Chapter I: Preface (1)

The sketches and poems in this volume were written at a time when the author was engaged in the practice of a laborious profession. It was the intention of Mr. Rhodes to collect them from the various newspapers and periodicals in which they had appeared, and publish them in book-form whenever he could obtain a respite from his arduous duties. But before he carried out his long-cherished object he died, in the prime of his manhood and the ripeness of his literary life. Many of his poems were written for the monthly gatherings of the Bohemian Club. There, when Caxton's name was announced, his literary friends thronged about him, confident of the rich treat the brain of their beloved poet had provided for them. His wit was keen and sparkling, without a shade of malice; and many an anecdote, that began with some delightful absurdity, closed in a pathos that showed the great versatility of Caxton's genius. The Case of Summerfield, which is perhaps the most ingenious of the tales in that peculiar vein, was widely copied and warmly praised for the originality of its plan and the skill of its execution. The editor of this work has observed, as far as lay in his power, the intention of the author in the selection of those compositions which Mr. Rhodes had put aside for compilation. With such a mass and variety of material (for Caxton had been a busy worker) it was difficult to select from productions all of which were excellent. Few liberties have been taken with them; for, indeed, Caxton was himself so conscientious in the arrangement and correction of his manuscript, that, with the exception of some slight and unimportant alterations, this book goes before his friends and the public in the same order as the author would have chosen had he been spared to perform the task.

IN MEMORIAM.

At the time when, according to custom, Mr. Rhodes's death was formally announced to the several Courts of Record in San Francisco, one of the learned Judges urged the publication of his writings in some form which would give the bar a permanent memorial of one of it's most esteemed members, and to them their proper place in American literature. This has been accomplished by the present volume. It is sincerely to be hoped that while it will largely add to Mr. Rhodes's reputation, it may also serve to furnish a most interesting family some substantial aid in the struggle with life, from which the beloved husband and tender father has unhappily been removed.

William Henry Rhodes was born July 16, 1822, in Windsor, North Carolina. His mother died when he was six years old, and his father, Col. E. A. Rhodes, sent him to Princeton, New Jersey, to be educated at the seat of learning established there. Col. Rhodes was subsequently appointed United States Consul at Galveston, Texas, and without completing his college course, the son followed his father to his new home. There he diligently pursued his studies. He found many young men like himself, ambitious and zealous in acquiring information, and these he associated with himself in literary and debating clubs, where the most important matters of natural science and political economy were discussed. The effect of this self-bestowed education was most marked. It remained with him all his life. He was thoroughly versed in the political history of the country, and possessed an amount of knowledge concerning the career, motives and objects of politics, parties and public men, which, had he ever chosen to embark in public life, would have made him distinguished and successful. No one ever discussed with him the questions connected with the theory of our government without a thorough respect for the sincerity of his convictions, and the ability with which they were maintained. He was, in theory, a thorough partisan of the Southern political and constitutional school of ideas, and never abandoned them. But he advocated them without passion or apparent prejudice, and at all times shrunk from active connection with politics as a trade. He was an idealist in law, in science and government, and perhaps his early training, self-imposed and self-contained, had much to do with his peculiarities.

In 1844, he entered Harvard Law School, where he remained for two years. Here, as at home among his young friends, he was a master-spirit and leader. He was an especial favorite of his instructors; was noted for his studious and exemplary habits, while his genial and courteous manners won the lasting friendship of his classmates and companions. His fondness for weaving the problems of science with fiction, which became afterwards so marked a characteristic of his literary efforts, attracted the especial attention of his professors; and had Mr. Rhodes devoted himself to this then novel department of letters, he would have become, no doubt, greatly distinguished as a writer; and the great master of scientific fiction, Jules Verne, would have found the field of his efforts already sown and reaped by the young Southern student. But his necessities and parental choice, conspired to keep him at "the lawless science of the law;" and literature become an incident of life, rather than its end and aim. He never really loved the law. He rather lived by it than in it. He became a good lawyer, but was an unwilling practitioner. He understood legal principles thoroughly. He loved the higher lessons of truth and justice, of right and wrong, _fas et nefas_, which they illustrated; but he bent himself to the necessary details of professional life--to the money-getting part of it--with a peculiar and constantly increasing reluctance. The yoke of labor galled him, and always more severely. An opportunity to speak and write what was most pleasing to his taste, which set him free as a liberated prisoner of thought, his untrammeled and wandering imagination extravagantly interweaving scientific principles, natural forces, and elemental facts, in some witch's dance of fancy, where he dissolved in its alchemy, earth, air and water, and created a world of his own, or destroyed that beneath his feet, was of more value to him, though it brought him no gain, than a stiff cause in courts which bound him to dry details of weary facts and legal propositions, though every hour of his time bestowed a golden reward.

