replied. "I claim to have

discovered the key which unlocks the constituent gases of water, and

frees each from the embrace of the other, at a single touch."

"You mean to assert," I rejoined, "that you can make water burn itself

up?"

"Nothing more nor less," he responded, "except this: to insist upon the

consequences of the secret, if my demand be not at once complied with."

Then, without pausing for a moment to allow me to make a suggestion, as

I once or twice attempted to do, he proceeded in a clear and deliberate

manner, in these words: "I need not inform you, sir, that when this

earth was created, it consisted almost wholly of vapor, which, by

condensation, finally became water. The oceans now occupy more than two

thirds of the entire surface of the globe. The continents are mere

islands in the midst of the seas. They are everywhere ocean-bound, and

the hyperborean north is hemmed in by open polar seas. Such is my first

proposition. My second embraces the constituent elements of water. What

is that thing which we call water? Chemistry, that royal queen of all

the sciences, answers readily: 'Water is but the combination of two

gases, oxygen and hydrogen, and in the proportion of eight to one.' In

other words, in order to form water, take eight parts of oxygen and one

of hydrogen, mix them together, and the result or product is water. You

smile, sir, because, as you very properly think, these are the

elementary principles of science, and are familiar to the minds of every

schoolboy twelve years of age. Yes! but what next? Suppose you take

these same gases and mix them in any other proportion, I care not what,

and the instantaneous result is heat, flame, combustion of the intensest

description. The famous Drummond Light, that a few years ago astonished

Europe--what is that but the ignited flame of a mixture of oxygen and

hydrogen projected against a small piece of lime? What was harmless as

water, becomes the most destructive of all known objects when decomposed

and mixed in any other proportion.

"Now, suppose I fling the contents of this small vial into the Pacific

Ocean, what would be the result? Dare you contemplate it for an instant?

I do not assert that the entire surface of the sea would instantaneously

bubble up into insufferable flames; no, but from the nucleus of a

circle, of which this vial would be the centre, lurid radii of flames

would gradually shoot outward, until the blazing circumference would

roll in vast billows of fire, upon the uttermost shores. Not all the

dripping clouds of the deluge could extinguish it. Not all the tears of

saints and angels could for an instant check its progress. On and onward

it would sweep, with the steady gait of destiny, until the continents

would melt with fervent heat, the atmosphere glare with the ominous

conflagration, and all living creatures, in land and sea and air, perish

in one universal catastrophe."

Then suddenly starting to his feet, he drew himself up to his full

height, and murmured solemnly, "I feel like a God! and I recognize my

fellow-men but as pigmies that I spurn beneath my feet."

"Summerfield," said I calmly, "there must be some strange error in all

this. You are self-deluded. The weapon which you claim to wield is one

that a good God and a beneficent Creator would never intrust to the

keeping of a mere creature. What, sir! create a world as grand and

beautiful as this, and hide within its bosom a principle that at any

moment might inwrap it in flames, and sink all life in death? I'll not

believe it; 't were blasphemy to entertain the thought!"

"And yet," cried he passionately, "your Bible prophesies the same

irreverence. Look at your text in 2d Peter, third chapter, seventh and

twelfth verses. Are not the elements to melt with fervent heat? Are not

'the heavens to be folded together like a scroll?' Are not 'the rocks to

melt, the stars to fall and the moon to be turned into blood?' Is not

fire the next grand cyclic consummation of all things here below? But I

come fully prepared to answer such objections. Your argument betrays a

narrow mind, circumscribed in its orbit, and shallow in its depth. 'Tis

the common thought of mediocrity. You have read books too much, and

studied nature too little. Let me give you a lesson to-day in the

workshop of Omnipotence. Take a stroll with me into the limitless

confines of space, and let us observe together some of the scenes

transpiring at this very instant around us. A moment ago you spoke of

the moon: what is she but an extinguished world? You spoke of the sun:

what is he but a globe of flame? But here is the _Cosmos_ of Humboldt.

Read this paragraph."

As he said this he placed before me the _Cosmos_ of Humboldt, and I read

as follows:

Nor do the Heavens themselves teach unchangeable permanency in

the works of creation. Change is observable there quite as rapid

and complete as in the confines of our solar system. In the year

1752, one of the small stars in the constellation Cassiopeia

blazed up suddenly into an orb of the first magnitude, gradually

decreased in brilliancy, and finally disappeared from the skies.

Nor has it ever been visible since that period for a single

moment, either to the eye or to the telescope. It burned up and

was lost in space.

"Humboldt," he added, "has not told us who set that world on fire!"

"But," resumed he, "I have still clearer proofs." Saying this, he thrust

into my hands the last London _Quarterly_, and on opening the book at an

article headed "The Language of Light," I read with a feeling akin to

awe, the following passage:

Further, some stars exhibit changes of complexion in themselves.

Sirius, as before stated, was once a ruddy, or rather a

fiery-faced orb, but has now forgotten to blush, and looks down

upon us with a pure, brilliant smile, in which there is no trace

either of anger or of shame. On the countenances of others, still

more varied traits have rippled, within a much briefer period of

time. May not these be due to some physiological revolutions,

general or convulsive, which are in progress in the particular

orb, and which, by affecting the constitution of its atmosphere,

compel the absorption or promote the transmission of particular

rays? The supposition appears by no means improbable, especially

if we call to mind the hydrogen volcanoes which have been

discovered on the photosphere of the sun. Indeed, there are a few

small stars which afford a spectrum of bright lines instead of

dark ones, and this we know denotes a gaseous or vaporized state

of things, from which it may be inferred that such orbs are in a

different condition from most of their relations.

And as, if for the very purpose of throwing light upon this

interesting question, an event of the most striking character

occurred in the heavens, almost as soon as the spectroscopists

were prepared to interpret it correctly.

On the 12th of May, 1866, a great conflagration, infinitely

larger than that of London or Moscow, was announced. To use the

expression of a distinguished astronomer, a world was found to be

on fire! A star, which till then had shone weakly and

unobtrusively in the _corona borealis_, suddenly blazed up into a

luminary of the second magnitude. In the course of three days

from its discovery in this new character, by Birmingham, at Tuam,

it had declined to the third or fourth order of brilliancy. In

twelve days, dating from its first apparition in the Irish

heavens, it had sunk to the eighth rank, and it went on waning

until the 26th of June, when it ceased to be discernible except

through the medium of the telescope. This was a remarkable,

though certainly not an unprecedented proceeding on the part of a

star; but one singular circumstance in its behavior was that,

after the lapse of nearly two months, it began to blaze up again,

though not with equal ardor, and after maintaining its glow for a

few weeks, and passing through sundry phases of color, it

gradually paled its fires, and returned to its former

insignificance. How many years had elapsed since this awful

conflagration actually took place, it would be presumptuous to

guess; but it must be remembered that news from the heavens,

though carried by the fleetest of messengers, light, reaches us

long after the event has transpired, and that the same celestial

carrier is still dropping the tidings at each station it reaches

in space, until it sinks exhausted by the length of its flight.

As the star had suddenly flamed up, was it not a natural

supposition that it had become inwrapped in burning hydrogen,

which in consequence of some great convulsion had been liberated

in prodigious quantities, and then combining with other elements,

had set this hapless world on fire? In such a fierce

conflagration, the combustible gas would soon be consumed, and

the glow would therefore begin to decline, subject, as in this

case, to a second eruption, which occasioned the renewed outburst

of light on the 20th of August.

By such a catastrophe, it is not wholly impossible that our own

globe may some time be ravaged; for if a word from the Almighty

were to unloose for a few moments the bonds of affinity which

unite the elements of water, a single spark would bring them

together with a fury that would kindle the funeral pyre of the

human race, and be fatal to the planet and all the works that are

thereon.

"Your argument," he then instantly added, "is by no means a good one.

What do we know of the Supreme Architect of the Universe, or of his

designs? He builds up worlds, and he pulls them down; he kindles suns

and he extinguishes them. He inflames the comet, in one portion of its

orbit, with a heat that no human imagination can conceive of; and in

another, subjects the same blazing orb to a cold intenser than that

which invests forever the antarctic pole. All that we know of Him we

gather through His works. I have shown you that He burns other worlds,

why not this? The habitable parts of our globe are surrounded by water,

and water you know is fire in possibility."

"But all this," I rejoined, "is pure, baseless, profitless speculation."

"Not so fast," he answered. And then rising, he seized the small vial,

and handing it to me, requested me to open it.

I confess I did so with some trepidation.

"Now smell it."

I did so.

"What odor do you perceive?"

"Potassium," I replied.

"Of course," he added, "you are familiar with the chief characteristic

of that substance. It ignites instantly when brought in contact with

water. Within that little globule of potassium, I have imbedded a pill

of my own composition and discovery. The moment it is liberated from the

potassium, it commences the work of decomposing the fluid on which it

floats. The potassium at once ignites the liberated oxygen, and the

conflagration of this mighty globe is begun."

"Yes," said I, "begun, if you please, but your little pill soon

evaporates or sinks, or melts in the surrounding seas, and your

conflagration ends just where it began."

"My reply to that suggestion could be made at once by simply testing the

experiment on a small scale, or a large one, either. But I prefer at

present to refute your proposition by an argument drawn from nature

herself. If you correctly remember, the first time I had the pleasure of

seeing you was on the island of Galveston, many years ago. Do you

remember relating to me at that time an incident concerning the effects

of a prairie on fire, that you had yourself witnessed but a few days

previously, near the town of Matagorde? If I recollect correctly, you

stated that on your return journey from that place, you passed on the

way the charred remains of two wagon-loads of cotton, and three human

beings, that the night before had perished in the flames; that three

slaves, the property of a Mr. Horton, had started a few days before to

carry to market a shipment of cotton; that a norther overtook them on

the treeless prairie, and a few minutes afterwards they were surprised

by beholding a line of rushing fire, surging, roaring and advancing like

the resistless billows of an ocean swept by a gale; that there was no

time for escape, and they perished terribly in fighting the devouring

element?"

"Yes; I recollect the event."

"Now, then, I wish a reply to the simple question: Did the single spark,

that kindled the conflagration, consume the negroes and their charge?

No? But what did? You reply, of course, that the spark set the entire

prairie on fire; that each spear of grass added fuel to the flame, and

kindled by degrees a conflagration that continued to burn so long as it

could feed on fresh material. The pillule in that vial is the little

spark, the oceans are the prairies, and the oxygen the fuel upon which

the fire is to feed until the globe perishes in inextinguishable flames.

The elementary substances in that small vial recreate themselves; they

are self-generating, and when once fairly under way must necessarily

sweep onward, until the waters in all the seas are exhausted. There is,

however, one great difference between the burning of a prairie and the

combustion of an ocean: the fire in the first spreads slowly, for the

fuel is difficult to ignite; in the last, it flies with the rapidity of

the wind, for the substance consumed is oxygen, the most inflammable

agent in nature."

Rising from my seat, I went to the washstand in the corner of the

apartment, and drawing a bowl half full of Spring Valley water, I turned

to Summerfield, and remarked, "Words are empty, theories are ideal--but

facts are things."

"I take you at your word." So saying, he approached the bowl, emptied it

of nine-tenths of its contents, and silently dropped the

potassium-coated pill into the liquid. The potassium danced around the

edges of the vessel, fuming, hissing, and blazing, as it always does,

and seemed on the point of expiring--when, to my astonishment and alarm,

a sharp explosion took place, and in a second of time the water was

blazing in a red, lurid column, half way to the ceiling.

"For God's sake," I cried, "extinguish the flames, or we shall set the

building on fire!"

"Had I dropped the potassium into the bowl as you prepared it," he

quietly remarked, "the building would indeed have been consumed."

Lower and lower fell the flickering flames, paler and paler grew the

blaze, until finally the fire went out, and I rushed up to see the

effects of the combustion.

Not a drop of water remained in the vessel! Astonished beyond measure at

what I had witnessed, and terrified almost to the verge of insanity, I

approached Summerfield, and tremblingly inquired, "To whom, sir, is this

tremendous secret known?" "To myself alone," he responded; "and now

answer me a question: is it worth the money?"

* * * * *

It is entirely unnecessary to relate in detail the subsequent events

connected with this transaction. I will only add a general statement,

showing the results of my negotiations. Having fully satisfied myself

that Summerfield actually held in his hands the fate of the whole world,

with its millions of human beings, and by experiment having tested the

combustion of sea-water, with equal facility as fresh, I next deemed it

my duty to call the attention of a few of the principal men in San

Francisco to the extreme importance of Summerfield's discovery.

A leading banker, a bishop, a chemist, two State university professors,

a physician, a judge, and two Protestant divines, were selected by me to

witness the experiment on a large scale. This was done at a small

sand-hill lake, near the sea-shore, but separated from it by a ridge of

lofty mountains, distant not more than ten miles from San Francisco.

Every single drop of water in the pool was burnt up in less than fifteen

minutes. We next did all that we could to pacify Summerfield, and

endeavored to induce him to lower his price and bring it within the

bounds of a reasonable possibility. But without avail. He began to grow

urgent in his demands, and his brow would cloud like a tempest-ridden

sky whenever we approached him on the subject. Finally, ascertaining

that no persuasion could soften his heart or touch his feelings, a

sub-committee was appointed, to endeavor, if possible, to raise the

money by subscription. Before taking that step, however, we ascertained

beyond all question that Summerfield was the sole custodian of his dread

secret, and that he kept no written memorial of the formula of his

prescription. He even went so far as to offer us a penal bond that his

secret should perish with him in case we complied with his demands.

The sub-committee soon commenced work amongst the wealthiest citizens of

San Francisco, and by appealing to the terrors of a few, and the

sympathies of all, succeeded in raising one half the amount within the

prescribed period. I shall never forget the woe-begone faces of

California Street during the month of October. The outside world and the

newspapers spoke most learnedly of a money panic--a pressure in

business, and the disturbances in the New York gold-room. But to the

initiated, there was an easier solution of the enigma. The pale spectre

of Death looked down upon them all, and pointed with its bony finger to

the fiery tomb of the whole race, already looming up in the distance

before them. Day after day, I could see the dreadful ravages of this

secret horror; doubly terrible, since they dared not divulge it. Still,

do all that we could, the money could not be obtained. The day preceding

the last one given, Summerfield was summoned before the committee, and

full information given him of the state of affairs. Obdurate, hard and

cruel, he still continued. Finally, a proposition was started, that an

attempt should be made to raise the other half of the money in the city

of New York. To this proposal Summerfield ultimately yielded, but with

extreme reluctance. It was agreed in committee, that I should accompany

him thither, and take with me, in my own possession, evidences of the

sums subscribed here; that a proper appeal should be made to the lending

capitalists, scholars and clergymen of that metropolis, and that, when

the whole amount was raised, it should be paid over to Summerfield, and

a bond taken from him never to divulge his awful secret to any human

being.

