Title: The Oak Shade, or, Records of a Village Literary Association
Author: Various
Language: English
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A VILLAGE LITERARY ASSOCIATION ***



  THE
  OAK SHADE,

  OR

  RECORDS
  OF A
  VILLAGE LITERARY ASSOCIATION.


  EDITED BY
  MAURICE EUGENE.


  PHILADELPHIA:
  WILLIS P. HAZZARD,
  178 CHESTNUT STREET.
  1855.



  Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by

  ALEX. C. BRYSON, (for the Editor,)

  In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States,
  in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.


  ALEX. C. BRYSON, PRINTER,
  141 Chestnut Street.



  CONTENTS.


  DEDICATION                                              5
  PREFACE                                                 9
  HANS DUNDERMANN: THE DUTCH MISER                       11
  THE WISDOM OF PRESERVING MODERATION IN OUR WISHES      43
  THE SICK MOTHER                                        53
  THE EXCELLENCIES OF LYING                              75
  THE ALCHEMIST: OR, THE MAGIC FUNNEL                    87
  THE BEAUTY OF A WELL-CULTIVATED HEART                 123
  THE DREAM OF A LOAFER                                 133
  CONCLUSION                                            213



DEDICATION.


In this age of prolific intellects, neither author nor editor is
compelled to search for a patron of letters amongst a horde of
illiterate and conceited noblemen, addle-pated princes and lords; nor
is he, in this progressive country, constrained to beg the favor of
some distinguished demagogue’s name to give caste or currency to the
lucubrations of his brain, or the compilations of his industry. This
may be regarded as a very favorable change in the times, yet it is not
without its inconveniences, which the editor has fully experienced.
Not being bold enough to violate a well-established precedent, and
send his volume forth into the world without a dedication, he was for
a while sorely perplexed in his inquiries for a proper person to whom
to inscribe it. Although modern progress could freely dispense with
the patronage of the nobility, it still retains the practice which
perpetuates their former importance in the literary market. Thus the
author who is too cautious to trample upon a time-honored custom, is
frequently no little embarrassed in his laudable efforts to observe it,
not having an array of aristocratic vanity, ever ready to be redeemed
from its insignificance through a lying dedication, from which to make
a choice to please his fancy.

True, the editor might have determined to send his volume adrift under
false colors, by writing some imaginary creature’s name upon the
title-page, and then dedicated it to himself,--for which, no doubt,
he could have found precedents enough. After giving to this idea
the careful deliberation to which it was entitled, he came to the
conclusion that no better expedient could be devised to provide him
with an even disposition; for should he hear his name noised about by
every fool and knave, who are always so vociferous in their praise
or censure as to overrule entirely the worthier opinions of the wise
and honest, his temper would never fall below the seething point.
He therefore wisely avoided, in this wilful manner, to hazard both
his character and his happiness. “But,” he hears you ask, “had he no
rich and flourishing acquaintance, who would gladly have permitted
the inscription, and verily believed it a great honor?” He is not so
fortunate (or unfortunate, if you please,) as to be without at least
a score of the kind; but not one of whom would have failed to degrade
his book, through a cursed propensity “to turn everything into a
speculation.” Then, too, he might have dedicated it to some personal
friend, but upon looking around, he could see none whom he particularly
desired to own as such, except a few poor fellows with whom he
occasionally whiles away an entertaining hour on a gloomy Sunday.
Amongst these, however, he recognised none whose poverty,--than which
few things sooner fall under the ban of the world,--did not seem too
heavy a burthen to be borne by so unpretending a production.

In this dilemma, his benevolence, perhaps a little influenced by the
thought that the man who reads his book is his best friend, came to his
aid, and he at once concluded that it should be generously and freely

DEDICATED TO THE READER.

