The Project Gutenberg EBook of Mr. Oseba's Last Discovery, by George W. Bell This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Mr. Oseba's Last Discovery Author: George W. Bell Release Date: December 14, 2014 [EBook #47663] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MR. OSEBA'S LAST DISCOVERY *** Produced by Shaun Pinder and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) Mr. Oseba MR. OSEBA. MR. OSEBA’S LAST DISCOVERY. By GEO. W. BELL (Col. BELL, Seven Years U.S. Consul, At Sydney, Australia). The conspicuous happiness and prosperity of a people, are the best evidences of benign rule. WELLINGTON, N.Z.: THE NEW ZEALAND TIMES CO., LTD., PRINTERS AND PUBLISHERS. 1904. To the People of New Zealand, the most advanced community among men, the Author dedicates these erratic pages.... ERRATA. Page 87, line 27, read “manor,” not “manner.” Page 150, line 18, “£168,849,381,” not “£120,981,599.”—Later Year Book. An experienced and painstaking friend has called my attention to several typographical errors, and a few immaterial ones in grammar. These faults I deeply regret, but considering my own imperfections, I am glad they are so few and so immaterial. “Teach me to feel another’s woe, To hide the fault I see. That mercy I to others show, That mercy show to me.” A NOTE. Many regard the usual “preface” to a book as of questionable value, but custom may justify the continuance of its use. I had long been a student of Anglo-Saxon history, but until I went to Australia in 1893, I had seen little hope for a realisation of the higher aspirations of the race. Being an individualist, a democrat of democrats, I hold that the unit of society is its basic factor, and, while in those far-off lands, I saw a vague recognition of this truth, I also saw a mergence of democracy into socialism, that failed to satisfy my definitions. I came to New Zealand in early 1903, on a lecture tour. I was well received; and, as I could never remain in a place over night without inquiring “who started the town,” and for what purpose, I began an inquiry into the situation. I had heard and read that this colony was “submerged with socialism,” and “given over to the falsehood of extremes,” so I studied the literature, I mingled with the people, I attended the parliamentary sittings, and—took notes. I found in the Press, a broad independence; in the people, a sturdy self-reliance; and in the statesmen, a feeling that they were the chosen servants of the public, by whom a ripened sentiment was to be clothed in the forms, and vitalised with the force, of law. I found that what the uninformed derisively-called “Socialism” consisted chiefly in a series of co-operative measures, that seemed to promise, not “nerveless socialism,” but the most sturdy democracy civilization had ever produced. In my reveries, I reviewed the old books; I re-trod the path of human progress; I re-measured the struggles and the achievements of the Anglo-Saxon race, and, comparing the environing conditions with the social forces now at work, I wrote. Being a “stranger,” I had no interest, save in seeing my long-cherished theories on the way to realisation; having no acquaintances, I had no friends to flatter or enemies to criticise; and, having no favors to ask, I found it easy, in a free off-hand way, to note my impressions with impartiality. I clothed my subject in a garb of fiction, that I might wrest from the reader the memories of the daily struggle with stubborn facts; I adopted a style, that I believed would be appreciated for its audacious novelty, and, though the eloquent flights of my chief character may seem picturesque, he but expresses the impressions, the feelings, and, further, the opinions of— The Author. INDEX. Page SCENE I. 1-10 A Stormy Voyage.—Leo Bergin Appears.—He has Discovered the Great Discoverer.—Sudden Separation. SCENE II. 11- 17 Leo Bergin Turns Up.—Foolishly Dies.—Comfortably Buried.—The Strange Diary. SCENE III. 18- 61 A Strange Story.—Unravelling a Romantic Career.—Over the Oval to Cavatorus.—The Man from Symmes’ Hole. SCENE IV. 62- 71 First Discoveries of Mr. Oseba.—The Splendor of the City of Eurania.—Reports on His Discoveries. —Discovered Ah, Sin, Lu and Other “Inferior” Races.—Somewhat Discovers Europe. SCENE V. 72- 86 The British Isles “Discovered”.—Classic Land.—The Briton, the Salt of the Earth.—Britain, the Salt Mine.—Africa and South America Discovered.—Essay on Rights v. Color. SCENE VI. 87- 96 America Discovered.—Others a Little Ahead.—Britain’s Noblest Contribution.—Wonderful Progress.—A Sad Story, but a Pleasing Digression. SCENE VII. 98- 108 Australia Discovered.—Mr. Oseba is Encouraged.—Lauds Australia’s Achievements.—Room To Let.—Slowing Down Under a Heavier Load. T SCENE VIII.—ACT I. 109- 136 Mr. Oseba’s Last Discovery.—New Zealand on the Map.—Zealandia, by the Poets.—Zelania, by the Shadowas.—Leo Bergin’s Reveries.—Scenes so Grand that Words are Meaningless.—The Maoris Discovered.—Strange and Romantic. SCENE VIII.—ACT II. 137- 160 Appropriating the World.—Some Comparisons.—Allegiance of Love.—Happy Conditions.— Produce Noble Ideas.—Some Interesting Comparisons.—Mr. Oseba in Good Form, Spicy Spice.—Leo Bergin Pimples Out into Poetry.—Dividing the Land.—Barons v. Settlers.—Sheep v. Children.—Sacred Rights. SCENE VIII.—ACT III. 161- 175 Utilitarian.—Acres and Flocks.—Profitable Exercise.—Public Utilities, Have, &c.—King Demus.— Cannonaded and Canonised.—Business.—Graduated Tax, an Eloquent Persuader.—Nature’s Pleasing Freaks. SCENE VIII.—ACT IV. 176- 198 The Moral Side.—People Like to Live.—On the Make.—Inspiring.—Women Came, Result.— Mental Gymnastics.—Schools, Books, &c.—Other Tastes.—Social Progress.—Opinion’s Sake.—Many Worships.—Toleration and Good Fellowship. SCENE VIII.—ACT V. 199- 225 Worthy of His Hire.—The Toiler Allowed to Live.—So Decreed by Law.—May not all be worthy.— Justice Elevates.—Some Leaders, but Public Sentiment the Force.—No High, and No Low.— Advanced Notions.—Old Age Pensions, &c.—Pleasing Outings Amid Wild Sport and Romantic Scenes.