extensive dominions, the other as a modest, careful, and honest district
surveyor.
Having traced the two Georges to the threshold of their career, let us
now proceed one step further, and take note of the first great public
event in the lives of either.
For a long time preceding the year 1753 the French had laid claim to all
the North American continent west of the Alleghany Mountains, stretching
in an unbroken line from Canada to Louisiana. The English strenuously
denied this right, and when the French commandant on the Ohio, in 1753,
commenced erecting a fort near where the present city of Pittsburg
stands, and proceeded to capture certain English traders, and expel them
from the country, Dinwiddie, Governor of Virginia, deemed it necessary
to dispatch an agent on a diplomatic visit to the French commandant, and
demand by what authority he acted, by what title he claimed the country,
and order him immediately to evacuate the territory.
George Washington, then only in his twenty-second year, was selected by
the Governor for this important mission.
It is unnecessary to follow him, in all his perils, during his wintery
march through the wilderness. The historian of his life has painted in
imperishable colors his courage, his sagacity, his wonderful coolness in
the midst of danger, and the success which crowned his undertaking. The
memory loves to follow him through the trackless wilds of the forest,
accompanied by only a single companion, and making his way through
wintery snows, in the midst of hostile savages and wild beasts for more
than five hundred miles, to the residence of the French commander. How
often do we not shudder, as we behold the treacherous Indian guide, on
his return, deliberately raising his rifle, and leveling it at that
majestic form; thus endeavoring, by an act of treachery and cowardice,
to deprive Virginia of her young hero! And oh! with what fervent prayers
do we not implore a kind Providence to watch over his desperate
encounter with the floating ice, at midnight, in the swollen torrent of
the Alleghany, and rescue him from the wave and the storm. Standing
bareheaded on the frail raft, whilst in the act of dashing aside some
floating ice that threatened to ingulf him, the treacherous oar was
broken in his hand, and he is precipitated many feet into the boiling
current. Save! oh, save him heaven! for the destinies of millions yet
unborn hang upon that noble arm!
Let us now recross the ocean. In the early part of the year 1764 a
ministerial crisis occurs in England, and Lord Bute, the favorite of the
British monarch, is driven from the administration of the government.
The troubles with the American colonists have also just commenced to
excite attention, and the young King grows angry, perplexed, and greatly
irritated. A few days after this, a rumor starts into circulation that
the monarch is sick. His attendants look gloomy, his friends terrified,
and even his physicians exhibit symptoms of doubt and danger. Yet he has
no fever, and is daily observed walking with uncertain and agitated step
along the corridors of the palace. His conduct becomes gradually more
and more strange, until doubt gives place to certainty, and the royal
medical staff report to a select committee of the House of Commons that
the King is threatened with _insanity_. For six weeks the cloud obscures
his mental faculties, depriving him of all interference with the
administration of the government, and betokening a sad disaster in the
future. His reason is finally restored, but frequent fits of passion,
pride and obstinacy indicate but too surely that the disease is seated,
and a radical cure impossible.
Possessed now of the chief characteristics of George Washington and
George Guelph, we are prepared to review briefly their conduct during
the struggle that ensued between the two countries they respectively
represented.
Let us now refer to the first act of disloyalty of Washington, the first
indignant spurn his high-toned spirit evinced under the oppressions of a
king.
Not long after his return from the west, Washington was offered the
chief command of the forces about to be raised in Virginia, to expel the
French; but, with his usual modesty, he declined the appointment, on
account of his extreme youth, but consented to take the post of
lieutenant-colonel. Shortly afterward, on the death of Colonel Fry, he
was promoted to the chief command, but through no solicitations of his
own. Subsequently, when the war between France and England broke out in
Europe, the principal seat of hostilities was transferred to America,
and his Gracious Majesty George III sent over a large body of troops,
_under the command of favorite officers_. But this was not enough. An
edict soon followed, denominated an "Order to settle the rank of the
officers of His Majesty's forces serving in America." By one of the
articles of this order, it was provided "that all officers commissioned
by the King, should take precedence of those of the same grade
commissioned by the governors of the respective colonies, although their
commissions might be of junior date;" and it was further provided, that
"when the troops served together, the provincial officers should enjoy
no rank at all." This order was scarcely promulgated--indeed, before the
ink was dry--ere the Governor of Virginia received a communication
informing him that _George Washington was no longer a soldier_.
Entreaties, exhortations, and threats were all lavished upon him in
vain; and to those who, in their expostulations, spoke of the
defenseless frontiers of his native State, he patriotically but nobly
replied: "I will serve my country when I can do so without dishonor."
In contrast with this attitude of Washington, look at the conduct of
George the Third respecting the colonies, after the passage of the Stamp
Act. This act was no sooner proclaimed in America, than the most violent
opposition was manifested, and combinations for the purpose of effectual
resistance were rapidly organized from Massachusetts to Georgia. The
leading English patriots, among whom were Burke and Barré, protested
against the folly of forcing the colonies into rebellion, and the city
of London presented a petition to the King, praying him to dismiss the
Granville ministry, and repeal the obnoxious act. "It is with the utmost
astonishment," replied the King, "that I find any of my subjects capable
of encouraging the rebellious disposition that unhappily exists in some
of my North American colonies. Having entire confidence in the wisdom of
my parliament, the great council of the realm, I will steadily pursue
those measures which they have recommended for the support of the
constitutional rights of Great Britain." He heeded not the memorable
words of Burke, that afterward became prophetic. "There are moments,"
exclaimed this great statesman, "critical moments in the fortunes of all
states when they who are too weak to contribute to your prosperity may
yet be strong enough to complete your ruin." The Boston port bill
passed, and the first blood was spilt at Lexington.
It is enough to say of the long and bloody war that followed, that
George the Third, by his obstinacy, contributed more than any other man
in his dominion to prolong the struggle, and affix to it the stigma of
cruelty, inhumanity and vengeance; whilst Washington was equally the
soul of the conflict on the other side, and by his imperturbable
justice, moderation and firmness, did more than by his arms to convince
England that her revolted colonists were invincible.
It is unnecessary to review in detail the old Revolution. Let us pass to
the social position of the two Georges in after-life.
On the 2d August, 1786, as the King was alighting from his carriage at
the gate of St. James, an attempt was made on his life by a woman named
Margaret Nicholson, who, under pretense of presenting a petition,
endeavored to stab him with a knife which was concealed in the paper.
The weapon was an old one, and so rusty that, on striking the vest of
the King, it bent double, and thus preserved his life. On the 29th
October, 1795, whilst his majesty was proceeding to the House of Lords,
a ball passed through both windows of the carriage. On his return to St.
James the mob threw stones into the carriage, several of which struck
the King, and one lodged in the cuff of his coat. The state carriage was
completely demolished by the mob. But it was on the 15th May, 1800, that
George the Third made his narrowest escapes. In the morning of that
day, whilst attending the field exercise of a battalion of guards, one
of the soldiers loaded his piece with a bullet and discharged it at the
King. The ball fortunately missed its aim, and lodged in the thigh of a
gentleman who was standing in the rear. In the evening of the same day a
more alarming circumstance occurred at the Drury Lane Theatre. At the
moment when the King entered the royal box, a man in the pit, on the
right-hand side of the orchestra, suddenly stood up and discharged a
large horse-pistol at him. The hand of the would-be assassin was thrown
up by a bystander, and the ball entered the box just above the head of
the King.
Such were the public manifestations of affection for this royal tyrant.
He was finally attacked by an enemy that could not be thwarted, and on
the 20th December, 1810, he became a confirmed lunatic. In this dreadful
condition he lingered until January, 1820, when he died, having been the
most unpopular, unwise and obstinate sovereign that ever disgraced the
English throne. He was forgotten as soon as life left his body, and was
hurriedly buried with that empty pomp which but too often attends a
despot to the grave.
His whole career is well summed up by Allan Cunningham, his biographer,
in few words: "Throughout his life he manifested a strong disposition to
be his own minister, and occasionally placed the kingly prerogatives in
perilous opposition to the resolutions of the nation's representatives.
His interference with the deliberations of the upper house, as in the
case of Fox's Indian bill, was equally ill-judged and dangerous. _The
separation of America from the mother country, at the time it took
place, was the result of the King's personal feelings and interference
with the ministry._ The war with France was, in part at least,
attributable to the views and wishes of the sovereign of England. His
obstinate refusal to grant any concessions to his Catholic subjects,
kept his cabinet perpetually hanging on the brink of dissolution, and
threatened the dismemberment of the kingdom. He has been often praised
for firmness, but it was in too many instances the firmness of
obstinacy; a dogged adherence to an opinion once pronounced, or a
resolution once formed."
