Читать книгу: «The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 07, No. 40, February, 1861», страница 6

COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION

 
The beaver cut his timber
With patient teeth that day,
The minks were fish-wards, and the cows
Surveyors of highway,—
 
 
When Keezar sat on the hillside
Upon his cobbler's form,
With a pan of coals on either hand
To keep his waxed-ends warm.
 
 
And there, in the golden weather,
He stitched and hammered and sung;
In the brook he moistened his leather,
In the pewter mug his tongue.
 
 
Well knew the tough old Teuton
Who brewed the stoutest ale,
And he paid the good-wife's reckoning
In the coin of song and tale.
 
 
The songs they still are singing
Who dress the hills of vine,
The tales that haunt the Brocken
And whisper down the Rhine.
 
 
Woodsy and wild and lonesome,
The swift stream wound away,
Through birches and scarlet maples
Flashing in foam and spray,—
 
 
Down on the sharp-horned ledges
Plunging in steep cascade,
Tossing its white-maned waters
Against the hemlock's shade.
 
 
Woodsy and wild and lonesome,
East and west and north and south;
Only the village of fishers
Down at the river's mouth;
 
 
Only here and there a clearing
With its farm-house rude and new,
And tree-stumps, swart as Indians,
Where the scanty harvest grew.
 
 
No shout of home-bound reapers,
No vintage-song he heard,
And on the green no dancing feet
The merry violin stirred.
 
 
"Why should folk be glum," said Keezar,
"When Nature herself is glad,
And the painted woods are laughing
At the faces so sour and sad?"
 
 
Small heed had the careless cobbler
What sorrow of heart was theirs
Who travailed in pain with the births of God,
And planted a state with prayers,—
 
 
Hunting of witches and warlocks,
Smiting the heathen horde,—
One hand on the mason's trowel,
And one on the soldier's sword!
 
 
But give him his ale and cider,
Give him his pipe and song,
Little he cared for church or state,
Or the balance of right and wrong.
 
 
"'Tis work, work, work," he muttered,—
"And for rest a snuffle of psalms!"
He smote on his leathern apron
With his brown and waxen palms.
 
 
"Oh for the purple harvests
Of the days when I was young!
For the merry grape-stained maidens,
And the pleasant songs they sung!
 
 
"Oh for the breath of vineyards,
Of apples and nuts and wine!
For an oar to row and a breeze to blow
Down the grand old river Rhine!"
 
 
A tear in his blue eye glistened
And dropped on his beard so gray.
"Old, old am I," said Keezar,
"And the Rhine flows far away!"
 
 
But a cunning man was the cobbler;
He could call the birds from the trees,
Charm the black snake out of the ledges,
And bring back the swarming bees.
 
 
All the virtues of herbs and metals,
All the lore of the woods he knew,
And the arts of the Old World mingled
With the marvels of the New.
 
 
Well he knew the tricks of magic,
And the lapstone on his knee
Had the gift of the Mormon's goggles
Or the stone of Doctor Dee.
 
 
For the mighty master Agrippa
Wrought it with spell and rhyme
From a fragment of mystic moonstone
In the tower of Nettesheim.
 
 
To a cobbler Minnesinger
The marvellous stone gave he,—
And he gave it, in turn, to Keezar,
Who brought it over the sea.
 
 
He held up that mystic lapstone,
He held it up like a lens,
And he counted the long years coming
By twenties and by tens.
 
 
"One hundred years," quoth Keezar,
"And fifty have I told:
Now open the new before me,
And shut me out the old!"
 
 
Like a cloud of mist, the blackness
Rolled from the magic stone,
And a marvellous picture mingled
The unknown and the known.
 
 
Still ran the stream to the river,
And river and ocean joined;
And there were the bluffs and the blue sea-line,
And cold north hills behind.
 
 
But the mighty forest was broken
By many a steepled town,
By many a white-walled farm-house
And many a garner brown.
 