His early professional life was passed in Galveston. He was measurably successful in it, and won many friends by his gallant and chivalrous advocacy of the causes intrusted to him. His personal popularity elevated him to a Probate Judgeship in Texas. This office he filled with honor; and at the expiration of his term, he returned, after a brief sojourn in New York, to his native state and town, where he practiced his profession until 1850. In this year he caught the inspiration of adventure in the new El Dorado, and sailed for California. From that time he continued a citizen of this State. He was widely known and universally respected. He practiced his profession with diligence; but mind and heart were inviting him to the life and career of a man of letters; and he was every day sacrificed to duty, as he esteemed it. He was too conscientious to become indifferent to his clients' interests: but he had no ambition for distinction as a jurist. He was utterly indifferent to the profits of his labors. He cared nothing for money, or for those who possessed it. His real life and real enjoyments were of a far different sort; and his genius was perpetually bound to the altar, and sacrificed by a sense of obligation, and a pride which never permitted him to abandon the profession for which he was educated. Like many another man of peculiar mental qualities, he distrusted himself where he should have been most confident. The writer has often discussed with Mr. Rhodes his professional and literary life, urged him to devote himself to literature, and endeavored to point out to him the real road to success. But he dreaded the venture; and like a swift-footed blooded horse, fit to run a course for a man's life, continued on his way, harnessed to a plow, and broke his heart in the harness!

William Henry Rhodes will long be remembered by his contemporaries at the Bar of California as a man of rare genius, exemplary habits, high honor, and gentle manners, with wit and humor unexcelled. His writings are illumined by powerful fancy, scientific knowledge, and a reasoning power which gave to his most weird imaginations the similitude of truth and the apparel of facts. Nor did they, nor do they, do him justice. He could have accomplished far more had circumstances been propitious to him. That they were not, is and will always be a source of regret. That, environed as he was, he achieved so much more than his fellows, has made his friends always loyal to him while living, and fond in their memories of him when dead. We give his productions to the world with satisfaction, not unmingled with regret that what is, is only the faint echo, the unfulfilled promise of what might have been. Still, may we say, and ask those who read these sketches to say with us, as they lay down the volume: "_Habet enim justam venerationem, quicquid excellit._"

W. H. L. B.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

_PREFACE_ 3

_IN MEMORIAM_ 5

I. _THE CASE OF SUMMERFIELD_ 13

II. _THE MERCHANTS' EXCHANGE_ 34

III. _THE DESERTED SCHOOLHOUSE_ 37

IV. _FOR AN ALBUM_ 50

V. _PHASES IN THE LIFE OF JOHN POLLEXFEN_ 52

VI. _THE LOVE-KNOT_ 94

VII. _THE AZTEC PRINCESS_ 95

VIII. _THE MOTHER'S EPISTLE_ 154

IX. _LEGENDS OF LAKE BIGLER_ 156

X. _ROSENTHAL'S ELAINE_ 171

XI. _THE TELESCOPIC EYE_ 174

XII. _THE EMERALD ISLE_ 190

XIII. _THE EARTH'S HOT CENTER_ 199

XIV. _WILDEY'S DREAM_ 212

XV. _WHITHERWARD_ 218

XVI. _OUR WEDDING DAY_ 229

XVII. _THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW_ 231

XVIII. _A PAIR OF MYTHS_ 233

XIX. _THE LAST OF HIS RACE_ 247

XX. _THE TWO GEORGES_ 249

XXI. _MASONRY_ 260

XXII. _POLLOCK'S EUTHANASIA_ 262

XXIII. _SCIENCE, LITERATURE, AND ART DURING THE
FIRST HALF OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY_ 264

XXIV. _THE ENROBING OF LIBERTY_ 276

XXV. _A CAKE OF SOAP_ 279

XXVI. _THE SUMMERFIELD CASE_ 280

XXVII. _THE AVITOR_ 291

XXVIII. _LOST AND FOUND_ 293

[Decoration]

CAXTON'S BOOK.

I.

_THE CASE OF SUMMERFIELD._

The following manuscript was found among the effects of the late Leonidas Parker, in relation to one Gregory Summerfield, or, as he was called at the time those singular events first attracted public notice, "The Man with a Secret." Parker was an eminent lawyer, a man of firm will, fond of dabbling in the occult sciences, but never allowing this tendency to interfere with the earnest practice of his profession. This astounding narrative is prefaced by the annexed clipping from the "Auburn Messenger" of November 1, 1870:

A few days since, we called public attention to the singular
conduct of James G. Wilkins, justice of the peace for the "Cape
Horn" district, in this county, in discharging without trial a
man named Parker, who was, as we still think, seriously
implicated in the mysterious death of an old man named
Summerfield, who, our readers will probably remember, met so
tragical an end on the line of the Central Pacific Railroad, in
the month of October last. We have now to record another bold
outrage on public justice, in connection with the same affair.
The grand jury of Placer County has just adjourned, without
finding any bill against the person named above. Not only did
they refuse to find a true bill, or to make any presentment, but
they went one step further toward the exoneration of the
offender: they specially _ignored_ the indictment which our
district attorney deemed it his duty to present. The main facts
in relation to the arrest and subsequent discharge of Parker may
be summed up in few words:

