How Joseph C. Palmer, With Some Extraordinary
Material, Wrote for
a Large Sum.
Many different substances have been used to send communications through
the mails, from bits of carved wood to leather post-cards. But banks are
supposed to be more insistent upon red tape. A stamp and an address will
satisfy the postal authorities; ink, paper, and indubitable
signature--these are requisites in bank paper. Yet in new countries it is
frequently obliged to put up with makeshifts. Here is a story of early
banking in California, as related by the San Francisco _Bulletin_:
Joseph C. Palmer, a California pioneer, and at one time a banker and
politician in the early days of California, was a member of the firm of
Palmer, Cook & Co., a bank which did an immense business, and whose
influence was felt throughout the State.
To show his readiness to adopt original methods in an emergency, it is
related that once a depositor called to draw a large sum of money
(twenty-eight thousand dollars) from the bank. Mr. Palmer's signature was
necessary, but he had been called away to attend to some duty in a
lumberyard at a distance of a mile or more.
Thither the depositor hastened and made known his wants and the necessity
of having them attended to at once. Mr. Palmer could find neither pen,
pencil, ink, nor paper. But without a moment's hesitation he picked up a
shingle, borrowed a piece of red chalk, and with it wrote a check on the
shingle in large and distinct letters for twenty-eight thousand dollars.
This was good when presented for all the money the depositor had in bank,
and it proved an exceedingly good advertisement for Palmer. It gained
confidence for the original genius of our first great banker, whom
everybody trusted.
Robert Emmet's Speech of Vindication.
Robert Emmet, the Irish patriot, was born in Dublin in 1778,
and was executed for treason in Dublin, September 20, 1803.
A prize-winner at Trinity College, Dublin, and an eloquent
speaker before the Historical Society, he lent his young
energies to the cause of Ireland with a devotion that was as
pure and unselfish as it was rash. Traveling on the
Continent, he received from Napoleon I a promise to help
Ireland. He then returned secretly to Ireland and made plans
for a revolution. An abortive uprising occurred. Emmet, with
a mob of followers, attempted to seize Dublin Castle, but
one volley dispersed his rabble.
He fled to the Wicklow mountains, intending to escape from
the country, but he made a last visit to his sweetheart,
Miss Curran, and was captured. His speeches before the
tribunal which sentenced him to be hanged are models of
noble and eloquent dignity. Thomas Moore, Emmet's
schoolfellow and friend, inscribed to his memory a touching
poem:
Oh, breathe not his name--let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid;
Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed,
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head.
But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps,
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps;
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.
In another lyric, which begins with the line "She is far
from the land where her young hero sleeps," Moore alluded to
the sad after-life of Miss Curran. Her story was also told,
without a mention of her name, by Washington Irving, in "The
Broken Heart," which may be found in "The Sketch Book."
My Lords: What have I to say why sentence of death should not be
pronounced on me, according to law? I have nothing to say that can alter
your predetermination, nor that it will become me to say, with any view to
the mitigation of that sentence which you are here to pronounce, and I
must abide by. But I have that to say, which interests me more than life,
and which you have labored to destroy. I have much to say, why my
reputation should be rescued from the load of false accusation and calumny
which has been heaped upon it.
Were I only to suffer death, after being adjudged guilty by your tribunal,
I should bow in silence, and meet the fate that awaits me without a
murmur; but the sentence of law which delivers my body to the executioner
will, through the ministry of that law, labor, in its own vindication, to
consign my character to obloquy: for there must be guilt
somewhere--whether in the sentence of the court, or in the catastrophe,
posterity must determine. The man dies, but his memory lives. That mine
may not perish--that it may live in the respect of my countrymen--I seize
upon this opportunity to vindicate myself from some of the charges alleged
against me. When my spirit shall be wafted to a more friendly port; when
my shade shall have joined the bands of those martyred heroes who have
shed their blood, on the scaffold and in the field, in defense of their
country and virtue, this is my hope--I wish that my memory and name may
animate those who survive me, while I look down with complacency on the
destruction of that perfidious government which upholds its domination by
blasphemy of the Most High, which displays its power over man as over the
beasts of the forest, which sets man upon his brother, and lifts his hand,
in the name of God, against the throat of his fellow who believes or
doubts a little more or less than the government standard--a government
which is steeled to barbarity by the cries of the orphans and the tears of
the widows which its cruelty has made.