With this, he seemed to be satisfied, and left us to prepare for his

going the next morning.

As soon as he left the apartment, the bishop arose, and deprecated the

action that had been taken, and characterized it as childish and absurd.

He declared that no man was safe one moment whilst "that diabolical

wretch" still lived; that the only security for us all, was in his

immediate extirpation from the face of the earth, and that no amount of

money could seal his lips, or close his hands. It would be no crime, he

said, to deprive him of the means of assassinating the whole human

family, and that as for himself he was for dooming him to immediate

death.

With a unanimity that was extraordinary, the entire committee coincided.

A great many plans were proposed, discussed and rejected, having in view

the extermination of Summerfield. In them all there was the want of that

proper caution which would lull the apprehensions of an enemy; for

should he for an instant suspect treachery, we knew his nature well

enough to be satisfied, that he would waive all ceremonies and carry his

threats into immediate execution.

It was finally resolved that the trip to New York should not be

abandoned, apparently. But that we were to start out in accordance with

the original programme; that during the journey, some proper means

should be resorted to by me to carry out the final intentions of the

committee, and that whatever I did would be sanctioned by them all, and

full protection, both in law and conscience, afforded me in any stage of

the proceeding.

Nothing was wanting but my own consent; but this was difficult to

secure.

At the first view, it seemed to be a most horrible and unwarrantable

crime to deprive a fellow-being of life, under any circumstances; but

especially so where, in meeting his fate, no opportunity was to be

afforded him for preparation or repentance. It was a long time before I

could disassociate, in my mind, the two ideas of act and intent. My

studies had long ago made me perfectly familiar with the doctrine of the

civil law, that in order to constitute guilt, there must be a union of

action and intention. Taking the property of another is not theft,

unless, as the lawyers term it, there is the _animus furandi_. So, in

homicide, life may be lawfully taken in some instances, whilst the deed

may be excused in others. The sheriff hangs the felon, and deprives him

of existence; yet nobody thinks of accusing the officer of murder. The

soldier slays his enemy, still the act is considered heroical. It does

not therefore follow that human life is too sacred to be taken away

under all circumstances. The point to be considered was thus narrowed

down into one grand inquiry, whether Summerfield was properly to be

regarded as _hostis humani generis_ the enemy of the human race or not.

If he should justly be so considered, then it would not only be not a

crime to kill him, but an act worthy of the highest commendation. Who

blamed McKenzie for hanging Spencer to the yard-arm? Yet in his case,

the lives of only a small ship's crew were in jeopardy. Who condemned

Pompey for exterminating the pirates from the Adriatic? Yet, in his

case, only a small portion of the Roman Republic was liable to

devastation. Who accuses Charlotte Corday of assassination for stabbing

Murat in his bath? Still, her arm only saved the lives of a few

thousands of revolutionary Frenchmen. And to come down to our own times,

who heaps accusation upon the heads of Lincoln, Thomas or Sheridan, or

even Grant, though in marching to victory over a crushed rebellion, they

deemed it necessary to wade through seas of human gore? If society has

the right to defend itself from the assaults of criminals, who, at best,

can only destroy a few of its members, why should I hesitate when it was

apparent that the destiny of the globe itself hung in the balance? If

Summerfield should live and carry out his threats, the whole world would

feel the shock; his death was the only path to perfect safety.

I asked the privilege of meditation for one hour, at the hands of the

committee, before I would render a decision either way. During that

recess the above argumentation occupied my thoughts. The time expired,

and I again presented myself before them. I did not deem it requisite to

state the grounds of my decision; I briefly signified my assent, and

made instant preparation to carry the plan into execution.

Having passed on the line of the Pacific Railway more than once, I was

perfectly familiar with all of its windings, gorges and precipices.

I selected Cape Horn as the best adapted to the purpose, and ... the

public knows the rest.

Having been fully acquitted by two tribunals of the law, I make this

final appeal to my fellow-men throughout the State, and ask them

confidently not to reverse the judgments already pronounced.

I am conscious of no guilt; I feel no remorse; I need no repentance. For

me justice has no terrors, and conscience no sting. Let me be judged

solely by the motives which actuated me, and the importance of the end

accomplished, and I shall pass, unscathed, both temporal and eternal

tribunals.

LEONIDAS PARKER.

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

II.

_THE MERCHANT'S EXCHANGE._

One summer eve, as homeward saunt'ring slowly,

My toils and tasks for that day's business done;

With thoughts composed, and aspirations holy,

That heavenward rose, as downward sank the sun,

I heard a throng, whose multitudinous voices

Proclaimed some act of public weal begun.

The glad acclaim invited close inspection;

And through the crowd I gently made my way,

Till, standing firm upon a light projection,

That spanned a chasm dug deep into the clay,

I heard above the din of city noises,

An honored voice, in solemn accents say:

"In presence of Creation's awful Builder,

I lay for you this polished corner-stone;

God grant no ills your architect bewilder

Till into strength and beauty shall have grown

The MERCHANT'S 'CHANGE that shall adorn your Guilder

When ye have mouldered into dust and bone!"

Day after day, whilst passing to my labor,

I saw that gorgeous edifice arise;

Until its dome, like crest of sacred Tabor,

Sprang from the earth, and arching in the skies,

O'ertopp'd the peak of each aspiring neighbor

That wooed a tribute from the upturned eyes.

There was no pomp of pious dedication,

Boasting this Temple sanctified to God;

And yet my soul, in prayerful meditation,

Believed no less it might be His abode:

For when His arm from bondage led a nation,

He heard their cry, though kneeling on the sod!

Around this mart the world's great trade shall centre;

Within these walls a Babel tumult sound,

Not that which made doomed Shinar a memento

Of human pride laid level to the ground,

But blended music of all tongues shall enter,

And in trade's peaceful symphonies resound!

Above this portal shall no monarch thunder,

No grand patrician lord it o'er a slave;

Here shall the pagan's bonds be snapt asunder,

And creed and race no proud distinction crave;

Here shall mankind their shackles trample under,

And freedom's banner over freemen wave!

Here shall Confucius braid his ebon tresses,

Perfume the cup with aromatic teas,

Supply gay beauty with her gaudiest dresses,--

The worm's fine fabric, and the Bactrian fleece;

And in exchange shall quaff a balm that blesses,

Freedom and truth, in every passing breeze!

Here Kamehameha realize the splendor

Foretold by sirens, singing 'round his isles,

How cane and pulu be the realm's defender,

And roof his palaces with golden tiles;--

When sturdy Saxons should their hearts surrender

In captive bonds to coy Kanaka wiles!

Here Petropaulowski store her richest sables,

Tahiti waft her oranges and limes,

The Lascar weave his stout manila cables,

The Malay chafler midst his porcelain chimes,

Ceylon with spices scent our groaning tables,

Pariah bring Golconda's gems, not crimes;

Beneath this dome the Tycoon's gory dragon

Shall fold his wings, and close his fiery eyes;

Here quaffing from the same enchanted flagon,

Fraternal incense shall to Heaven arise;

Whilst Vishnu, Thor, Jehovah, Bhudd, and Dagon,

Shall cease all strife, and struggle for the prize!

Oh! tell me not the Christian's God will thunder,

And rock these hills, with unforgiving ire;

By storm or earthquake rend the globe asunder,

And quench His wrath in everliving fire--

When He beholds on earth so strange a wonder,

All peoples kneeling to a common Sire!

Prophets and priests have from primeval ages

Drenched all mankind in seas of human gore;

Jurists and statesmen, orators and sages,

Have deepened gulfs, which boundless were before;

_The merchant sails, where'er an ocean rages,

Bridges its depths, and throws the Rainbow o'er!_

All hail! ye founders of Pacific's glory,

Who serve bold Commerce at his mightiest shrine:

Your names shall live in endless song and story,

When black Oblivion flings her pall o'er mine;

And when these walls shall totter, quaint and hoary,

Bards still shall sing, your mission was Divine!

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

III.

_THE DESERTED SCHOOLHOUSE._

"Oh! never may a son of thine,

Where'er his wand'ring steps incline,

Forget the sky which bent above

His childhood, like a dream of love."

--WHITTIER.

There is no silence like that sombre gloom which sometimes settles down

upon the deserted playgrounds, the unoccupied benches, and the voiceless

halls of an old schoolhouse. But if, in addition to abandonment, the

fingers of decay have been busy with their work; if the moss has been

permitted to grow, and the mould to gather; if the cobwebs cluster, like

clouds, in all the corners, and the damp dust incrusts the window-panes

like the frosts of a northern winter; if the old well has caved in, and

the little paths through the brushwood been smothered, and the fences

rotted down, and the stile gone to ruin, then a feeling of utter

desolation seizes upon the soul, which no philosophy can master, no

recollections soothe, and no lapse of time dissipate.

Perchance a lonely wanderer may be observed, traversing the same scenes

which many years ago were trodden by his ungrown feet, looking pensively

at each tree which sheltered his boyhood, peeping curiously under the

broken benches on which he once sat, and turning over most carefully

with his cane every scrap of old paper, that strangely enough had

survived the winds and the rains of many winters.

Such a schoolhouse now stands near the little village of Woodville, in

the State of North Carolina, and such a wanderer was I in the autumn of

1852.

Woodville was the scene of my first studies, my earliest adventures, and

my nascent loves. There I was taught to read and write, to swim and

skate, to wrestle and box, to play marbles and make love. There I fought

my first fight, had the mumps and the measles, stole my first

watermelon, and received my first flogging. And I can never forget, that

within that tattered schoolroom my young heart first swelled with those

budding passions, whose full development in others has so often changed

the fortunes of the world. There eloquence produced its first throb,

ambition struck its first spark, pride mounted its first stilts, love

felt its first glow. There the eternal ideas of God and heaven, of

patriotism and country, of love and woman, germinated in my bosom; and

there, too, Poesy sang her first song in my enchanted ear, lured me far

off into the "grand old woods" alone, sported with the unlanguaged

longings of my boyish heart, and subdued me for the first time with that

mysterious sorrow, whose depths the loftiest intellect cannot sound, and

yet whose wailings mournfully agitate many a schoolboy's breast.

I reached the village of Woodville one afternoon in November, after an

absence of twenty-two years. Strange faces greeted me, instead of old,

familiar ones; huge dwellings stood where once I had rambled through

cornfields, groves of young pines covered the old common in which I had

once played at ball, and everything around presented such an aspect of

change, that I almost doubted my personal identity. Nor was my

astonishment diminished in the slightest degree when the landlord of the

inn announced his name, and I recognized it as once belonging to a

playmate famous for mischief and fleetness. Now he appeared bloated,

languid, and prematurely old. Bushy whiskers nearly covered his face, a

horrid gash almost closed up one of his eyes, and an ominous limp told

that he would run no more foot-races forever.

Unwilling to provoke inquiries by mentioning my own name, and doubly

anxious to see the old schoolhouse, which I had traveled many miles out

of my way to visit, I took my cane and strolled leisurely along the road

that my feet had hurried over so often in boyhood.

The schoolhouse was situated in a small grove of oaks and hickories,

about half a mile from the village, so as to be more retired, but at the

same time more convenient for those who resided in the country. My

imagination flew faster than my steps, and under its influence the half

mile dwindled to a mere rod. Passing a turn in the road, which concealed

it until within a few paces, it suddenly burst upon my vision in all the

horrors of its desolation. A fearful awe took possession of me, and as I

stood beneath the trees I had so often climbed in years gone by, I could

not refrain from looking uneasily behind me, and treading more softly

upon the sacred leaves, just commencing to wither and fall.

I approached the door with as much reverence as ever crept Jew or

Mussulman, on bended knee and with downcast eye, to the portals of the

Kabbala or Holy of Holies, and as I reached forth my hand to turn the

latch, I involuntarily paused to listen before I crossed the threshold.

Ah, manhood! what are all thy triumphs compared to a schoolboy's palms!

What are thy infamies compared to his disgraces! As head of his class,

he carries a front which a monarch might emulate in vain; as master of

the playground, he wields a sceptre more indisputable than Czar or Cæsar

ever bore! As a favorite, he provokes a bitterer hostility than ever

greeted a Bute or a Buckingham; as a coward or traitor, he is loaded

with a contumely beneath which Arnold or Hull would have sunk forever!

I listened. The pleasant hum of busy voices, the sharp tones of the

master, the mumbled accents of hurried recitations, all were gone. The

gathering shadows of evening corresponded most fittingly with the

deepening gloom of my recollections, and I abandoned myself to their

guidance, without an effort to control or direct them.

I stood _alone_ upon the step. Where was he, whose younger hand always

locked in mine, entered that room and left it so often by my side; that

bright-eyed boy, whose quick wit and genial temper won for him the

affections both of master and scholar; that gentle spirit that kindled

into love, or saddened into tears, as easily as sunshine dallies with a

flower or raindrops fall from a summer cloud; that brother, whose genius

was my pride, whose courage my admiration, whose soul my glory; he who

faltered not before the walls of Camargo, when but seven men, out of as

many hundred in his regiment, volunteered to go forward, under the

command of Taylor, to endure all the hardships of a soldier's life, in a

tropical clime, and to brave all the dangers of a three days' assault

upon a fortified city; he who fought so heroically at Monterey, and

escaped death in so many forms on the battle-field, only to meet it at

last as a victim to contagion, contracted at the bedside of a friend?

Where was he? The swift waters of the Rio Grande, as they hurry past his

unsculptured grave, sing his requiem, and carry along proudly to the

everlasting sea the memory of his noble self sacrifice, as the purest

tribute they bear upon their tide!

Such were my thoughts, as I stood pensively upon the block that served

as a step when I was boy, and which still occupied its ancient position.

I noticed that a large crack extended its whole length, and several

shrubs, of no insignificant size, were growing out of the aperture. This

prepared me for the wreck and ruin of the interior. The door had been

torn from its hinge, and was sustained in an upright position by a bar

or prop on the inside. This readily gave way on a slight pressure, and

as the old door tumbled headlong upon the floor, it awoke a thousand

confused and muffled echoes, more startling to me than a clap of the

loudest thunder. But the moment I passed the threshold, the gloom and

terror instantly vanished. I noticed that the back door was open, and in

casting my glance to the upper end of the room, where the Rev. Mr. Craig

once presided in state, my eyes were greeted by an apparition, that had

evidently become domiciliated in the premises, and whose appearance

revolutionized the whole tenor of my thoughts. Before me stood one of

those venerable-looking billy-goats, of sedate eye, fantastic beard, and

crumpled horn, the detestation of perfumed belle, and the dread of

mischievous urchin. I had seen a _fac-simile_ of him many years before,

not exactly in the same place, but hard by in a thicket of pines. I

could almost fancy it to be the ghost of the murdered ancestor, or some

phantom sent to haunt me near the spot of his execution. I shed no tear,

I heaved no sigh, as I trod the dust-covered floor of the "Woodville

Academy," but greeted my _Alma Mater_ with a shout of almost boyish

laughter as I approached the spot where the pedagogue once sat upon his

throne.