It appears that, about the last of October, one Gregory
Summerfield, an old man nearly seventy years of age, in company
with Parker, took passage for Chicago, _via_ the Pacific
Railroad, and about the middle of the afternoon reached the
neighborhood of Cape Horn, in this county. Nothing of any special
importance seems to have attracted the attention of any of the
passengers toward these persons until a few moments before
passing the dangerous curve in the track, overlooking the North
Fork of the American River, at the place called Cape Horn. As our
readers are aware, the road at this point skirts a precipice,
with rocky perpendicular sides, extending to the bed of the
stream, nearly seventeen hundred feet below. Before passing the
curve, Parker was heard to comment upon the sublimity of the
scenery they were approaching, and finally requested the old man
to leave the car and stand upon the open platform, in order to
obtain a better view of the tremendous chasm and the mountains
just beyond. The two men left the car, and a moment afterwards a
cry of horror was heard by all the passengers, and the old man
was observed to fall at least one thousand feet upon the crags
below. The train was stopped for a few moments, but, fearful of a
collision if any considerable length of time should be lost in an
unavailing search for the mangled remains, it soon moved on
again, and proceeded as swiftly as possible to the next station.
There the miscreant Parker was arrested, and conveyed to the
office of the nearest justice of the peace for examination. We
understand that he refused to give any detailed account of the
transaction, only that "the deceased either fell or was thrown
off from the moving train."

The examination was postponed until the arrival of Parker's
counsel, O'Connell & Kilpatrick, of Grass Valley, and after they
reached Cape Horn not a single word could be extracted from the
prisoner. It is said that the inquisition was a mere farce; there
being no witnesses present except one lady passenger, who, with
commendable spirit, volunteered to lay over one day, to give in
her testimony. We also learn that, after the trial, the justice,
together with the prisoner and his counsel, were closeted in
secret session for more than two hours; at the expiration of
which time the judge resumed his seat upon the bench, and
discharged the prisoner!

Now, we have no desire to do injustice toward any of the parties
to this singular transaction, much less to arm public sentiment
against an innocent man. But we do affirm that _there is, there
must be_, some profound mystery at the bottom of this affair, and
we shall do our utmost to fathom the secret.

Yes, there is a secret and mystery connected with the disappearance of Summerfield, and the sole object of this communication is to clear it up, and place myself right in the public estimation. But, in order to do so, it becomes essentially necessary to relate all the circumstances connected with my first and subsequent acquaintance with Summerfield. To do this intelligibly, I shall have to go back twenty-two years.

It is well known amongst my intimate friends that I resided in the late Republic of Texas for many years antecedent to my immigration to this State. During the year 1847, whilst but a boy, and residing on the sea-beach some three or four miles from the city of Galveston, Judge Wheeler, at that time Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Texas, paid us a visit, and brought with him a gentleman, whom he had known several years previously on the Sabine River, in the eastern part of that State. This gentleman was introduced to us by the name of Summerfield. At that time he was past the prime of life, slightly gray, and inclined to corpulency. He was of medium height, and walked proudly erect, as though conscious of superior mental attainments. His face was one of those which, once seen, can never be forgotten. The forehead was broad, high, and protuberant. It was, besides, deeply graven with wrinkles, and altogether was the most intellectual that I had ever seen. It bore some resemblance to that of Sir Isaac Newton, but still more to Humboldt or Webster. The eyes were large, deep-set, and lustrous with a light that seemed kindled in their own depths. In color they were gray, and whilst in conversation absolutely blazed with intellect. His mouth was large, but cut with all the precision of a sculptor's chiseling. He was rather pale, but, when excited, his complexion lit up with a sudden rush of ruddy flushes, that added something like beauty to his half-sad and half-sardonic expression. A word and a glance told me at once, this is a most extraordinary man.

Judge Wheeler knew but little of the antecedents of Summerfield. He was of Northern birth, but of what State it is impossible to say definitely. Early in life he removed to the frontier of Arkansas, and pursued for some years the avocation of village schoolmaster. It was the suggestion of Judge Wheeler that induced him to read law. In six months' time he had mastered Story's Equity, and gained an important suit, based upon one of its most recondite principles. But his heart was not in the legal profession, and he made almost constant sallies into the fields of science, literature and art. He was a natural mathematician, and was the most profound and original arithmetician in the Southwest. He frequently computed the astronomical tables for the almanacs of New Orleans, Pensacola and Mobile, and calculated eclipse, transit and observations with ease and perfect accuracy. He was also deeply read in metaphysics, and wrote and published, in the old _Democratic Review_ for 1846, an article on the "Natural Proof of the Existence of a Deity," that for beauty of language, depth of reasoning, versatility of illustration, and compactness of logic, has never been equaled. The only other publication which at that period he had made, was a book that astonished all of his friends, both in title and execution. It was called "The Desperadoes of the West," and purported to give minute details of the lives of some of the most noted duelists and blood-stained villains in the Western States. But the book belied its title. It is full of splendid description and original thought. No volume in the language contains so many eloquent passages and such gorgeous imagery, in the same space. His plea for immortality, on beholding the execution of one of the most noted culprits of Arkansas, has no parallel in any living language for beauty of diction and power of thought. As my sole object in this communication is to defend myself, some acquaintance with the mental resources of Summerfield is absolutely indispensable; for his death was the immediate consequence of his splendid attainments. Of chemistry he was a complete master. He describes it in his article on a Deity, above alluded to, as the "Youngest Daughter of the Sciences, born amid flames, and cradled in rollers of fire." If there were any one science to which he was more specially devoted than to any and all others, it was chemistry. But he really seemed an adept in all, and shone about everywhere with equal lustre.