I swear by the throne of heaven, before which I must shortly appear--by
the blood of the murdered patriots who have gone before me--that my
conduct has been, through all this peril, and all my purposes, governed
only by the convictions which I have uttered, and no other view than that
of the emancipation of my country from the superinhuman oppression under
which she has so long, and too patiently, travailed; and that I
confidently and assuredly hope (wild and chimerical as it may appear) that
there are still union and strength in Ireland to accomplish this noble
enterprise.
Let no man dare, when I am dead, to charge me with dishonor; let no man
attaint my memory by believing that I could have engaged in any cause but
that of my country's liberty and independence; or that I could have become
the pliant minion of power, in the oppression or the miseries of my
countrymen. I would not have submitted to a foreign oppressor, for the
same reason that I would resist the domestic tyrant; in the dignity of
freedom, I would have fought upon the threshold of my country, and her
enemies should enter only by passing over my lifeless corpse. Am I, who
lived but for my country, and who have subjected myself to the vengeance
of the jealous and wrathful oppressor, and to the bondage of the grave,
only to give my countrymen their rights--am I to be loaded with calumny,
and not to be suffered to resent or repel it? No!--God forbid!
If the spirits of the illustrious dead participate in the concerns and
cares of those who are dear to them in this transitory life--O ever dear
and venerated shade of my departed father, look down with scrutiny on the
conduct of your suffering son; and see if I have even for a moment
deviated from those principles of morality and patriotism which it was
your care to instil into my youthful mind, and for an adherence to which I
am now to offer up my life!
My lords, you are all impatient for the sacrifice. The blood which you
seek is not congealed by the artificial terrors which surround your
victim; it circulates warmly and unruffled through the channels which God
created for noble purposes, but which you are bent to destroy for purposes
so grievous that they cry to heaven! Be yet patient! I have but a few
words more to say. I am going to my silent grave; my lamp of life is
nearly extinguished; my race is run; the grave opens to receive me, and I
sink into its bosom. I have but one request to ask at my departure from
this world--it is the charity of its silence. Let no man write my epitaph;
for, as no one who knows my motives dare now vindicate them, let not
prejudice or ignorance asperse them. Let them and me repose in obscurity
and peace, and my tomb remain uninscribed, until other times, and other
men, can do justice to my character. When my country shall take her place
among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let my epitaph be
written! I have done.
=Mortality=. It takes twenty months to bring man from the
state of embryo, and from that of a mere animal, as he is in
his first infancy, to the point when his reason begins to
dawn. It has taken thirty centuries to know his structure;
it would take an eternity to know something of his soul: it
takes but an instant to kill him.--=Voltaire.=
The Rivals.
By BENSON J. LOSSING.
The late historian, Benson J. Lossing, whose name for a
large part of the last century was connected with historical
authorship and with wood engraving, was born in Dutchess
County, New York, February 12, 1813, and died June 3, 1891.
When a very young man he became editor of a local paper in
Poughkeepsie, and, afterward, with Barritt, under the
familiar signature of "Lossing and Barritt," did a very
large amount of the wood engraving current a generation or
more ago.
Inspired by his editorial and art experience, he began early
to visit the places made notable by the battles and
memorable scenes of the Revolutionary War. Of buildings
connected therewith, or of their falling ruins, he made
sketches. Out of this activity came his famous and still
excellent work, "The Field Book of the Revolution." The
history of our subsequent wars he also treated; and it was
history chiefly that engaged his pen. The one exception was
his publication of the _Casket_, in 1836 or thereabouts,
which in a form similar to that of the _Nation_, was a very
creditable literary and family magazine, conducted in a
popular way, when magazines in this country were few and
unimportant. One does not find, in any account of him apart
from this venture of possibly not over three years'
duration, that he left his purely historical themes.