 
Turning a score of mill-wheels,
The stream no more ran free;
White sails on the winding river,
White sails on the far-off sea.
 
 
Below in the noisy village
The flags were floating gay,
And shone on a thousand faces
The light of a holiday.
 
 
Swiftly the rival ploughmen
Turned the brown earth from their shares;
Here were the farmer's treasures,
There were the craftsman's wares.
 
 
Golden the good-wife's butter,
Ruby her currant-wine;
Grand were the strutting turkeys,
Fat were the beeves and swine.
 
 
Yellow and red were the apples,
And the ripe pears russet-brown,
And the peaches had stolen blushes
From the girls who shook them down.
 
 
And with blooms of hill and wild-wood,
That shame the toil of art,
Mingled the gorgeous blossoms
Of the garden's tropic heart.
 
 
"What is it I see?" said Keezar:
"Am I here, or am I there?
Is it a fête at Bingen?
Do I look on Frankfort fair?
 
 
"But where are the clowns and puppets,
And imps with horns and tail?
And where are the Rhenish flagons?
And where is the foaming ale?
 
 
"Strange things, I know, will happen,—
Strange things the Lord permits;
But that droughty folk should be jolly
Puzzles my poor old wits.
 
 
"Here are smiling manly faces,
And the maiden's step is gay;
Nor sad by thinking, nor mad by drinking,
Nor mopes, nor fools are they.
 
 
"Hero's pleasure without regretting,
And good without abuse,
The holiday and the bridal
Of beauty and of use.
 
 
"Here's a priest and there is a Quaker,—
Do the cat and the dog agree?
Have they burned the stocks for oven-wood?
Have they cut down the gallows-tree?
 
 
"Would the old folk know their children?
Would they own the graceless town,
With never a ranter to worry
And never a witch to drown?"
 
 
Loud laughed the cobbler Keezar,
Laughed like a school-boy gay;
Tossing his arms above him,
The lapstone rolled away.
 
 
It rolled down the rugged hill-side,
It spun like a wheel bewitched,
It plunged through the leaning willows,
And into the river pitched.
 
 
There, in the deep, dark water,
The magic stone lies still,
Under the leaning willows
In the shadow of the hill.
 
 
But oft the idle fisher
Sits on the shadowy bank,
And his dreams make marvellous pictures
Where the wizard's moonstone sank.
 
 
And still, in the summer twilights,
When the river seems to run
Out from the inner glory,
Warm with the melted sun,
 
 
The weary mill-girl lingers
Beside the charmed stream,
And the sky and the golden water
Shape and color her dream.
 
 
Fair wave the sunset gardens,
The rosy signals fly;
Her homestead beckons from the cloud,
And love goes sailing by!
 

THE FIRST ATLANTIC TELEGRAPH

"In the name of the Prophet:—Figs!"

"Eh, bien, Sare! wiz you Field and ze uzzers! Zey is ver' good men, sans doute, an' zey know how make ze money; mais—gros matérialistes, I tell you, Sare! Vat zen? I sall sink I know, I! Oui, Monsieur, I, César Prévost, who has ze honneur to stand before you,—I am ze original inventeur of ze Télégraphique Communication wiz Europe!"

It was about the period when, with the fast world of cities, De Sauty was beginning to become type of an "ism"; already the attention of excitement-hunters had travelled far from Trinity Bay, and Cyrus Field had yielded his harvest. Nevertheless, to me, who had just come to town from a quiet country seclusion into which news made its entry teredo-fashion only, the performances of the Agamemnon and Niagara were matters of fresh and vivid interest. So I purchased Mr. Briggs's book, and went to Guy's, to cut the leaves over a steak and a bottle of Edinburgh ale. It was while I was thus engaged that the little Frenchman had accosted me, calling my attention to his wares with such perfect courtesy, such airy grace, that I was forced to look at his baskets. And looking, I was induced to lay down my book and examine them more closely; for they were really pretty,—made of extremely white and delicate wood, showing an exquisite taste in their design, and being neatly and carefully finished. Then it was, that, having apparently noticed the title of my book, M. César Prévost had used the language above quoted, and with such empressement of manner, that my attention was diverted from his wares to himself. I looked at him with some curiosity.