To explain why it was that my feelings underwent a revulsion so sudden,

I must relate the Story of the Murdered Billy-goat.

Colonel Averitt, a brave soldier in the war of 1812, retired from the

army at the termination of hostilities, and settled upon a farm

adjoining the village of Woodville. He was rather a queer old gentleman;

had a high Roman nose, and, on muster days, was the general admiration

of all Bertie County. He then officiated as colonel commandant of

militia, and dressed in full uniform, with a tall, white feather waving

most belligerently from his three-cornered cocked hat. He wore a sash

and sword, and always reviewed the troops on horseback.

One day, after a statutory review of the militia of the county, a

proposition was started to form a volunteer company of mounted hussars.

A nucleus was soon obtained, and in less than a week a sufficient number

had enrolled themselves to authorize the Colonel to order a drill. It

happened on a Saturday; the place selected was an old field near the

schoolhouse, and I need not add that the entire battalion of boys was

out in full force, as spectators of the warlike exercises. How they got

through with the parade, I have forgotten; but I do remember that the

mania for soldiering, from that day forward, took possession of the

school.

The enrollment at first consisted entirely of infantry, and several

weeks elapsed before anybody ventured to suggest a mounted corps. Late

one afternoon, however, as we were returning homeward, with drums

beating and colors flying, we disturbed a flock of lazy goats, browsing

upon dry grass, and evincing no great dread for the doughty warriors

advancing. Our captain, whose dignity was highly offended at this utter

want of respect, gave the order to "form column!" "present arms!" and

"charge!" Austrian nor Spaniard, Italian nor Prussian, before the

resistless squadrons of Murat or Macdonald, ever displayed finer

qualities of light infantry or flying artillery, than did the vanquished

enemy of the "Woodville Cadets" on this memorable occasion. They were

taken entirely by surprise, and, without offering the least resistance,

right-about-faced, and fled precipitously from the field. Their

terrified bleating mingled fearfully with our shouts of victory; and

when, at the command of our captain. I blew the signal to halt and

rendezvous, our brave fellows magnanimously gave up the pursuit, and

returned from the chase, bringing with them no less than five full-grown

prisoners, as trophies of victory!

A council of war was immediately called, to determine in what way we

should dispose of our booty. After much learned discussion, and some

warm disputes, the propositions were narrowed down to two:

Plan the first was, to cut off all the beard of each prisoner, flog, and

release him.

Plan the second, on the contrary, was, to conduct the prisoners to the

playground, treat them kindly, and endeavor to train them to the bit and

saddle, so as to furnish the officers with what they needed so

much,--war-steeds for battle, fiery chargers for review.

The vote was finally taken, and plan number two was adopted by a

considerable majority.

Obstacles are never insurmountable to boys and Bonapartes! Our _coup

d'etat_ succeeded quite as well as that of the 2d of December, and

before a week elapsed the chief officers were all splendidly mounted and

fully equipped.

At this stage of the war against the "bearded races," the cavalry

question was propounded by one of the privates in Company A. For his

part, he declared candidly that he was tired of marching and

countermarching afoot, and that he saw no good reason why an invasion of

the enemy's country should not at once be undertaken, to secure animals

enough to mount the whole regiment.

Another council was held, and the resolve unanimously adopted, to cross

the border in full force, on the next Saturday afternoon.

In the meantime, the clouds of war began to thicken in another quarter.

Colonel Averitt had been informed of the _coup d'etat_ related above,

and determined to prevent any further depredations on his flock by a

stroke of masterly generalship, worthy of his prowess in the late war

with Great Britain.

And now it becomes proper to introduce upon the scene the most important

personage in this history, and the hero of the whole story. I allude, of

course, to the bold, calm, dignified, undaunted and imperturbable

natural guardian of the Colonel's fold--Billy Goat!

He boasted of a beard longer, whiter, and more venerable than a

high-priest in Masonry; his mane emulated that of the king of beasts;

his horns were as crooked, and almost as long, as the Cashie River, on

whose banks he was born; his tail might have been selected by some

Spanish hidalgo, as a coat of arms, emblematic of the pride and hauteur

of his family; whilst his _tout ensemble_ presented that dignity of

demeanor, majesty of carriage, consciousness of superior fortune, and

defiance of all danger, which we may imagine characterized the elder

Napoleon previous to the battle of Waterloo. But our hero possessed

moral qualities quite equal to his personal traits. He was brave to a

fault, combative to a miracle, and as invincible in battle as he was

belligerent in mood. The sight of a coat-tail invariably excited his

anger, and a red handkerchief nearly distracted him with rage. Indeed,

he had recently grown so irascible that Colonel Averitt was compelled to

keep him shut up in the fowl-yard, a close prisoner, to protect him from

a justly indignant neighborhood.

Such was the champion that the Colonel now released and placed at the

head of the opposing forces. Saturday came at last, and the entire

morning was devoted to the construction of the proper number of wooden

bits, twine bridle-reins, leather stirrups and pasteboard saddles. By

twelve o'clock everything was ready, and the order given to march. We

were disappointed in not finding the enemy at his accustomed haunt, and

had to prolong our march nearly half a mile before we came up with him.

Our scouts, however, soon discovered him in an old field, lying encamped

beneath some young persimmon bushes, and entirely unconscious of

impending danger. We approached stealthily, according to our usual plan,

and then at a concerted signal rushed headlong upon the foe. But we had

no sooner given the alarm than our enemies sprang to their feet, and

clustered about a central object, which we immediately recognized, to

our chagrin and terror, as none other than Billy Goat himself.

The captain, however, was not to be daunted or foiled; he boldly made a

plunge at the champion of our adversaries, and would have succeeded in

seizing him by the horns, if he had not been unfortunately butted over

before he could reach them. Two or three of our bravest comrades flew to

his assistance, but met with the same fate before they could rescue him

from danger. The remainder of us drew off a short but prudent distance

from the field of battle, to hold a council of war, and determine upon a

plan of operations. In a few moments our wounded companions joined us,

and entreated us to close at once upon the foe and surround him. They

declared they were not afraid to beard the lion in his den, and that

being butted heels over head two or three times but whetted their

courage, and incited them to deeds of loftier daring. Their eloquence,

however, was more admired than their prudence, and a large majority of

the council decided that "it was inopportune, without other munitions of

war than those we had upon the field, to risk a general engagement." It

was agreed, however, _nem. con._, that on the next Saturday we would

provide ourselves with ropes and fishing-poles, and such other arms as

might prove advantageous, and proceed to surround and noose our most

formidable enemy, overpower him by the force of numbers, and take him

prisoner at all hazards. Having fully determined upon this plan of

attack, we hoisted our flag once more, ordered the drum to beat Yankee

Doodle, and retreated in most excellent order from the field--our foe

not venturing to pursue us.

The week wore slowly and uneasily away. The clouds of war were gathering

rapidly, and the low roll of distant thunder announced that a battle

storm of no ordinary importance was near at hand. Colonel Averitt, by

some traitorous trick of war, had heard of our former defeat, and

publicly taunted our commander with his failure. Indeed, more than one

of the villagers had heard of the disastrous result of the campaign, and

sent impertinent messages to those who had been wounded in the

encounter. Two or three of the young ladies, also, in the girls'

department, had been inoculated with the _fun_ (as it was absurdly

denominated), and a leather medal was pinned most provokingly to the

short jacket of the captain by one of those hoydenish Amazons.

All these events served to whet the courage of our men, and strange as

it may appear, to embitter our hostility to our victorious foe. Some of

the officers proceeded so far as to threaten Colonel Averitt himself,

and at one time, I am confident, he stood in almost as much danger as

the protector of his flock.

Saturday came at last, and at the first blast of the bugle, we formed

into line, and advanced with great alacrity into the enemy's country.

After marching half an hour, our scouts hastily returned, with the

information that the enemy was drawn up, in full force, near the scene

of the Persimmon bush battle. We advanced courageously to within

speaking distance, and then halted to breathe the troops and prepare for

the engagement. We surveyed our enemies with attention, but without

alarm. There they stood right before us!

"Firm paced and slow, a horrid front they form;

Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm!"

Our preparations were soon made, and at the command of the captain, we

separated into single files, one half making a _detour_ to the right,

and the other to the left, so as to encircle the foe. Our instructions

were to spare all non-combatants, to pass by as unworthy of notice all

minor foes, and to make a simultaneous rush upon the proud champion of

our adversaries.

By this masterly manoeuvre it was supposed we should be enabled to

escape unharmed, or at any rate without many serious casualties. But as

it afterward appeared, we did not sufficiently estimate the strength and

activity of our enemy.

After this preparatory manoeuvre had been successfully accomplished,

our captain gave the order to "charge!" in a stentorian voice, and at

the same time rushed forward most gallantly at the head of the

squadron. The post of honor is generally the post of danger also, and so

it proved on this occasion; for before the captain could grapple with

the foe, Billy Goat rose suddenly on his hinder legs, and uttering a

loud note of defiance, dashed with lightning speed at the breast of our

commander, and at a single blow laid him prostrate on the field. Then

wheeling quickly, ere any of his assailants could attack his rear flank,

he performed the same exploit upon the first and second lieutenants, and

made an unsuccessful pass at the standard-bearer, who eluded the danger

by a scientific retreat. At this moment, when the fortunes of the day

hung, as it were, on a single hair, our drummer, who enjoyed the

_sobriquet_ of "Weasel," advanced slowly but chivalrously upon the foe.

As the hosts of Israel and Gath paused upon the field of Elah, and

awaited with fear and trembling the issue of the single-handed contest

between David and Goliah; as Roman and Sabine stood back and reposed on

their arms, whilst Horatio and Curiatii fought for the destiny of Rome

and the mastery of the world, so the "Woodville Cadets" halted in their

tracks on this memorable day, and all aghast with awe and admiration,

watched the progress of the terrible duello between "Weasel," the

drummer boy, and Billy Goat, the hero of the battle of the Persimmon

bush.

The drummer first disengaged himself from the incumbrance of his martial

music, then threw his hat fiercely upon the ground, and warily and

circumspectly approached his foe. Nor was that foe unprepared, for

rearing as usual on his nether extremities, he bleated out a long note

of contempt and defiance, and dashed suddenly upon the "Weasel."

Instead of waiting to receive the force of the blow upon his breast or

brow, the drummer wheeled right-about face, and falling suddenly upon

all fours with most surprising dexterity, presented a less vulnerable

part of his body to his antagonist, who, being under full headway, was

compelled to accept the substituted buttress, and immediately planted

there a herculean thump. I need not say that the drummer was hurled many

feet heels over head, by this disastrous blow; but he had obtained the

very advantage he desired to secure, and springing upon his feet he

leaped quicker than lightning upon the back of his foe, and in spite of

every effort to dislodge him, sat there in security and triumph!

With a loud huzza, the main body of the "Cadets" now rushed forward, and

after a feeble resistance, succeeded in overpowering the champion of our

foes.

As a matter of precaution, we blindfolded him with several

handkerchiefs, and led him away in as much state as the Emperor Aurelian

displayed when he carried Zenobia to Rome, a prisoner at his

chariot-wheels.

The fate of the vanquished Billy Goat is soon related. A council of war

decided that he should be taken into a dense pine thicket, there

suspended head downwards, and thrashed _ad libitum_, by the whole army.

The sentence was carried into execution immediately; and though he was

cut down and released after our vengeance was satisfied, I yet owe it to

truth and history to declare, that before a week elapsed, he died of a

broken heart, and was buried by Colonel Averitt with all the honors of

war.

If it be any satisfaction to the curious inquirer, I may add in

conclusion, that the Rev. Mr. Craig avenged his _manes_, by wearing out

a chinquapin apiece on the backs of "Weasel," the captain and officers,

and immediately afterward disbanded the whole army.

[Decoration]

IV.

_FOR AN ALBUM._

When first our father, Adam, sinned

Against the will of Heaven,

And forth from Eden's happy gates

A wanderer was driven,

He paused beside a limpid brook,

That through the garden ran,

And, gazing in its mirrored wave,

Beheld himself--_a man_!

God's holy peace no longer beamed

In brightness from his eye;

But in its depths dark passions blazed,

Like lightnings in the sky.

Young Innocence no longer wreathed

His features with her smile;

But Sin sat there in scorched dismay,

Like some volcanic isle.

No longer radiant beauty shone

Upon his manly brow;

But care had traced deep furrows there,

With stern misfortune's plow.

Joy beamed no longer from his face;

His step was sad and slow;

His heart was heavy with its grief;

His bosom with its woe.

Whilst gazing at his altered form

Within the mirrored brook,

He spied an angel leaning o'er,

With pity in her look.

He turned, distrustful of his sight,

Unwilling to believe,

When, lo! in Heaven's own radiance smiled,

His sweet companion, Eve!

Fondly he clasped her to his heart,

And blissfully he cried,

"What tho' I've lost a Paradise,

I've gained an angel bride!

No flowers in Eden ever bloomed,

No! not in heaven above,

Sweeter than woman brings to man--

Her friendship, truth, and love!"

These buds were brought by Adam's bride,

Outside of Eden's gate,

And scattered o'er the world; _to them_

This book I dedicate.

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

V.

_PHASES IN THE LIFE OF JOHN POLLEXFEN._

PHASE THE FIRST.

There are but three persons now living who can truthfully answer the

question, "How did John Pollexfen, the photographer, make his fortune?"

No confidence will be violated, now that he is dead, and his heirs

residents of a foreign country, if I relate the story of that singular

man, whose rapid accumulation of wealth astonished the whole circle of

his acquaintance.

Returning from the old man's funeral a few days since, the subject of

Pollexfen's discoveries became the topic of conversation; and my

companions in the same carriage, aware that, as his attorney and

confidential friend, I knew more of the details of his business than any

one else, extorted from me a promise that at the first leisure moment I

would relate, in print, the secret of that curious invention by which

the photographic art was so largely enriched, and himself elevated at

once to the acme of opulence and renown.

Few persons who were residents of the city of San Francisco at an early

day, will fail to remember the site of the humble gallery in which

Pollexfen laid the foundations of his fame. It was situated on Merchant

Street, about midway between Kearny and Montgomery Streets, in an old

wooden building; the ground being occupied at present by the solid brick

structure of Thomas R. Bolton. It fed the flames of the great May fire

of 1851, was rebuilt, but again consumed in December, 1853. It was

during the fall of the latter year that the principal event took place

which is to constitute the most prominent feature of my narrative.