Very recently, however, THE SCRAP BOOK came across a
somewhat romantic story, with a touch and climax of art and
love in it, which is the product of his pen; though its
style is a little more ambitious and florid than the one for
which he was noted. It tells, with much liberty of
embellishment, the thrilling anecdote of the contest of the
Grecian artists, Zeuxis and Parrhasius. As it was
interesting sixty years ago, when it appeared (in 1846),
doubtless it may have some interest now.
Zeuxis was the pride and boast of Athens. His pencil had no rival, and
thrice he had been crowned victor of the Olympic games. The dwellings of
the rich and noble, and the shrines and temples of the gods, were
decorated with the fruits of his genius. He was courted by the wise and
powerful. Artists and magi came from distant cities to look upon the
Athenian painter, whose name was sounded worldwide.
Even the proud ruler of Palmyra, the "Tadmor of the wilderness," sent a
deputation of nobles to invite his presence at the Palmyrene court.
Contemporary artists acknowledged his superiority; and Apollodorus, the
father of Athenian painters, declared that Zeuxis had "stolen the cunning
from all the rest." Thus flattered and caressed, Zeuxis became proud and
haughty. He found no rival, for he knew no equal.
The Agonothetai employed him to paint a wrestler or champion, to adorn the
peristylium of the Gymnasia. Assembled thousands gave a simultaneous shout
of applause when the picture was exhibited on the first day of the games.
The victors in the chariot-race, the discus, the cestus, and the athletae,
were almost forgotten amid the general admiration of the picture of
Zeuxis. Conscious of his superiority, the artist, with pedantic egotism,
wrote beneath his picture, "Invisurus aliquis facilius quam
imitaturus!"--"Sooner envied than equaled!"
This inscription met the eye of an obscure youth, who resolved to prove
its falsity.
The third day of the games had terminated. The last rays of the sun yet
lingered on the Acropolis, and burnished the crest of hoary Olympus that
gleamed in the distance. Zeuxis sat alone with his wife and daughter,
listening attentively to the strains of a minstrel who swept the lyre for
a group of joyous dancers assembled near the grove sacred to Psyche. As
the music ceased, a deep sigh escaped the daughter, and a tear trembled in
the maiden's eye.
"Cassandra, my sweet Cassandra," said Zeuxis, "why that tear, that sigh?"
A deep crimson suffused the cheeks of the maiden, and she was silent.
"Tell me, Cassandra," said the father, affectionately placing her hand in
his own, and inquisitively eying the blushing damsel; "tell me what new
grief makes sorrowful the heart of my daughter? Thinkest thou yet of the
worthless Parrhasius--even now, upon the eve of thy nuptials with the
noble Thearchus?"
"Nay, dear father," said Cassandra, "it was the music that made me weep.
It awakened memory to the recollections of the many happy hours spent with
my dear Portia, who is now among the immortals. Four years ago we danced
together to the same strain, and the lyre was touched by the gentle
Parrhasius."
"_Gentle_ Parrhasius, sayest thou, Cassandra?--_gentle_ Parrhasius!
Wouldst thou call him gentle, the poor plebeian who sought to rival the
noble Thearchus in thy affections?--who openly avowed in the streets of
Athens, in the Gymnasium and the Hippodrome, that his pencil would yet
make Zeuxis envious?"
"And yet he _was_ gentle," mildly replied Cassandra, while the big round
tears coursed down her cheeks, and her bosom swelled with tender emotion.
The brow of Zeuxis lowered, and indices of a whirlwind of passion were in
his countenance. Four years had elapsed since Parrhasius had asked for his
daughter in marriage, and was indignantly refused. Affection, deep and
abiding as vitality itself, existed between the young painter and
Cassandra--affection based upon reciprocal appreciation of mutual worth;
but the ambition of Zeuxis made him forget his duty to his child, and,
without estimating consequences, he resolved to wed her to Thearchus, a
wealthy Athenian nobleman, and son of one of the judges of the Areopagus.
When Parrhasius modestly but firmly pressed his suit, Zeuxis became
indignant--taunted him with his plebeian birthright and obscure lineage;
and denounced him as a poor Ephesian boy, unworthy, because of his
poverty, the friendship, much less the confidence of sonship, of the great
Athenian painter.