The mind, in passing from the unhonored grave of the prince to the last
resting-place of the peasant boy, leaps from a kingdom of darkness to
one of light.
Let us now return to the career of Washington. Throughout the
Revolutionary War he carried, like Atropos, in his hand the destinies of
millions; he bore, like Atlas, on his shoulders the weight of a world.
It is unnecessary to follow him throughout his subsequent career.
Honored again and again by the people of the land he had redeemed from
thraldom, he has taken his place in death by the side of the wisest and
best of the world's benefactors. Assassins did not unglory him in life,
nor has oblivion drawn her mantle over him in death. The names of his
great battle-fields have become nursery words, and his principles have
imbedded themselves forever in the national character. Every pulsation
of our hearts beats true to his memory. His mementoes are everywhere
around and about us. Distant as we are from the green fields of his
native Westmoreland, the circle of his renown has spread far beyond our
borders. In climes where the torch of science was never kindled; on
shores still buried in primeval bloom; amongst barbarians where the face
of liberty was never seen, the Christian missionary of America, roused
perhaps from his holy duties by the distant echo of the national salute,
this day thundering amidst the billows of every sea, or dazzled by the
gleam of his country's banner, this day floating in every wind of
heaven, pauses over his task as a Christian, and whilst memory kindles
in his bosom the fires of patriotism, pronounced in the ear of the
enslaved pagan the venerated name of WASHINGTON!
Nor are the sons of the companions of Washington alone in doing justice
to his memory. Our sisters, wives and mothers compete with us in
discharging this debt of national gratitude. With a delicacy that none
but woman could exhibit, and with a devotion that none but a daughter
could feel, they are now busy in executing the noble scheme of
purchasing his tomb, in order for endless generations to stand sentinel
over his remains. Take them! take them to your hearts, oh! ye daughters
of America; enfold them closer to your bosom than your first-born
offspring; build around them a mausoleum that neither time nor change
can overthrow; for within them germinates the seeds of liberty for the
benefit of millions yet unborn. Wherever tyranny shall lift its Medusan
head, wherever treason shall plot its hellish schemes, wherever disunion
shall unfurl its tattered ensign, there, oh there, sow them in the
hearts of patriots and republicans! For from these pale ashes there
shall spring, as from the dragon's teeth sown by Cadmus of old on the
plains of Heber, vast armies of invincible heroes, sworn upon the altar
and tomb at Mount Vernon, to live as freemen, or as such to die!
[Decoration]
XXI.
_MASONRY._
Oh, sacred spirit of Masonic love,
Offspring of Heaven, the angels' bond above,
Guardian of peace and every social tie,
How deep the sources of thy fountains lie!
How wide the realms that 'neath thy wings expand,
Embracing every clime, encircling every land!
Beneath the aurora of the Polar skies,
Where Greenland's everlasting glaciers rise,
The Lodge mysterious lifts its snow-built dome,
And points the brother to a sunnier home;
Where Nilus slays the sacrificial kid,
Beneath the shadow of her pyramid,
Where magian suns unclasp the gaping ground,
And far Australia's golden sands abound;
Where breakers thunder on the coral strand,
To guard the gates of Kamehameha's land;
Wherever man, in lambskin garb arrayed,
Strikes in defense of innocence betrayed;
Lifts the broad shield of charity to all,
And bends in anguish o'er a brother's fall;
Where the bright symbol of Masonic truth,
Alike for high and low, for age or youth,
Flames like yon sun at tropic midday's call,
And opes the universal eye on all!
What though in secret all your alms be done,
Your foes all vanquished and your trophies won?
What though a veil be o'er your Lodges thrown,
And brother only be to brother known?
In secret, God built up the rolling world;
In secret, morning's banners are unfurled;
In secret, spreads the leaf, unfolds the flower,
Revolve the spheres, and speeds the passing hour.
The day is noise, confusion, strife, turmoil,
Struggles for bread, and sweat beneath the toil.
The night is silence--progress without jars,
The rest of mortals and the march of stars!
The day for work to toiling man was given;
But night, to lead his erring steps to Heaven.
All hail! ye brethren of the mystic tie!
Who feed the hungry, heed the orphan's cry;
Who clothe the naked, dry the widow's tear,
Befriend the exile, bear the stranger's bier;
Stand round the bedside when the fluttering soul
Bursts her clay bonds and parteth for her goal;
God speed you in the noble path you tread,
Friends of the living, mourners o'er the dead.
May all your actions, measured on the square,
Be just and righteous, merciful and fair;
Your thoughts flow pure, in modesty of mind,
Along the equal level of mankind;
Your words be troweled to truth's perfect tone,
Your fame be chiseled in unblemished stone,
Your hearts be modeled on the plummet's line,
Your faith be guided by the Book divine;
And when at last the gavel's beat above
Calls you from labor to the feast of love,
May mighty Boaz, pillar'd at that gate
Which seraphs tyle and where archangels wait,
Unloose the bandage from your dazzled eyes,
Spell out the _Password_ to Arch-Royal skies;
Upon your bosom set the signet steel,
Help's sign disclose, and Friendship's grip reveal;
Place in your grasp the soul's unerring rod,
And light you to the Temple of your God!
[Decoration]
XXII.
_POLLOCK'S EUTHANASIA._
He is gone! the young, and gifted!
By his own strong pinions lifted
To the stars;
Where he strikes, with minstrels olden,
Choral harps, whose strings are golden,
Deathless bars.
There, with Homer's ghost all hoary,
Not with years, but fadeless glory,
Lo! he stands;
And through that open portal,
We behold the bards immortal
Clasping hands!
Hark! how Rome's great epic master
Sings, that death is no disaster
To the wise;
Fame on earth is but a menial,
But it reigns a king perennial
In the skies!
Albion's blind old bard heroic,
Statesman, sage, and Christian stoic,
Greets his son;
Whilst in pæans wild and glorious,
Like his "Paradise victorious,"
Sings, Well done!
Lo! a bard with forehead pendent,
But with glory's beams resplendent
As a star;
Slow descends from regions higher,
With a crown and golden lyre
In his car.
All around him, crowd as minions,
Thrones and sceptres, and dominions,
Kings and Queens;
Ages past and ages present,
Lord and dame, and prince and peasant,
His demesnes!
Approach! young bard hesperian,
Welcome to the heights empyrean,
Thou did'st sing,
Ere yet thy trembling fingers
Struck where fame immortal lingers,
In the string.
Kneel! I am the bard of Avon,
And the Realm of song in Heaven
Is my own;
Long thy verse shall live in story,
And thy Lyre I crown with glory,
And a throne!
[Decoration]
XXIII.
_SCIENCE, LITERATURE AND ART DURING THE FIRST HALF OF THE NINETEENTH
CENTURY._
Looking back into the past, and exploring by the light of authentic
history, sacred as well as profane, the characteristics of former ages,
the merest tyro in learning cannot fail to perceive that certain epochs
stand prominently out on the "sands of time," and indicate vast activity
and uncommon power in the human mind.
These epochs are so well marked that history has given them a
designation, and to call them by their name, conjures up, as by the wand
of an enchanter, the heroic representatives of our race.
If, for instance, we should speak of the era of Solomon, in sacred
history, the memory would instantly picture forth the pinnacles of the
Holy Temple, lifting themselves into the clouds; the ear would listen
intently to catch the sweet intonations of the harp of David, vocal at
once with the prophetic sorrows of his race, and swelling into sublime
ecstasy at the final redemption of his people; the eye would glisten at
the pomp and pageantry of the foreign potentates who thronged his court,
and gloat with rapture over the beauty of the young Queen of Sheba, who
journeyed from a distant land to seek wisdom at the feet of the wisest
monarch that ever sat upon a throne. We should behold his ships
traversing every sea, and pouring into the lap of Israel the gold of
Ophir, the ivory of Senegambia, and the silks, myrrh, and spices of the
East.
So, too, has profane history its golden ages, when men all seemed to be
giants, and their minds inspired.
What is meant when we speak of the age of Pericles? We mean all that is
glorious in the annals of Greece. We mean Apelles with his pencil,
Phidias with his chisel, Alcibiades with his sword. We seem to be
strolling arm-in-arm with Plato, into the academy, to listen to the
divine teachings of Socrates, or hurrying along with the crowd toward
the theatre, where Herodotus is reading his history, or Euripides is
presenting his tragedies. Aspasia rises up like a beautiful apparition
before us, and we follow willing slaves at the wheels of her victorious
chariot. The whole of the Peloponnesus glows with intellect like a forge
in blast, and scatters the trophies of Grecian civilization profusely
around us. The Parthenon lifts its everlasting columns, and the Venus
and Apollo are moulded into marble immortality.