I am aware that the facts will be discredited by many, and doubted at

first by all; but I beg to premise, at the outset, that because they are

uncommon, by no means proves that they are untrue. Besides, should the

question ever become a judicial one, I hold in my hands such _written

proofs_, signed by the parties most deeply implicated, as will at once

terminate both doubt and litigation. Of this, however, I have at present

no apprehensions; for Lucile and her husband are both too honorable to

assail the reputation of the dead, and too rich themselves to attempt to

pillage the living.

As it is my wish to be distinctly understood, and at the same time to be

exculpated from all blame for the part I myself acted in the drama, the

story must commence with my first acquaintance with Mademoiselle Lucile

Marmont.

In the spring of 1851, I embarked at New York for Panama, or rather

Chagres, on board the steamship "Ohio," Captain Schenck, on my way to

the then distant coast of California, attracted hither by the universal

desire to accumulate a rapid fortune, and return at the earliest

practicable period to my home, on the Atlantic seaboard.

There were many hundred such passengers on the same ship. But little

sociability prevailed, until after the steamer left Havana, where it was

then the custom to touch on the "outward bound," to obtain a fresh

supply of fuel and provisions. We were detained longer than customary at

Havana, and most of the passengers embraced the opportunity to visit

the Bishop's Garden and the tomb of Columbus.

One morning, somewhat earlier than usual, I was standing outside the

railing which incloses the monument of the great discoverer, and had

just transcribed in my note-book the following epitaph:

"O! Restos y Imagen

Del Grande Colon:

Mil siglos durad guardados

En lare Urna,

Y en la Remembranza

De Nuestra Nacion,"

when I was suddenly interrupted by a loud scream directly behind me. On

turning, I beheld a young lady whom I had seen but once before on the

steamer, leaning over the prostrate form of an elderly female, and

applying such restoratives as were at hand to resuscitate her, for she

had fainted. Seeing me, the daughter exclaimed, "_Oh, Monsieur! y-a-t-il

un medecin ici?_" I hastened to the side of the mother, and was about to

lift her from the pavement, when M. Marmont himself entered the

cathedral. I assisted him in placing his wife in a _volante_ then

passing, and she was safely conveyed to the hotel.

Having myself some knowledge of both French and Spanish, and able to

converse in either tongue, Lucile Marmont, then sixteen years of age,

and I, from that time forward, became close and confidential friends.

The steamer sailed the next day, and in due time anchored off the

roadstead of Chagres. But Mme. Marmont, in the last stages of

consumption when she embarked at New York, continued extremely ill until

we passed Point Concepcion, on this coast, when she suddenly expired

from an attack of hemorrhage of the lungs.

She was buried at sea; and never can I forget the unutterable anguish of

poor Lucile, as her mother's body splashed into the cold blue waters of

the Pacific.

There she stood, holding on to the railing, paler than monumental

marble, motionless as a statue, rigid as a corpse. The whole scene

around her seemed unperceived. Her eyes gazed upon vacancy; her head was

thrust slightly forward, and her disheveled tresses, black as Plutonian

night, fell neglected about her shoulders.

Captain Watkins, then commanding the "Panama"--whom, may God bless--wept

like a child; and his manly voice, that never quailed in the dread

presence of the lightning or the hurricane, broke, chokingly, as he

attempted to finish the burial rite, and died away in agitated sobs.

One by one the passengers left the spot, consecrated to the grief of

that only child--now more than orphaned by her irreparable loss. Lifting

my eyes, at last, none save the daughter and her father stood before me.

Charmed to the spot was I, by a spell that seemed irresistible. Scarcely

able to move a muscle, there I remained, speechless and overpowered.

Finally the father spoke, and then Lucile fell headlong into his arms.

He bore her into his state-room, where the ship's surgeon was summoned,

and where he continued his ministrations until we reached this port.

It is scarcely necessary to add, that I attended them ashore, and saw

them safely and commodiously lodged at the old Parker House, before I

once thought of my own accommodations.

Weeks passed, and months, too, stole gradually away, before I saw

anything more of the bereaved and mourning child. One day, however, as I

was lolling carelessly in my office, after business hours (and that

meant just at dark in those early times), Lucile hastily entered. I was

startled to see her; for upon her visage I thought I beheld the same

stolid spell of agony that some months before had transfixed my very

soul. Before I had time to recover myself, or ask her to be seated, she

approached closer, and said in a half whisper, "Oh, sir, come with me

home."

On our way she explained that her father was lying dangerously ill, and

that she knew no physician to whom she could apply, and in whose skill

she could place confidence. I at once recommended Dr. H. M. White (since

dead), well knowing not only his great success, but equally cognizant of

that universal charity that rendered him afterwards no less beloved than

illustrious. Without a moment's hesitation, the Doctor seized his hat,

and hastened along with us, to the wretched abode of the sick, and, as

it afterwards proved, the palsied father. The disease was pronounced

apoplexy, and recovery doubtful. Still, there was hope. Whilst we were

seated around the bedside, a tall, emaciated, feeble, but very handsome

young man entered, and staggered to a seat. He was coarsely and meanly

clad; but there was something about him that not only betokened the

gentleman, but the well-bred and accomplished scholar. As he seated

himself, he exchanged a glance with Lucile, and in that silent look I

read the future history of both their lives. On lifting my eyes toward

hers, the pallor fled for an instant from her cheek, and a traitor blush

flashed its crimson confession across her features.

The patient was copiously bled from an artery in the temple, and

gradually recovered his consciousness, but on attempting to speak we

ascertained that partial paralysis had resulted from the fit.

As I rose, with the Doctor, to leave, Lucile beckoned me to remain, and

approaching me more closely, whispered in French, "Stay, and I will tell

you all." The main points of her story, though deeply interesting to me,

at that time, were so greatly eclipsed by subsequent events, that they

are scarcely worthy of narration. Indeed, I shall not attempt to detail

them here fully, but will content myself with stating, in few words,

only such events as bear directly upon the fortunes of John Pollexfen.

As intimated above, Lucile was an only child. She was born in Dauphiny,

a province of France, and immigrated to America during the disastrous

year 1848. Her father was exiled, and his estates seized by the officers

of the government, on account of his political tenets. The family

embarked at Marseilles, with just sufficient ready money to pay their

passage to New York, and support them for a few months after their

arrival. It soon became apparent that want, and perhaps starvation, were

in store, unless some means of obtaining a livelihood could be devised.

The sole expedient was music, of which M. Marmont was a proficient, and

to this resource he at once applied himself most industriously. He had

accumulated a sufficient sum to pay his expenses to this coast, up to

the beginning of 1851, and took passage for San Francisco, as we have

already seen, in the spring of that year.

Reaching here, he became more embarrassed every day, unacquainted as he

was with the language, and still less with the wild life into which he

was so suddenly plunged. Whilst poverty was pinching his body, grief for

the loss of his wife was torturing his soul. Silent, sad, almost morose

to others, his only delight was in his child. Apprehensions for her

fate, in case of accident to himself, embittered his existence, and

hastened the catastrophe above related. Desirous of placing her in a

situation in which she could earn a livelihood, independent of his own

precarious exertions, he taught her drawing and painting, and had just

succeeded in obtaining for her the employment of coloring photographs at

Pollexfen's gallery the very day he was seized with his fatal disorder.

Some weeks previous to this, Charles Courtland, the young man before

mentioned, became an inmate of his house under the following

circumstances:

One evening, after the performances at the Jenny Lind Theatre (where M.

Marmont was employed) were over, and consequently very late, whilst he

was pursuing his lonely way homewards he accidentally stumbled over an

impediment in his path. He at once recognized it as a human body, and

being near home, he lifted the senseless form into his house. A severe

contusion behind the ear had been the cause of the young man's

misfortune, and his robbery had been successfully accomplished whilst

lying in a state of insensibility.

His recovery was extremely slow, and though watched by the brightest

pair of eyes that ever shot their dangerous glances into a human soul,

Courtland had not fully recovered his strength up to the time that I

made his acquaintance.

He was a Virginian by birth; had spent two years in the mines on Feather

River, and having accumulated a considerable sum of money, came to San

Francisco to purchase a small stock of goods, with which he intended to

open a store at Bidwell's Bar. His robbery frustrated all these golden

dreams, and his capture by Lucile Marmont completed his financial ruin.

Here terminates the first phase in the history of John Pollexfen.

PHASE THE SECOND.

"Useless! useless! all useless!" exclaimed John Pollexfen, as he dashed

a glass negative, which he had most elaborately prepared, into the

slop-bucket. "Go, sleep with your predecessors." After a moment's

silence, he again spoke: "But I know _it exists_. Nature has the secret

locked up securely, as she thinks, but I'll tear it from her. Doesn't

the eye see? Is not the retina impressible to the faintest gleam of

light? What telegraphs to my soul the colors of the rainbow? Nothing but

the eye, the human eye. And shall John Pollexfen be told, after he has

lived half a century, that the compacted humors of this little organ can

do more than his whole laboratory? By heaven! I'll wrest the secret from

the labyrinth of nature, or pluck my own eyes from their sockets."

Thus soliloquized John Pollexfen, a few days after the events narrated

in the last chapter.

He was seated at a table, in a darkened chamber, with a light burning,

though in the middle of the day, and his countenance bore an

unmistakable expression of disappointment, mingled with disgust, at the

failure of his last experiment. He was evidently in an ill-humor, and

seemed puzzled what to do next. Just then a light tap came at the door,

and in reply to an invitation to enter, the pale, delicate features of

Lucile Marmont appeared at the threshold.

"Oh! is it you, my child?" said the photographer, rising. "Let me see

your touches." After surveying the painted photographs a moment, he

broke out into a sort of artistic glee: "Beautiful! beautiful! an adept,

quite an adept! Who taught you? Come, have no secrets from me; I'm an

old man, and may be of service to you yet. What city artist gave you the

cue?"

Before relating any more of the conversation, it becomes necessary to

paint John Pollexfen as he was. Methinks I can see his tall, rawboned,

angular form before me, even now, as I write these lines. There he

stands, Scotch all over, from head to foot. It was whispered about in

early times--for really no one knew much about his previous career--that

John Pollexfen had been a famous sea captain; that he had sailed around

the world many times; had visited the coast of Africa under suspicious

circumstances, and finally found his way to California from the then

unpopular region of Australia. Without pausing to trace these rumors

further, it must be admitted that there was something in the appearance

of the man sufficiently repulsive, at first sight, to give them

currency. He had a large bushy head, profusely furnished with hair

almost brickdust in color, and growing down upon a broad, low forehead,

indicative of great mathematical and constructive power. His brows were

long and shaggy, and overhung a restless, deep-set, cold, gray eye, that

met the fiercest glance unquailingly, and seemed possessed of that

magnetic power which dazzles, reads and confounds whatsoever it looks

upon. There was no escape from its inquisitive glitter. It sounded the

very depths of the soul it thought proper to search. Whilst gazing at

you, instinct felt the glance before your own eye was lifted so as to

encounter his. There was no human weakness in its expression. It was as

pitiless as the gleam of the lightning. But you felt no less that high

intelligence flashed from its depths. Courage, you knew, was there; and

true bravery is akin to all the nobler virtues. This man, you at once

said, may be cold, but it is impossible for him to be unjust, deceitful

or ungenerous. He might, like Shylock, insist on a _right_, no matter

how vindictive, but he would never forge a claim, no matter how

insignificant. He might crush, like Cæsar, but he could never plot like

Catiline. In addition to all this, it required but slight knowledge of

physiognomy to perceive that his stern nature was tinctured with genuine

enthusiasm. Earnestness beamed forth in every feature. His soul was as

sincere as it was unbending. He could not trifle, even with the most

inconsiderable subject. Laughter he abhorred. He could smile, but there

was little contagion in his pleasantry. It surprised more than it

pleased you. Blended with this deep, scrutinizing, earnest and

enthusiastic nature, there was an indefinable something, shading the

whole character--it might have been early sorrow, or loss of fortune, or

baffled ambition, or unrequited love. Still, it shone forth patent to

the experienced eye, enigmatical, mysterious, sombre. There was danger,

also, in it, and many, who knew him best, attributed his eccentricity to

a softened phase of insanity.

But the most marked practical trait of Pollexfen's character was his

enthusiasm for his art. He studied its history, from the humble hints of

Niépce to the glorious triumphs of Farquer, Bingham, and Bradley, with

all the soul-engrossing fidelity of a child, and spent many a midnight

hour in striving to rival or surpass them. It was always a subject of

astonishment with me, until after his death, how it happened that a

rough, athletic seaman, as people declared he was originally, should

become so intensely absorbed in a science requiring delicacy of taste,

and skill in manipulation rather than power of muscle, in its practical

application. But after carefully examining the papers tied up in the

same package with his last will and testament, I ceased to wonder, and

sought no further for an explanation.

Most prominent amongst these carefully preserved documents was an old

diploma, granted by the University of Edinburgh, in the year 1821, to

"John Pollexfen, Gent., of Hallicardin, Perthshire," constituting him

Doctor of Medicine. On the back of the diploma, written in a round,

clear hand, I found indorsed as follows:

Fifteen years of my life have I lost by professing modern

quackery. Medicine is not a science, properly so called. It is at

most but an art. He best succeeds who creates his own system.

Each generation adopts its peculiar manual: Sangrado to-day;

Thomson to-morrow; Hahnemann the day after. Surgery advances;

physic is stationary. But chemistry, glorious chemistry, is a

science. Born amid dissolving ruins, and cradled upon rollers of

fire, her step is onward. At her side, as an humble menial,

henceforth shall be found

JOHN POLLEXFEN.

The indorsement bore no date, but it must have been written long before

his immigration to California.

Let us now proceed with the interview between the photographer and his

employee. Repeating the question quickly, "Who gave you the cue?"

demanded Pollexfen.

"My father taught me drawing and painting, but my own taste suggested

the coloring."

"Do you mean to tell me, really, that you taught yourself, Mlle.

Marmont?" and as he said this, the cold, gray eye lit up with unwonted

brilliancy.

"What I say is true," replied the girl, and elevating her own lustrous

eyes, they encountered his own, with a glance quite as steady.

"Let us go into the sunlight, and examine the tints more fully;" and

leading the way they emerged into the sitting-room where customers were

in the habit of awaiting the artist's pleasure.

Here the pictures were again closely scrutinized, but far more

accurately than before; and after fully satisfying his curiosity on the

score of the originality of the penciling, approached Lucile very

closely, and darting his wonderful glance into the depths of her own

eyes, said, after a moment's pause, "You have glorious eyes."