The spirit of Parrhasius was aroused and, standing erect in all the
dignity of conscious equality of genius, full-fledged and eager to soar,
he boldly repelled the insults of Zeuxis, and with a voice that reached
the listening ear of his beloved, exclaimed:
"Know, proud man, that thou, the unrivaled master of Greece, of the world,
wilt yet envy the talent and fame of Parrhasius, though a poor plebeian
boy of Ephesus!"
The rage of Zeuxis was unbounded, and he ordered his helots to thrust the
youth from his presence. The order was instantly obeyed; and, ere the
setting sun, Parrhasius left the walls of Athens behind him, and turned
toward Ephesus, to practise his skill in seclusion there.
During the interim of the games, the young painter assiduously practised
his art, in utter seclusion from the world; and those who knew him before
departing for Athens, believed him dead. Nor could Cassandra, during these
four years, hear aught of her exiled lover. Her constancy and hope
whispered to her heart the fulfilment of the prediction of excellence, and
that destiny would yet unite them in holy ties by its mysterious web.
This hope and this constancy had thus far delayed her marriage with
Thearchus. Like Penelope, she framed reasons for repelling her suitor, and
daily looked for the return of her lord, wearing the bay of success. Her
father, wearied by procrastination, and ambitious for display, had
resolved to have the nuptials celebrated during the festival of the
Olympic games. His persuasions became commands, his arguments positive
orders, and his paternal government by the power of love a stern executor
of the behest of his ambition. The herald had already sounded the
proclamation, and all Athens greeted with joy the approaching nuptials of
the noble Thearchus and the lovely Cassandra.
Yet the stern ambition of Zeuxis was susceptible of tender impressions. He
adored his daughter, and her tears melted the ice of his heart. He knew
she loved the Ephesian, and the war of duty and ambition waxed warm as he
witnessed new proofs of her constancy and love.
"Come, come, Cassandra," said he caressingly, "these tears ill become the
daughter of the Athenian painter on the eve of her nuptials with one of
the noblest sons of Greece. Forget that childish passion that attaches
thee to Parrhasius, and thank the gods for his exile from Athens."
"Would you see your Cassandra happy?" asked the weeping maiden.
"I would, indeed," replied Zeuxis; "and it was for her happiness that I
spurned the Ephesian and favored the worthy Thearchus."
"But Thearchus has no place in my affections," replied Cassandra. "I love
him not; and to wed him is but to plunge me into deeper misery. What is
wealth--what nobility and the applause of the people, if the affections of
the heart have no participation therein? They are ministers of woe to the
broken spirit. Without love there is no happiness; without happiness life
is nothing worth. I would sooner wed a shepherd than an archon, did he but
bring with him the riches of true affection."
"Madness, madness!" exclaimed Zeuxis. "This philosophy may do for a
peasant maiden, but should not pollute the lips of a daughter of Zeuxis.
Talk of love! Why, it is but a passion born of circumstances. To-day it
burns with volcanic violence, to-morrow it is but a glimmering taper;
to-day its intensity warms the most cheerless cabin of poverty, to-morrow
its flickering rays will barely illumine the most cheerful abode of
wealth. It is a delusive light, that too often dazzles to blind."
"It may be so with the sensual," replied Cassandra. "With them it is
indeed a passion born of circumstances. Yet, after all, it is _not_ love.
It is but a poor semblance of the holy passion. Pure affection comes not
from the dross of earth, the wealth, power, and pageantry of individuals
or of society, nor from the ephemeral loveliness of the human form. Such
is, at best, the gross counterfeit of love, and undeserving its divine
name. When moral and intellectual worth--the beauties and amiability of
character--the noble evidences of exalted genius, excite our admiration,
and win our affections for the possessor, then indeed do we truly love,
and love a worthy object. Such, dear father, is my love for Parrhasius.
Submission to thy will must unite me to Thearchus, whom I cannot love; but
the undying flame of first affection will only make me more miserable."