Many of these characteristics were mentioned by Judge Wheeler at the time of Summerfield's visit to Galveston, but others subsequently came to my knowledge, after his retreat to Brownsville, on the banks of the Rio Grande. There he filled the position of judge of the District Court, and such was his position just previous to his arrival in this city in the month of September of the past year.

One day toward the close of last September, an old man rapped at my office door, and on invitation came in, and advancing, called me by name. Perceiving that I did not at first recognize him, he introduced himself as Gregory Summerfield. After inviting him to a seat, I scrutinized his features more closely, and quickly identified him as the same person whom I had met twenty-two years before. He was greatly altered in appearance, but the lofty forehead and the gray eye were still there, unchanged and unchangeable. He was not quite so stout, but more ruddy in complexion, and exhibited some symptoms, as I then thought, of intemperate drinking. Still there was the old charm of intellectual superiority in his conversation, and I welcomed him to California as an important addition to her mental wealth.

It was not many minutes before he requested a private interview. He followed me into my back office, carefully closed the door after him and locked it. We had scarcely seated ourselves before he inquired of me if I had noticed any recent articles in the newspapers respecting the discovery of the art of decomposing water so as to fit it for use as a fuel for ordinary purposes?

I replied that I had observed nothing new upon that subject since the experiments of Agassiz and Professor Henry, and added that, in my opinion, the expensive mode of reduction would always prevent its use.

In a few words he then informed me that he had made the discovery that the art was extremely simple, and the expense attending the decomposition so slight as to be insignificant.

Presuming then that the object of his visit to me was to procure the necessary forms to get out a patent for the right, I congratulated him upon his good fortune, and was about to branch forth with a description of some of the great benefits that must ensue to the community, when he suddenly and somewhat uncivilly requested me to "be silent," and listen to what he had to say.

He began with some general remarks about the inequality of fortune amongst mankind, and instanced himself as a striking example of the fate of those men, who, according to all the rules of right, ought to be near the top, instead of at the foot of the ladder of fortune. "But," said he, springing to his feet with impulsive energy, "I have now the means at my command of rising superior to fate, or of inflicting incalculable ills upon the whole human race."

Looking at him more closely, I thought I could detect in his eye the gleam of madness; but I remained silent and awaited further developments. But my scrutiny, stolen as it was, had been detected, and he replied at once to the expression of my face: "No, sir; I am neither drunk nor a maniac; I am in deep earnest in all that I say; and I am fully prepared, by actual experiment, to demonstrate beyond all doubt the truth of all I claim."

For the first time I noticed that he carried a small portmanteau in his hand; this he placed upon the table, unlocked it, and took out two or three small volumes, a pamphlet or two, and a small, square, wide-mouthed vial, hermetically sealed.

I watched him with profound curiosity, and took note of his slightest movements. Having arranged his books to suit him, and placed the vial in a conspicuous position, he drew up his chair very closely to my own, and uttered in a half-hissing tone: "I demand one million dollars for the contents of that bottle; and you must raise it for me in the city of San Francisco within one month, or scenes too terrible even for the imagination to conceive, will surely be witnessed by every living human being on the face of the globe."

The tone, the manner, and the absurd extravagance of the demand, excited a faint smile upon my lips, which he observed, but disdained to notice.

My mind was fully made up that I had a maniac to deal with, and I prepared to act accordingly. But I ascertained at once that my inmost thoughts were read by the remarkable man before me, and seemed to be anticipated by him in advance of their expression.

"Perhaps," said I, "Mr. Summerfield, you would oblige me by informing me fully of the grounds of your claim, and the nature of your discovery."

"That is the object of my visit," he replied. "I claim to have discovered the key which unlocks the constituent gases of water, and frees each from the embrace of the other, at a single touch."

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

"Nothing more nor less," he responded, "except this: to insist upon the consequences of the secret, if my demand be not at once complied with."

Then, without pausing for a moment to allow me to make a suggestion, as I once or twice attempted to do, he proceeded in a clear and deliberate manner, in these words: "I need not inform you, sir, that when this earth was created, it consisted almost wholly of vapor, which, by condensation, finally became water. The oceans now occupy more than two thirds of the entire surface of the globe. The continents are mere islands in the midst of the seas. They are everywhere ocean-bound, and the hyperborean north is hemmed in by open polar seas. Such is my first proposition. My second embraces the constituent elements of water. What is that thing which we call water? Chemistry, that royal queen of all the sciences, answers readily: 'Water is but the combination of two gases, oxygen and hydrogen, and in the proportion of eight to one.' In other words, in order to form water, take eight parts of oxygen and one of hydrogen, mix them together, and the result or product is water. You smile, sir, because, as you very properly think, these are the elementary principles of science, and are familiar to the minds of every schoolboy twelve years of age. Yes! but what next? Suppose you take these same gases and mix them in any other proportion, I care not what, and the instantaneous result is heat, flame, combustion of the intensest description. The famous Drummond Light, that a few years ago astonished Europe--what is that but the ignited flame of a mixture of oxygen and hydrogen projected against a small piece of lime? What was harmless as water, becomes the most destructive of all known objects when decomposed and mixed in any other proportion.