Lucile was about to protest, in a hurried way, against such adulation,

when he continued: "Nay, nay, do not deny it. Your eyes are the most

fathomless orbs that ever I beheld--large, too, and lustrous--the very

eyes I have been searching for these five years past. A judge of color;

a rare judge of color! How is your father to-day, my child?"

The tone of voice in which this last remark was made had in it more of

the curious than the tender. It seemed to have been propounded more as a

matter of business than of feeling. Still, Lucile replied respectfully,

"Oh! worse, sir; a great deal worse. Doctor White declares that it is

impossible for him to recover, and that he cannot live much longer."

"Not live?" replied Pollexfen, "not live?" Then, as if musing, he

solemnly added, "When your father is dead, Lucile, come to me, and I

will make your fortune. That is, if you follow my advice, and place

yourself exclusively under my instructions. Nay, but you shall earn it

yourself. See!" he exclaimed, and producing a bank deposit-book from his

pocket, "See! here have I seven thousand five hundred dollars in bank,

and I would gladly exchange it for one of your eyes."

Astonishment overwhelmed the girl, and she could make no immediate

reply; and before she had sufficiently recovered her self-possession to

speak, the photographer hastily added, "Don't wonder; farewell, now.

Remember what I have said--seven thousand five hundred dollars just for

one eye!"

Lucile was glad to escape, without uttering a syllable. Pursuing her way

homewards, she pondered deeply over the singular remark with which

Pollexfen closed the conversation, and half muttering, said to herself,

"Can he be in earnest? or is it simply the odd way in which an eccentric

man pays a compliment?" But long before she could solve the enigma,

other thoughts, far more engrossing, took sole possession of her mind.

She fully realized her situation--a dying father, and a sick lover, both

dependent in a great measure upon her exertions, and she herself not yet

past her seventeenth year.

On reaching home she found the door wide open, and Courtland standing in

the entrance, evidently awaiting her arrival. As she approached, their

eyes met, and a glance told her that all was over.

"Dead!" softly whispered Courtland.

A stifled sob was all that broke from the lips of the child, as she fell

lifeless into the arms of her lover.

I pass over the mournful circumstances attending the funeral of the

exiled Frenchman. He was borne to his grave by a select few of his

countrymen, whose acquaintance he had made during his short residence in

this city. Like thousands of others, who have perished in our midst, he

died, and "left no sign." The newspapers published the item the next

morning, and before the sun had set upon his funeral rites the poor man

was forgotten by all except the immediate persons connected with this

narrative.

To one of them, at least, his death was not only an important event, but

it formed a great epoch in her history.

Lucile was transformed, in a moment of time, from a helpless, confiding,

affectionate girl, into a full-grown, self-dependent, imperious woman.

Such revolutions, I know, are rare in everyday life, and but seldom

occur; in fact, they never happen except in those rare instances where

nature has stamped a character with the elements of inborn originality

and force, which accident, or sudden revulsion, develops at once into

full maturity. To such a soul, death of an only parent operates like the

summer solstice upon the whiter snow of Siberia. It melts away the

weakness and credulity of childhood almost miraculously, and exhibits,

with the suddenness of an apparition, the secret and hitherto unknown

traits that will forever afterwards distinguish the individual. The

explanation of this curious moral phenomenon consists simply in bringing

to the surface what already was in existence below; not in the

instantaneous creation of new elements of character. The tissues were

already there; circumstance hardens them into bone. Thus we sometimes

behold the same marvel produced by the marriage of some characterless

girl, whom we perhaps had known from infancy, and whose individuality we

had associated with cake, or crinoline--a gay humming-bird of social

life, so light and frivolous and unstable, that, as she flitted across

our pathway, we scarcely deigned her the compliment of a thought. Yet a

week or a month after her nuptials, we meet the self-same warbler, not

as of old, beneath the paternal roof, but under her own "vine and

fig-tree," and in astonishment we ask ourselves, "Can this be the

bread-and-butter Miss we passed by with the insolence of a sneer, a

short time ago?" Behold her now! On her brow sits womanhood. Upon her

features beam out palpably traits of great force and originality. She

moves with the majesty of a queen, and astounds us by taking a leading

part in the discussion of questions of which we did not deem she ever

dreamed. What a transformation is here! Has nature proven false to

herself? Is this a miracle? Are all her laws suspended, that she might

transform, in an instant, a puling trifler into a perfect woman? Not so,

oh! doubter. Not nature is false, but you are yourself ignorant of her

laws. Study Shakspeare; see Gloster woo, and win, the defiant,

revengeful and embittered Lady Anne, and confess in your humility that

it is far more probable that you should err, than that Shakspeare should

be mistaken.

Not many days after the death of M. Marmont, it was agreed by all the

friends of Lucile, that the kind offer extended to her by Pollexfen

should be accepted, and that she should become domiciliated in his

household. He was unmarried, it is true, but still he kept up an

establishment. His housekeeper was a dear old lady, Scotch, like her

master, but a direct contrast in every trait of her character. Her

duties were not many, nor burdensome. Her time was chiefly occupied in

family matters--cooking, washing, and feeding the pets--so that it was

but seldom she made her appearance in any other apartment than those

entirely beneath her own supervision.

The photographer had an assistant in his business, a Chinaman; and upon

him devolved the task of caring for the outer offices.

Courtland, with a small stock of money, and still smaller modicum of

health, left at once for Bidwell's Bar, where he thought of trying his

fortune once more at mining, and where he was well and most cordially

known.

It now only remained to accompany Lucile to her new home, to see her

safely ensconced in her new quarters, to speak a flattering word in her

favor to Pollexfen, and then, to bid her farewell, perhaps forever. All

this was duly accomplished, and with good-bye on my lips, and a

sorrowful sympathy in my heart, I turned away from the closing door of

the photographer, and wended my way homewards.

Mademoiselle Marmont was met at the threshold by Martha McClintock, the

housekeeper, and ushered at once into the inner apartment, situated in

the rear of the gallery.

After removing her veil and cloak, she threw herself into an arm-chair,

and shading her eyes with both her hands, fell into a deep reverie. She

had been in that attitude but a few moments, when a large Maltese cat

leaped boldly into her lap, and began to court familiarity by purring

and playing, as with an old acquaintance. Lucile cast a casual glance at

the animal, and noticed immediately that it had but _one eye_!

Expressing no astonishment, but feeling a great deal, she cast her eyes

cautiously around the apartment.

Near the window hung a large tin cage, containing a blue African parrot,

with crimson-tipped shoulders and tail. At the foot of the sofa, a

silken-haired spaniel was quietly sleeping, whilst, outside the window,

a bright little canary was making the air melodious with its happy

warbling. A noise in an adjoining room aroused the dog, and set it

barking. As it lifted its glossy ears and turned its graceful head

toward Lucile, her surprise was enhanced in the greatest degree, by

perceiving that it, too, had lost an eye. Rising, she approached the

window, impelled by a curiosity that seemed irresistible. Peering into

the cage, she coaxed the lazy parrot to look at her, and her amazement

was boundless when she observed that the poor bird was marred in the

same mournful manner. Martha witnessed her astonishment, and indulged

in a low laugh, but said nothing. At this moment Pollexfen himself

entered the apartment, and with his appearance must terminate the second

phase of his history.

PHASE THE THIRD.

"Come and sit by me, Mademoiselle Marmont," said Pollexfen, advancing at

the same time to the sofa, and politely making way for the young lady,

who followed almost mechanically. "You must not believe me as bad as I

may seem at first sight, for we all have redeeming qualities, if the

world would do us the justice to seek for them as industriously as for

our faults."

"I am very well able to believe that," replied Lucile, "for my dear

father instructed me to act upon the maxim, that good predominates over

evil, even in this life; and I feel sure that I need fear no harm

beneath the roof of the only real benefactor----"

"Pshaw! we will not bandy compliments at our first sitting; they are the

prelude amongst men, to hypocrisy first, and wrong afterwards. May I so

far transgress the rules of common politeness as to ask your age? Not

from idle curiosity, I can assure you."

"At my next birthday," said Lucile, "I shall attain the age of seventeen

years."

"And when may that be?" pursued her interlocutor. "I had hoped you were

older, by a year."

"My birthday is the 18th of November, and really, sir, I am curious to

know why you feel any disappointment that I am not older."

"Oh! nothing of any great consequence; only this, that by the laws of

California, on reaching the age of eighteen you become the sole mistress

of yourself."

"I greatly fear," timidly added the girl, "that I shall have to

anticipate the law, and assume that responsibility at once."

"But you can only contract through a guardian before that era in your

life; and in the agreement _between us, that is to be_, no third person

shall intermeddle. But we will not now speak of that. You must consider

yourself my equal here; there must be no secrets to hide from each

other; no suspicions engendered. We are both artists. Confidence is the

only path to mutual improvement. My business is large, but my ambition

to excel greater, far. Listen to me, child!" and suddenly rising, so as

to confront Lucile, he darted one of those magnetic glances into the

very fortress of her soul, which we have before attempted to describe,

and added, in an altered tone of voice, "The sun's raybrush paints the

rainbow upon the evanescent cloud, and photographs an iris in the skies.

The human eye catches the picture ere it fades, and transfers it with

all its beauteous tints to that prepared albumen, the retina. The soul

sees it there, and rejoices at the splendid spectacle. Shall insensate

nature outpaint the godlike mind? Can she leave her brightest colors on

the dark _collodion_ of a thunder-cloud, and I not transfer the blush of

a rose, or the vermilion of a dahlia, to my _Rivi_ or _Saxe_? No! no!

I'll not believe it. Let us work together, girl; we'll lead the age we

live in. My name shall rival Titian's, and you shall yet see me snatch

the colors of the dying dolphin from decay, and bid them live forever."

And so saying, he turned with a suddenness that startled his pupil, and

strode hastily out of the apartment.

Unaccustomed, as Lucile had been from her very birth, to brusque

manners, like those of the photographer, their grotesqueness impressed

her with an indefinable relish for such awkward sincerity, and whetted

her appetite to see more of the man whose enthusiasm always got the

better of his politeness.

"He is no Frenchman," thought the girl, "but I like him none the less.

He has been very, very kind to me, and I am at this moment dependent

upon him for my daily bread." Then, changing the direction of her

thoughts, they recurred to the subject-matter of Pollexfen's discourse.

"Here," thought she, "lies the clue to the labyrinth. If insane, his

madness is a noble one; for he would link his name with the progress of

his art. He seeks to do away with the necessity of such poor creatures

as myself, as adjuncts to photography. Nature, he thinks, should lay on

the coloring, not man--the Sun himself should paint, not the human

hand." And with these, and kindred thoughts, she opened her escritoire,

and taking out her pencils sat down to the performance of her daily

labor.

Oh, blessed curse of Adam's posterity, healthful toil, all hail!

Offspring of sin and shame--still heaven's best gift to man. Oh,

wondrous miracle of Providence! divinest alchemy of celestial science!

by which the chastisement of the progenitor transforms itself into a

priceless blessing upon the offspring! None but God himself could

transmute the sweat of the face into a panacea for the soul. How many

myriads have been cured by toil of the heart's sickness and the body's

infirmities! The clink of the hammer drowns, in its music, the

lamentations of pain and the sighs of sorrow. Even the distinctions of

rank and wealth and talents are all forgotten, and the inequalities of

stepdame Fortune all forgiven, whilst the busy whirls of industry are

bearing us onward to our goal. No condition in life is so much to be

envied as his who is too busy to indulge in reverie. Health is his

companion, happiness his friend. Ills flee from his presence as

night-birds from the streaking of the dawn. Pale Melancholy, and her

sister Insanity, never invade his dominions; for Mirth stands sentinel

at the border, and Innocence commands the garrison of his soul.

Henceforth let no man war against fate whose lot has been cast in that

happy medium, equidistant from the lethargic indolence of superabundant

wealth, and the abject paralysis of straitened poverty. Let them toil

on, and remember that God is a worker, and strews infinity with

revolving worlds! Should he forget, in a moment of grief or triumph, of

gladness or desolation, that being born to toil, in labor only shall he

find contentment, let him ask of the rivers why they never rest, of the

sunbeams why they never pause. Yea, of the great globe itself, why it

travels on forever in the golden pathway of the ecliptic, and nature,

from her thousand voices, will respond: Motion is life, inertia is

death; action is health, stagnation is sickness; toil is glory, torpor

is disgrace!

I cannot say that thoughts as profound as these found their way into the

mind of Lucile, as she plied her task, but nature vindicated her own

laws in her case, as she will always do, if left entirely to herself.

As day after day and week after week rolled by, a softened sorrow, akin

only to grief--

"As the mist resembles the rain"--

took the place of the poignant woe which had overwhelmed her at first,

and time laid a gentle hand upon her afflictions. Gradually, too, she

became attached to her art, and made such rapid strides towards

proficiency that Pollexfen ceased, finally, to give any instruction, or

offer any hints as to the manner in which she ought to paint. Thus her

own taste became her only guide; and before six months had elapsed after

the death of her father, the pictures of Pollexfen became celebrated

throughout the city and state, for the correctness of their coloring and

the extraordinary delicacy of their finish. His gallery was daily

thronged with the wealth, beauty and fashion of the great metropolis,

and the hue of his business assumed the coloring of success.

But his soul was the slave of a single thought. Turmoil brooded there,

like darkness over chaos ere the light pierced the deep profound.

During the six months which we have just said had elapsed since the

domiciliation of Mlle. Marmont beneath his roof, he had had many long

and perfectly frank conversations with her, upon the subject which most

deeply interested him. She had completely fathomed his secret, and by

degrees had learned to sympathize with him, in his search into the

hidden mysteries of photographic science. She even became the frequent

companion of his chemical experiments, and night after night attended

him in his laboratory, when the lazy world around them was buried in the

profoundest repose.

Still, there was one subject which, hitherto, he had not broached, and

that was the one in which she felt all a woman's curiosity--_the offer

to purchase an eye_. She had long since ascertained the story of the

one-eyed pets in the parlor, and had not only ceased to wonder, but was

mentally conscious of having forgiven Pollexfen, in her own enthusiasm

for art.

Finally, a whole year elapsed since the death of her father, and no

extraordinary change took place in the relations of the master and his

pupil. True, each day their intercourse became more unrestrained, and

their art-association more intimate. But this intimacy was not the tie

of personal friendship or individual esteem. It began in the laboratory,

and there it ended. Pollexfen had no soul except for his art; no love

outside of his profession. Money he seemed to care for but little,

except as a means of supplying his acids, salts and plates. He

rigorously tested every metal, in its iodides and bromides;

industriously coated his plates with every substance that could be

albumenized, and plunged his negatives into baths of every mineral that

could be reduced to the form of a vapor. His activity was prodigious;

his ingenuity exhaustless, his industry absolutely boundless. He was as

familiar with chemistry as he was with the outlines of the geography of

Scotland. Every headland, spring and promontory of that science he knew

by heart. The most delicate experiments he performed with ease, and the

greatest rapidity. Nature seemed to have endowed him with a native

aptitude for analysis. His love was as profound as it was ready; in

fact, if there was anything he detested more than loud laughter, it was

superficiality. He instinctively pierced at once to the roots and

sources of things; and never rested, after seeing an effect, until he

groped his way back to the cause. "Never stand still," he would often

say to his pupil, "where the ground is boggy. Reach the rock before you

rest." This maxim was the great index to his character; the key to all

his researches.