—Raising the Ideals, with a Climax. INDEX TO ILLUSTRATIONS. Save that that of the Hon. R. J. Seddon is placed facing page 8, Sir Joseph Ward facing page 16, the New Zealand Cabinet facing page 24, and Mr. T. E. Donne facing page 32, all the illustrations are spaced evenly through the work, classed or grouped consecutively, but owing to evident impossibilities they do not conform strictly to the text. All the illustrations are typically New Zealand. SCENE I. INCONCLUSIVE ALLUSIONS. his, being a true story, with the slight deviations necessary to the preservation of a due sense of proportion, it is deemed proper to casually introduce the characters on whom we must chiefly rely for the truthfulness or otherwise, of a most romantic adventure. In such an introduction, the Editor, or compiler—the “I” in these pages—necessarily appears, but to the Chronicler himself, who has no “poetic license,” we must rely for the correctness of the recital. Though without my aid this strange story might possibly have reached the world, the manner of its coming into my hands has made me a “curtain-shifter,” as it were, in the scenes, and in this pleasing task, fidelity shall be my only guide. I was not “journeying towards Damascus,” but being weary from many wanderings, and desirous of returning to dear old London as soon as possible, at Marseilles, I booked for Amsterdam on the fine passenger steamer Irene—the voyage, however, to be broken for a brief stay over at Lisbon. It was midnight when we swung from our moorings and steamed out of the harbor, and, the sea being rough and I a bad sailor, I did not venture on the upper deck until nearly lunch time the following day. I was not too well. The sea was not placid, the air was damp and chill, and—well—I was not happy. The decks were “sparsely populated,” and as I was slowly zigzagging my way along, in a sense of utter loneliness, raising my eyes, my attention was aroused by the presence of what seemed a familiar figure. It was the graceful form of a tall, well-proportioned young man. His face was pale, his head was bent forward, he leaned heavily over the starboard railing of the vessel, and I imagined that he, too, was not well. I did not recognise him, but sympathy and curiosity, and, perhaps, custom, lead me half unconsciously to his side. I said to him soothingly, “It is rather rough to- day.” He raised himself a little, leaned a little further over the ship’s railing, and made a convulsive movement. He was “not well,” but raising himself more erectly, he turned towards me slightly, and ironically said, “Thanks, so I have been informed.” The “tone” of the expression was unkind, for my motives were good and my conduct was as wise as the occasion would suggest. His voice limped piteously, but it had something in it of old familiarity. “You?” said I. My voice also had in it to him something of old familiarity. I looked in his face. He returned my gaze. The recognition was mutual. “Leo Bergin!” said I. “Sir Marmaduke!” said he. “You have come to bring unholy memories,” said I. “And you have come to reproach me,” said he, in tones of agony I shall never forget. “No,” said I, “Leo Bergin, I give my hand. ‘Let the dead past bury its dead.’ Look not sorrowfully over the past —it comes not again—but with resolute heart and strong hand brave the future, and thou shall find a crown or a grave. List—not another word of the past; but, Leo Bergin, what of the future?” “Thou art kind,” said he, with bowed head, and in good Bible phrase, “but I ill deserve your generosity.” “List,” said I again, “Leo, what of the future?” “The future?” said he, with bowed head, downcast eye, and awfully solemn voice, “the future? Because I know the past I feign would die; because I know not the future, I am cowardly enough to live. You know, my friend, my benefactor, that I have talent, good looks, and industry, but the world,” said he more sadly, “is against me.” Yes, I had heard before that Leo Bergin had “talent, good looks, and industry.” In fact, Leo Bergin, on a memorable occasion, had himself confessed to me as much. Ah! my brothers, what good opinions we have of ourselves. All of us, men and women, think ourselves possessed of talent, good looks and social merits; but here our self-satisfaction ends, for the dull world, whom we could so well serve, failing to appreciate us, we are left a prey to neglect, and often to despair. Ah! my brothers, we forget that we are not impartial judges; that the world is impartial and may be just in its conclusions. How kindly we think of ourselves! In the person who readily agrees with us, what noble qualities of soul and mind we discover. But ’tis well, for conceit, foolish as it may seem, often saves us from despair. Yes, Leo Bergin had talent, education, good looks, and industry; but Leo Bergin, I had concluded from the occasion referred to, was erratic, “a shingle short”—in fact, not “all there.” “But, Leo,” said I, “where are you bound?” “To h——,” said he, in phrase quite jocular, in tones almost bitterly sad. “Ah!” said I, “pack your kit then and step off at old Cadiz, for that is on the border.” But the bugle blew for lunch, and the association of ideas drove Leo Bergin to his cabin, and, with a sickly promise to “come later,” I was left to ponder over the strange events of life—events that often lead to such meetings; the meetings, in turn, to lead to other events, even more strange and interesting. A FRIEND IN NEED. Well, my reader, while Leo Bergin is below, striving to compromise with his digestion, I will relate to you some of his peculiarities, that you may be prepared for his wonderful recital. It was January 10th, 1898, as he entered my room on Great Russell Street, just opposite the British Museum, London, that I first saw him. He knocked at my door, gently; he entered my room, quietly; he sat down familiarly, and he opened the interview, promptly. I will not say Leo Bergin, on this occasion, was not modest; I will say he did not hesitate. Had Leo Bergin remained silent I would have known that he was out of money, out of luck, out of friends, and almost out at the knees and elbows. But he evidently doubted my powers of perception, for, with