He was a little old Frenchman, lean as a haunch of dried venison, and scarcely less dark in complexion,—though his color was nearer that of rappee snuff, and had not the rich blood-lined purple of venison. His face was wofully meagre, and seemed scored and overlaid with care-marks. Nevertheless, there was an energetic, nervous, almost humorsome mobility about his mouth; while his little beady black eyes, quick, warm, scintillant, had ten times the life one would have expected to find keeping company with his fifty years. In dress, he was very threadbare, and, sooth to say, not over-clean; yet he was jaunty, and moved with the air of a man much better clad. I was impressed with his appearance, and especially with his voice, which was vibrant, firm, and excellently intoned. It is my foible, perhaps, but I am always charmed with bonhommie, I class originality among the cardinal virtues, and I am as eager in the chase after eccentricity as a veteran fox-hunter is in pursuit of Reynard. M. César promised a compensative proportion of all three qualities, could I only "draw him out"; and besides, he was not like Mr. Canning's "Knife-Grinder,"—for, evidently, he had a story to tell.

Observing my scrutiny, he smiled; a singular, ironical smile it was, yet without a particle of bitterness or of cynicism.

"Eh, bien!" said he; "you stare, Monsieur! you sink me an excentrique. Vraiment! I am use to zat,—I am use to have persons smile reeseeblement, to tap zere fronts, an' spek of ze strait-jackets. Never fear,—I am toujours harmless! Mais, Monsieur, it is true, vat I tell you: I am ze origi_nal_ inventeur of ze Atlantic Telegraph! You mus' not comprehend me, Sare, to intend somesing vat persons call ze Telegraph,—such like ze Electric Telegraph of Monsieur Morse,—a vulgaire sing of ze vire and ze acid. Mon Dieu, non! far more perfect,—far more grrand,—far more original! Ze acid may burn ze finger,—ze vire vill become rrusty,—ze isolation subject always to ze atmosphere. Ah, bah! Vat make you in zat event? As ze pure lustre of ze diamant of Golconde to ze distorted rays of a morsel of bottle-glass, so my grrand invention to ze modes of ze telegraph in vogue at present!"

"Monsieur, you shall tell me about it," said I, pointing to a seat on the other side of the table; "sit down there, and tell me about your invention, and in your native language,—that is, if you can spare the time to do so, and to drink a glass of Bordeaux with me."

He accepted my invitation as a gentleman would, sipped his wine like a connoisseur, passed me a few compliments, such as any French gentleman might toss to you, if you had asked him to join you in a glass of wine in one of his city's cafés, and then proceeded with his story. My translation gives but a faint echo of the impression made upon me by his life, vigor, and originality; but still I have striven to do him as little injustice as possible.

"Monsieur, it is ten years since I accomplished, put in practice, and evoked practical results from this international communication, which your two peoples have failed to establish, in spite of all their money, their great ships, and the united wisdom of their savans. I am a Frenchman, Monsieur,—and, you know, France is the congenial soil of Science. In that country, where they laugh ever and se jouent de tout, Science is sacred;—the Academy has even pas of the army; honors there are higher prized than the very wreaths of glory. Among the votaries of Science in France, César Prévost was the humblest,—serviteur, Monsieur. Nevertheless, though my place was only in the outermost porch of the temple, I was a faithful, devoted, self-sacrificing worshipper of the goddess; and therefore, because earnest fidelity has ever its crown of reward, it happened to me to make a grand discovery,—a discovery more momentous, it may be, than that of gunpowder or the telescope,—ten million hundred times more worth than the vaunted great achievement of M. le Professeur Morse. Not that its whole import came to me at once. No, Monsieur, it is full twenty years now since the first light of it glimmered upon César Prévost's mind, and he gave ten years of his life to it—ten faithful years—before it was perfect to his satisfaction. Ah, Monsieur, and 'tis more than one year now that I have been what you see me, in consequence of it. Eh, bien! I shall die so,—rightly,—but my discovery shall live forever.