Rome had her Augustan age, an era of poets, philosophers, soldiers,
statesmen, and orators. Crowded into contemporary life, we recognize the
greatest general of the heathen world, the greatest poet, the greatest
orator, and the greatest statesman of Rome. Cæsar and Cicero, Virgil and
Octavius, all trod the pavement of the capitol together, and lent their
blended glory to immortalize the Augustan age.
Italy and Spain and France and England have had their golden age. The
eras of Lorenzo the Magnificent, of Ferdinand and Isabella, of Louis
Quatorze and of Elizabeth, can never be forgotten. They loom up from the
surrounding gloom like the full moon bursting upon the sleeping seas;
irradiating the night, clothing the meanest wave in sparkling silver,
and dimming the lustre of the brightest stars. History has also left in
its track mementoes of a different character. In sacred history we have
the age of Herod; in profane, the age of Nero. We recognize at a glance
the talismanic touch of the age of chivalry, and the era of the
Crusades, and mope our way in darkness and gloom along that opaque
track, stretching from the reign of Justinian, in the sixth century, to
the reign of Edward the Third, in the fourteenth, and known throughout
Christendom as the "Dark Ages." Let us now take a survey of the field we
occupy, and ascertain, if possible, the category in which our age shall
be ranked by our posterity.
But before proceeding to discuss the characteristics of our epoch, let
us define more especially what that epoch embraces.
It does not embrace the American nor the French Revolution, nor does it
include the acts or heroes of either. The impetus given to the human
mind by the last half of the eighteenth century, must be carefully
distinguished from the impulses of the first half of the nineteenth. The
first was an era of almost universal war, the last of almost
uninterrupted peace. The dying ground-swell of the waves after a storm
belong to the tempest, not to the calm which succeeds. Hence the wars of
Napoleon, the literature and art of his epoch, must be excluded from
observation, in properly discussing the true characteristics of our era.
De Staël and Goethe and Schiller and Byron; Pitt and Nesselrode,
Metternich and Hamilton; Fichte and Stewart and Brown and Cousin;
Canova, Thorwaldsen and La Place, though all dying since the beginning
of this century, belong essentially to a former era. They were the
ripened fruits of that grand uprising of the human mind which first
took form on the 4th day of July, 1776. Our era properly commences with
the downfall of the first Napoleon, and none of the events connected
therewith, either before or afterward, can be philosophically classed in
the epoch we represent, but must be referred to a former period. Ages
hence, then, the philosophic critic will thus describe the first half of
the nineteenth century:
"The normal state of Christendom was peace. The age of steel that
immediately went before it had passed. It was the Iron age.
"Speculative philosophy fell asleep; literature declined;
Skepticism bore sway in religion, politics, and morals; Utility
became the universal standard of right and wrong, and the truths
of every science and the axioms of every art were ruthlessly
subjected to the _experimentum crucis_. Everything was liable to
revision. The verdicts pronounced in the olden time against
Mohammed and Mesmer and Robespierre were set aside, and a new
trial granted. The ghosts of Roger Bacon and Emanuel Swedenborg
were summoned from the Stygian shore to plead their causes anew
before the bar of public opinion. The head of Oliver Cromwell was
ordered down from the gibbet, the hump was smoothed down on the
back of Richard III, and the sentence pronounced by Urban VIII
against the 'starry Galileo' reversed forever. Aristotle was
decently interred beneath a modern monument inscribed thus: '_In
pace requiescat_;' whilst Francis Bacon was rescued from the
sacrilegious hands of kings and peers and parliament, and
canonized by the unanimous consent of Christendom. It was the age
of tests. Experiment governed the world. Germany led the van, and
Humboldt became the impersonation of his times."
Such unquestionably will be the verdict of the future, when the present
time, with all its treasures and trash, its hopes and realizations,
shall have been safely shelved and labeled amongst the musty records of
bygone generations.
Let us now examine into the grounds of this verdict more minutely, and
test its accuracy by exemplifications.
I. And first, who believes now in _innate ideas_? Locke has been
completely superseded by the materialists of Germany and France, and all
speculative moral philosophy exploded. The audiences of Edinburgh and
Brown University interrupt Sir William Hamilton and Dr. Wayland in their
discourses, and, stripping off the plumage from their theses,
inquisitively demand, "_Cui bono_?" What is the use of all this? How can
we apply it to the every-day concerns of life? We ask you for bread and
you have given us a stone; and though that stone be a diamond, it is
valueless, except for its glitter. No philosopher can speculate
successfully or even satisfactorily to himself, when he is met at every
turn by some vulgar intruder into the domains of Aristotle and Kant, who
clips his wings just as he was prepared to soar into the heavens, by an
offer of copartnership to "speculate," it may be, in the price of pork.
Hence, no moral philosopher of our day has been enabled to erect any
theory which will stand the assaults of logic for a moment. Each school
rises for an instant to the surface, and sports out its little day in
toss and tribulation, until the next wave rolls along, with foam on its
crest and fury in its roar, and overwhelms it forever. As with its
predecessor, so with itself.
"The eternal surge
Of Time and Tide rolls on and bears afar
Their bubbles: as the old burst, new emerge,
Lashed from the foam of ages."
II. But I have stated that this is an age of _literary decline_. It is
true that more books are written and published, more newspapers and
periodicals printed and circulated, more extensive libraries collected
and incorporated, and more ink indiscriminately spilt, than at any
former period of the world's history. In looking about us we are
forcibly reminded of the sarcastic couplet of Pope, who complains--
"That those who cannot write, and those who can,
All scratch, all scrawl, and scribble to a man."
Had a modern gentleman all the eyes of Argus, all the hands of Briareus,
all the wealth of Croesus, and lived to the age of Methuselah, his
eyes would all fail, his fingers all tire, his money all give out, and
his years come to an end, long before he perused one tenth of the annual
product of the press of Christendom at the present day. It is no figure
of rhetoric to say that the press groans beneath the burden of its
labors. Could the types of Leipsic and London, Paris and New York, speak
out, the Litany would have to be amended, and a new article added, to
which they would solemnly respond: "Spare us, good Lord!"
A recent publication furnishes the following statistical facts relating
to the book trade in our own country: "Books have multiplied to such an
extent in the United States that it now takes 750 paper-mills, with 2000
engines in constant operation, to supply the printers, who work day and
night, endeavoring to keep their engagements with publishers. These
tireless mills produce 270,000,000 pounds of paper every year. It
requires a pound and a quarter of old rags for one pound of paper, thus
340,000,000 pounds of rags were consumed in this way last year. There
are about 300 publishers in the United States, and near 10,000
book-sellers who are engaged in the task of dispensing literary pabulum
to the public."
It may appear somewhat paradoxical to assert that literature is
declining whilst books and authors are multiplying to such a fearful
extent. Byron wrote:
"'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print;
A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't."
True enough; but books are not always literature. A man may become an
author without ceasing to be an ignoramus. His name may adorn a
title-page without being recorded _in ære perenne_. He may attempt to
write himself up a very "lion" in literature, whilst good master Slender
may be busily engaged "in writing him down an ass."
Not one book in a thousand is a success; not one success in ten thousand
wreathes the fortunate author with the laurel crown, and lifts him up
into the region of the immortals. Tell me, ye who prate about the
_literary glory_ of the nineteenth century, wherein it consists? Whose
are
"The great, the immortal names
That were not born to die?"
I cast my eyes up the long vista toward the Temple of Fame, and I behold
hundreds of thousands pressing on to reach the shining portals. They
jostle each other by the way, they trip, they fall, they are overthrown
and ruthlessly trampled into oblivion, by the giddy throng, as they rush
onward and upward. One, it may be two, of the million who started out,
stand trembling at the threshold, and with exultant voices cry aloud for
admittance. One perishes before the summons can be answered; and the
other, awed into immortality by the august presence into which he
enters, is transformed into imperishable stone.
Let us carefully scan the rolls of the literature of our era, and
select, if we can, poet, orator, or philosopher, whose fame will deepen
as it runs, and brighten as it burns, until future generations shall
drink at the fountain and be refreshed, and kindle their souls at the
vestal flame and be purified, illuminated and ennobled.
In poetry, aye, in the crowded realms of song, who bears the
sceptre?--who wears the crown? America, England, France and Germany can
boast of bards _by the gross_, and rhyme _by the acre_, but not a single
poet. The _poeta nascitur_ is not here. He may be on his way--and I have
heard that he was--but this generation must pass before he arrives. Is
he in America? If so, which is he? Is it Poe, croaking sorrowfully with
his "Raven," or Willis, cooing sweetly with his "Dove"? Is it Bryant,
with his "Thanatopsis," or Prentice, with his "Dirge to the Dead Year"?