"Now, suppose I fling the contents of this small vial into the Pacific Ocean, what would be the result? Dare you contemplate it for an instant? I do not assert that the entire surface of the sea would instantaneously bubble up into insufferable flames; no, but from the nucleus of a circle, of which this vial would be the centre, lurid radii of flames would gradually shoot outward, until the blazing circumference would roll in vast billows of fire, upon the uttermost shores. Not all the dripping clouds of the deluge could extinguish it. Not all the tears of saints and angels could for an instant check its progress. On and onward it would sweep, with the steady gait of destiny, until the continents would melt with fervent heat, the atmosphere glare with the ominous conflagration, and all living creatures, in land and sea and air, perish in one universal catastrophe."

Then suddenly starting to his feet, he drew himself up to his full height, and murmured solemnly, "I feel like a God! and I recognize my fellow-men but as pigmies that I spurn beneath my feet."

"Summerfield," said I calmly, "there must be some strange error in all this. You are self-deluded. The weapon which you claim to wield is one that a good God and a beneficent Creator would never intrust to the keeping of a mere creature. What, sir! create a world as grand and beautiful as this, and hide within its bosom a principle that at any moment might inwrap it in flames, and sink all life in death? I'll not believe it; 't were blasphemy to entertain the thought!"

"And yet," cried he passionately, "your Bible prophesies the same irreverence. Look at your text in 2d Peter, third chapter, seventh and twelfth verses. Are not the elements to melt with fervent heat? Are not 'the heavens to be folded together like a scroll?' Are not 'the rocks to melt, the stars to fall and the moon to be turned into blood?' Is not fire the next grand cyclic consummation of all things here below? But I come fully prepared to answer such objections. Your argument betrays a narrow mind, circumscribed in its orbit, and shallow in its depth. 'Tis the common thought of mediocrity. You have read books too much, and studied nature too little. Let me give you a lesson to-day in the workshop of Omnipotence. Take a stroll with me into the limitless confines of space, and let us observe together some of the scenes transpiring at this very instant around us. A moment ago you spoke of the moon: what is she but an extinguished world? You spoke of the sun: what is he but a globe of flame? But here is the _Cosmos_ of Humboldt. Read this paragraph."

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

Nor do the Heavens themselves teach unchangeable permanency in
the works of creation. Change is observable there quite as rapid
and complete as in the confines of our solar system. In the year
1752, one of the small stars in the constellation Cassiopeia
blazed up suddenly into an orb of the first magnitude, gradually
decreased in brilliancy, and finally disappeared from the skies.
Nor has it ever been visible since that period for a single
moment, either to the eye or to the telescope. It burned up and
was lost in space.

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

"But," resumed he, "I have still clearer proofs." Saying this, he thrust into my hands the last London _Quarterly_, and on opening the book at an article headed "The Language of Light," I read with a feeling akin to awe, the following passage:

Further, some stars exhibit changes of complexion in themselves.
Sirius, as before stated, was once a ruddy, or rather a
fiery-faced orb, but has now forgotten to blush, and looks down
upon us with a pure, brilliant smile, in which there is no trace
either of anger or of shame. On the countenances of others, still
more varied traits have rippled, within a much briefer period of
time. May not these be due to some physiological revolutions,
general or convulsive, which are in progress in the particular
orb, and which, by affecting the constitution of its atmosphere,
compel the absorption or promote the transmission of particular
rays? The supposition appears by no means improbable, especially
if we call to mind the hydrogen volcanoes which have been
discovered on the photosphere of the sun. Indeed, there are a few
small stars which afford a spectrum of bright lines instead of
dark ones, and this we know denotes a gaseous or vaporized state
of things, from which it may be inferred that such orbs are in a
different condition from most of their relations.

And as, if for the very purpose of throwing light upon this
interesting question, an event of the most striking character
occurred in the heavens, almost as soon as the spectroscopists
were prepared to interpret it correctly.

On the 12th of May, 1866, a great conflagration, infinitely
larger than that of London or Moscow, was announced. To use the
expression of a distinguished astronomer, a world was found to be
on fire! A star, which till then had shone weakly and
unobtrusively in the _corona borealis_, suddenly blazed up into a
luminary of the second magnitude. In the course of three days
from its discovery in this new character, by Birmingham, at Tuam,
it had declined to the third or fourth order of brilliancy. In
twelve days, dating from its first apparition in the Irish
heavens, it had sunk to the eighth rank, and it went on waning
until the 26th of June, when it ceased to be discernible except
through the medium of the telescope. This was a remarkable,
though certainly not an unprecedented proceeding on the part of a
star; but one singular circumstance in its behavior was that,
after the lapse of nearly two months, it began to blaze up again,
though not with equal ardor, and after maintaining its glow for a
few weeks, and passing through sundry phases of color, it
gradually paled its fires, and returned to its former
insignificance. How many years had elapsed since this awful
conflagration actually took place, it would be presumptuous to
guess; but it must be remembered that news from the heavens,
though carried by the fleetest of messengers, light, reaches us
long after the event has transpired, and that the same celestial
carrier is still dropping the tidings at each station it reaches
in space, until it sinks exhausted by the length of its flight.

As the star had suddenly flamed up, was it not a natural
supposition that it had become inwrapped in burning hydrogen,
which in consequence of some great convulsion had been liberated
in prodigious quantities, and then combining with other elements,
had set this hapless world on fire? In such a fierce
conflagration, the combustible gas would soon be consumed, and
the glow would therefore begin to decline, subject, as in this
case, to a second eruption, which occasioned the renewed outburst
of light on the 20th of August.