Time fled so rapidly and to Lucile so pleasantly, too, that she had

reached the very verge of her legal maturity before she once deigned to

bestow a thought upon what change, if any, her eighteenth birthday would

bring about. A few days preceding her accession to majority, a large

package of letters from France, _via_ New York, arrived, directed to M.

Marmont himself, and evidently written without a knowledge of his death.

The bundle came to my care, and I hastened at once to deliver it,

personally, to the blooming and really beautiful Lucile. I had not seen

her for many months, and was surprised to find so great an improvement

in her health and appearance. Her manners were more marked, her

conversation more rapid and decided, and the general contour of her form

far more womanly. It required only a moment's interview to convince me

that she possessed unquestioned talent of a high order, and a spirit as

imperious as a queen's. Those famous eyes of hers, that had, nearly two

years before, attracted in such a remarkable manner the attention of

Pollexfen, had not failed in the least; on the contrary, time had

intensified their power, and given them a depth of meaning and a

dazzling brilliancy that rendered them almost insufferably bright. It

seemed to me that contact with the magnetic gaze of the photographer had

lent them something of his own expression, and I confess that when my

eye met hers fully and steadily, mine was always the first to droop.

Knowing that she was in full correspondence with her lover, I asked

after Courtland, and she finally told me all she knew. He was still

suffering from the effect of the assassin's blow, and very recently had

been attacked by inflammatory rheumatism. His health seemed permanently

impaired, and Lucile wept bitterly as she spoke of the poverty in which

they were both plunged, and which prevented him from essaying the only

remedy that promised a radical cure.

"Oh!" exclaimed she, "were it only in our power to visit _La belle

France_, to bask in the sunshine of Dauphiny, to sport amid the lakes of

the Alps, to repose beneath the elms of Chálons!"

"Perhaps," said I, "the very letters now unopened in your hands may

invite you back to the scenes of your childhood."

"Alas! no," she rejoined, "I recognize the handwriting of my widowed

aunt, and I tremble to break the seal."

Rising shortly afterwards, I bade her a sorrowful farewell.

Lucile sought her private apartment before she ventured to unseal the

dispatches. Many of the letters were old, and had been floating between

New York and Havre for more than a twelvemonth. One was of recent date,

and that was the first one perused by the niece. Below is a free

translation of its contents. It bore date at "Bordeaux, July 12, 1853,"

and ran thus:

EVER DEAR AND BELOVED BROTHER:

Why have we never heard from you since the beginning of 1851?

Alas! I fear some terrible misfortune has overtaken you, and

overwhelmed your whole family. Many times have I written during

that long period, and prayed, oh! so promptly, that God would

take you, and yours, in His holy keeping. And then our dear

Lucile! Ah! what a life must be in store for her, in that wild

and distant land! Beg of her to return to France; and do not

fail, also, to come yourself. We have a new Emperor, as you must

long since have learned, in the person of Louis Bonaparte, nephew

of the great Napoleon. Your reactionist principles against

Cavaignac and his colleagues, can be of no disservice to you at

present. Napoleon is lenient. He has even recalled Louis Blanc.

Come, and apply for restitution of the old estates; come, and be

a protector of my seven orphans, now, alas! suffering even for

the common necessaries of life. Need a fond sister say more to

her only living brother?

Thine, as in childhood,

ANNETTE.

"Misfortunes pour like a pitiless winter storm upon my devoted head,"

thought Lucile, as she replaced the letter in its envelope. "Parents

dead; aunt broken-hearted; cousins starving, and I not able to afford

relief. I cannot even moisten their sorrows with a tear. I would weep,

but rebellion against fate rises in my soul, and dries up the fountain

of tears. Had Heaven made me a man it would not have been thus. I have

something here," she exclaimed, rising from her seat and placing her

hand upon her forehead, "that tells me I could do and dare, and endure."

Her further soliloquy was here interrupted by a distinct rap at her

door, and on pronouncing the word "enter," Pollexfen, for the first time

since she became a member of his family, strode heavily into her

chamber. Lucile did not scream, or protest, or manifest either surprise

or displeasure at this unwonted and uninvited visit. She politely

pointed to a seat, and the photographer, without apology or hesitation,

seized the chair, and moving it so closely to her own that they came in

contact, seated himself without uttering a syllable. Then, drawing a

document from his breast pocket, which was folded formally, and sealed

with two seals, but subscribed only with one name, he proceeded to read

it from beginning to end, in a slow, distinct, and unfaltering tone.

I have the document before me, as I write, and I here insert a full and

correct copy. It bore date just one month subsequent to the time of the

interview, and was intended, doubtless, to afford his pupil full

opportunity for consultation before requesting her signature:

|=This Indenture=|, Made this nineteenth day of November, A. D.

1853, by John Pollexfen, photographer, of the first part, and

Lucile Marmont, artiste, of the second part, both of the city of

San Francisco, and State of California, WITNESSETH:

WHEREAS, the party of the first part is desirous of obtaining a

living, sentient, human eye, of perfect organism, and

unquestioned strength, for the sole purpose of chemical analysis

and experiment in the lawful prosecution of his studies as

photograph chemist. AND WHEREAS, the party of the second part can

supply the desideratum aforesaid. AND WHEREAS FURTHER, the first

party is willing to purchase, and the second party willing to

sell the same:

Now, THEREFORE, the said John Pollexfen, for and in consideration

of such eye, to be by him safely and instantaneously removed from

its left socket, at the rooms of said Pollexfen, on Monday,

November 19, at the hour of eleven o'clock P. M., hereby

undertakes, promises and agrees, to pay unto the said Lucile

Marmont, in current coin of the United States, in advance, the

full and just sum of seven thousand five hundred dollars. AND the

said Lucile Marmont, on her part, hereby agrees and covenants to

sell, and for and in consideration of the said sum of seven

thousand and five hundred dollars, does hereby sell, unto the

said Pollexfen, her left eye, as aforesaid, to be by him

extracted, in time, place and manner above set forth; only

stipulating on her part, further, that said money shall be

deposited in the Bank of Page, Bacon & Co. on the morning of that

day, in the name of her attorney and agent, Thomas J. Falconer,

Esq., for her sole and separate use.

As witness our hands and seals, this nineteenth day of November,

A. D. 1853.

(Signed) JOHN POLLEXFEN, [L. S.]

.............. [L. S.]

Having finished the perusal, the photographer looked up, and the eyes of

his pupil encountered his own.

And here terminates the third phase in the history of John Pollexfen.

PHASE THE FOURTH.

The confronting glance of the master and his pupil was not one of those

casual encounters of the eye which lasts but for a second, and

terminates in the almost instantaneous withdrawal of the vanquished orb.

On the contrary, the scrutiny was long and painful. Each seemed

determined to conquer, and both knew that flight was defeat, and

quailing ruin. The photographer felt a consciousness of superiority in

himself, in his cause and his intentions. These being pure and

commendable, he experienced no sentiment akin to the weakness of guilt.

The girl, on the other hand, struggled with the emotions of terror,

curiosity and defiance. He thought, "Will she yield?" She, "Is this man

in earnest?" Neither seemed inclined to speak, yet both grew impatient.

Nature finally vindicated her own law, that the most powerful intellect

must magnetize the weaker, and Lucile, dropping her eye, said, with a

sickened smile, "Sir, are you jesting?"

"I am incapable of trickery," dryly responded Pollexfen.

"But not of delusion?" suggested the girl.

"A fool may be deceived, a chemist never."

"And you would have the fiendish cruelty to tear out one of my eyes

before I am dead? Why, even the vulture waits till his prey is carrion."

"I am not cruel," he responded; "I labor under no delusion. I pursue no

phantom. Where I now stand experiment forced me. With the rigor of a

mathematical demonstration I have been driven to the proposition set

forth in this agreement. Nature cannot lie. The earth revolves because

it _must_. Causation controls the universe. Men speak of _accidents_,

but a fortuitous circumstance never happened since matter moved at the

fist of the Almighty. Is it chance that the prism decomposes a ray of

light? Is it chance, that by mixing hydrogen and oxygen in the

proportion of two to one in volume, water should be the result? How can

Nature err?"

"She cannot," Lucile responded, "but man may."

"That argues that I, too, am but human, and may fall into the common

category."

"Such was my thought."

"Then banish the idea forever. I deny not that I am but mortal, but man

was made in the image of God. Truth is as clear to the perception of the

creature, _when seen at all_, as it is to that of the Creator. What is

man but a finite God? He moves about his little universe its sole

monarch, and with all the absoluteness of a deity, controls its motions

and settles its destiny. He may not be able to number the sands on the

seashore, but he can count his flocks and herds. He may not create a

comet, or overturn a world, but he can construct the springs of a watch,

or the wheels of a mill, and they obey him as submissively as globes

revolve about their centres, or galaxies tread in majesty the

measureless fields of space!

"For years," exclaimed he, rising to his feet, and fixing his eagle

glance upon his pupil, "for long and weary years, I have studied the

laws of light, color, and motion. Why are my pictures sharper in

outline, and truer to nature, than those of rival artists around me?

Poor fools! whilst they slavishly copied what nobler natures taught, I

boldly trod in unfamiliar paths. I invented, whilst they traveled on the

beaten highway, look at my lenses! They use glass--yes, common

glass--with a spectral power of 10, because they catch up the childish

notion of Dawson, and Harwick, that it is impossible to prepare the most

beautiful substance in nature, next to the diamond--crystalized

quartz--for the purposes of art. Yet quartz has a power of refraction

equal to 74! Could John Pollexfen sleep quietly in his bed whilst such

an outrage was being perpetrated daily against God and His universe? No!

Lucile; never! Yon snowy hills conceal in their bosoms treasures far

richer than the sheen of gold. With a single blast I tore away a ton of

crystal. How I cut and polished it is my secret, not the world's. The

result crowds my gallery daily, whilst theirs are half deserted."

"And are you not satisfied with your success?" demanded the girl, whose

own eye began to dilate, and gleam, as it caught the kindred spark of

enthusiasm from the flaming orbs of Pollexfen.

"Satisfied!" cried he; "satisfied! Not until my _camera_ flashes back

the silver sheen of the planets, and the golden twinkle of the stars.

Not until earth and all her daughters can behold themselves in yon

mirror, clad in their radiant robes. Not until each hue of the rainbow,

each tint of the flower, and the fitful glow of roseate beauty,

changeful as the tinge of summer sunsets, have all been captured,

copied, and embalmed forever by the triumphs of the human mind! Least of

all, could I be satisfied now at the very advent of a nobler era in my

art."

"And do you really believe," inquired Lucile, "that color can be

photographed as faithfully as light and shade?"

"Believe, girl? _I know it._ Does not your own beautiful eye print upon

its retina tints, dyes and hues innumerable? And what is the eye but a

lens? God was the first photographer. Give me but a living, sentient,

perfect human eye to dissect and analyze, and I swear by the holy book

of science that I will detect the secret, though hidden deep down in the

primal particles of matter."

"And why a human eye? Why not an eagle's or a lion's?"

"A question I once propounded to myself, and never rested till it was

solved," replied Pollexfen. "Go into my parlor, and ask my pets if I

have not been diligent, faithful, and honest. I have tested every eye

but the human. From the dull shark's to the imperial condor's, I have

tried them all. Months elapsed ere I discovered the error in my

reasoning. Finally, a little boy explained it all. 'Mother,' said a

child, in my hearing, 'when the pigeons mate, do they choose the

prettiest birds?' 'No,' said his mother. 'And why not?' pursued the boy.

Because, responded I, waking as from a dream, _they have no perception

of color_! The animal world sports in light and shade; the human only

rejoices in the apprehension of color. Does the horse admire the

rainbow? or does the ox spare the buttercup and the violet, because they

are beautiful? The secret lies in the human eye alone. An eye! an eye!

give me but one, Lucile!"

As the girl was about to answer, the photographer again interposed, "Not

now; I want no answer now; I give you a month for reflection." And so

saying, he left the room as unceremoniously as he had entered.

The struggle in the mind of Lucile was sharp and decisive. Dependent

herself upon her daily labor, her lover an invalid, and her nearest

kindred starving, were facts that spoke in deeper tones than the thunder

to her soul. Besides, was not one eye to be spared her, and was not a

single eye quite as good as two? She thought, too, how glorious it would

be if Pollexfen should not be mistaken, and she herself should conduce

so essentially to the noblest triumph of the photographic art.

A shade, however, soon overspread her glowing face, as the unbidden idea

came forward: "And will my lover still be faithful to a mutilated bride?

Will not my beauty be marred forever? But," thought she, "is not this

sacrifice for him? Oh, yes! we shall cling still more closely in

consequence of the very misfortune that renders our union possible." One

other doubt suggested itself to her mind: "Is this contract legal? Can

it be enforced? If so," and here her compressed lips, her dilated

nostril, and her clenched hand betokened her decision, "_if so, I

yield_!"

Three weeks passed quickly away, and served but to strengthen the

determination of Lucile. At the expiration of that period, and just one

week before the time fixed for the accomplishment of this cruel scheme,

I was interrupted, during the trial of a cause, by the entry of my

clerk, with a short note from Mademoiselle Marmont, requesting my

immediate presence at the office. Apologizing to the judge, and to my

associate counsel, I hastily left the court-room.

On entering, I found Lucile completely veiled. Nor was it possible,

during our interview, to catch a single glimpse of her features. She

rose, and advancing toward me, extended her hand; whilst pressing it I

felt it tremble.

"Read this document, Mr. Falconer, and advise me as to its legality. I

seek no counsel as to my duty. My mind is unalterably fixed on that

subject, and I beg of you, as a favor, in advance, to spare yourself the

trouble, and me the pain, of reopening it."

If the speech, and the tone in which it was spoken, surprised me, I need

not state how overwhelming was my astonishment at the contents of the

document. I was absolutely stunned. The paper fell from my hands as

though they were paralyzed. Seeing my embarrassment, Lucile rose and

paced the room in an excited manner. Finally pausing, opposite my desk,

she inquired, "Do you require time to investigate the law?"

"Not an instant," said I, recovering my self-possession. "This paper is

not only illegal, but the execution of it an offense. It provides for

the perpetration of the crime of _mayhem_, and it is my duty, as a good

citizen, to arrest the wretch who can contemplate so heinous and inhuman

an act, without delay. See! he has even had the insolence to insert my

own name as paymaster for his villainy."