Perhaps it is Holmes, with his "Lyrics," or Longfellow, with his
"Idyls." Alas! is it not self-evident that we have no poet, when it is
utterly impossible to discover any two critics in the land who can find
him?
True, we have lightning-bugs enough, but no star; foot-hills, it may be,
in abundance, but no Mount Shasta, with its base built upon the
everlasting granite, and its brow bathed in the eternal sunlight.
In England, Tennyson, the Laureate, is the spokesman of a clique, the
pet poet of a princely circle, whose rhymes flow with the docility and
harmony of a limpid brook, but never stun like Niagara, nor rise into
sublimity like the storm-swept sea.
Béranger, the greatest poet of France of our era, was a mere
song-writer; and Heine, the pride of young Germany, a mere satirist and
lyrist. Freiligrath can never rank with Goethe or Schiller; and Victor
Hugo never attain the heights trodden by Racine, Corneille, or Boileau.
In oratory, where shall we find the compeer of Chatham or Mirabeau,
Burke or Patrick Henry? I have not forgotten Peel and Gladstone, nor
Lamartine and Count Cavour, nor Sargent S. Prentiss and Daniel Webster.
But Webster himself, by far the greatest intellect of all these, was a
mere debater, and the spokesman of a party. He was an eloquent speaker,
but can never rank as an orator with the rhetoricians of the last
century.
And in philosophy and general learning, where shall we find the equal of
that burly old bully, Dr. Sam Johnson? and yet Johnson, with all his
learning, was a third-rate philosopher.
In truth, the greatest author of our era was a mere essayist. Beyond all
controversy, Thomas Babington Macaulay was the most polished writer of
our times. With an intellect acute, logical and analytic; with an
imagination glowing and rich, but subdued and under perfect control;
with a style so clear and limpid and concise, that it has become a
standard for all who aim to follow in the path he trod, and with a
learning so full and exact, and exhaustive, that he was nicknamed, when
an undergraduate, the "Omniscient Macaulay;" he still lacks the giant
grasp of thought, the bold originality, and the intense, earnest
enthusiasm which characterize the master-spirits of the race, and
identify them with the eras they adorn.
III. As in literature, so in what have been denominated by scholars the
_Fine Arts_. The past fifty years has not produced a painter, sculptor,
or composer, who ranks above mediocrity in their respective vocations.
Canova and Thorwaldsen were the last of their race; Sir Joshua
Reynolds left no successor, and the immortal Beethoven has been
superseded by negro minstrelsy and senseless pantomime. The greatest
architect of the age is a railroad contractor, and the first dramatist a
cobbler of French farces.
IV. But whilst the highest faculty of the mind--the imagination--has
been left uncultivated, and has produced no worthy fruit, the next
highest, the casual, or the one that deals with causes and effects, has
been stimulated into the most astonishing fertility.
Our age ignores fancy, and deals exclusively with fact. Within its
chosen range it stands far, very far pre-eminent over all that have
preceded it. It reaps the fruit of Bacon's labors. It utilizes all that
it touches. It stands thoughtfully on the field of Waterloo, and
estimates scientifically the manuring properties of bones and blood. It
disentombs the mummy of Thotmes II, sells the linen bandages for the
manufacture of paper, burns the asphaltum-soaked body for firewood, and
plants the pint of red wheat found in his sarcophagus, to try an
agricultural experiment. It deals in no sentimentalities; it has no
appreciation of the sublime. It stands upon the ocean shore, but with
its eyes fixed on the yellow sand searching for gold. It confronts
Niagara, and, gazing with rapture at its misty shroud, exclaims, in an
ecstasy of admiration, "Lord, what a place to sponge a coat!" Having no
soul to save, it has no religion to save it. It has discovered that
Mohammed was a great benefactor of his race, and that Jesus Christ was,
after all, a mere man; distinguished, it is true, for his benevolence,
his fortitude and his morality, but for nothing else. It does not
believe in the Pope, nor in the Church, nor in the Bible. It ridicules
the infallibility of the first, the despotism of the second, and the
chronology of the third. It is possessed of the very spirit of Thomas;
it must "touch and handle" before it will believe. It questions the
existence of spirit, because it cannot be analyzed by chemical solvents;
it questions the existence of hell, because it has never been scorched;
it questions the existence of God, because it has never beheld Him.
It does, however, believe in the explosive force of gunpowder, in the
evaporation of boiling water, in the head of the magnet, and in the
heels of the lightnings. It conjugates the Latin verb _invenio_ (to find
out) through all its voices, moods and tenses. It invents everything;
from a lucifer match in the morning to kindle a kitchen fire, up through
all the intermediate ranks and tiers and grades of life, to a telescope
that spans the heavens in the evening, it recognizes no chasm or hiatus
in its inventions. It sinks an artesian well in the desert of Sahara for
a pitcher of water, and bores through the Alleghanies for a hogshead of
oil. From a fish-hook to the Great Eastern, from a pocket deringer to a
columbiad, from a sewing machine to a Victoria suspension bridge, it
oscillates like a pendulum.
Deficient in literature and art, our age surpasses all others in
science. Knowledge has become the great end and aim of human life. "I
want to know," is inscribed as legibly on the hammer of the geologist,
the crucible of the chemist, and the equatorial of the astronomer, as it
is upon the phiz of a regular "Down-Easter." Our age has inherited the
chief failing of our first mother, and passing by the "Tree of Life in
the midst of the Garden," we are all busily engaged in mercilessly
plundering the Tree of Knowledge of all its fruit. The time is rapidly
approaching when no man will be considered a gentleman who has not filed
his _caveat_ in the Patent Office.
The inevitable result of this spirit of the age begins already to be
seen. The philosophy of a cold, blank, calculating materialism has taken
possession of all the avenues of learning. Epicurus is worshiped instead
of Christ. Mammon is considered as the only true savior. _Dum Vivimus
Vivamus_, is the maxim we live by, and the creed we die by. We are all
iconoclasts. St. Paul has been superseded by St. Fulton; St John by St.
Colt; St. James by St. Morse; St. Mark by St. Manry; and St. Peter has
surrendered his keys to that great incarnate representative of this age,
St. Alexandre Von Humboldt.
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
XXIV.
_THE ENROBING OF LIBERTY._
The war-drum was silent, the cannon was mute,
The sword in its scabbard lay still,
And battle had gathered the last autumn fruit
That crimson-dyed river and rill,
When a Goddess came down from her mansion on high,
To gladden the world with her smile,
Leaving only her robes in the realm of the sky,
That their sheen might no mortal beguile.
As she lit on the earth she was welcomed by Peace,
Twin sisters in Eden of yore--
But parted forever when fetter-bound Greece
Drove her exiled and chained from her shore;
Never since had the angel of Liberty trod
In virginal beauty below;
But, chased from the earth, she had mounted to God,
Despoiled of her raiment of snow.
Our sires gathered round her, entranced by her smile,
Remembering the footprints of old
She had graven on grottoes, in Scio's sweet Isle,
Ere the doom of fair Athens was told.
"I am naked," she cried; "I am homeless on earth;
Kings, Princes, and Lords are my foes,
But I stand undismayed, though an orphan by birth,
And condemned to the region of snows."
"Hail, Liberty! hail"--our fathers exclaim--
"To the glorious land of the West!
With a diadem bright we will honor thy name,
And enthrone thee America's guest;
We will found a great nation and call it thine own,
And erect here an altar to thee,
Where millions shall kneel at the foot of thy throne
And swear to forever be free!"
Then each brought a vestment her form to enrobe,
And screen her fair face from the sun,
And thus she stood forth as the Queen of the globe
When the work of our Fathers was done.
A circlet of stars round her temples they wove,
That gleamed like Orion's bright band,
And an emblem of power, the eagle of Jove,
They perched like a bolt in her hand;
On her forehead, a scroll that contained but a line
Was written in letters of light,
That our great "Constitution" forever might shine,
A sun to illumine the night.
Her feet were incased in broad sandals of gold,
That riches might spring in her train;
While a warrior's casque, with its visor uproll'd,
Protected her tresses and brain;
Round her waist a bright girdle of satin was bound,
Formed of colors so blended and true,
That when as a banner the scarf was unwound,
It floated the "Red, White and Blue."
Then Liberty calm, leant on Washington's arm,
And spoke in prophetical strain:
"Columbia's proud hills I will shelter from ills,
Whilst her valleys and mountains remain;
But palsied the hand that would pillage the band
Of sisterhood stars in my crown,
And death to the knave whose sword would enslave,
By striking your great charter down.