Zeuxis was silent. He loved his daughter with exceeding tenderness; yet
burning ambition presented a paramount claim, and would not permit him
again to delay the nuptials on which he had resolved. He kissed the tears
from the cheeks of Cassandra, and was about to retire for the night; but
the maiden seized his hand, and, looking imploringly in his face, said:
"Hear me once more, dear father, ere the decree of my unhappiness shall
have irrevocably gone forth. Hope whispers in my ear that the prophetic
taunt of Parrhasius may yet be verified. Thou well knowest the genius and
spirit of that youth, and I know thy gentle nature will now forgive him
the utterance of words spoken in passion. Forgive, and Cassandra will be
happy."
"For thy sake," replied Zeuxis, "I will pardon the rashness of the
Ephesian boy. But why thy hope? Wouldst thou see thy father rivaled, and
the voice of Athens--of the world--loud in praises of another?"
"No," replied Cassandra, "it is not for that I hope; but thy daughter
loves Parrhasius, and she desires to see him worthy of that love in the
eyes of her father. This is the foundation of my hope. Is it not just?"
"Truly, such an aspiration is worthy of my daughter," replied Zeuxis; and
again bidding her good night, he was about to depart. But the maiden still
clung to his hand.
"One word more," she exclaimed; "one more boon, and your Cassandra will be
completely happy. Promise me that I shall wed Parrhasius if his prediction
be fulfilled."
"I promise," replied Zeuxis, conscious that her hopes were groundless,
and that the last day of the festival would witness the nuptials of
Thearchus and Cassandra, and thus crown his paternal ambition with a more
valued bay than the laurel of the victor.
On the following morning Zeuxis prepared for the games. Just at the moment
of starting a helot approached him with a small roll directed to "Zeuxis,
the unrivaled painter of Greece." He was delighted with the flattering
superscription, and, having unbound it, read:
Parrhasius, the plebeian boy of Ephesus, to Zeuxis, the
great Athenian artist: Greeting. Ten days, and the games of
Olympia will terminate. On the ninth I challenge thee to a
trial of skill. The subject is left to the choice of the
challenged.
Zeuxis rent the challenge in a thousand pieces, and, burning with rage,
exclaimed: "Tell your master that Zeuxis stoops not to compete with
plebeians! Tell him I trample his insolent challenge beneath my feet, even
as I would crush its author. Begone! Gods, has it come to this?" continued
he. "Must I first bear the taunts of that boy, and then, in the face of
thousands, have him challenge me to a trial? I know him well. If I refuse,
a herald will proclaim that refusal in every street of Athens, and the
gymnasium and the circus will ring with my shame. It must not be." And he
commanded the helot to return.
"Tell your master," said Zeuxis, "that I accept his challenge: the
subject, fruit." The helot departed.
"Now," said Zeuxis, "my triumph will be complete, and Cassandra's delusion
will be broken. Now will I prove the insolent Ephesian unworthy of my
exalted notice and the noble Cassandra's love. It is well. Destiny bids me
stoop to the trial, only to add another laurel to my brow!" And Zeuxis,
with haughty step, proceeded to the circus.
Within a few hours all Athens was in commotion. A new impulse had been
given to the public excitement, and the first sound that fell upon the ear
of Zeuxis as he entered the circus was the voice of a herald proclaiming
that an Ephesian painter had challenged the great artist to a trial of
skill.
The voice of the herald also sounded throughout the streets of Athens,
and fell like sweetest symphony upon the ear of Cassandra. She knew not
the name of the competitor, but the revealings of hope and love assured
her that it was none other than Parrhasius. And that hope and that love
also gave her assurance that her beloved one would be the victor, and that
holy affection rather than proud ambition would be crowned by the hand of
Astrea.
The time fixed upon for the trial arrived. The thousands who had
congregated in Athens to witness the games flowed like a living torrent
through the eastern gate of the city, and halted upon a hill overlooking a
flowery plain bordering upon the Ilyssus. The sun had journeyed half his
way toward the meridian, when amid the thundering shouts of applause of
the populace, Zeuxis, with a proud and haughty step, left the pavilion of
the judges, and with a tablet in his hand, on which was painted a cluster
of grapes, proceeded to the plain. Upon a small column erected for the
purpose, near a grove, the artist placed his painting, and, withdrawing
the curtain that concealed it, returned to the pavilion. The multitude was
astonished, for they expected to feast their eyes on the production of the
great artist. Murmurs of dissatisfaction ran through the crowd, and a few
loudly denounced the conduct of Zeuxis in placing the picture beyond their
observation.
