Part 15 (1/2)

Vaughn's remarks, but has endeavored to give the substance. His language was faultless, his word selections beautiful, his soliloquy impressive beyond description. Perhaps Drury even misstated an idea, or more than one, evolved then by the great mind of that patient man. Prof. Daniel Vaughn was fitted for a scientific throne, a position of the highest honor; but, neglected by man, proud as a king, he bore uncomplainingly privations most bitter, and suffered alone until finally he died from starvation and neglect in the city of his adoption. Some persons are ready to cry, ”Shame! Shame!” at wealthy Cincinnati; others a.s.sert that men could not give to Daniel Vaughn, and since the first edition of ETIDORHPA appeared, the undersigned has learned of one vain attempt to serve the interests of this peculiar man. He would not beg, and knowing his capacities, if he could not procure a position in which to earn a living, he preferred to starve. The only bitterness of his nature, it is said, went out against those who, in his opinion, kept from him such employment as returns a livelihood to scientific men; for he well knew his intellect earned for him such a right in Cincinnati. Will the spirit of that great man, talented Daniel Vaughn, bear malice against the people of the city in which none who knew him will deny that he perished from cold and privation? Commemorated is he not by a bust of bronze that distorts the facts in that the garments are not seedy and unkempt, the figure stooping, the cheek hollow and the eye pitifully expressive of an empty stomach? That bust modestly rests in the public library he loved so well, in which he suffered so uncomplainingly, and starved so patiently. J. U. L.

I embraced the first opportunity that presented itself to read the works that Prof. Vaughn suggested, and sought him more than once to question further. However, he would not commit himself in regard to the possible existence of other forces than those with which we are acquainted, and when I interrogated him as to possibilities in the study of obscure force expressions, he declined to express an opinion concerning the subject. Indeed, I fancied that he believed it probable, or at least not impossible, that a closer acquaintance with conditions of matter and energy might be the heirloom of future scientific students. At last I gave up the subject, convinced that all the information I was able to obtain from other persons whom I questioned, and whose answers were prompt and positive, was evolved largely from ignorance and self-conceit, and such information was insufficient to satisfy my understanding, or to command my attention. After hearing Vaughn, all other voices sounded empty.

I therefore applied myself to my daily tasks, and awaited the promised return of the interesting, though inscrutable being whose subterranean sojourneying was possibly fraught with so much potential value to science and to man.

THE UNBIDDEN GUEST RETURNS TO READ HIS Ma.n.u.sCRIPT. CONTINUING HIS NARRATIVE.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE MOTHER OF A VOLCANO.--”YOU CAN NOT DISPROVE, AND YOU DARE NOT ADMIT.”

A year from the evening of the departure of the old man, found me in my room, expecting his presence; and I was not surprised when he opened the door, and seated himself in his accustomed chair.

”Are you ready to challenge my statements?” he said, taking up the subject as though our conversation had not been interrupted.

”No.”

”Do you accept my history?”

”No.”

”You can not disprove, and you dare not admit. Is not that your predicament?” he asked. ”You have failed in every endeavor to discredit the truth, and your would-be scientists, much as they would like to do so, can not serve you. Now we will continue the narrative, and I shall await your next attempt to cast a shadow over the facts.”

Then with his usual pleasant smile, he read from his ma.n.u.script a continuation of the intra-earth journey as follows:

”Be seated,” said my eyeless guide, ”and I will explain some facts that may prove of interest in connection with the nature of the superficial crust of the earth. This crystal liquid spreading before us is a placid sheet of water, and is the feeder of the volcano, Mount Epomeo.”

”Can that be a surface of water?” I interrogated. ”I find it hard to realize that water can be so immovable. I supposed the substance before us to be a rigid material, like gla.s.s, perhaps.”

”There is no wind to ruffle this aqueous surface,--why should it not be quiescent? This is the only perfectly smooth sheet of water that you have ever seen. It is in absolute rest, and thus appears a rigid level plane.”

”Grant that your explanation is correct,” I said, ”yet I can not understand how a quiet lake of water can give rise to a convulsion such as the eruption of a volcano.”

”Not only is this possible,” he responded, ”but water usually causes the exhibition of phenomena known as volcanic action. The Island of Ischia, in which the volcanic crater Epomeo is situated, is connected by a tortuous crevice with the peaceful pool by which we now stand, and at periods, separated by great intervals of time, the lake is partly emptied by a simple natural process, and a part of its water is expelled above the earth's surface in the form of super-heated steam, which escapes through that distant crater.”

”But I see no evidence of heat or even motion of any kind.”

”Not here,” he replied; ”in this place there is none. The energy is developed thousands of miles away, but since the phenomena of volcanic action are to be partially explained to you at a future day, I will leave that matter for the present. We shall cross this lake.”

I observed as we walked along its edge that the sh.o.r.e of the lake was precipitous in places, again formed a gradually descending beach, and the dead silence of the s.p.a.ce about us, in connection with the death-like stillness of that rigid ma.s.s of water and its surroundings, became increasingly impressive and awe-inspiring. Never before had I seen such a perfectly quiet gla.s.s-like surface. Not a vibration or undulation appeared in any direction. The solidity of steel was exemplified in its steady, apparently inflexible contour, and yet the pure element was so transparent that the bottom of the pool was as clearly defined as the top of the cavern above me. The lights and shades of the familiar lakes of Western New York were wanting here, and it suddenly came to my mind that there were surface reflections, but no shadows, and musing on this extraordinary fact, I stood motionless on a jutting cliff absorbed in meditation, abstractedly gazing down into that transparent depth. Without sun or moon, without apparent source of light, and yet perfectly illuminated, the lofty caverns seemed cut by that aqueous plane into two sections, one above and one below a transparent, rigid surface line. The dividing line, or horizontal plane, appeared as much a surface of air as a surface of water, and the material above that plane seemed no more nor less a gas, or liquid, than that beneath it. If two limpid, transparent liquids, immiscible, but of different gravities, be poured into the same vessel, the line of demarkation will be as a brilliant mirror, such as I now beheld parting and yet uniting the surfaces of air and water.

Lost in contemplation, I unconsciously asked the mental question:

”Where are the shadows?”