"Your eagle shall soar this western world o'er,
And carry the sound of my name,
Till monarchs shall quake and its confines forsake,
If true to your ancestral fame!
Your banner shall gleam like the polar star's beam,
To guide through rebellion's Red sea,
And in battle 'twill wave, both to conquer and save,
If borne by the hands of the free!"
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
XXV.
_A CAKE OF SOAP._
I stood at my washstand, one bright sunny morn,
And gazed through the blinds at the upbringing corn,
And mourn'd that my summers were passing away,
Like the dew on the meadow that morning in May.
I seized, for an instant, the Iris-hued soap,
That glowed in the dish, like an emblem of hope,
And said to myself, as I melted its snows,
"The longer I use it, the lesser it grows."
For life, in its morn, is full freighted and gay,
And fair as the rainbow when clouds float away;
Sweet-scented and useful, it sheds its perfume,
Till wasted or blasted, it melts in the tomb.
Thus day after day, whilst we lather and scrub,
Time wasteth and blasteth with many a rub,
Till thinner and thinner, the soap wears away,
And age hands us over to dust and decay.
Oh Bessie! dear Bess! as I dream of thee now,
With the spice in thy breath, and the bloom on thy brow,
To a cake of pure Lubin thy life I compare,
So fragrant, so fragile, and so debonair!
But fortune was fickle, and labor was vain,
And want overtook us, with grief in its train,
Till, worn out by troubles, death came in the blast;
But _thy_ kisses, like Lubin's, were sweet to the last!
[Decoration]
XXVI.
_THE SUMMERFIELD CASE._
The following additional particulars, as sequel to the Summerfield
homicide, have been furnished by an Auburn correspondent:
MR. EDITOR: The remarkable confession of the late Leonidas Parker,
which appeared in your issue of the 13th ultimo, has given rise to
a series of disturbances in this neighborhood, which, for romantic
interest and downright depravity, have seldom been surpassed, even
in California. Before proceeding to relate in detail the late
transactions, allow me to remark that the wonderful narrative of
Parker excited throughout this county sentiments of the most
profound and contradictory character. I, for one, halted between
two opinions--horror and incredulity; and nothing but subsequent
events could have fully satisfied me of the unquestionable
veracity of your San Francisco correspondent, and the scientific
authenticity of the facts related.
The doubt with which the story was at first received in this
community--and which found utterance in a burlesque article in an
obscure country journal, the Stars and Stripes, of Auburn--has
finally been dispelled and we find ourselves forced to admit that
we stand even now in the presence of the most alarming fate. Too
much credit cannot be awarded to our worthy coroner for the
promptitude of his action, and we trust that the Governor of the
State will not be less efficient in the discharge of his duty.
[Since the above letter was written the following proclamation has
been issued.--P. J.]
PROCLAMATION OF THE GOVERNOR.
=$10,000 REWARD!=
DEPARTMENT OF STATE.
By virtue of the authority in me vested, I do hereby offer the
above reward of ten thousand dollars, in gold coin of the
United States, for the Arrest of Bartholomew Graham,
familiarly known as Black Bart. Said Graham is accused of the
murder of C. P. Gillson, late of Auburn, county of Placer, on
the 14th ultimo. He is five feet ten inches and a half in
height, thick set, has a mustache sprinkled with gray,
grizzled hair, clear blue eyes, walks stooping, and served in
the late civil war under Price and Quantrell, in the
Confederate army. He may be lurking in some of the
mining-camps near the foot-hills, as he was a Washoe teamster
during the Comstock excitement. The above reward will be paid
for him, _dead or alive_, as he possessed himself of an
important secret by robbing the body of the late Gregory
Summerfield.
By the Governor: H. G. NICHOLSON,
Secretary of State.
Given at Sacramento, this the fifth day of June, 1871.
Our correspondent continues:
I am sorry to say that Sheriff Higgins has not been so active in
the discharge of his duty as the urgency of the case required, but
he is perhaps excusable on account of the criminal interference of
the editor above alluded to. But I am detaining you from more
important matters. Your Saturday's paper reached here at 4
o'clock, Saturday, 13th May, and, as it now appears from the
evidence taken before the coroner, several persons left Auburn on
the same errand, but without any previous conference. Two of these
were named respectively Charles P. Gillson and Bartholomew Graham,
or, as he was usually called, "Black Bart." Gillson kept a saloon
at the corner of Prickly Ash Street and the Old Spring Road; and
Black Bart was in the employ of Conrad & Co., keepers of the
Norfolk livery stable. Gillson was a son-in-law of ex-Governor
Roberts, of Iowa, and leaves a wife and two children to mourn his
untimely end. As for Graham, nothing certain is known of his
antecedents. It is said that he was engaged in the late robbery of
Wells & Fargo's express at Grizzly Bend, and that he was an
habitual gambler. Only one thing about him is certainly well
known: he was a lieutenant in the Confederate army, and served
under General Price and the outlaw Quantrell. He was a man
originally of fine education, plausible manners and good family;
but strong drink seems early in life to have overmastered him, and
left him but a wreck of himself. But he was not incapable of
generous, or rather, romantic, acts; for, during the burning of
the Putnam House, in this town, last summer, he rescued two ladies
from the flames. In so doing he scorched his left hand so
seriously as to contract the tendons of two fingers, and this very
scar may lead to his apprehension. There is no doubt about his
utter desperation of character, and, if taken at all, it will
probably be not alive.
So much for the persons concerned in the tragedy at the Flat.
Herewith I inclose copies of the testimony of the witnesses
examined before the coroner's jury, together with the statement of
Gillson, taken _in articulo mortis_:
DEPOSITION OF DOLLIE ADAMS.
STATE OF CALIFORNIA, } ss.
County of Placer. }
Said witness, being duly sworn, deposed as follows, to wit: My
name is Dollie Adams; my age forty-seven years; I am the wife
of Frank G. Adams, of this township, and reside on the North
Fork of the American River, below Cape Horn, on Thompson's
Flat; about one o'clock P. M., May 14, 1871, I left the cabin
to gather wood to cook dinner for my husband and the hands at
work for him on the claim; the trees are mostly cut away from
the bottom, and I had to climb some distance up the mountain
side before I could get enough to kindle the fire; I had gone
about five hundred yards from the cabin, and was searching for
small sticks of fallen timber, when I thought I heard some one
groan, as if in pain; I paused and listened; the groaning
became more distinct, and I started at once for the place
whence the sounds proceeded; about ten steps off I discovered
the man whose remains lie there (pointing to the deceased),
sitting up, with his back against a big rock; he looked so
pale that I thought him already dead, but he continued to moan
until I reached his side; hearing me approach, he opened his
eyes, and begged me, "For God's sake, give me a drop of
water!" I asked him, "What is the matter?" He replied, "I am
shot in the back." "Dangerously?" I demanded. "Fatally!" he
faltered. Without waiting to question him further, I returned
to the cabin, told Zenie--my daughter--what I had seen, and
sent her off on a run for the men. Taking with me a gourd of
water, some milk and bread--for I thought the poor gentleman
might be hungry and weak, as well as wounded--I hurried back
to his side, where I remained until "father"--as we all call
my husband--came with the men. We removed him as gently as we
could to the cabin; then sent for Dr. Liebner, and nursed him
until he died, yesterday, just at sunset.
Question by the Coroner: Did you hear his statement, taken
down by the Assistant District Attorney?--A. I did.
Q. Did you see him sign it?--A. Yes, sir.
Q. Is this your signature thereto as witness?--A. It is, sir.
(Signed) DOLLIE ADAMS.
DEPOSITION OF MISS X. V. ADAMS.
Being first duly sworn, witness testified as follows: My name
is Xixenia Volumnia Adams; I am the daughter of Frank G. Adams
and the last witness; I reside with them on the Flat, and my
age is eighteen years; a little past 1 o'clock on Sunday last
my mother came running into the house and informed me that a
man was dying from a wound, on the side-hill, and that I must
go for father and the boys immediately. I ran as fast as my
legs would carry me to where they were "cleaning up," for they
never cleaned up week-days on the Flat, and told the news; we
all came back together and proceeded to the spot where the
wounded man lay weltering in his blood; he was cautiously
removed to the cabin, where he lingered until yesterday
sundown, when he died.
Question. Did he speak after he reached the cabin? A. He did
frequently; at first with great pain, but afterward more
audibly and intelligibly.
Q. What did he say? A. First, to send for Squire Jacobs, the
Assistant District Attorney, as he had a statement to make;
and some time afterward, to send for his wife; but we first of
all sent for the doctor.