Suddenly a deafening shout, and a cry of "Zeuxis and Athens!" arose from
the throng. A whole bevy of birds from the grove had alighted upon the
column, and eagerly sought to devour the pictured fruit!
This decision of the birds of heaven was deemed sufficient evidence of the
superiority of the Athenian painter, and the people clamored loudly for
the crown of laurels and the branch of palm for Zeuxis. His competitor had
not yet been seen, either in the crowd or with the judges; and Zeuxis
gloried in the thought that his conscious inferiority had made him shrink
from the trial. The branch of palm was placed in the Athenian's hand, and
a virgin was about to place the crown of evergreen upon his head, when,
from a small tent opposite the pavilion of the judges, stepped forth the
"Ephesian boy," pale and trembling, and, with a tablet in his hand,
approached the multitude. Not a single voice greeted him, for he was
unknown to that vast concourse, and the silence weighed like lead upon his
heart. There was, however, one heart there that beat in sympathy with his
own. It was that of Cassandra. She, too, stood pale and trembling; and by
her side was Thearchus, watching with intense anxiety for the result.
Parrhasius drew near to his rival. At first he would not deign to notice
him; but a few faint voices crying out, "Victory for Parrhasius!" the
judges demanded an exhibition of the picture of the Ephesian. Turning
around, with ill-concealed rage, Zeuxis, with a bitter, scornful tone
cried out, "Come, away with your curtain, that the assemblage may see what
goodly affair you have beneath it!"
Parrhasius handed the tablet to his rival. Had a thunderbolt fallen at his
feet, he could not have been more astounded. The curtain was painted upon
the tablet, and so exquisitely was it wrought that even the practised eye
of the great painter did not till then detect the deception!
"I yield! I yield!" cried the Athenian; "Zeuxis beguiled poor birds, but
Parrhasius hath deceived Zeuxis! Bring hither the laurel and also the
palm: my hand, and mine alone, shall crown the young victor!"
"And thy promise!" exclaimed Cassandra, bounding forward and grasping the
hand of her father.
"I here fulfil it," said he. "Parrhasius is indeed worthy of my Cassandra.
Embrace and be happy!"
The laurel and the palm were brought--and there, in the presence of
assembled thousands, Zeuxis crowned the young Ephesian. Then, mounting a
pedestal, he addressed the assembled multitude. He recounted the pure love
and constancy of Parrhasius and Cassandra, and told of his promise; he
also tenderly related his engagement with Thearchus.
He was proceeding to vindicate himself from the imputation of treachery to
Thearchus, when another deafening shout arose from the assembly, as a
noble youth came from the pavilion with a branch of palm and placed it in
the hands of Cassandra. It was Thearchus. He had before heard and now
witnessed the devotion of the lovers, and his generous heart melted at the
spectacle. He had tenderly loved the maiden, but he magnanimously resigned
all.
"Laurels for Thearchus!" shouted the vast multitude--and Thearchus, too,
was crowned victor, for he had conquered love.
Matrons and virgins strewed the path of Parrhasius and Cassandra with
flowers, as they returned to the city; and on the following day their
nuptials were celebrated with a splendor fully adequate to the wishes of
the ambitious Zeuxis, for the city made the marriage a high festival in
honor of Genius and Constancy.
The games ended; the city became quiet. A few years of happiness cast
their sunlight around the footsteps of the great painter, and he went down
into the tomb honored and mourned by a nation--by the world, wherever his
fame was known. His mantle fell upon Parrhasius, who is revered by Genius
as the greatest painter of antiquity.
=Ideals=. Every man has at times in his mind, the ideal of
what he should be, but is not. The ideal may be high and
complete, or it may be quite low and insufficient; yet in
all men that really seek to improve, it is better than the
actual character. Man never falls so low that he can see
nothing higher than himself.--=Theodore Parker=.
(1810-1860.)