superfluous frankness and eloquent volubility, he informed me that he only wanted a “loan” for a short time until he could “get on his feet.” These stories were very common. They had been very “taking” with me, but desiring to avoid occupying a like position I had grown impatient and crusty, possibly a little hard-hearted, so I looked squarely into his fine eyes, and asked him “to get on his feet” at once. He arose, looked me in the face, not with defiance or humiliation, not with shame or impudence, but like a man. He said, “I am down.” That was evident, but the soft saying of this had always cost me heavily, and, softening again, I asked who he was and what he could do. He said, “I am an American; I was born in Virginia, lived in California, have done newspaper work in New Zealand, and as a journalist I am in London—and down.” I weakened. The man who had been born in Virginia, lived in California, and done newspaper work in New Zealand, could not be wholly depraved, for the very air of these three favored spots would preserve some semblance of virtue. “I surrender,” said I; “express your most fervent wish and it shall be granted.” He betrayed little emotion. His countenance remained placid, but he said, “I have talent, good looks, and industry, and I want employment,—I desire to earn my living. I asked for a loan, but it was in despair, and I desired to replace my lost revolver that I might ‘quit this ghastly dream called life’ before another week’s board was due. But under the spell of your words, ‘a change came o’er the spirit of my dream,’ and now I must live.” “Must!” said I, “you assert this ‘must’ with such emphasis, perhaps you would tell me why you must live? For my part I see no actual necessity for it—not the least.” A cloud was on his brow. He remained silent and immovable as a statue. “Cheer up, old fellow,” said I, “for if you desire to earn your living, I will secure a position for you.” I knew who wanted a man, “talented, good-looking and industrious.” I gave Leo Bergin a suit of my clothes—just a little soiled, I confess, for, as a fact, I never could obey that divine injunction regarding the giving my brother a coat, until it was a little soiled. I gave him a strong letter to a friend on Trafalgar Square, and Leo Bergin stepped into a good position. I was called to the Continent for a few months on important duty. Time went on and within a few weeks I received a brief note. “Trafalgar Square, “London. “To my Benefactor, “Yours of —— received. Glad,—you deserve it. I am well. I think my employer is satisfied, but I am a little restless. “Leo.“ “Talent, good looks, and ambition, but a fool,” said I, “and he will never get on.” A few more weeks passed, and another note came from “Trafalgar Square, London.” This was less brief than the other. It read:— “Trafalgar Square, “London. “Dear Sir, “Leo Bergin is not at his desk. He has appropriated enough of my money to enable him to take a vacation, and—he left no address. Talent, good looks, and ambition Leo Bergin has, to some degree, but he is evidently a d—— villain. What did you know about this fellow, anyway? “D. J. Folder.“ There seemed no vagueness in this note, but I pondered. What did I know about him? Only that he was once born in Virginia, had lived in California, and had done newspaper work in New Zealand. Musingly, I said, “Perchance the villain lied.” This solved the problem for the time, for it seemed more likely that a man should even lie, than go wrong with such a record. For the time I lost all respect for Leo Bergin. To deliberately rob a confiding employer is reprehensible, and if Leo Bergin in this had not shown himself a thief, he had betrayed an entire lack of a sense of proportion. This was one side of Leo Bergin’s character. But lapses, my brothers, do not establish total depravity, for it is reported “of old” that a gentleman, on a very serious occasion, prevaricated on a very potent fact, and when confronted, “he denied.” When pressed, “he denied with an oath,” and yet this gentleman has been kindly remembered and well spoken of. TEMPESTUOUS. The wind increased in violence. It was a wild night. The blue Mediterranean was angry, but the good ship plunged ahead like a defiant monster. For two days more, the decks were unoccupied save by the careless sailors. The tables looked “lonesome,” for the storm still raged in fury. The hours and the days, that seemed like weeks and months, wore away. We rounded Cape Vincent, when immediately the wind ceased, the sea was calm, the ship rode smoothly, the air was balmy, and the passengers, like a section of the morning of resurrection, appeared plentifully upon the broad clean decks, and were happy. Leo Bergin also appeared on deck. His smile was feeble, his grasp was languid, but he spoke earnestly of beef- steak and coffee, and I felt that he was—“better.” Old Cadiz had been passed, and he had evidently concluded to try T R. J. Seddon The Right Hon. R. J. Seddon, P.C., LL.D., Prime Minister, Colonial Treasurer, Minister of Defence, Minister of Education and Minister of Labour. For over eleven years the sturdy Leader of the most progressive democracy of all the ages. some climate other than the one previously suggested. We sat—we chatted. I was to leave the ship at Lisbon, finishing my journey by the next steamer. He?