Q. Who was present when he died? A. Only myself; he had
appeared a great deal easier, and his wife had lain down to
take a short nap, and my mother had gone to the spring and
left me alone to watch; suddenly he lifted himself
spasmodically in bed, glared around wildly and muttered
something inaudible; seeing me, he cried out, "Run! run! run!
He has it! Black Bart has got the vial! Quick! or he'll set
the world afire! See, he opens it! Oh, my God! Look! look!
look! Hold his hands! tie him! chain him down! Too late! too
late! oh the flames! Fire! fire! fire!" His tone of voice
gradually strengthened until the end of his raving; when he
cried "fire!" his eyeballs glared, his mouth quivered, his
body convulsed, and before Mrs. Gillson could reach his
bedside he fell back stone dead.
(Signed) X. V. ADAMS.
The testimony of Adams corroborated in every particular that of
his wife and daughter, but set forth more fully the particulars of
his demoniac ravings. He would taste nothing from a glass or
bottle, but shuddered whenever any article of that sort met his
eyes. In fact, they had to remove from the room the cups,
tumblers, and even the castors. At times he spoke rationally, but
after the second day only in momentary flashes of sanity.
The deposition of the attending physician, after giving the
general facts with regard to the sickness of the patient and his
subsequent demise, proceeded thus:
I found the patient weak, and suffering from loss of blood and
rest, and want of nourishment; occasionally sane, but for the
most part flighty and in a comatose condition. The wound was
an ordinary gunshot wound, produced most probably by the ball
of a navy revolver, fired at the distance of ten paces. It
entered the back near the left clavicle, beneath the scapula,
close to the vertebrae between the intercostal spaces of the
fifth and sixth ribs; grazing the pericardium it traversed the
mediastinum, barely touching the oesophagus, and vena azygos,
but completely severing the thoracic duct, and lodging in the
xiphoid portion of the sternum. Necessarily fatal, there was
no reason, however, why the patient could not linger for a
week or more; but it is no less certain that from the effect
of the wound he ultimately died. I witnessed the execution of
the paper shown to me--as the statement of deceased--at his
request; and at the time of signing the same he was in his
perfect senses. It was taken down in my presence by Jacobs,
the Assistant District Attorney of Placer County, and read
over to the deceased before he affixed his signature. I was
not present when he breathed his last, having been called away
by my patients in the town of Auburn, but I reached his
bedside shortly afterward. In my judgment, no amount of care
or medical attention could have prolonged his life more than a
few days.
(Signed) KARL LIEBNER, M. D.
The statement of the deceased was then introduced to the jury as
follows:
PEOPLE OF THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA }
_vs._ }
BARTHOLOMEW GRAHAM. }
_Statement and Dying Confession of Charles P. Gillson, taken
in articulo mortis by George Simpson, Notary Public._
On the morning of Sunday, the 14th day of May, 1871, I left
Auburn alone in search of the body of the late Gregory
Summerfield, who was reported to have been pushed from the
cars at Cape Horn, in this county, by one Leonidas Parker,
since deceased. It was not fully light when I reached the
track of the Central Pacific Railroad. Having mined at an
early day on Thompson's Flat, at the foot of the rocky
promontory now called Cape Horn, I was familiar with the
zigzag paths leading down that steep precipice. One was
generally used as a descent, the other as an ascent from the
cañon below. I chose the latter, as being the freest from the
chance of observation. It required the greatest caution to
thread the narrow gorge; but I finally reached the rocky
bench, about one thousand feet below the grade of the
railroad. It was now broad daylight, and I commenced
cautiously the search for Summerfield's body. There is quite a
dense undergrowth of shrubs thereabouts, lining the
interstices of the granite rocks so as to obscure the vision
even at a short distance. Brushing aside a thick manzanita
bush, I beheld the dead man at the same instant of time that
another person arrived like an apparition upon the spot. It
was Bartholomew Graham, known as "Black Bart." We suddenly
confronted each other, the skeleton of Summerfield lying
exactly between us. Our recognition was mutual. Graham
advanced and I did the same; he stretched out his hand and we
greeted one another across the prostrate corpse.
Before releasing my hand, Black Bart exclaimed in a hoarse
whisper, "Swear, Gillson, in the presence of the dead, that
you will forever be faithful, never betray me, and do exactly
as I bid you, as long as you live!"
I looked him full in the eye. Fate sat there, cold and
remorseless as stone. I hesitated; with his left hand he
slightly raised the lappels of his coat, and grasped the
handle of a navy revolver.
"Swear!" again he cried.
As I gazed, his eyeballs assumed a greenish tint, and his
brow darkened into a scowl. "As your confederate," I answered,
"never as your slave."
"Be it so!" was his only reply.
The body was lying upon its back, with the face upwards. The
vultures had despoiled the countenance of every vestige of
flesh, and left the sockets of the eyes empty. Snow and ice
and rain had done their work effectually upon the exposed
surfaces of his clothing, and the eagles had feasted upon the
entrails. But underneath, the thick beaver cloth had served to
protect the flesh, and there were some decaying shreds left of
what had once been the terrible but accomplished Gregory
Summerfield. A glance told us all these things. But they did
not interest me so much as another spectacle, that almost
froze my blood. In the skeleton gripe of the right hand,
interlaced within the clenched bones, gleamed the wide-mouthed
vial which was the object of our mutual visit. Graham fell
upon his knees, and attempted to withdraw the prize from the
grasp of its dead possessor. But the bones were firm, and when
he finally succeeded in securing the bottle, by a sudden
wrench, I heard the skeleton fingers snap like pipe-stems.
"Hold this a moment, whilst I search the pockets," he
commanded.
I did as directed.
He then turned over the corpse, and thrusting his hand into
the inner breast-pocket, dragged out a roll of MSS., matted
closely together and stained by the winter's rains. A further
search eventuated in finding a roll of small gold coin, a set
of deringer pistols, a mated double-edged dirk, and a pair of
silver-mounted spectacles. Hastily covering over the body with
leaves and branches cut from the embowering shrubs, we
shudderingly left the spot.
We slowly descended the gorge toward the banks of the American
River, until we arrived in a small but sequestered thicket,
where we threw ourselves upon the ground. Neither had spoken a
word since we left the scene above described. Graham was the
first to break the silence which to me had become oppressive.
"Let us examine the vial and see if the contents are safe."
I drew it forth from my pocket and handed it to him.
"Sealed hermetically, and perfectly secure," he added. Saying
this he deliberately wrapped it up in a handkerchief and
placed it in his bosom.
"What shall we do with our prize?" I inquired.
"_Our_ prize?" As he said this he laughed derisively, and cut
a most scornful and threatening glance toward me.
"Yes," I rejoined firmly; "_our_ prize!"
"Gillson," retorted Graham, "you must regard me as a
consummate simpleton, or yourself a Goliah. This bottle is
mine, and _mine_ only. It is a great fortune for _one_, but of
less value than a toadstool for _two_. I am willing to divide
fairly. This secret would be of no service to a coward. He
would not dare to use it. Your share of the robbery of the
body shall be these MSS.; you can sell them to some poor devil
of a printer, and pay yourself for your day's work."
Saying this he threw the bundle of MSS. at my feet; but I
disdained to touch them. Observing this, he gathered them up
safely and replaced them in his pocket. "As you are unarmed,"
he said, "it would not be safe for you to be seen in this
neighborhood during daylight. We will both spend the night
here, and just before morning return to Auburn. I will
accompany you part of the distance."
With the _sangfroid_ of a perfect desperado, he then stretched
himself out in the shadow of a small tree, drank deeply from a
whisky flagon which he produced, and pulling his hat over his
eyes, was soon asleep and snoring. It was a long time before I
could believe the evidence of my own senses. Finally, I
approached the ruffian, and placed my hand on his shoulder. He
did not stir a muscle. I listened; I heard only the deep, slow
breathing of profound slumber. Resolved not to be balked and
defrauded by such a scoundrel, I stealthily withdrew the vial
from his pocket, and sprang to my feet, just in time to hear
the click of a revolver behind me. I was betrayed! I remember
only a dash and an explosion--a deathly sensation, a whirl of
the rocks and trees about me, a hideous imprecation from the
lips of my murderer, and I fell senseless to the earth. When I
awoke to consciousness it was past midnight. I looked up at
the stars, and recognized Lyra shining full in my face. That
constellation I knew passed the meridian at this season of the
year after twelve o'clock, and its slow march told me that
many weary hours would intervene before daylight. My right arm
was paralyzed, but I put forth my left, and it rested in a
pool of my own blood. "Oh, for one drop of water!" I
exclaimed, faintly; but only the low sighing of the night
blast responded. Again I fainted. Shortly after daylight I
revived, and crawled to the spot where I was discovered on the
next day by the kind mistress of this cabin. You know the
rest. I accuse Bartholomew Graham of my assassination. I do
this in the perfect possession of my senses, and with a full
sense of my responsibility to Almighty God.