By such a catastrophe, it is not wholly impossible that our own
globe may some time be ravaged; for if a word from the Almighty
were to unloose for a few moments the bonds of affinity which
unite the elements of water, a single spark would bring them
together with a fury that would kindle the funeral pyre of the
human race, and be fatal to the planet and all the works that are
thereon.

"Your argument," he then instantly added, "is by no means a good one. What do we know of the Supreme Architect of the Universe, or of his designs? He builds up worlds, and he pulls them down; he kindles suns and he extinguishes them. He inflames the comet, in one portion of its orbit, with a heat that no human imagination can conceive of; and in another, subjects the same blazing orb to a cold intenser than that which invests forever the antarctic pole. All that we know of Him we gather through His works. I have shown you that He burns other worlds, why not this? The habitable parts of our globe are surrounded by water, and water you know is fire in possibility."

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

"Not so fast," he answered. And then rising, he seized the small vial, and handing it to me, requested me to open it.

I confess I did so with some trepidation.

"Now smell it."

I did so.

"What odor do you perceive?"

"Potassium," I replied.

"Of course," he added, "you are familiar with the chief characteristic of that substance. It ignites instantly when brought in contact with water. Within that little globule of potassium, I have imbedded a pill of my own composition and discovery. The moment it is liberated from the potassium, it commences the work of decomposing the fluid on which it floats. The potassium at once ignites the liberated oxygen, and the conflagration of this mighty globe is begun."

"Yes," said I, "begun, if you please, but your little pill soon evaporates or sinks, or melts in the surrounding seas, and your conflagration ends just where it began."

"My reply to that suggestion could be made at once by simply testing the experiment on a small scale, or a large one, either. But I prefer at present to refute your proposition by an argument drawn from nature herself. If you correctly remember, the first time I had the pleasure of seeing you was on the island of Galveston, many years ago. Do you remember relating to me at that time an incident concerning the effects of a prairie on fire, that you had yourself witnessed but a few days previously, near the town of Matagorde? If I recollect correctly, you stated that on your return journey from that place, you passed on the way the charred remains of two wagon-loads of cotton, and three human beings, that the night before had perished in the flames; that three slaves, the property of a Mr. Horton, had started a few days before to carry to market a shipment of cotton; that a norther overtook them on the treeless prairie, and a few minutes afterwards they were surprised by beholding a line of rushing fire, surging, roaring and advancing like the resistless billows of an ocean swept by a gale; that there was no time for escape, and they perished terribly in fighting the devouring element?"

"Yes; I recollect the event."

"Now, then, I wish a reply to the simple question: Did the single spark, that kindled the conflagration, consume the negroes and their charge? No? But what did? You reply, of course, that the spark set the entire prairie on fire; that each spear of grass added fuel to the flame, and kindled by degrees a conflagration that continued to burn so long as it could feed on fresh material. The pillule in that vial is the little spark, the oceans are the prairies, and the oxygen the fuel upon which the fire is to feed until the globe perishes in inextinguishable flames. The elementary substances in that small vial recreate themselves; they are self-generating, and when once fairly under way must necessarily sweep onward, until the waters in all the seas are exhausted. There is, however, one great difference between the burning of a prairie and the combustion of an ocean: the fire in the first spreads slowly, for the fuel is difficult to ignite; in the last, it flies with the rapidity of the wind, for the substance consumed is oxygen, the most inflammable agent in nature."

Rising from my seat, I went to the washstand in the corner of the apartment, and drawing a bowl half full of Spring Valley water, I turned to Summerfield, and remarked, "Words are empty, theories are ideal--but facts are things."

"I take you at your word." So saying, he approached the bowl, emptied it of nine-tenths of its contents, and silently dropped the potassium-coated pill into the liquid. The potassium danced around the edges of the vessel, fuming, hissing, and blazing, as it always does, and seemed on the point of expiring--when, to my astonishment and alarm, a sharp explosion took place, and in a second of time the water was blazing in a red, lurid column, half way to the ceiling.

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

"Had I dropped the potassium into the bowl as you prepared it," he quietly remarked, "the building would indeed have been consumed."

Lower and lower fell the flickering flames, paler and paler grew the blaze, until finally the fire went out, and I rushed up to see the effects of the combustion.

Not a drop of water remained in the vessel! Astonished beyond measure at what I had witnessed, and terrified almost to the verge of insanity, I approached Summerfield, and tremblingly inquired, "To whom, sir, is this tremendous secret known?" "To myself alone," he responded; "and now answer me a question: is it worth the money?"

* * * * *

It is entirely unnecessary to relate in detail the subsequent events connected with this transaction. I will only add a general statement, showing the results of my negotiations. Having fully satisfied myself that Summerfield actually held in his hands the fate of the whole world, with its millions of human beings, and by experiment having tested the combustion of sea-water, with equal facility as fresh, I next deemed it my duty to call the attention of a few of the principal men in San Francisco to the extreme importance of Summerfield's discovery.