"I did not visit your office to hear my benefactor and friend insulted,"

ejaculated the girl, in a bitter and defiant tone. "I only came to get

an opinion on a matter of law."

"But this monster is insane, utterly crazy," retorted I. "He ought, this

moment, to be in a madhouse."

"Where they did put Tasso, and tried to put Galileo," she rejoined.

"In the name of the good God!" said I, solemnly, "are you in earnest?"

"Were I not, I should not be here."

"Then our conversation must terminate just where it began."

Lucile deliberately took her seat at my desk, and seizing a pen hastily

affixed her signature to the agreement, and rising, left the office

without uttering another syllable.

"I have, at least, the paper," thought I, "and that I intend to keep."

My plans were soon laid. I sat down and addressed a most pressing letter

to Mr. Courtland, informing him fully of the plot of the lunatic, for so

I then regarded him, and urged him to hasten to San Francisco without a

moment's delay. Then, seizing my hat, I made a most informal call on Dr.

White, and consulted him as to the best means of breaking through the

conspiracy. We agreed at once that, as Pollexfen had committed no overt

act in violation of law, he could not be legally arrested, but that

information must be lodged with the chief of police, requesting him to

detail a trustworthy officer, whose duty it should be to obey us

implicitly, and be ready to act at a moment's notice.

All this was done, and the officer duly assigned for duty. His name was

Cloudsdale. We explained to him fully the nature of the business

intrusted to his keeping, and took great pains to impress upon him the

necessity of vigilance and fidelity. He entered into the scheme with

alacrity, and was most profuse in his promises.

Our settled plan was to meet at the outer door of the photographer's

gallery, at half-past ten o'clock P. M., on the 19th of November, 1853,

and shortly afterwards to make our way, by stratagem or force, into the

presence of Pollexfen, and arrest him on the spot. We hoped to find such

preparations on hand as would justify the arrest, and secure his

punishment. If not, Lucile was to be removed, at all events, and

conducted to a place of safety. Such was the general outline. During the

week we had frequent conferences, and Cloudsdale effected an entrance,

on two occasions, upon some slight pretext, into the room of the artist.

But he could discover nothing to arouse suspicion; so, at least, he

informed us. During the morning of the 19th, a warrant of arrest was

duly issued, and lodged in the hands of Cloudsdale for execution. He

then bade us good morning, and urged us to be promptly on the ground at

half-past ten. He told us that he had another arrest to make on the

Sacramento boat, when she arrived, but would not be detained five

minutes at the police office. This was annoying, but we submitted with

the best grace possible.

During the afternoon, I got another glimpse at our "trusty." The steamer

left for Panama at one P. M., and I went on board to bid adieu to a

friend who was a passenger.

Cloudsdale was also there, and seemed anxious and restive. He told me

that he was on the lookout for a highway robber, who had been tracked to

the city, and it might be possible that he was stowed away secretly on

the ship. Having business up town, I soon left, and went away with a

heavy heart.

As night approached I grew more and more nervous, for the party most

deeply interested in preventing this crime had not made his appearance.

Mr. Courtland had not reached the city. Sickness or the miscarriage of

my letter, was doubtless the cause.

The Doctor and myself supped together, and then proceeded to my

chambers, where we armed ourselves as heavily as though we were about to

fight a battle. We were both silent. The enormity of Pollexfen's

contemplated crime struck us dumb. The evening, however, wore painfully

away, and finally our watches pointed to the time when we should take

our position, as before agreed upon.

We were the first on the ground. This we did not specially notice then;

but when five, then ten, and next, fifteen minutes elapsed, and the

officer still neglected to make his appearance, our uneasiness became

extreme. Twenty--_twenty-five_ minutes passed; still Cloudsdale was

unaccountably detained. "Can he be already in the rooms above?" we

eagerly asked one another. "Are we not betrayed?" exclaimed I, almost

frantically.

"We have no time to spare in discussion," replied the Doctor, and,

advancing, we tried the door. It was locked. We had brought a

step-ladder, to enter by the window, if necessary. Next, we endeavored

to hoist the window; it was nailed down securely. Leaping to the ground

we made an impetuous, united onset against the door; but it resisted all

our efforts to burst it in. Acting now with all the promptitude demanded

by the occasion, we mounted the ladder, and by a simultaneous movement

broke the sash, and leaped into the room. Groping our way hurriedly to

the stairs, we had placed our feet upon the first step, when our ears

were saluted with one long, loud, agonizing shriek. The next instant we

rushed into the apartment of Lucile, and beheld a sight that seared our

own eyeballs with horror, and baffles any attempt at description.

Before our faces stood the ferocious demon, holding in his arms the

fainting girl, and hurriedly clipping, with a pair of shears, the last

muscles and integuments which held the organ in its place.

"Hold! for God's sake, hold!" shouted Dr. White, and instantly grappled

with the giant. Alas! alas! it was too late, forever! The work had been

done; the eye torn, bleeding, from its socket, and just as the Doctor

laid his arm upon Pollexfen, the ball fell, dripping with gore, into his

left hand.

This is the end of the fourth phase.

PHASE THE FIFTH, AND LAST.

"Monster," cried I, "we arrest you for the crime of mayhem."

"Perhaps, gentlemen," said the photographer, "you will be kind enough to

exhibit your warrant." As he said this, he drew from his pocket with his

right hand, the writ of arrest which had been intrusted to Cloudsdale,

and deliberately lighting it in the candle, burned it to ashes before we

could arrest his movement. Lucile had fallen upon a ready prepared bed,

in a fit of pain, and fainting. The Doctor took his place at her side,

his own eyes streaming with tears, and his very soul heaving with

agitation.

As for me, my heart was beating as audibly as a drum. With one hand I

grappled the collar of Pollexfen, and with the other held a cocked

pistol at his head.

He stood as motionless as a statue. Not a nerve trembled nor a tone

faltered, as he spoke these words: "I am most happy to see you,

gentlemen; especially the Doctor, for he can relieve me of the duties of

surgeon. You, sir, can assist him as nurse." And shaking off my hold as

though it had been a child's, he sprang into the laboratory adjoining,

and locked the door as quick as thought.

The insensibility of Lucile did not last long. Consciousness returned

gradually, and with it pain of the most intense description. Still she

maintained a rigidness of feature, and an intrepidity of soul that

excited both sorrow and admiration. "Poor child! poor child!" was all we

could utter, and even that spoken in whispers. Suddenly a noise in the

laboratory attracted attention. Rising I went close to the door.

"Two to one in measure; eight to one in weight; water, only water,"

soliloquized the photographer. Then silence, "Phosphorus; yellow in

color; burns in oxygen." Silence again.

"Good God!" cried I, "Doctor, he is analyzing her eye! The fiend is

actually performing his incantations!"

A moment elapsed. A sudden, sharp explosion; then a fall, as if a chair

had been upset, and----

"Carbon in combustion! Carbon in combustion!" in a wild, excited tone,

broke from the lips of Pollexfen, and the instant afterwards he stood at

the bedside of his pupil. "Lucile! Lucile! the secret is ours; ours

only!"

At the sound of his voice the girl lifted herself from her pillow,

whilst he proceeded: "Carbon in combustion; I saw it ere the light died

from the eyeball."

A smile lighted the pale face of the girl as she faintly responded,

"Regulus gave both eyes for his country; I have given but one for my

art."

Pressing both hands to my throbbing brow, I asked myself, "Can this be

real? Do I dream? If real, why do I not assassinate the fiend? Doctor,"

said I, "we must move Lucile. I will seek assistance."

"Not so," responded Pollexfen; the excitement of motion might bring on

erysipelas, or still worse, _tetanus_.

A motion from Lucile brought me to her bedside. Taking from beneath her

pillow a bank deposit-book, and placing it in my hands, she requested me

to hand it to Courtland the moment of his arrival, which she declared

would be the 20th, and desire him to read the billet attached to the

banker's note of the deposit. "Tell him," she whispered, "not to love me

less in my mutilation;" and again she relapsed into unconsciousness.

The photographer now bent over the senseless form of his victim, and

muttering, "Yes, carbon in combustion," added, in a softened tone, "Poor

girl!" As he lifted his face, I detected a solitary tear course down

his impressive features. "The first I have shed," said he, sternly,

"since my daughter's death."

Saying nothing, I could only think--"And this wretch once had a child!"

The long night through we stood around her bed. With the dawn, Martha,

the housekeeper, returned, and we then learned, for the first time, with

what consummate skill Pollexfen had laid all his plans. For even the

housekeeper had been sent out of the way, and on a fictitious pretense

that she was needed at the bedside of a friend, whose illness was

feigned for the occasion. Nor was the day over before we learned with

certainty, but no longer with surprise, that Cloudsdale was on his way

to Panama, with a bribe in his pocket.

As soon as it was safe to remove Lucile, she was borne on a litter to

the hospital of Dr. Peter Smith, where she received every attention that

her friends could bestow.

Knowing full well, from what Lucile had told me, that Courtland would be

down in the Sacramento boat, I awaited his arrival with the greatest

impatience. I could only surmise what would be his course. But judging

from my own feelings, I could not doubt that it would be both desperate

and decisive.

Finally, the steamer rounded to, and the next moment the pale, emaciated

form of the youth sank, sobbing, into my arms. Other tears mingled with

his own.

The story was soon told. Eagerly, most eagerly, Courtland read the

little note accompanying the bankbook. It was very simple, and ran thus:

MY OWN LIFE'S LIFE: Forgive the first, and only act, that you

will ever disapprove of in the conduct of your mutilated but

loving Lucile. Ah! can I still hope for your love, in the future,

as in the past? Give me but that assurance, and death itself

would be welcome.

L. M.

We parted very late; he going to a hotel, I to the bedside of the

wounded girl. Our destinies would have been reversed, but the surgeon's

order was imperative, that she should see no one whose presence might

conduce still further to bring on inflammation of the brain.

The next day, Courtland was confined to his bed until late in the

afternoon, when he dressed, and left the hotel. I saw him no more until

the subsequent day. Why, it now becomes important to relate.

About eight o'clock in the evening of the 21st, the day after his

arrival, Courtland staggered into the gallery, or rather the den of John

Pollexfen. He had no other arms than a short double-edged dagger, and

this he concealed in his sleeve.

They had met before; as he sometimes went there, anterior to the death

of M. Marmont, to obtain the photographs upon which Lucile was

experimenting, previous to her engagement by the artist.

Pollexfen manifested no surprise at his visit; indeed, his manner

indicated that it had been anticipated.

"You have come into my house, young man," slowly enunciated the

photographer, "to take my life."

"I do not deny it," replied Courtland.

As he said this, he took a step forward. Pollexfen threw open his vest,

raised himself to his loftiest height, and solemnly said: "Fire! or

strike! as the case may be; I shall offer no resistance. I only beg of

you, as a gentleman, to hear me through before you play the part of

assassin."

Their eyes met. The struck lamb gazing at the eagle! Vengeance

encountering Faith! The pause was but momentary. "I will hear you," said

Courtland, sinking into a chair, already exhausted by his passion.

Pollexfen did not move. Confronting the lover, he told his story

truthfully to the end. He plead for his life; for he felt the proud

consciousness of having performed an act of duty that bordered upon the

heroic.

Still, there was no relenting in the eye of Courtland. It had that

expression in it that betokens blood. Cæsar saw it as Brutus lifted his

dagger. Henry of Navarre recognized it as the blade of Ravillac sank

into his heart. Joaquin beheld it gleaming in the vengeful orbs of Harry

Love! Pollexfen, too, understood the language that it spoke.

Dropping his hands, and taking one stride toward the young man, he

sorrowfully said: "I have but one word more to utter. Your affianced

bride has joyfully sacrificed one of her lustrous eyes to science. In

doing so, she expressed but one regret, that you, whom she loved better

than vision, or even life, might, as the years roll away, forget to love

her in her mutilation as you did in her beauty. Perfect yourself, she

feared mating with imperfection might possibly estrange your heart. Your

superiority in personal appearance might constantly disturb the perfect

equilibrium of love."

He ceased. The covert meaning was seized with lightning rapidity by

Courtland. Springing to his feet, he exclaimed joyfully: "The sacrifice

must be mutual. God never created a soul that could outdo Charles

Courtland's in generosity."

Flinging his useless dagger upon the floor, he threw himself into the

already extended arms of the photographer, and begged him "to be quick

with the operation." The artist required no second invitation, and ere

the last words died upon his lips, the sightless ball of his left eye

swung from its socket.

There was no cry of pain; no distortion of the young man's features with

agony; no moan, or sob, or sigh. As he closed firmly his right eye, and

compressed his pallid lips, a joyous smile lit up his whole countenance

that told the spectator how superior even human love is to the body's

anguish; how willingly the severest sacrifice falls at the beck of

honor!

I shall attempt no description of the manner in which I received the

astounding news from the lips of the imperturbable Pollexfen; nor

prolong this narrative by detailing the meeting of the lovers, their

gradual recovery, their marriage, and their departure for the vales of

Dauphiny. It is but just to add, however, that Pollexfen added two

thousand five hundred dollars to the bank account of Mademoiselle

Marmont, on the day of her nuptials, as a bridal present, given, no

doubt, partially as a compensation to the heroic husband for his

voluntary mutilation.

Long months elapsed after the departure of Lucile and her lover before

the world heard anything more of the photographer.

One day, however, in the early spring of the next season, it was

observed that Pollexfen had opened a new and most magnificent gallery

upon Montgomery Street, and had painted prominently upon his sign, these

words:

+----------------------------------------------------+

| JOHN POLLEXFEN, PHOTOGRAPHER. |

| |

| _Discoverer of the Carbon Process, |

| By which Colored Pictures are Painted by the Sun._ |

+----------------------------------------------------+

The news of this invention spread, in a short time, over the whole

civilized world; and the Emperor Napoleon the Third, with the liberality

characteristic of great princes, on hearing from the lips of Lucile a

full account of this wonderful discovery, revived, in favor of John

Pollexfen, the pension which had been bestowed upon Niépce, and which

had lapsed by his death, in 1839; and with a magnanimity that would have

rendered still more illustrious his celebrated uncle, revoked the decree

of forfeiture against the estates of M. Marmont, and bestowed them, with

a corresponding title of nobility, upon Lucile and her issue.

This ends my story. I trust the patient reader will excuse its length,

for it was all necessary, in order to explain how John Pollexfen made

his fortune.

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

VI.

_THE LOVE KNOT._

Upon my bosom lies

A knot of blue and gray;

You ask me why tears fill my eyes

As low to you I say:

"I had two brothers once,

Warmhearted, bold and gay;

They left my side--one wore the blue,

The other wore the gray.