—I did not know. Strange, when we do people a favour we at once feel an interest in them. Possibly we feel somewhat responsible for such an one’s conduct. Possibly, too, and more likely, we desire their success, that we may take to ourselves a little credit for a “happy career.” I had done Leo Bergin a favor, was interested in him, and asked as to his “future.” His glance was friendly, his smile doubtful; he drew his chin lower on his bosom, drummed on a book with his gloved fingers, and said, “Well, I have made an acquaintance with a mysterious personage. I have talent, good looks, and ambition, but I am an outcast, and I am going on a new venture. You know the Folder episode, and, to be frank, after a serious review of the case, I question the propriety of my action, and now that the money is gone, I have many qualms of conscience.” I was not a little surprised, but I was glad to discover that he believed himself to have a little conscience, for as “conscience does make cowards of us all,” I hoped for his reform. We sat side by side, and planting his closed hand firmly on my knee by way of emphasis, he said, “Yes, I have made a new acquaintance, that of a mysterious personage, and I am now starting on the most reckless, the most risky, the most irrational, and the most romantic venture ever undertaken by mortal man, and if I succeed you shall hear from me; but if I fail, oblivion will claim Leo Bergin, and the claim will be promptly allowed. I made my new acquaintance and formed my new plans but yesterday, and I stand at the dawn of the most enchanting dream that ever lured a sensible man to ruin.” I begged him to unfold his tale, but he answered, “You are a practical man, and you would regard my undertaking as so wild and visionary as to indicate insanity, for you do not regard me as an imbecile. If I fail, only another leaf, its stem nipped by the frost, flutters to the ground to fertilise the soil. If I fail, the world, save you, knows not of my folly. If I succeed, the facts that I shall reveal will be more strange than fiction, and the results of my adventure will redound to the glory of the land I love.” “Ill as I was,” he continued, “I began my notes yesterday, October 5th, 1898, off the coast of Spain, and I shall keep a true record of my doings and my observations. If I survive, which is hardly likely, I shall find you and place my notes at your disposal. If I perish—if possible you shall have them brought down to the last breath, and in every page you shall have evidence of my gratitude and my integrity.” “But tell me,” said I, with impatience. Here the whistle blew, we saw all confusion, and we were entering the port of Lisbon. Time for further explanation, there was none. We separated, I to follow out well-laid plans for business and pleasure, he—well, to me it was an unsolvable riddle; but I never lost faith that, some time and in some place, Leo Bergin would again turn up. SCENE II. LEO BERGIN “TURNS UP.” wo years had passed, and with all my professions of interest and regard, for a full year of that time Leo Bergin had not entered my mind, and for the whole two years, he had occupied very little of my thoughts. As a fact, save on one occasion when D. J. Folder, in forgiving jest told me that he needed a man, and asked if I could recommend a young man with “talent, good looks and ambition,” for the position, I do not remember having thought of Leo Bergin. Absence defaces memory. Ah! how quickly we are forgotten. We spend our brief time upon this showy stage, assuming that we are necessary to the world’s success or pleasure, but when we drop to senseless dust, all save a few, go merrily on, and even they, in a day or a few days, dry their tears and join the happy throng again. Later, in the autumn of 1900, I was called to Copenhagen on business, and having made the acquaintance of a prominent physician there, I was invited to visit one of the leading hospitals. In going the rounds of the various wards, we were informed that several new patients had just entered, brought from a ship which had returned from a North Polar voyage. This would satisfy some curiosity, and soon we were among the new patients. There were a dozen in all, mostly Russians, Finns, and Danes, but at one side of the ward we noticed there were two pale-looking fellows, conversing in English. Instinctively I walked across to their presence, when to my astonishment, gazing earnestly at me, I recognised the sad, pitiful face, of emaciated, health-broken Leo Bergin. His eyes brightened slightly, he smiled faintly, and reached a feeble faltering hand to meet mine, in friendly greeting. There was time for smiles of waning joy, time for sighs and tears of pity, but for words, the time had well nigh sped, for Leo Bergin was close to the pearly gates. “Sit close,” said he, “sit close, for I am sailing for another port, and while I don’t know the nature of the climate, there can be nothing better, and nothing worse than I have had in this world, so let the storm howl, and the ship plunge, I am not whining.” So saying, he slightly turned on his bed, and reaching a thin hand under his pillow, he drew forth a package wrapped in some soft skin, and tied about with twine. “Here,” said he faintly, “this tells the whole story. It is all good ‘stuff,’ but I place it at your disposal. If you think it better, you may boil it down, and if you make anything out of it, well, pay Folder, for I had a good time with his money, and now I have plenty to last me through. I don’t know how, but some way I knew I should find you, and this,—it is all true, but the dreams of fiction never unfolded anything half so strange.” I longed for a few more minutes, but the form of Leo Bergin lay limp on the bed. His hands were lax, his brow wore a deathly pallor, and his lips moved slowly in inaudible whispers. I touched his hand, for I wanted one more word, and as he seemed to slightly revive, I said: “‘Tell my soul, with sorrow laden,’ where have you been?” He aroused a little, smiled, and pointing to the package, gaspingly said, “It is all there, all there, and I—well, I have been to ‘Symmes’ Hole,’”—and when I looked again upon that placid face, the soul of Leo Bergin had sailed for the other “Port.” ADJUSTING THE CURTAINS. Leo Bergin, with neatness and despatch, was comfortably buried, myself being chief mourner, and “after life’s fitful fever he sleeps well.” I was impatient to know the contents of the package, but desiring to enjoy perfect leisure, while unravelling the mystery so intensified by Leo’s earnestness, I reluctantly laid it away, to wait my arrival in London. Time passed. I was back at my old quarters in Great Russell Street, London. The weather was so chill, dark, and foggy, that, at four, I had lighted the gas. The fire burned lazily in the small grate. The room was not uncomfortable, but in harmony with the gloomy surroundings. I was touched by a