(Signed) C. P. GILLSON.
GEORGE SIMPSON, Notary Public.
CHRIS. JACOBS, Assistant District Attorney.
DOLLIE ADAMS,} Witnesses.
KARL LIEBNER,}
The following is a copy of the verdict of the coroner's jury:
COUNTY OF PLACER, }
Cape Horn Township. }
_In re C. P. Gillson, late of said county, deceased._
We, the undersigned, coroner's jury, summoned in the foregoing
case to examine into the causes of the death of said Gillson,
do find that he came to his death at the hands of Bartholomew
Graham, usually called "Black Bart," on Wednesday, the 17th
May, 1871. And we further find said Graham guilty of murder in
the first degree, and recommend his immediate apprehension.
(Signed) JOHN QUILLAN,
PETER MCINTYRE,
ABEL GEORGE,
ALEX. SCRIBER,
WM. A. THOMPSON.
(Correct:)
THOS. J. ALWYN,
Coroner.
The above documents constitute the papers introduced before the
coroner. Should anything of further interest occur, I will keep
you fully advised.
POWHATTAN JONES.
* * * * *
Since the above was in type we have received from our esteemed San
Francisco correspondent the following letter:
SAN FRANCISCO, June 8, 1871.
MR. EDITOR: On entering my office this morning I found A bundle
of MSS. which had been thrown in at the transom over the door,
labeled, "The Summerfield MSS." Attached to them was an unsealed
note from one Bartholomew Graham, in these words:
DEAR SIR: These are yours: you have earned them. I commend
to your especial notice the one styled "_De Mundo Comburendo_."
At a future time you may hear again from
BARTHOLOMEW GRAHAM.
A casual glance at the papers convinces me that they are of great
literary value. Summerfield's fame never burned so brightly as it
does over this grave. Will you publish the MSS.?
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
XXVII.
_THE AVITOR._
Hurrah for the wings that never tire--
For the nerves that never quail;
For the heart that beats in a bosom of fire--
For the lungs whose cast-iron lobes respire
Where the eagle's breath would fail!
As the genii bore Aladdin away,
In search of his palace fair,
On his magical wings to the land of Cathay,
So here I will spread out my pinions to-day
On the cloud-borne billows of air.
Up! up! to its home on the mountain crag,
Where the condor builds its nest,
I mount far fleeter than hunted stag,
I float far higher than Switzer flag--
Hurrah for the lightning's guest!
Away, over steeple and cross and tower--
Away, over river and sea;
I spurn at my feet the tempests that lower,
Like minions base of a vanquished power,
And mutter their thunders at me!
Diablo frowns, as above him I pass,
Still loftier heights to attain;
Calaveras' groves are but blades of grass--
Yosemite's sentinel peaks a mass
Of ant-hills dotting a plain!
Sierra Nevada's shroud of snow,
And Utah's desert of sand,
Shall never again turn backward the flow
Of that human tide which may come and go
To the vales of the sunset land!
Wherever the coy earth veils her face
With tresses of forest hair;
Where polar pallors her blushes efface,
Or tropical blooms lend her beauty and grace--
I can flutter my plumage there!
Where the Amazon rolls through a mystical land--
Where Chiapas buried her dead--
Where Central Australian deserts expand--
Where Africa seethes in saharas of sand--
Even there shall my pinions spread!
No longer shall earth with her secrets beguile,
For I, with undazzled eyes,
Will trace to their sources the Niger and Nile,
And stand without dread on the boreal isle,
The Colon of the skies!
Then hurrah for the wings that never tire--
For the sinews that never quail;
For the heart that throbs in a bosom of fire--
For the lungs whose cast-iron lobes respire
When the eagle's breath would fail!
[Decoration]
XXVIII.
_LOST AND FOUND._
'Twas eventide in Eden. The mortals stood,
Watchful and solemn, in speechless sorrow bound.
He was erect, defiant, and unblenched.
Tho' fallen, free--deceived, but not undone.
She leaned on him, and drooped her pensive brow
In token of the character she bore--
_The world's first penitent_. Tears, gushing fast,
Streamed from her azure eyes; and as they fled
Beyond the eastern gate, where gleamed the swords
Of guarding Cherubim, the flowers themselves
Bent their sad heads, surcharged with dewy tears,
Wept by the stare o'er man's immortal woe.
Far had they wandered, slow had been the pace,
Grief at his heart and ruin on her face,
Ere Adam turned to contemplate the spot
Where Earth began, where Heaven was forgot.
He gazed in silence, till the crystal wall
Of Eden trembled, as though doomed to fall:
Then bidding Eve direct her tear-dimmed eye
To where the foliage kissed the western sky,
They saw, with horror mingled with surprise,
The wall, the garden, and the foliage rise!
Slowly it mounted to the vaulted dome,
And paused as if to beckon mortals home;
Then, like a cloud when winds are all at rest,
It floated gently to the distant west,
And left behind a crimson path of light,
By which to track the Garden in its flight!
Day after day, the exiles wandered on,
With eyes still fixed, where Eden's smile last shone;
Forlorn and friendless through the wilds they trod,
Remembering Eden, but forgetting God,
Till far across the sea-washed, arid plain,
The billows thundered that the search was vain!
Ah! who can tell how oft at eventide,
When the gay west was blushing like a bride,
Fair Eve hath whispered in her children's ear,
"Beyond yon cloud will Eden reappear!"
And thus, as slow millenniums rolled away,
Each generation, ere it turned to clay,
Has with prophetic lore, by nature blest,
In search of Eden wandered to the West.
I cast my thoughts far up the stream of time,
And catch its murmurs in my careless rhyme.
I hear a footstep tripping o'er the down:
Behold! 'tis Athens, in her violet crown.
In fancy now her splendors reappear;
Her fleets and phalanxes, her shield and spear;
Her battle-fields, blest ever by the free,--
Proud Marathon, and sad Thermopylæ!
Her poet, foremost in the ranks of fame,
Homer! a god--but with a mortal's name;
Historians, richest in primeval lore;
Orations, sounding yet from shore to shore!
Heroes and statesmen throng the enraptured gaze,
Till glory totters 'neath her load of praise.
Surely a clime so rich in old renown
Could build an Eden, if not woo one down!
Lo! Plato comes, with wisdom's scroll unfurl'd,
The proudest gift of Athens to the world!
Wisest of mortals, say, for thou can'st tell,
Thou, whose sweet lips the Muses loved so well,
Was Greece the Garden that our fathers trod;
When men, like angels, walked the earth with God?
"Alas!" the great Philosopher replied,
"Though I love Athens better than a bride,
Her laws are bloody and her children slaves;
Her sages slumber in empoisoned graves;
Her soil is sterile, barren are her seas;
Eden still blooms in the Hesperides,
Beyond the pillars of far Hercules!
Westward, amid the ocean's blandest smile,
Atlantis blossoms, a perennial Isle;
A vast Republic stretching far and wide,
Greater than Greece and Macedon beside!"
The vision fades. Across the mental screen
A mightier spirit stalks upon the scene;
His tread shakes empires ancient as the sun;
His voice resounds, and nations are undone;
War in his tone and battle in his eye,
The world in arms, a Roman dare defy!
Throned on the summit of the seven hills,
He bathes his gory heel in Tiber's rills;
Stretches his arms across a triple zone,
And dares be master of mankind, alone!
All peoples send their tribute to his store;
Wherever rivers glide or surges roar,
Or mountains rise or desert plains expand,
His minions sack and pillage every land.
But not alone for rapine and for war
The Roman eagle spreads his pinions far;
He bears a sceptre in his talons strong,
To guard the right, to rectify the wrong,
And carries high, in his imperial beak,
A shield armored to protect the weak.
Justice and law are dropping from his wing,
Equal alike for consul, serf or king;
Daggers for tyrants, for patriot-heroes fame,
Attend like menials on the Roman name!
Was Rome the Eden of our ancient state,
Just in her laws, in her dominion great,
Wise in her counsels, matchless in her worth,
Acknowledged great proconsul of the earth?
An eye prophetic that has read the leaves
The sibyls scattered from their loosened sheaves,
A bard that sang at Rome in all her pride,
Shall give response;--let Seneca decide!
"Beyond the rocks where Shetland's breakers roar,
And clothe in foam the wailing, ice-bound shore,
Within the bosom of a tranquil sea,
Where Earth has reared her _Ultima Thule_,
The gorgeous West conceals a golden clime,
The petted child, the paragon of Time!