One rode with "Stonewall" and his men,

And joined his fate with Lee;

The other followed Sherman's march,

Triumphant to the sea.

Both fought for what they deemed the right,

And died with sword in hand;

One sleeps amid Virginia's hills,

And one in Georgia's land.

Why should one's dust be consecrate,

The other's spurned with scorn--

Both victims of a common fate,

Twins cradled, bred and born?

Oh! tell me not--a patriot one,

A traitor vile the other;

John was my mother's favorite son,

But Eddie was my brother.

The same sun shines above their graves,

My love unchanged must stay--

And so upon my bosom lies

Love's knot of blue and gray."

[Decoration]

VII.

_THE AZTEC PRINCESS._

"Speaking marble."--BYRON.

CHAPTER I.

In common with many of our countrymen, my attention has been powerfully

drawn to the subject of American antiquities, ever since the publication

of the wonderful discoveries made by Stephens and Norman Among the ruins

of Uxmal and Palenque.

Yucatan and Chiapas have always spoken to my imagination more forcibly

than Egypt or Babylon; and in my early dreams of ambition I aspired to

emulate the fame of Champollion _le Jeune_, and transmit my name to

posterity on the same page with that of the decipherer of the

hieroglyphics on the pyramids of Ghizeh.

The fame of warriors and statesmen is transient and mean, when compared

to that of those literary colossii whose herculean labors have turned

back upon itself the tide of oblivion, snatched the scythe from the

hands of Death, and, reversing the duties of the fabled Charon, are now

busily engaged in ferrying back again across the Styx the shades of the

illustrious dead, and landing them securely upon the shores of true

immortality, the ever-living Present! Even the laurels of the poet and

orator, the historian and philosopher, wither, and

"Pale their ineffectual fires"

in the presence of that superiority--truly godlike in its

attributes--which, with one wave of its matchless wand, conjures up

whole realms, reconstructs majestic empires, peoples desolate

wastes--voiceless but yesterday, save with the shrill cry of the

bittern--and, contemplating the midnight darkness shrouding Thebes and

Nineveh, cries aloud, "Let there be light!" and suddenly Thotmes starts

from his tomb, the dumb pyramids become vocal, Nimroud wakes from his

sleep of four thousand years, and, springing upon his battle-horse, once

more leads forth his armies to conquest and glory. The unfamiliar air

learns to repeat accents, forgotten ere the foundations of Troy were

laid, and resounds once more with the echoes of a tongue in which old

Menes wooed his bride, long before Noah was commanded to build the Ark,

or the first rainbow smiled upon the cloud.

All honor, then, to the shades of Young and Champollion, Lepsius and De

Lacy, Figeac and Layard. Alexander and Napoleon conquered kingdoms, but

they were ruled by the living. On the contrary, the heroes I have

mentioned vanquished mighty realms, governed alone by the

"Monarch of the Scythe and Glass,"

that unsubstantial king, who erects his thrones on broken columns and

fallen domes, waves his sceptre over dispeopled wastes, and builds his

capitals amid the rocks of Petræa and the catacombs of Egypt.

# # # # #

Such being the object of my ambition, it will not appear surprising that

I embraced every opportunity to enlarge my knowledge of my favorite

subject--American Antiquities--and eagerly perused every new volume

purporting to throw any light upon it. I was perfectly familiar with the

works of Lord Kingsborough and Dr. Robertson before I was fifteen years

of age, and had studied the explorations of Bernal Diaz, Waldeck, and

Dupaix, before I was twenty. My delight, therefore, was boundless when a

copy of Stephens's travels in Yucatan and Chiapas fell into my hands,

and I devoured his subsequent publications on the same subject with all

the avidity of an enthusiast. Nor did my labors stop here. Very early I

saw the importance of an acquaintance with aboriginal tongues, and

immediately set about mastering the researches of Humboldt and

Schoolcraft. This was easily done; for I discovered, much to my chagrin

and disappointment, that but little is known of the languages of the

Indian tribes, and that little is soon acquired. Dissatisfied with such

information as could be gleaned from books only, I applied for and

obtained an agency for dispensing Indian rations among the Cherokees and

Ouchitaws, and set out for Fort Towson in the spring of 1848.

Soon after my arrival I left the fort, and took up my residence at the

wigwam of Sac-a-ra-sa, one of the principal chiefs of the Cherokees. My

intention to make myself familiar with the Indian tongues was noised

abroad, and every facility was afforded me by my hospitable friends. I

took long voyages into the interior of the continent, encountered

delegations from most of the western tribes, and familiarized myself

with almost every dialect spoken by the Indians dwelling west of the

Rocky Mountains. I devoted four years to this labor, and at the end of

that period, with my mind enriched by a species of knowledge

unattainable by a mere acquaintance with books, I determined to visit

Central America in person, and inspect the monuments of Uxmal and

Palenque with my own eyes.

Full of this intention, I took passage on the steamship "Prometheus," in

December, 1852, bound from New York to Greytown, situated in the State

of Nicaragua; a point from which I could easily reach Chiapas or

Yucatan.

And at this point of my narrative, it becomes necessary to digress for a

moment, and relate an incident which occurred on the voyage, and which,

in its consequences, changed my whole mode of investigation, and

introduced a new element of knowledge to my attention.

It so happened that Judge E----, formerly on the Bench of the Supreme

Court of the State of New York, was a fellow-passenger. He had been

employed by the Nicaragua Transit Company to visit Leon, the capital of

Nicaragua, and perfect some treaty stipulations with regard to the

project of an interoceanic canal. Fellow-passengers, we of course became

acquainted almost immediately, and at an early day I made respectful

inquiries concerning that science to which he had of late years

consecrated his life--I mean the "Theory of Spiritual Communion between

the Two Worlds of Matter and Spirit." The judge was as communicative as

I could desire, and with the aid of two large manuscript volumes (which

were subsequently given to the public), he introduced me at once into

the profoundest arcana of the science. I read his books through with the

deepest interest, and though not by any means convinced, I was startled

and bewildered. The most powerful instincts of my nature were aroused,

and I frankly acknowledged to my instructor, that an irresistible

curiosity had seized me to witness some of those strange phenomena with

which his volumes superabounded. Finally, I extorted a promise from him,

that on our arrival at Greytown, if a favorable opportunity presented,

he would endeavor to form the mystical circle, and afford me the

privilege I so much coveted--_to see for myself_. The anticipated

experiments formed the staple of our conversation for the six weary days

and nights that our trip occupied. Finally, on the morning of the

seventh day, the low and wooded coast of Nicaragua gently rose in the

western horizon, and before twelve o'clock we were safely riding at

anchor within the mouth of the San Juan River. But here a new vexation

was in store for us. The river boats commenced firing up, and before

dark we were transferred from our ocean steamer to the lighter crafts,

and were soon afterwards leisurely puffing our way up the river.

The next day we arrived at the upper rapids, where the little village of

Castillo is situated, and where we had the pleasure of being detained

five or six days, awaiting the arrival of the California passengers.

This delay was exactly what I most desired, as it presented the

opportunity long waited for with the utmost impatience. But the weather

soon became most unfavorable, and the rain commenced falling in

torrents. The Judge declared that it was useless to attempt anything so

long as it continued to rain. But on the third evening he consented to

make the experiment, provided the materials of a circle could be found.

We were not long in suspense, for two young ladies from Indiana, a young

doctor from the old North State (now a practicing physician in Stockton,

California), and several others, whose names I have long since

forgotten, volunteered to take part in the mysterious proceedings.

But the next difficulty was to find a place to meet in. The doctor and I

started off on a tour through the village to prepare a suitable spot.

The rain was still falling, and the night as dark as Erebus. Hoisting

our umbrellas, we defied night and storm. Finally, we succeeded in

hiring a room in the second story of a building in process of erection,

procured one or two lanterns, and illuminated it to the best of our

ability. Soon afterwards we congregated there, but as the doors and

windows were not put in, and there were no chairs or tables, we were

once more on the point of giving up in despair. Luckily there were

fifteen or twenty baskets of claret wine unopened in the room, and these

we arranged for seats, substituting an unhinged door, balanced on a pile

of boxes, for the leaf of a table. Our rude contrivance worked

admirably, and before an hour had rolled by we had received a mass of

communications from all kinds of people in the spirit world, and fully

satisfied ourselves that the Judge was either a wizard or what he

professed to be--a _medium_ of communication with departed spirits.

It is unnecessary to detail all the messages we received; one only do I

deem it important to notice. A spirit, purporting to be that of Horatio

Nelson, rapped out his name, and stated that he had led the assault on

the Spaniards in the attack of the old Fort of Castillo frowning above

us, and there first distinguished himself in life. He declared that

these mouldering ruins were one of his favorite haunts, and that he

prided himself more on the assault and capture of _Castillo Viejo_ than

on the victory of the Nile or triumph of Trafalgar.

The circle soon afterwards dispersed, and most of those who had

participated in it were, in a few minutes, slumbering in their cots. As

for myself, I was astounded with all that I had witnessed, but at the

same time delighted beyond measure at the new field opening before me. I

tossed from side to side, unable to close my eyes or to calm down the

excitement, until, finding that sleep was impossible, I hastily rose,

threw on my coat, and went to the door, which was slightly ajar. On

looking out, I observed a person passing toward the foot of the hill

upon which stood the Fort of Castillo Viejo. The shower had passed off,

and the full moon was riding majestically in mid heavens. I thought I

recognized the figure, and I ventured to accost him. It was the Judge.

He also had been unable to sleep, and declared that a sudden impulse

drove him forth into the open air.

Gradually he had approached the foot of the hill, which shot up, like a

sugar-loaf, two or three hundred feet above the level of the stream, and

had just made up his mind to ascend it when I spoke to him. I readily

consented to accompany him, and we immediately commenced climbing

upwards.

The ascent was toilsome, as well as dangerous, and more than once we

were on the point of descending without reaching the summit. Still,

however, we clambered on, and at half-past one o'clock A. M., we

succeeded in our effort, and stood upon the old stone rampart that had

for more than half a century been slowly yielding to the remorseless

tooth of Time. Abandoned for many years, the ruins presented the very

picture of desolation. Rank vines clung upon every stone, and half

filled up with their green tendrils the yawning crevices everywhere

gaping at us, and whispering of the flight of years.

We sat down on a broken fragment that once served as the floor of a

port-hole, and many minutes elapsed before either of us spoke a word. We

were busy with the past. Our thoughts recalled the terrible scenes which

this same old fort witnessed on that glorious day when the youthful

Nelson planted with his own hand the flag of St. George upon the very

ramparts where we were sitting.

How long we had been musing I know not; but suddenly we heard a low,

long-drawn sigh at our very ears. Each sprang to his feet, looked wildly

around, but seeing nothing, gazed at the other in blank astonishment. We

resumed our seats, but had hardly done so, when a deep and most

anguishing groan was heard, that pierced our very hearts. This time we

retained our position. I had unclosed my lips, preparatory to speaking

to my companion, when I felt myself distinctly touched upon the

shoulder. My voice died away inarticulately, and I shuddered with

ill-concealed terror. But my companion was perfectly calm, and moved not

a nerve or a muscle. Able at length to speak, I said, "Judge, let us

leave this haunted sepulchre."

"Not for the world," he coolly replied. "You have been anxious for

spiritual phenomena; now you can witness them unobserved and without

interruption."

As he said this, my right arm was seized with great force, and I was

compelled to resign myself to the control of the presence that possessed

me. My right hand was then placed on the Judge's left breast, and his

left hand laid gently on my right shoulder. At the same time he took a

pencil and paper from his pocket, and wrote very rapidly the following

communication, addressed to me:

The Grave hath its secrets, but the Past has none. Time may

crumble pyramids in the dust, but the genius of man can despoil

him of his booty, and rescue the story of buried empires from

oblivion. Even now the tombs of Egypt are unrolling their

recorded epitaphs. Even now the sculptured mounds of Nineveh are

surrendering the history of Nebuchadnezzar's line. Before another

generation shall pass away, the columns of Palenque shall find a

tongue, and the _bas-reliefs_ of Uxmal wake the dead from their

sleep of two thousand years. Young man! open your eyes; we shall

meet again amid the ruins of the _Casa Grande_!

At this moment the Judges hand fell palsied at his side, and the paper

was thrust violently into my left hand. I held it up so as to permit the

rays of the moon to fall full upon it, and read it carefully from

beginning to end. But no sooner had I finished reading it than a shock

something like electricity struck us simultaneously, and seemed to rock

the old fort to its very foundation. Everything near us was apparently

affected by it, and several large bowlders started from their ticklish

beds and rolled away down the mountain. Our surprise at this was hardly

over, ere one still greater took possession of us. On raising our eyes

to the moss-grown parapet, we beheld a figure sitting upon it that bore

a very striking resemblance to the pictures in the Spanish Museum at

Madrid of the early Aztec princes. It was a female, and she bore upon

her head a most gorgeous headdress of feathers, called a _Panache_. Her

face was calm, clear, and exceedingly beautiful. The nose was

prominent--more so than the Mexican or Tezcucan--and the complexion much

lighter. Indeed, by the gleam of the moonlight, it appeared as white as

that of a Caucasian princess, and wore an expression full of benignity

and love.

Our eyes were riveted upon this beautiful apparition, and our lips

silent. She seemed desirous of speaking, and once or twice I beheld her

lips faintly moving. Finally, raising her white, uncovered arm, she

pointed to the north, and softly murmured, "_Palenque_!"

Before we could resolve in our minds what to say in reply, the fairy

princess folded her arms across her breast, and disappeared as suddenly

and mysteriously as she had been evoked from night. We spoke not a word

to each other, but gazed long and thoughtfully at the spot where the

bright vision had gladdened and bewildered our sight. By a common

impulse, we turned to leave, and descended the mountain in silence as

deep as that which brooded over chaos ere God spoke creation into being.

We soon reached the foot of the hill, and parted, with no word upon our

lips, though with the wealth of untold worlds gathered up in our hearts.

Never, since that bright and glorious tropical night, have I mentioned

the mysterious scene we witnessed on the ramparts of Fort Castillo; and

I have every reason to believe that my companion has been as discreet.

This, perhaps, will be the only record that shall transmit it to the

future; but well I know that its fame will render me immortal.

Through me and me alone, the sculptured marbles of Central America have

found a tongue. By my efforts, Palenque speaks of her buried glories,

and Uxmal wakes from oblivion's repose. Even the old pyramid of Cholula

yields up its bloody secrets, and _Casa Grande_ reveals the dread

history of its royalties.

The means by which a key to the monumental hieroglyphics of Central

America was furnished me, as well as a full account of the discoveries

made at Palenque, will be narrated in the subsequent chapters of this

history.