feeling of depressing loneliness. I paced the not very expansive floor, peered through the blackness into the dimly lighted streets, paced again, lighted a cigar, sat and pondered. Thrown back in an easy chair, dreamingly watching the graceful whirling wreaths of my consoling Havana, my thoughts on random wing soared aimlessly away, to gather up the memories of vanished days. Then, like gladsome youths on holiday, came trooping along the casual incidents of an easy life, my last visit to Venice, my run to Marseilles with Monarco’s party, the stormy voyage along the coast of Spain. Ah! here, in flesh and blood with spare but athletic form, pale scholarly face, pleasing but rather melancholy smile, gentle voice and cordial, arose Leo Bergin; a thought! The form vanished, but the “package” was more substantial, and I hurriedly unpacked my trunk, and drew it forth, just as he had given it me fully three months earlier. With a thrill of mingled pain and pleasure, I removed the rough twine, and unrolled the leather wrapping. My heart throbbed with emotion, my hand trembled, but my eager eyes beheld a large roll of manuscript neatly tied with familiar tape. While I had not even a glimpse of the nature of these notes, I did not even guess, or attempt to guess, their character. I knew that Leo Bergin, when quite alive, had talent and ambition—the good looks for this occasion I will omit—and I knew this was a most interesting, if not an important “find.” In contemplating the situation, as I leisurely removed all surplus or superfluous covering, a small scrap of soiled and crumpled paper fell to the floor, and on picking it up, I was not a little surprised to see that it was an especial note. It was written in a feeble, but legible hand, and read as follows:— “Nowhere, “November, 1900. “To whoever may find the within,— “As I am breathing my last, and I am a little anxious to be off, I pray you to forward at once to Sir Marmaduke, Colonial Club, Whitehall, London. “T Sir Joseph Ward The Hon. Sir Joseph Ward, K.C.M.G., Colonial Secretary, Minister of Railways, Minister of Commerce and Industries, Postmaster- General, with Telegraphs, Minister in charge of Tourist and Health Resorts, and Minister of Public Health. Rather complex, but Sir Joseph’s abilities are as versatile as his duties are varied. “Leo Bergin. “Richmond Virginia, late of ‘Symmes’ Hole.’” This was another side of the character of Leo Bergin. Mentally, I was in what may, I think with some propriety, be termed a state of deeply interested confusion. I unrolled and exposed to view the whole package. It was voluminous. It was composed of some twenty writing tablets, each with a large number of thin sheets, foolscap size. These tablets were consecutively numbered, the pages were closely written on one side, the first few being in a round neat hand, the skill rather weakening as the work proceeded. I was too eager for a general inspection to deliberately peruse any particular portion or feature of the whole, but there was a sufficient mass of what seemed by the painstaking methods to make a large volume. But the mystery still deepened. Where, for what purpose, and under what circumstances, was the work done? There were here and there strange names of places, strange personages and strange events recorded. Was Leo Bergin mad? or was there, in fact, somewhere passing events that were indeed stranger to us than fiction? My cigar went out, the fire had “followed suit,” I looked at my watch with some impatience, and it showed the “wee sma’ hours” had come. I was perplexed, paced the floor, and looking out into the street, I saw how the gusts of wind drove the snow and sleet along with the fury of a demon. I shuddered as I paced the floor, but how could I unravel the mystery, the mystery that perplexed me? “Back into my chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,” I said again, “Where is the key?” for Leo Bergin had talent and ambition, and while he seemed erratic, he was no visionary dreamer. While Leo Bergin lacked a sense of proportion, even in his foibles he was practical, and had at least one eye on the main chance. “No,” said I, “Leo Bergin was no dreamer,” he had no fads, no superstitions, and little imagination, and he was a true Bohemian. He had a “nose for news,” a genius for work, and a love for adventure that all the fiends in and out of Hades could not thwart. But how could I unravel the mystery? Where the de’il had he been for two long years? Who was Symmes? And if Symmes had a hole, where was it? Here I paused—an idea struck me. “I am a fool,” said I—but I would rave should any one less informed regarding my weakness say so. Ah! I have it. Here it is, for he said, on our parting, as he handed it to me, “It is a record of every day’s doings and events.” Yes, and he said, on our parting at Lisbon, “I made my new acquaintance, and laid my plans for future action yesterday. I have begun my work, and I shall keep a truthful record of every day’s doings and events, and on my return I will place it at your disposal.” “Plain enough, it is all there, and to-morrow I shall begin,” said I, “to unravel this mysterious story.” SCENE III. A STRANGE STORY. o-morrow” has come. The outside world seems glad to be alive. I—the Editor—accustomed to mental ease and physical comfort, am confronted with perplexing duties. My bills are paid, my health is good, and my mind is clear, but, confound the idea of work! I never liked work, and I fear even custom will not reconcile me to drudgery. But duty calls, and, so far, duty has never called upon me in vain. I—the Editor, remember—am ashamed that I forgot Leo Bergin for two long years; I am more ashamed that I so nearly forgot the package, the contents of which may bring pleasure to many a curious and careworn soul, for, as a fact, I feel rebuked even by the presence of this evidence of sturdy resolve, so wanting in myself. As a fact, I know, when I care to be serious, that Leo Bergin, with his restless ambition, his tireless industry, his dauntless courage, his reckless love of adventure, and his almost insane determination to turn