In distant years, when Ocean's mountain wave
Shall rock a cradle, not upheave a grave,
When men shall walk the pathway of the brine,
With feet as safe as Terra watches mine,
Then shall the barriers of the Western Sea
Despised and broken down forever be;
Then man shall spurn old Ocean's loftiest crest,
And tear the secret from his stormy breast!"
Again the vision fades. Night settles down
And shrouds the world in black Plutonian frown;
Earth staggers on, like mourners to a tomb,
Wrapt in one long millennium of gloom.
That past, the light breaks through the clouds of war,
And drives the mists of Bigotry afar;
Amalfi sees her burial tomes unfurl'd,
And dead Justinian rules again the world.
The torch of Science is illumed once more;
Adventure gazes from the surf-beat shore,
Lifts in his arms the wave-worn Genoese,
And hails Iberia, Mistress of the Seas!
What cry resounds along the Western main,
Mounts to the stars, is echoed back again,
And wakes the voices of the startled sea,
Dumb until now, from past eternity?
"Land! land!" is chanted from the Pinta's deck;
Smiling afar, a minute glory-speck,
But grandly rising from the convex sea,
To crown Colon with immortality,
The Western World emerges from the wave,
God's last asylum for the free and brave!
But where within this ocean-bounded clime,
This fairest offspring of the womb of time,--
Plato's Atlantis, risen from the sea,
Utopia's realm, beyond old Rome's Thule,--
Where shall we find, within this giant land,
By blood redeemed, with Freedom's rainbow spann'd,
The spot first trod by mortals on the earth,
Where Adam's race was cradled into birth?
'Twas sought by Cortez with his warrior band,
In realms once ruled by Montezuma's hand;
Where the old Aztec, 'neath his hills of snow,
Built the bright domes of silver Mexico.
Pizarro sought it where the Inca's rod
Proclaimed the prince half-mortal, demi-god,
When the mild children of unblest Peru
Before the bloodhounds of the conqueror flew,
And saw their country and their race undone,
And perish 'neath the Temple of the Sun!
De Soto sought it, with his tawny bride,
Near where the Mississippi's waters glide,
Beneath the ripples of whose yellow wave
He found at last both monument and grave.
Old Ponce de Leon, in the land of flowers,
Searched long for Eden 'midst her groves and bowers,
Whilst brave La Salle, where Texan prairies smile,
Roamed westward still, to reach the happy isle.
The Pilgrim Fathers on the Mayflower's deck,
Fleeing beyond a tyrant's haughty beck,
In quest of Eden, trod the rock-bound shore,
Where bleak New England's wintry surges roar;
Raleigh, with glory in his eagle eye,
Chased the lost realm beneath a Southern sky;
Whilst Boone believed that Paradise was found
In old Kentucky's "dark and bloody ground!"
In vain their labors, all in vain their toil;
Doomed ne'er to breathe that air nor tread that soil.
Heaven had reserved it till a race sublime
Should launch its heroes on the wave of time!
Go with me now, ye Californian band,
And gaze with wonder at your glorious land;
Ascend the summit of yon middle chain,
When Mount Diablo rises from the plain,
And cast your eyes with telescopic power,
O'er hill and forest, over field and flower.
Behold! how free the hand of God hath roll'd
A wave of wealth across your Land of Gold!
The mountains ooze it from their swelling breast,
The milk-white quartz displays it in her crest;
Each tiny brook that warbles to the sea,
Harps on its strings a golden melody;
Whilst the young waves are cradled on the shore
On spangling pillows, stuffed with golden ore!
Look northward! See the Sacramento glide
Through valleys blooming like a royal bride,
And bearing onward to the ocean's shore
A richer freight than Arno ever bore!
See! also fanned by cool refreshing gales,
Fair Petaluma and her sister vales,
Whose fields and orchards ornament the plain
And deluge earth with one vast sea of grain!
Look southward! Santa Clara smiles afar,
As in the fields of heaven, a radiant star;
Los Angeles is laughing through her vines;
Old Monterey sits moody midst her pines;
Far San Diego flames her golden bow,
And Santa Barbara sheds her fleece of snow,
Whilst Bernardino's ever-vernal down
Gleams like an emerald in a monarch's crown!
Look eastward! On the plains of San Joaquin
Ten thousand herds in dense array are seen.
Aloft like columns propping up the skies
The cloud-kissed groves of Calaveras rise;
Whilst dashing downward from their dizzy home
The thundering falls of Yo Semite foam!
Look westward! Opening on an ocean great,
Behold the portal of the Golden Gate!
Pillared on granite, destined e'er to stand
The iron rampart of the sunset land!
With rosy cheeks, fanned by the fresh sea-breeze,
The petted child of the Pacific seas,
See San Francisco smile! Majestic heir
Of all that's brave, or bountiful, or fair,
Pride of our land, by every wave carest,
And hailed by nations, Venice of the West!
Where then is Eden? Ah! why should I tell,
What every eye and bosom know so well?
Why thy name the land all other lands have blest,
And traced for ages to the distant West?
Why search in vain throughout th' historic page
For Eden's garden and the Golden Age?
HERE, BROTHERS, HERE! NO FURTHER LET US ROAM;
THIS IS THE GARDEN! EDEN IS OUR HOME!
[Decoration]
# # # # #
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_.
2. Words in Bold are surrounded by =equal= signs.
3. Words in both Bold and Gothic Font are surrounded by bars and equal
signs |=text=|.
4. Any footnotes in the original text have been placed directly under
the paragraph or passage containing their anchors.
5. The following words with the [oe] ligature appeared in the original
text: manoeuvre, Croesus, oesophagus. The ligature has been removed for
the purpose of this e-text.
Punctuation corrections:
p. 30, removed double quote from unquoted passage (and deprecated the
action)
p. 69, added closing quote to passage ("...responsibility at once.")
p. 124, added closing quote to passage ("...discovering one of them.")
p. 182, adding closing quote to passage ("...degree of curvature.")
Spelling corrections:
p. 69, "insenate" to "insensate" (Shall insensate nature)
p. 138, "pursuaded" to "persuaded" (2) (I was persuaded that)
p. 148, "Leverier" to "Leverrier" (2) (Leverrier computed the orbit)
p. 150, "hieroglyphi" to "hieroglyphic" (13) (beautiful hieroglyphic
extant)
p. 153, "accidently" to "accidentally" (3) (I accidentally entered)
p. 161, "Okak-oni-tas" to "O-kak-oni-tas" (4) (with the O-kak-oni-tas)
p. 205, "amosphere" to "atmosphere" (18) (but the atmosphere)
p. 276, "liberty" to "Liberty" (the angel of Liberty)
Words used in this text for which spelling could not be verified, but
that have been retained because they were used multiple times or were
contained within quoted text:
p. 48, 288, "Goliah" (2) (possible alt. sp. of Goliath)
p. 181, "petira" (1) (flat lens, immense petira,)
p. 274, 287, "deringer" (2) (possible alt. sp. of derringer)
p. 286, "lappels" (1) (possible alt. sp. of lapels, in quoted material)
Word Variations occuring in this text which have been retained:
"bed-chamber" (1) and "bedchamber" (1)
"Cortes" (1) p.122 and "Cortez" (2) (another instance of "Cortes" also
occurs on p. 111, however the person described is other than the
"Cortez" who set out to conquer Mexico)
"enclose" (1) and "inclose(d) (ures)" (2)
"ever-living" (2) and "everliving" (1)
"every-day" (2) and "everyday" (1)
"Gra-so-po-itas" (2) and "Gra-sop-o-itas" (2)
"head-dress" (2) and "headdress" (1)
"melancholy" (3) and "melancholly" (1) (in a quoted "report")
"MERCHANTS'" (1) and "MERCHANT'S" (1) (in TOC and CHAPTER TITLE)
"O-kak-o-nitas" (2) and "O-kak-oni-tas" (3)
"right-about face" (1) and "right-about-faced" (1)
"sceptre" (4) and "scepter" (7)
"sea-shore" (1) and "seashore" (1)
"semi-circle" (2) and "semicircle" (1)
"wouldst" (1) and "would'st" (1)
Printer Corrections and Notes:
p. 11, Table of Contents: Chapter XI. "THE TELESCOPIC EYE" changed
from p. 175 to 174 and Chapter XII. "THE EMERALD EYE from p. 191 to 190.
p. 201, italicised "First." and "Secondly", to conform with remaining
recitations on succeeding page 202.
p. 227, "The thought crossed my mind, Can this be a spirit?" (is
correctly capitalized. Direct question within a sentence.
Wherever the printer used a row of asterisks as a separator, the number
of asterisks used has been standardized to 5.
Wherever the printer used blank space as a separator, a row of five
number signs (#) appears.