He is not impelled to this by a design to propitiate the favor, to
influence the judgment, or to moderate the criticisms of any one,
but simply and solely by the charitable desire of pleasing all. He
thus provokes no one’s envy by showing more favor to another, and
gives to each the opportunity of having a book dedicated to himself.
Lest, however, the editor should furnish but another illustration of
the maxim, that “they who seek to please all, will surely succeed in
pleasing none,” it is here carefully set down--that should any not wish
the distinction sought to be conferred upon him in this dedication, he
may rest well assured that it was not in the least designed for him.
With this happy disposition to accommodate all, he has only to ask of
the reader, that his book be not consigned, before ascertaining what
it is made of, to some murky closet, to keep company with the dusty
and decaying volumes already imprisoned there; and for the faithful
observance of this request, he subscribes himself,

  Most respectfully and sincerely,
  His Reader’s wellwisher and friend,
  THE EDITOR.



PREFACE.


If it has been established as a precedent that every book should have
a dedication, it has been more imperatively enjoined that none should
make its appearance without a preface. These are matters of punctilio
which it might appear ill-breeding to neglect, and constitute the soft
and easy civilities through which books find favor in the eyes of their
readers. As no one is disposed kindly to welcome the rude boor who
intrudes into his presence, and without a polite nod or pleasant smile
at once encounters him with rough speech, so none is inclined to enter
upon the perusal of a volume without first knowing somewhat concerning
it.

Now, it is only necessary for the editor, in the discharge of his
trifling duty, to inform the reader that sometime ago the records of an
old association came into his possession. The precise date when this
junto was formed could not be definitely discovered, yet it has been
certainly ascertained that it was gifted with a very peculiar kind of
life--surpassing, in the tenacity with which it adhered to existence,
the nine lives ascribed to the cat. Though it had been defunct, to
all appearances, more than a dozen times, it was as often revived to
flourish again for a brief period. Not many years have elapsed since
it received its last blow; but whether this has given it the final
quietus, being neither a diviner nor prophet, the editor cannot decide:
yet he is inclined to the opinion, that if those of the present
generation will do nothing to restore it to life again, their rising
posterity will not suffer it to sleep in peace.

It was the design of this organization to unite the useful with the
amusing, and each member was required to furnish his quota of the one
or the other. The consequence was that a large number of papers were
collected together, some of which are now “for the first time given to
the world.” Whether the world will do them the honor to value them,
remains to be seen; yet the editor flatters himself, that in the deluge
of literature which this age is incessantly pouring forth upon the
poor reader, they will float along with the endless array of small
craft, and perhaps his book may prove as successful as some others in
contributing its just portion to produce the wreck and ruin of some
better and worthier production.

The Magi of Persia were at one time the depositories of learning.
With us the people are the Magi, and although their unaccountable
tastes and Quixotic fancies have heretofore elevated into note the
effusions of many a fool who experimented upon their discrimination,
and permitted the productions of some very wise men to sink into utter
and irredeemable oblivion, the editor still trusts--if not to their
judgment, then (which may be safer for him,) to their good-natured
indulgence. He is fully aware that his book contains nothing above
their comprehensions, and is not in the least apprehensive that they
will condemn the RECORDS, as an old council did the _Petit Office_,
because “_signo_” was spelt with a C instead of an S: much less does he
fear that his freedom will be endangered for the reason which prompted
the same council to arrest the Prince de la Mirandola, because “so much
learning in so young a person could only be acquired by a compact with
the devil.”

  MAURICE EUGENE.

 PHILADELPHIA, _March 26, 1855_.



A MANUSCRIPT,

PREFIXED TO THE FOLLOWING TALE, AND SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY
THE SECRETARY OF THE JUNTO.


The author of the following paper vouches for the correctness of the
whole story, having himself received it from the person who enacted the
part of the spirit therein. When it was read at our meeting, a large
number of listeners, who had been enjoying themselves in promiscuous
conversation, were seated around the table in a cheerful circle.
Although some were at first inclined, perhaps more from a habit to
find fault than from a displeasure at the tale itself, to cavil at and
doubt it rather than to be amused, there was an honest and bewitching
humor in the face of the speaker which alone seemed to entitle his
story to full belief: so that by the time he had finished it, but one
or two continued serious, whilst all the rest at once agreed that it
was creditable in every particular. Whether they were not influenced to
this conclusion more through their mirth than their careful judgment, I
could not well ascertain; yet I am disposed to think, they merely meant
to “take the story for what it was worth.”