on a little more light, with all his faults, was worth to his kind, more than a legion of happy idlers, who, like myself, were born in wealth, and indolently dallied in the soft lap of luxury, careless alike to the sorrows and the joys of common humanity. Well, as a compromise with my conscience—I think it must be conscience, for the sensation is new to me—I am determined to unravel the mystery of Leo Bergin’s absence, and, if in the mass of labored matter, there is one thought or fact or idea worthy of his fine attainments and insane strife, the world shall find some compensation for his many errors. With comfortable surroundings, cheerful fire, easy chair, convenient desk and table, fine cigars, ample library, a new found sense of duty, an industry aroused by remorse, and with a sense of deep responsibility I begin my work, feeling that the suggestion from the dying author to “boil it down” has vastly augmented the difficulties that confront me. I am abundantly aware that the age is athirst for fiction, whereas I have for its patience but a plain unvarnished tale. I know the taste for graceful periods, while I can give but labored phrase, and I know the critics want only the “meat,” while I must crave the indulgence of an occasional flourish. For the present, at least, I shall “boil down” the matter contained in Leo Bergin’s copious notes. In this I may do him an injustice, but I shall save myself much toil and mental worry. Of Leo Bergin I shall speak well. He is dead—and by the world’s philosophy, we should speak kindly of the dead. What a vile philosophy! Why not speak kindly of the living? Why do we taunt, and harpoon, and revile the erring soul, until it drops into senseless dust, and then, when our poisoned shafts no longer sting, feel constrained to “speak kindly of the dead!” Oh! my brothers, be good to me while I am alive; you may encourage me, aid me, save me, and when I am dead, you have a standing invitation to my funeral, and your tongues will not grieve me. But, goodbye, indolent reverie, goodbye dreamy speculation, goodbye ease and careless waste of precious hours, and welcome toil, for I am going to do penance, so welcome wearisome work, and welcome thou confused mass of spoiled and rumpled paper, for I long to release the winged words, held so sacredly in your perishable grasp. ’Tis a strange mystery, the power of words. Life is in them, and death. A word may send the crimson current hurrying to the cheek, hurrying with many meanings, or may turn it, cold and deadly, to the heart. And yet, a word is but a breath of passing air. This is pretty—I hope it is original, but I fear it is not—but here begins the diary, a full record of the doings and observations of Leo Bergin for two eventful years. Where is number one? Ah! here it is, a few little old crumpled sheets I had not seen. No. 1 plain enough. He began on these, and laid in his supply of paper later. I will quote verbatim the first few pages, as they may furnish the key to the whole. Well, then, this is the starting of that career, I hope an interesting one. It begins:— “At sea, on board steamer Irene, “Off coast Spain, “October 5th, 1898. “Terrible storm! The purser said we were in ‘imminent danger.’ Danger! how thrilling!—if a fellow were not so sick. Terrible storm! But, as compared with my tempestuous soul, the angry Mediterranean is still. “I regret having met Sir Marmaduke. He did me a kindness; I served Folder well; Lucile, and I—a poor adventurer—became friends. The Times wanted me to go to Armenia; I borrowed the money from young Folder in his father’s absence; young Folder, it seems, took the money from the firm’s safe; he fell into disgrace with his father, accused me, and—well, Folder and Sir Marmaduke and dear Lucile, all think me a thief. Let the old Mediterranean howl, let her mountainous waves plough the ground, until all the bones of all she has slain are washed up and cast on the shores of bloody Spain, and until the Pillars of Hercules are torn from their base, and I will laugh at raving Nature’s petulant moods, and go down smiling with the wreckage to death and eternal night. But confound young Folder! and, but for Lucile, I would teach him a sense of proportion. Sir Marmaduke shall sometime know that he was not mistaken in me—and Lucile—well, maybe she’d rather think me a villain, than to know her brother was one.” Well, well! “Oh, my prophetic soul!” Leo Bergin, forgive! Then, Leo was not a thief, and I, like a common fool, now that the truth is out should have known that Leo Bergin, with his fine attainments, his superb vanity, and his indifference to wealth, could not stain his hands with dishonor. Surely it was a foolish proceeding at such a juncture for Leo Bergin to die. What fine material for a romance! But we never romance. He continues:— “This morning I discovered that I had a strange cabin mate. Physically, he is the finest type of manly beauty I ever beheld; and, mentally, he seems above our common human nature. That he is no fool is certain, that he is not insane, I am fairly well persuaded, and that he is mistaken seems hardly credible, yet as measured by all the supposed knowledge of our generation, by the demonstrations of science and the calculations of thinkers, he talks the most arrant nonsense. His splendid personality, his easy graceful manners, and his general intelligence interests one; his ‘sublime gift of eloquent gab,’ his seeming logic, and his insinuating ideas are charming, but the seeming boldness, not to say audacity of his statements astonishes one. But to me, he is resistless; and for good or ill, success or failure, life or death, I have cast my lot with him. “Evening, later. Strange experience this—the storms have no terror for me. Strange! but this mysterious cabin mate has captivated me. I was so bewildered with his impossible statements and extravagant claims, and with all his PREMIER SEDDON AND HIS POLITICAL FAMILY. Premier Seddon and his political family From left—The Honorables C. H. Mills, W. C. Walker, C.M.G., R. J. Seddon, P.C. LL.D., T. Duncan, J. Carroll, Sir J. G. Ward, K.C.M.G., W. Hall-Jones, J. McGowan. absolute