"But pardon, Monsieur,—I see that you are impatient. You shall immediately hear all I have to say,—after I have, in a few words, given you a brief insight into the nature of my invention. Come, then!—Has it ever occurred to Monsieur to reflect upon that something which we call Sympathy? The philosophers, you know, and the physiologists, the followers of that coquin, Mesmer, and the bêtes Spiritualists, as they now dub themselves,—these have written, talked, and speculated much about it. I doubt not these fellows have aided Monsieur in perplexing his brain respecting the diverse, the world-wide ramifications of this physiological problem. The limits, indeed, of Sympathy have not been, cannot be, rightly set or defined; and there are those who embrace under such a capitulation half the dark mysteries that bother our heads when we think of Life's under-current,—instinct,—clairvoyance,—trance,—ecstasy,—all the dim and inner sensations of the Spirit, where it touches the Flesh as perceptibly, but as unseen and unanalyzed, as the kiss of the breeze at evening. Sans doute, Monsieur, 'tis very wonderful, all this,—and then, also, 'tis very convenient. Our ships must have a steersman, you know. And, par exemple, unless we call it sympathetic, that strange susceptibility which we see in many persons, detect in ourselves sometimes, what name have we to give it at all? Unless we call it sympathy, how shall we define those mysterious premonitions, shadowy warnings, solemn foretokens, that fall upon us now and then as the dew falls upon the grass-leaf, that make our blood to shiver and our flesh to quake, and will not by any means permit themselves to be passed by or nullified? 'T is a fact that is irrepressible; and, in persons with imagination of morbid tendency, this spontaneous sympathy takes a hold so strong as to present visibly the image about which there is concern,—and, behold! your veritable spectre is begotten! So, again, of your 'love at first sight,' comme on dit,—that inevitable attraction which one person exerts towards another, in spite, it may be, both of reason and judgment. If this be not child of sympathy, what parentage shall we assign it? And antipathy, Monsieur, the medal's reverse,—your bête noire, for instance,—expound me that! Why do you so shudder at sight of this or that innocent object? You cannot reason it away,—'t is always there; you cannot explain it, nor diagnose its symptoms,—'t is a part of you, governed by the same laws that govern your 'elective affinities' throughout. But note, Monsieur! You and I and man in general are not alone in this: the whole organic world—nay, some say the entire universe, inorganic as well as organic—is subject to these impalpable sympathetic forces. Is the hypothesis altogether fanciful of chemical election and rejection,—of the kiss and the kick of the magnet? Your Sensitive-Plant, your Dionea, your Rose of Jericho, your Orinoco-blossom that sets itself afloat in superb faith that the ever-moving waters will bring it to meet its mate and lover,—are not these instances of sympathy? And tell me by what means your eye conquers the furious dog that would bite you,—tell me how that dog is able to follow your traces, and to find the quail or the fox for you,—tell me how the cat chills the bird it would spring upon,—how the serpent fascinates its victim with a flash of its glittering eye. Our 'dumb beasts' yet have a language of their own, unguessed of us, yet perfectly intelligible to them,—how? We call this, Instinct. Eh, bien, Monsieur! what is Instinct, but Sympathy?

"Bah! it amounts to nothing, all this, if we only look at it in such relations. For centuries have stupides bothered their brains about such matters, seeking to account for them. As well devote one's time to puzzling over 'Aelia Laelia'! Mysteries were not meant to be put in the spelling-books, Monsieur. Ah, bah! a far different path did César Prévost pursue! He studied these phenomena, not to explain them,—being too wise to dream of living par amours with such barren virgins as are Whence and Why (your Bacon was very shrewd, Monsieur). What cared I about causes? Let Descartes, and Polignac, and Reid, and Cudworth, et id omne genus, famish themselves in this desert; but ask it not of César Prévost! He is always considerate to the impossible. He says this, always:—Here we have certain interesting phenomena; their causes are involved in mystery impenetrable; their esoteric nature is beyond the reach of any microscope;—what then? My Heaven! let us do what we can with them. Let us seek out their relations; let us investigate the laws regulating their interdependence,—if there be such laws; and aprés, let us inquire if there be any practical results obtainable from such relations and laws.