An old gentleman now advanced, who had not only been careful all his
life long to avoid the frivolities of the world, but who had also
experienced some of its rough realities, if true inferences were
deducible from his care-worn appearance and thread-bare garments.
Not satisfied with what had been read, the old man gazed inquiringly
into the speaker’s face, and then so overwhelmed the poor fellow with
troublesome questions, that he resolved from that moment never to
read or narrate another story, without previously demanding a solemn
pledge from his auditory that they will remain content with what he
may choose to give them, and under no circumstances trouble him for
further explanations. Whilst thus pelted with the old man’s queries to
his great relief a smiling little gentleman stepped up, and turning to
the questioner, told him that every story would be spoiled by too much
minuteness in its narration; that wherever he found a blank he should
fill it up with his own fancy, otherwise he would experience nothing
but annoyance; and that the moral of the tale he had heard, simply
warned him against too strong a love for worldly things,--a warning for
which I could see no necessity in his case,--so that if he should ever
be tempted by spirits or ghosts, he might avoid the alarming fatalities
which so seriously afflicted poor Hans Dundermann.

  S----Y.



HANS DUNDERMANN: THE DUTCH MISER.


One of the most foolish and deplorable passions that could possibly
influence the conduct of men, is that wretched penuriousness so
frequently encountered in our intercourse with some of our fellows.
We often find it the object of hatred and contempt, of disgust and
ridicule, and even of a bitter malice which, if not just, seldom
secures censure or elicits rebuke. We rarely see it exhibited to a
very marked degree in men of substantial intelligence or liberal
experience in the socialities of life, and its generous interchanges
of friendship. When discovered in such, it is usually the part of
discretion to avoid, if possible, a close intimacy with them. The wider
range of their knowledge, and their greater sagacity, though rendering
them less contemptible, only make them the more dangerous. It not
unfrequently, however, constitutes the ruling principle of those not
possessed of a superior order of intellect, and whose ideas of life
are measured by the narrow aims for which they contend and struggle.
This may, perhaps, be greatly owing to the fact that wealth consists of
material things, which they can readily see and appreciate; whilst the
riches that pertain to mind and heart, not being directly visible to
them, are beyond their comprehension.

I have a German acquaintance who resides in a small village at which I
occasionally sojourn, and who is known by the euphonious nomenclature
of Dutch Hans Dundermann. Whether this be the name he lawfully
inherited from his paternal ancestors, or whether certain peculiarities
of which he is remarkably possessed, and which are by no means well
calculated to render him an agreeable companion, or make him a
desirable neighbor, can claim the credit of having obtained for him so
musical an appellation, the villagers have not yet been able positively
to determine. However he may have acquired this title of recognition,
which can be matter of small consequence to the present generation of
the villagers, and much less to their rising posterity, he is one of
those inveterate misers who have no scruples to check their desire
for acquisition, and whose parsimonious propensities invariably incur
general ridicule and displeasure. Whatever of good may be in their
compositions is totally overshadowed by the sordid motives which
usually govern them, and thus they always prove successful in arousing
the disgust of all with whom they may come in contact. This miserly
element in Hans Dundermann’s character is so exceedingly prominent that
it is supposed to counterbalance and control his entire nature. It is
constantly urging him to the commission of acts which his neighbors
readily construe into heinous offences, and it has accordingly earned
for him no very enviable reputation. To describe to any one acquainted
with him the height of petty and disgusting meanness, it is only
necessary to use his name in the adjective form; and the attempts to do
so are not unfrequently even more ridiculous than the subjects which
occasion them. Hans, however, though he may exert himself to increase
his store, if not absolutely lazy, is not free from the slowness of
his native race; to which he adds a stupidity so excessively Dutch,
that scarcely anything beyond the glitter of a coin can make the least
impression upon his mind.