indifference as to our incredulity, that I sought refuge in the captain’s room, and here, listening to an interesting recital, I spent four of the most thrilling hours of my life. “The captain is certainly a gentleman of superior parts. He has a fine knowledge of astronomy, he is a master of geography, and is deeply read in the broader and more general physical sciences, and yet, in the presence of this stranger, as he seems not of our world in any sense common to our understanding, he is dumb with astonishment. “This strange being, surely a man, for he eats and drinks and smokes, and worse, he snores, says he is Amoora Oseba, that he lives in a great city called Eurania, in a country called Cavitorus, and that his people are called Shadowas. Save that the mind wanders with an unconscious effort to locate this country, city, and people, this statement seems but commonplace. “But where is Cavitorus? Where is the City of Eurania? and who the de’il are the Shadowas? Save that he might be regarded as a superior sample, this Amoora Oseba—which sounds Arabian—might be taken easily for a Russian, a Dane, a Scot, or a Yankee. But whence came he? Let him tell us. “At the captain’s suggestion, I invited him to the fore-cabin, where, seated around a table, our host, the chief engineer, a merchant from Boston, a parson, my cabin mate and myself, were met for interesting inquiry. “The instruments having been brought and the glasses filled, the captain looked in the face of Mr. Oseba, and said in manly business tones, ‘We have become interested in you, Mr. Oseba, and while your statements seem most astounding to us, we have invited you to my cabin, that we might persuade you to give us some explanation of your strange theories; and as an introduction of the subject, I beg to inquire from what country you hail, and what is your destination?’ “The question seemed rational, and to most men, how easily answered! But here was a new experience. All eyes were turned on the handsome, intelligent, earnest face of my new-made friend and fellow-passenger, and he said: ‘Mystery lies just beyond the visible horizon of the knowable. Because I have explored the realms of your mental and visible horizon, either of you could easily answer me such a question, and to the satisfaction of all; but as my country lies beyond both your mental and visible horizon, I can only answer by an explanation, moving or advancing such lines.’ “Here Amoora Oseba took a globe in his hand, and remarked that as educated men they regarded this as a ‘counterfeit presentment’ or model of the world they inhabited. He explained that for millions of years, our ancestors remained indifferent, and then disputed about the shape or form of the world they inhabited; that in comparatively recent times loving men cooked one another for believing the world to be round, and that in times really but yesterday, the most advanced people had nothing like a correct conception of the construction of the Universe. “‘In old, old times,’ he said, ‘our ancestors believed the world to be flat. That question for thousands of years was considered settled. For a comparatively brief time the world has been considered to be round, a solid sphere. This, for this short period, has been the “settled” notion.’ “But he assured us that the propositions were equally fallacious. The whole party was inclined to laugh, but he continued. He reminded us that we all believed in the nebular theory, that our earth, with the other planets, had been thrown off by the sun’s rapid rotary motion; that in rapid revolution these masses had assumed forms peculiar to their revolutionary velocity, that planets had in turn thrown off masses that had become satellites, and that form was a result of motion, mass, and volume. He reminded us of the natural tendency of matter to fly from the surface of a rapidly revolving wheel, cylinder, or globe. “This was the case with our earth. While yet a yielding or molten mass, it whirled very rapidly on its axis, the surface cooled and became rigid, and the molten matter contracted. During this process, the plastic interior moved towards the crust, the cooling mass requiring less and less space. Thus the centre parted, and our earth became, not a solid globe, as you were taught to believe, but an oval ring, a hollow ball, revolving rapidly as do the rings of Saturn, formed under the same law, but owing to the mass in her case being greater, the gravitation of the interior held the central mass together as a planet. ‘As a fact,’ he said, taking a large apple in his hand, ‘if the core of this apple were removed with a care that would preserve the proper curvature, I will venture to say “ovality,” it would present an exact model of our world. Then the world is hollow, not solid, and it is habitable and inhabited over the oval.’ “The members of the party looked at each other with amused curiosity. ‘Symmes!’ said the captain; ‘Hurra for old Kentuck!’ said the Yankee; ‘Logic!’ said the engineer. “‘You smile,’ said Oseba, ‘but a man may smile and smile, he may even sneer, and still be wrong.’ “He looked so undisturbed, so dignified and earnest, that levity ceased, and he said ‘As a rule, men accept their opinions ready made, and they only search for corroborating evidence. When Galileo proclaimed a new truth, he was silenced, by the frowns of authority. Who was right? When Bruno proclaimed a great truth, he was cooked, by authority. Who was right? All your schoolboys of to-day know.’ “‘But when Symmes advanced a new theory, because the world had grown more tolerant or less earnest, he was laughed out of court, while those who imprisoned Galileo, and cooked Bruno, and ridiculed Columbus and Magellan, having grown careless, amused themselves by writing of Symmes’ northern regions as “Symmes’ Hole.”’ “‘Well, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Oseba, ‘I am from over the Oval, from “Symmes’ Hole,” and after five years of constant travel and hard study among the people of the outer world, whom we call Outeroos, I am returning to “Symmes’ Hole,” and this young man,’ turning to me, ‘is going with me to report.’ “There was no mirth, the captain drumming on the table said, ‘Ahem!’ The Yankee said, as he looked quizzically at me, ‘Well, I guess he’ll have to muffle himself up pretty good, and I think our house could give him a proper outfit,’ and the engineer said to me, ‘raising the curtain is the most interesting part of the performance.’ “‘But this is so far outside of our experience and our observations,’ said the good-natured skipper. “‘Pardon,’ said the calm Oseba, ‘the observations of your men of experience have but confirmed our contentions, though the evidence so far, has not disturbed the hypotheses of your theorists. But what are the observations of your men of hard experience? This leads to another line of inquiry.’ “Save by an occasional question, the silence of the listeners had been unbroken from the start. The subject had been profoundly discussed, and as the hour was growing late, it was agreed that the party meet at once after dinner on the following evening. All faces now looked serious. The captain thanked the stranger, and said, ‘We met to scoff, we remained in rapt attention, we retire to meditate. To-morrow evening,’ said he, ‘we will question you, our worthy guest, with a different feeling. Good night.’ “What a unique experience! How I would like to have had Sir Marmaduke with us. But Sir Marmaduke thinks I am a thief and unworthy of his presence. “Well, goodbye old day, I’ll throw me down and sleep my cares away.” By George! that is striking. The man from “Symmes’ Hole.” Ha! Ha! Well, I wish I had been there. But Leo Bergin does me an injustice, for I was too careless to think about his crime, or alleged crime, for, as a fact, I liked him when I met him, and in his absence, I never thought either of him or his folly. “What fools we mortals be!” We are eternally worrying about what others think of us, when, in fact, each of all the “others” is quite engaged with his or her own affairs. What “everybody says” is usually only what some idle meddler says, the busy world having no thought or care on the matter. But Leo Bergin thought of me, well— “I’d give the lands of Deloraine, If Musgrove were alive again.” But,—“Never, never more.” Let us see what follows, for this is more interesting far, than a courtship. Let’s see—the next day I left the ship at Lisbon, in response to mail from Hamburg. Let’s see if I am forgotten as easily as he was, and what the man from Symmes’ Hole had to say at the adjourned meeting. By my soul, this is rich! The notes read:— “At sea, on board S.S. Irene, “Off coast of Portugal, “October 7th, 1898. “’Tis midnight’s holy hour, and silence now is brooding o’er a still and pulseless world. “What an eventful day! In old Lisbon a few hours, made a few purchases—paper to hold stuff enough to startle the world—saw Sir Marmaduke on the steps of the Cathedral; he did not answer my salute. If I live, he shall know me better. If—oh, that terrible ‘if’! that brief halt, that in all our hopes arises to console us, that brief halt that excuses impotency for failure, chills me. “Had a long chat with my chief, Oseba, re our polar journey. Strange, I speak of this with candour, and make my plans as if it were actual, and yet my judgment scoffs at my foolish dreams, for, as a fact, it must be the delusion of a madman. So I thought at 4 p.m.— “Later. “Promptly at eight, the party of last evening re-assembled in the captain’s cabin. All seated at the table, Amoora Oseba handed round some fine cigars, the glasses were filled, and the skipper said, ‘Now, Mr. Oseba, we would like to hear further from you, for if you are insane, there seems to be method in your madness. If you are a joker, you are a most charming entertainer, but if you are sane and candid, for the world’s good you should remain quiet, only when necessary to refresh yourself for further effort.’ “The captain had prepared a six-inch globe by removing the axial core, and paring down the outer openings so as to leave it oval with the outer curves for Mr. Oseba’s convenience in making his illustrations—this was Oseba’s ‘apple,’ the core removed. “On rising, Mr. Oseba thanked the captain for his courtesy, and raising the globe, he reminded the party that he was to review the observations of experienced men in support of what to him was more than a theory. He asked his friends to fix in their minds the new form of our globe, for that was important. “He first called attention to the fact that all the extreme North Polar regions were rich with the waste or remains of animal and vegetable life. This was ‘settled.’ ‘All navigators agree,’ he said, ‘that hibernating animals, say above 80 or even 78°, go north to winter; and that driftwood comes from the north with flowers unknown to botanists. In high latitudes birds and swarms of insects come from the north in spring, and Tyson’s men killed many of these migrating birds for food for his crew. In the craws of these birds there were found undigested grains of wheat, some of which were planted and grew in California. The kernel of this wheat was three times the common size, and California seasons were too short for its ripening. Now, whence came the birds, the wheat, and the insects? Plainly, from “Symmes’ Hole.” Greely found the ice but four feet thick at 82°, and less than two feet at 84°, so the ice would not bear the boats, and many navigators report an open polar sea, and greatly agitated waters at high latitudes. “‘By the old theory, it must be known that, at the poles, the North Star would be—must be—directly overhead, or in the zenith. But, as a fact, all polar explorers know that the pole star is in the zenith at about 80°, and that, at 83-4°, it is seen far towards the stern of the ship. If the old theory were true, this phenomenon seen at 84° would only appear after a ship had sailed past the Pole some ten or twelve degrees. “‘The fact is,’ said he, ‘sailing north at 84°, the verge is past, the curvature is sharper, and the ship is dipping into “Symmes’ Hole.” Further, at 82° north, the horizon very sensibly contracts to the north and south, and eno...