"You follow me, Monsieur? Eh, bien! This was the system, and César Prévost came speedily to one law,—a law so important, that, like Aaron's serpent, it put all the rest out of sight forever, engrossing thereafter his whole attention. This law, which pervades the entire animal economy, and is of course important in proportion to its universality, is as follows:—_The sympathetic harmony between animals, other things being equal, is _IN INVERSE PROPORTION to their rank in that scale of comparison in which man is taken as the maximum of perfection. Consequently, man is most deficient in this instinctive something, which, for lack of a better term, I have ventured to style 'sympathetic harmony,' while the simplest organization has it most developed. This last, you perceive, Monsieur, is only inductively true;—when we get below a certain stage in the scale, we find the difficulties of observation increase in a larger ratio than the augmented sympathy, and so we are not compensated; 't is, for instance, like the telescope, where, after you have reached a certain power, the deficiency of light overbalances the degree of multiplication. Knowing this, my first aim was to find out what animal would suit best,—what one that could be easily observed was most susceptible, most sympathetic. 'T was a long labor, Monsieur; I shall not tire you with the details. Enough that I found in the snail the instrument I needed,—and in the snail of the Rocky Mountains the most perfect of his kind. You smile, Monsieur. Eh, bien! 't is not philosophic to laugh at the means by which one achieves something. Smile how you will, 't is a fact that in the snail which is so common and grows to such an enormous size in the valleys and on the slopes of your great Cordilleras I found an animal combining a maximum of sympathetic harmony with the greatest facility of being observed, the best health and habits, and the utmost simplicity of prononcée manifestation. But, you ask, what seek I, then? My Heaven, Monsieur! there was the grand Idea,—the Idea upon which I build my pride,—the Idea that is mine! When it came to me, Monsieur, this Idea, a great calm filled all my soul, and I felt then the spirit of Kepler, when he said he could wait during centuries to be recognized, since the laws he had demonstrated were eternal and immutable as the Great God Himself! Yes, Monsieur! For in that crude, undeveloped Idea were already germinating the wonders of an achievement grander than any of Schwartz, or Guttenberg, or Galileo. Oh, this beautiful, grand simplicity of Science, which was able, from the snail itself, the very type and symbol and byword of torpidity and inaction, to evolve what was to conquer time and space,—to outrun the wildest imaginings of Puck himself!"

–—What a coltish fire of enthusiasm pranced in the worthy little Frenchman's veins, to be sure!

"Eh, bien! Now, distance made no matter; it was forever subdued. I could as soon send messages to the Sun itself as to my next-door neighbor! Smile on, Monsieur! César Prévost shall not be piqued at your incredulity. He also was amazed, prostrated, when all the stupendous consequences of his discovery first flashed upon his mind; and it was very long before he could rid his mind of the notion that he was become victim to the phantasms of a ridiculous dream. Eh, bien! 't was very simple, once analyzed. Know one fact, and you have all. And this one fact, so simple, yet so grand, was just this:—That a male and female snail, having been once, by contact, put in communication with one another, so as to become what magnetizers call en rapport the one with the other, continue ever after to sympathize, no matter what space may divide them. 'T is in a nutshell, you perceive,—and giving me the entire principle of an unlimited telegraphic communication. All that was to do was to systematize it. Tedious work, you may conceive, Monsieur; yet I did not shrink from it, nor find it irksome, for my assured result was ever leading me onward. Ah, bah! what did I not dream then?—Passons!