After thus briefly introducing my acquaintance in as favorable a manner
as circumstances permit, I will narrate a little incident in the
adventurous portion of his life, which occurred whilst he was yet in
the vigor of manhood physically, and intellectually no better off than
he is now. Time, which never progresses without making some changes,
has utterly failed to renovate or improve him. Whilst advancing years
have worn upon his bodily powers, apparently the only thing impressible
about him, experience has had no effect, either for the better or
worse, upon his mind, into which no idea, unless connected with his
ruling desire, seems capable of penetrating. A life so selfish, and
absorbed in the contemplation of one thing, and that by no means as
well intended to expand his intellect as to contract his heart, can
afford but little of adventure; yet the trifles which we sometimes
encounter in such a life, are so peculiar in their nature, or so marked
in their effects, that we welcome and enjoy them the more. They often
provoke our merriment or elicit our surprise, excite our admiration or
awaken our sympathies. The cold torpor which becomes natural to the
inactive man through the eternal sameness of his daily career, renders
him a fitting and interesting object for our gaze when he is drawn
into positions demanding the exercise of his energies. Whatever may be
the effect of the occurrences here related--whether their recital may
interest or prove tedious--they certainly constitute the most prominent
events in the life of my acquaintance, the Dutch miser of the village.

A party of young men who had for years been in the habit of
congregating twice each week at the southern corner of the village
school-house, to review the gossip of the neighborhood and amuse
themselves with boyish sports on the pleasant play-grounds of the
scholars; or, by way of variety, occasionally to contrive some idle
mischief to disturb the equanimity of the usually quiet and industrious
villagers; at one of these frequent meetings determined to exhibit,
in some extraordinary manner, Hans Dundermann’s passion for money.
Various expedients were accordingly suggested, and duly discussed
and considered, until they finally resolved upon one supposed to be
capable of accomplishing the end in view. After levying a contribution
amongst themselves of all the antiquated coin they could obtain,--for
they wisely concluded that he could not be aroused from his accustomed
stupidity but through the instrumentality of such a token,--the sum was
secretly conveyed to him. This was accompanied by a very mysterious
letter, which purported to be the favor of some supernatural power.
It spoke of the coin as coming from an almost inexhaustible fund, and
generously concluded by fully recognising him as a judicious person to
be entrusted with the care and keeping of so valuable a treasure. As
was anticipated, this had a marvelous effect upon him. He straightways
connected it with a standing tale of the village, which he had heard
upon different occasions, and which had more than once greatly excited
his curiosity. It was a well-circulated tradition, (and what town
has not a similar one?) that many years before the village numbered
a score of substantial buildings, vast treasures were undoubtedly
hidden in its immediate vicinity. He had frequently heard how a wealthy
Englishman, at a time the date whereof was never definitely fixed,
had lived near the village in all imaginable splendor, and how he had
died without leaving even so much as a shilling to be found upon his
entire premises. This splendid gentleman (so runs the tradition,) had
been the descendant of a prominent English nobleman attached to the
house of Lancaster, who, when the Red Rose drooped under the terror
inspired by the triumph of the house of York, had gathered together his
estates, which of course were very large, and retired from the kingdom.
The union of the two Roses, which followed the extinction of the
Plantagenets, and the partiality exhibited by Henry VII. towards the
Lancastrians, never tempted him to return. The last of his descendants,
inheriting all his wealth, yet depressed by the death of friends and
connexions, eventually emigrated to America, and took up his abode near
the village. Here he revelled in all the luxuries that riches could
supply, and when nothing was discovered after his decease, the great
surprise of the villagers soon conjured up numerous tales of hidden
wealth, which have ever since been carefully transmitted to each
succeeding generation. It was with one of these that Hans associated
the mysterious epistle.