A leading banker, a bishop, a chemist, two State university professors, a physician, a judge, and two Protestant divines, were selected by me to witness the experiment on a large scale. This was done at a small sand-hill lake, near the sea-shore, but separated from it by a ridge of lofty mountains, distant not more than ten miles from San Francisco. Every single drop of water in the pool was burnt up in less than fifteen minutes. We next did all that we could to pacify Summerfield, and endeavored to induce him to lower his price and bring it within the bounds of a reasonable possibility. But without avail. He began to grow urgent in his demands, and his brow would cloud like a tempest-ridden sky whenever we approached him on the subject. Finally, ascertaining that no persuasion could soften his heart or touch his feelings, a sub-committee was appointed, to endeavor, if possible, to raise the money by subscription. Before taking that step, however, we ascertained beyond all question that Summerfield was the sole custodian of his dread secret, and that he kept no written memorial of the formula of his prescription. He even went so far as to offer us a penal bond that his secret should perish with him in case we complied with his demands.

The sub-committee soon commenced work amongst the wealthiest citizens of San Francisco, and by appealing to the terrors of a few, and the sympathies of all, succeeded in raising one half the amount within the prescribed period. I shall never forget the woe-begone faces of California Street during the month of October. The outside world and the newspapers spoke most learnedly of a money panic--a pressure in business, and the disturbances in the New York gold-room. But to the initiated, there was an easier solution of the enigma. The pale spectre of Death looked down upon them all, and pointed with its bony finger to the fiery tomb of the whole race, already looming up in the distance before them. Day after day, I could see the dreadful ravages of this secret horror; doubly terrible, since they dared not divulge it. Still, do all that we could, the money could not be obtained. The day preceding the last one given, Summerfield was summoned before the committee, and full information given him of the state of affairs. Obdurate, hard and cruel, he still continued. Finally, a proposition was started, that an attempt should be made to raise the other half of the money in the city of New York. To this proposal Summerfield ultimately yielded, but with extreme reluctance. It was agreed in committee, that I should accompany him thither, and take with me, in my own possession, evidences of the sums subscribed here; that a proper appeal should be made to the lending capitalists, scholars and clergymen of that metropolis, and that, when the whole amount was raised, it should be paid over to Summerfield, and a bond taken from him never to divulge his awful secret to any human being.

With this, he seemed to be satisfied, and left us to prepare for his going the next morning.

As soon as he left the apartment, the bishop arose, and deprecated the action that had been taken, and characterized it as childish and absurd. He declared that no man was safe one moment whilst "that diabolical wretch" still lived; that the only security for us all, was in his immediate extirpation from the face of the earth, and that no amount of money could seal his lips, or close his hands. It would be no crime, he said, to deprive him of the means of assassinating the whole human family, and that as for himself he was for dooming him to immediate death.

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

A great many plans were proposed, discussed and rejected, having in view the extermination of Summerfield. In them all there was the want of that proper caution which would lull the apprehensions of an enemy; for should he for an instant suspect treachery, we knew his nature well enough to be satisfied, that he would waive all ceremonies and carry his threats into immediate execution.

It was finally resolved that the trip to New York should not be abandoned, apparently. But that we were to start out in accordance with the original programme; that during the journey, some proper means should be resorted to by me to carry out the final intentions of the committee, and that whatever I did would be sanctioned by them all, and full protection, both in law and conscience, afforded me in any stage of the proceeding.

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

At the first view, it seemed to be a most horrible and unwarrantable crime to deprive a fellow-being of life, under any circumstances; but especially so where, in meeting his fate, no opportunity was to be afforded him for preparation or repentance. It was a long time before I could disassociate, in my mind, the two ideas of act and intent. My studies had long ago made me perfectly familiar with the doctrine of the civil law, that in order to constitute guilt, there must be a union of action and intention. Taking the property of another is not theft, unless, as the lawyers term it, there is the _animus furandi_. So, in homicide, life may be lawfully taken in some instances, whilst the deed may be excused in others. The sheriff hangs the felon, and deprives him of existence; yet nobody thinks of accusing the officer of murder. The soldier slays his enemy, still the act is considered heroical. It does not therefore follow that human life is too sacred to be taken away under all circumstances. The point to be considered was thus narrowed down into one grand inquiry, whether Summerfield was properly to be regarded as _hostis humani generis_ the enemy of the human race or not. If he should justly be so considered, then it would not only be not a crime to kill him, but an act worthy of the highest commendation. Who blamed McKenzie for hanging Spencer to the yard-arm? Yet in his case, the lives of only a small ship's crew were in jeopardy. Who condemned Pompey for exterminating the pirates from the Adriatic? Yet, in his case, only a small portion of the Roman Republic was liable to devastation. Who accuses Charlotte Corday of assassination for stabbing Murat in his bath? Still, her arm only saved the lives of a few thousands of revolutionary Frenchmen. And to come down to our own times, who heaps accusation upon the heads of Lincoln, Thomas or Sheridan, or even Grant, though in marching to victory over a crushed rebellion, they deemed it necessary to wade through seas of human gore? If society has the right to defend itself from the assaults of criminals, who, at best, can only destroy a few of its members, why should I hesitate when it was apparent that the destiny of the globe itself hung in the balance? If Summerfield should live and carry out his threats, the whole world would feel the shock; his death was the only path to perfect safety.

I asked the privilege of meditation for one hour, at the hands of the committee, before I would render a decision either way. During that recess the above argumentation occupied my thoughts. The time expired, and I again presented myself before them. I did not deem it requisite to state the grounds of my decision; I briefly signified my assent, and made instant preparation to carry the plan into execution.