"I was not rich, and so, to save the trouble and expense of importing my snails to Paris,—vast trouble and expense, of course, since my experiments were so numerous,—I came across the Atlantic, and fixed myself at a point near St. Louis, where I could study in peace and have the subjects of my experiments close at hand. I used to pay the trappers liberally to get my snails for me, instructing them how to gather and how to transport them; and to divert all suspicion from my real objects, I pretended to be a gourmet, who used the snails solely for gastronomic purposes,—whereby, Monsieur," said César Prévost, with a humorous smile, "I was unfortunate enough to inspire the hearty garçons with a supreme contempt for me, and they used to say I 'vas not bettaire zan one blarsted Digger Injun!' Mon Dieu! what martyrs the votaries of Science have been, always!

"Eh, bien! I shall not bother you with my experiments. In brief, let me give you only results, so as to be just comprehensible. Given my law, I had to find, first, the manner exactly in which snails manifest their sympathy, the one for the other,—c'est à dire, how Snail A tells you that something is happening to his comrade, Snail B. There was a constant law for this, hard to find, but I achieved it. Second, to make my telegraph perfect, and pat my system beyond the touch of accident, I had to discover how to destroy the rapport between Snails A and B. Unless I could do this, I could never be sure my instruments were perfectly isolated, so to speak. 'Twas a difficult task, Monsieur; for the snail is the most constant in its attachments of all the animal kingdom, and I have known them to die, time and again, because their mates had died,—

"'Pining away in a green and yaller melancholie,'

"as your grand poet has it, Monsieur. Still, I succeeded, and I am very proud to announce it;—'twas a great feat, indeed—no less than to subvert an instinct! Third, I found out the way to keep them perfectly isolated, so as to prevent any subvention of a higher influence from weakening or destroying the previous rapport. Fourth, what sort of influence brought to bear upon Snail B would be sympathetically indicated most palpably in Snail A. So, Monsieur, you may fancy I had my hands full.

"But I succeeded, after long labor. Then I spent much time in seeking to perfect an Alphabetical System, and also a Recording Apparatus, capable of exactly setting forth the quality of the sympathy manifested, as well as the number of the manifestations. When these things were all perfected, I should have a complete system of Telegraph, which no circumstances of time, distance, or atmosphere could impair, which would put on record its every step, and permit no opportunity for error or for accident.

"Eh, bien! Man proposes,—God disposes. Monsieur, when I began my experiments, when I devoted myself, my energies, and my life itself to developing and utilizing my discovery, my motives were purely, exclusively scientific. My sole aim was to win the position of an eminent savant, who, by conferring a signal benefit upon the race, should merit the common applause of mankind. But, as time wore on, as my labors began to be successful, as the grand possibilities of my achievement arrayed themselves before me, other dreams usurped my brain. I, the inventor of this thing, so glorious in its aspect, so incomputable in its results,—was I to permit myself to go without reward? Fame? Ah, bah! what bread would Fame butter? 'Twas a bubble, a name, an empty, profitless sound, this coquin of Fame! 'Proximus sum egomet mihi,' says Terence,—or, as your English proverb has it, 'Charity begins at home.' I bethought me of the usual fate of discoverers and inventors,—neglected, scoffed at, ill-used, left to starve. The blesser of the world with infinite riches must nibble his crust au sixième. Why, then? Because, in their sublime eagerness to serve others, they forget to care for themselves. Eh, bien! One must still keep his powder dry, said your great Protector. This discovery was to double the effectiveness of men's hands,—therefore, was grandly to enrich them. But could it not be also made a notable instrument for wealth in one man's hands? Ah! brave thought! How, if, none the less resolved to give man eventually the benefit of my Idea, I should yet keep it in abeyance, till I had made my own sufficient profit out of it? It could be done;—surely, to use it well were less difficult than to have invented it. So dreams of wealth and luxury began to fill my brain. I would enrich myself till I had become a power, emphatically,—till all purchasable things were within my reach. Then I should likewise become a benefactor of the race; for my intentions were liberal, and intelligence sustained adequately can effect miracles. Then, when I had made myself veritably the Apostle of Riches, I would put the capstone to man's debt to me, by endowing him with knowledge in the uses of this great instrument whereby I had made myself so great. Ah, Monsieur, you see, Haroun Alraschid had set me on his throne for an hour by way of jest, and I imagined myself Caliph in Bagdad forever!