After they had thus interested the miser’s feelings, one of the company
visited him on the evening of the following day. When brought into
the presence of Hans, he commenced a train of very vague remarks,
as though he had something important to reveal, yet seemed doubtful
whether it were better to make it known than to treasure the secret.
Confining himself to the subjects which he knew were ever uppermost
in Hans’ thoughts, he soon succeeded in drawing the miser into a very
animated conversation, which, however, was rendered somewhat uneasy by
his mysterious demeanor. From some cause or other, perhaps because he
was thinking of the matter at the time, for he had thought of little
else during the entire day, Hans immediately surmised that his visitor
sustained some connexion with the singular letter he had received.
This impression was not only strengthened more and more by every word
that fell from the stranger, but his very dress, which gave him the
appearance of a fashionable gentleman of the preceding century, seemed
to confirm it. When, however, his visitor introduced the general
carelessness of the world, a point upon which Hans had always been well
decided, and to which alone, he had often said, was to be attributed
all the poverty in it, he became certain that his surmise was correct,
and watched carefully for something which might reveal the rich mine
referred to in that mysterious and treasured billet. When he had been
worked into a state of uncontrollable anxiety and excitement, the
stranger, still preserving his mysterious air, suddenly rose from his
seat, and rolling his eyes upwards in an agonized manner, preceded by
several terrible yawns, he rapidly repeated a few very singular words,
not found in Hans’ vocabulary, if in any other. This had the desired
effect, for it so surprised and stupefied the poor Dutchman that the
stranger, in the increasing darkness, readily made his exit unobserved.
After the miser had somewhat recovered from the shock occasioned to
his nerves and ascertained that his visitor had vanished, it was clear
to him that the stranger could not have disappeared as he had entered,
but must either have sunk through the floor or ascended through the
ceiling. Recollecting the supplicating manner in which he had turned up
his eyes, Hans quickly inferred that the latter was the course he had
taken, and under the exciting circumstances of the occasion, it was not
long before the inference became a conviction which has ever since been
most sacredly believed and maintained.

Now, Hans Dundermann, it should be known, had frequently held
interesting conversations with Heinrich Speitzer and Yorick Bozum,
two of his most intimate friends in “vaterland,” and was perfectly
satisfied that ghosts and spirits had as real an existence as gold
and silver, though their presence was far less acceptable. He used to
listen to the stories of these tried companions, and tremble from head
to foot when he was told how the wicked Frederick Metzel, on a dark and
dismal winter’s night, had been claimed in pursuance of a contract,
attested by his own hand and seal, and carried off by the devil, amid
great lightning and thunder, to no one knew whither; for the place of
his abode was beyond the power of human discovery. It is true some of
his warmest friends, who had always been his companions, and enjoyed
his favors during his prosperity, and who had never neglected to
sound his praises upon every fitting occasion, now shook their heads
significantly and solemnly whenever his name was mentioned. This may
have been intended as nothing but an exhibition of their deep regret
for what they had lost, yet the uncharitable soon interpreted it
unfavorably for the future of poor Frederick, whilst the more humane
and hopeful remained silent, simply because they knew not what to say.
Hans still remembered how the spirit of old Herr Von Reicher, sorely
troubled because he had refused to reveal an important secret before
his departure from the lower world, returned to the home six months
previously left to mourn his death, and made known to the daughter
of his grand-child,--who had always been his favorite,--the cause
that prevented his rest. This was done by directing her to a dark and
almost impenetrable recess of his castle, where great treasures were
concealed, which he had hoarded up and frequently visited during his
life. Now, however, that he had no further occasion for such visits,
his sense of justice, which had never in the least troubled him
whilst living, would not permit him to deprive his friends, who had
so carefully attended to his dying wants, of so valuable a secret,
nor his creditors of the only means through which their demands
could be satisfied. Nor had Hans Dundermann forgotten how the son of
Karl Keiser, a pleasant companion with whom he had spent many hours
rehearsing wonderful tales, the accuracy of which he never doubted,
had been accosted in the rough woods, on a dark October night, by a
copper-colored man, out of the crown of whose head issued a constant
flame of fire, and led several leagues from home. What had been the
object of this singular and startling apparition--whether it had been
an evil spirit and intended the young man as one of its victims, or
whether it had merely meant to disclose some great and troublesome
mystery--had to remain undetermined, for day intervened and summoned
the vision to its abiding place. Many surmises were occasioned by
this strange affair, vouched for by the person himself whom it most
concerned; but the majority agreed in the opinion that no harm had been
intended to the young man, otherwise the spectre would not have waited
until daylight to be deprived of its prey: others expressed their
conviction that it simply designed to relieve itself of some serious
trouble, whilst there was still a third class who pronounced the matter
all a foolish tale, which owed its origin to too much Rhienish wine and
the cold winds of October.