Having passed on the line of the Pacific Railway more than once, I was perfectly familiar with all of its windings, gorges and precipices.

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

Having been fully acquitted by two tribunals of the law, I make this final appeal to my fellow-men throughout the State, and ask them confidently not to reverse the judgments already pronounced.

I am conscious of no guilt; I feel no remorse; I need no repentance. For me justice has no terrors, and conscience no sting. Let me be judged solely by the motives which actuated me, and the importance of the end accomplished, and I shall pass, unscathed, both temporal and eternal tribunals.

LEONIDAS PARKER.

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

II.

_THE MERCHANT'S EXCHANGE._

One summer eve, as homeward saunt'ring slowly,
My toils and tasks for that day's business done;
With thoughts composed, and aspirations holy,
That heavenward rose, as downward sank the sun,
I heard a throng, whose multitudinous voices
Proclaimed some act of public weal begun.

The glad acclaim invited close inspection;
And through the crowd I gently made my way,
Till, standing firm upon a light projection,
That spanned a chasm dug deep into the clay,
I heard above the din of city noises,
An honored voice, in solemn accents say:

"In presence of Creation's awful Builder,
I lay for you this polished corner-stone;
God grant no ills your architect bewilder
Till into strength and beauty shall have grown
The MERCHANT'S 'CHANGE that shall adorn your Guilder
When ye have mouldered into dust and bone!"

Day after day, whilst passing to my labor,
I saw that gorgeous edifice arise;
Until its dome, like crest of sacred Tabor,
Sprang from the earth, and arching in the skies,
O'ertopp'd the peak of each aspiring neighbor
That wooed a tribute from the upturned eyes.

There was no pomp of pious dedication,
Boasting this Temple sanctified to God;
And yet my soul, in prayerful meditation,
Believed no less it might be His abode:
For when His arm from bondage led a nation,
He heard their cry, though kneeling on the sod!

Around this mart the world's great trade shall centre;
Within these walls a Babel tumult sound,
Not that which made doomed Shinar a memento
Of human pride laid level to the ground,
But blended music of all tongues shall enter,
And in trade's peaceful symphonies resound!

Above this portal shall no monarch thunder,
No grand patrician lord it o'er a slave;
Here shall the pagan's bonds be snapt asunder,
And creed and race no proud distinction crave;
Here shall mankind their shackles trample under,
And freedom's banner over freemen wave!

Here shall Confucius braid his ebon tresses,
Perfume the cup with aromatic teas,
Supply gay beauty with her gaudiest dresses,--
The worm's fine fabric, and the Bactrian fleece;
And in exchange shall quaff a balm that blesses,
Freedom and truth, in every passing breeze!

Here Kamehameha realize the splendor
Foretold by sirens, singing 'round his isles,
How cane and pulu be the realm's defender,
And roof his palaces with golden tiles;--
When sturdy Saxons should their hearts surrender
In captive bonds to coy Kanaka wiles!

Here Petropaulowski store her richest sables,
Tahiti waft her oranges and limes,
The Lascar weave his stout manila cables,
The Malay chafler midst his porcelain chimes,
Ceylon with spices scent our groaning tables,
Pariah bring Golconda's gems, not crimes;
Beneath this dome the Tycoon's gory dragon
Shall fold his wings, and close his fiery eyes;
Here quaffing from the same enchanted flagon,
Fraternal incense shall to Heaven arise;
Whilst Vishnu, Thor, Jehovah, Bhudd, and Dagon,
Shall cease all strife, and struggle for the prize!

Oh! tell me not the Christian's God will thunder,
And rock these hills, with unforgiving ire;
By storm or earthquake rend the globe asunder,
And quench His wrath in everliving fire--
When He beholds on earth so strange a wonder,
All peoples kneeling to a common Sire!

Prophets and priests have from primeval ages
Drenched all mankind in seas of human gore;
Jurists and statesmen, orators and sages,
Have deepened gulfs, which boundless were before;
_The merchant sails, where'er an ocean rages,
Bridges its depths, and throws the Rainbow o'er!_

All hail! ye founders of Pacific's glory,
Who serve bold Commerce at his mightiest shrine:
Your names shall live in endless song and story,
When black Oblivion flings her pall o'er mine;
And when these walls shall totter, quaint and hoary,
Bards still shall sing, your mission was Divine!

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

III.

_THE DESERTED SCHOOLHOUSE._

"Oh! never may a son of thine,
Where'er his wand'ring steps incline,
Forget the sky which bent above
His childhood, like a dream of love."

--WHITTIER.

There is no silence like that sombre gloom which sometimes settles down upon the deserted playgrounds, the unoccupied benches, and the voiceless halls of an old schoolhouse. But if, in addition to abandonment, the fingers of decay have been busy with their work; if the moss has been permitted to grow, and the mould to gather; if the cobwebs cluster, like clouds, in all the corners, and the damp dust incrusts the window-panes like the frosts of a northern winter; if the old well has caved in, and the little paths through the brushwood been smothered, and the fences rotted down, and the stile gone to ruin, then a feeling of utter desolation seizes upon the soul, which no philosophy can master, no recollections soothe, and no lapse of time dissipate.