"Full of such purposes, and of the fiery impatience of yearning begotten of them, I hastened to bring my work to efficiency for use. I had worked in silence, alone, secretly; for I dreaded to have my discovery guessed, my aims anticipated and foreclosed upon. But, hasten how I would, the processes were too slow for my means,—and just when, like the alchemist, my crucible promised the grand projection, came the dreaded explosion. My money exhausted itself! I found myself, a stranger in a strange land, without a dollar. Eh, bien, Monsieur! 't is not in César Prévost to despair. Ah, in those days, especially, had I a heart big with the strength of hope! To accomplish my ends, a partner was needed at best, money or no money; so now it was only necessary for me to find one who to the essential qualities of heart and brain conjoined a purse of sufficient size. Before long, I came across the very man. Monsieur, when I recall the past, I behold many instances where I erred and was foolish; but the single bitter reflection I have is, that my own ruin involved the ruin of John Meavy, my partner and good comrade. I remember what he was when I found him,—happy, prosperous, large-hearted,—in every sense a noble man. I ruined him! Ah, could I but—Eh, bien! 't is too late, now; he is dead; requiescat! I have the bliss to know he found no fault with the end.—Passons!

"When I first knew John Meavy, he was a merchant, living with the quiet ease of a well-to-do bachelor. Though he had been brought up to trade, the stain of money was not upon him. Generous, charitable, liberal of thought, he was the gentlest enthusiast in other men's behalf that ever the sun shone on. It was the fact that he possessed fifty thousand dollars and was trustworthy that first drew rue towards him; but I had not known him long ere I gave him my ardent love, and thereafter thoughts of wealth were pleasant to me as much for his sake as for my own. John was a student, and a lover of Science, as well as a man of trade; and, in the first moments of our intercourse, I took care to let drop words that I knew would attract his curiosity and interest. Like all you Americans, John Meavy was a man of perfect faith in all that regarded 'Progress,' and especially did he believe in the infinite perfectibility of Science in the hands of an energetic people. This was the chord upon which I played, and the responsive note was easily evoked. He sought me out, came to me eagerly, and, by degrees, I divulged to him all my plans. He was ambitious to work for mankind, and I convinced him that I could give him the means to do so. My faith, Monsieur! that John Meavy had not one least morsel of selfishness in all his character! How far was he from dreaming of wealth for its own sake, and for the voluptuous surroundings with which my fancy enlarged upon it! No, indeed,—my invention to John Meavy was nothing; but, as a means to profit you and me and the rest of us, 't was a thing of the grandest import. So, at first, he would not have had us keep our secret for a day; but I—by a sophistry that is only sophistic when we add to the consideration man's impotent and easily perverted will—brought him into my plans, showing him what an instrument for good vast riches would be in his hands. And he was the more easily persuaded because of the very grand purity of his nature. Sans doute, he felt it to be altogether true, what I told him, that, in his hands, a hundred million dollars would be worth more to mankind at large than the whole French kingdom. Mais, Monsieur, you cannot own a hundred millions and be good. As well expect to find the same virtue in London that prevails in a quiet country-town. You cannot filter oceans, Monsieur, and the dead fish in them will cause a stink. But I did not know this till afterwards.

"So, having inoculated John, I bestowed upon him my confidence without reserve; for I knew he was one to appreciate such treatment, and would repay me in kind. 'Here it all is, mon ami,' said I; 'this is my invention; these the means for reducing it to practice; money is all I need. If you will join me, and provide the funds required, we will enter into a partnership for ten years, enrich ourselves, and then give it to all the world.'