Whilst Hans was reflecting upon these marvelous stories of his youthful
wonder, and thus endeavoring to assist his mind in determining the
character of his late visitor, he gave evident signs of being engaged
in a new employment. Although he had heard many strange things in his
time, and often threw up his hands towards the skies, opened his mouth
as wide as nature permitted, and exclaimed “mein Gott!” in surprise, he
certainly had never before been called upon to decide whether any of
his visions had been a ghost or a spirit, a witch or the devil himself.
In this troublesome dilemma he resolved to consult his old housekeeper,
whom he had brought with him from Germany, and whose greater age and
experience, he hoped, might be capable of relieving him from his
perplexity. This indispensable article of his household seemed to have
descended to him with his father’s estate, and presented an appearance
even more than ridiculously Dutch; but Hans had been taught to regard
her as a pattern of good taste, and as she had always manifested the
strongest devotion to his interests, he never doubted her superior
excellence. To give a faint description of her would be no trifling
labor, for she had apparently been worked together by nature without
reference to form or proportion; and whenever seen, was invariably
covered with a superfluous amount of greasy calico, which seemed to
have no other support but a twisted chord that encircled her extensive
waist. Her head was remarkable for nothing but a large quantity of
light flaxen hair, to which the sun had failed to give a ruddier tinge,
although, as since her twentieth year she had scarcely ever worn a
covering, it had shone upon her pate fairly and with full effect for
more than thirty summers. Increasing age, though it had robbed her of
her teeth, put wrinkles in her face, and somewhat loosened her joints,
seemed to be equally powerless to make the least visible impression
upon it. The singular conduct of the stranger, who had been observed
but casually by the old woman as he had entered, was fully considered
and commented upon by her and Hans. Though she sympathized with him
as much as her nature permitted, and gave ample evidence of her desire
to render him all possible assistance, she could offer no suggestions
which tended in the least to solve the mystery. Her many exclamations,
however, if useless in the explication of a mysterious and difficult
problem, brought some relief; and thus consoled, he reluctantly
concluded to await the full development of what he believed had just
fairly commenced with the letter he had received and the visit of the
stranger.

“Whatever this may forebode,” said Hans, “it is so very strange that we
must wait until the end shall come; yet I hope that my end may not be
like that of Frederick Metzel. Let me be spared the terrors that fell
to the lot of Karl Keiser’s son, and if the worst should come, let it
be no worse than that which happened to the great-grand-daughter of
Herr Von Reicher.”

These remarkable occurrences, constituting some of the most startling
he had stored up in his memory, had been so repeatedly told to his
housekeeper, with great embellishments, that she had become perfectly
familiar with them. Although Hans did not much like to have dealings
with spirits; yet, had he been certain that the mysterious stranger
would never afterwards have troubled him, he would gladly have
entertained him once more, if assured of a revelation similar to that
made to the youthful daughter of Herr Von Reicher’s grand-child.

“Yes, yes,” responded the old woman, whose frame trembled violently at
the supposition that calamities so terrible could possibly befall them,
“heaven avert such fatalities! Surely, Hans, nothing of this kind can
happen to us, for you have never had any intercourse with the evil one,
nor have you ever been closely allied to any of those poor creatures
whose spirits are not even permitted to rest quietly in their graves.”

As he had thus, for several days been moved by strange thoughts, it
was observed by those whom he happened to meet that a very singular
change had suddenly come over him. His actions seemed to be dictated
by a variety of conflicting impulses, and the little mind he had once
possessed was absent more than half the time. He would make long pauses
in his conversation, abruptly change from one topic to another, and
occasionally, to the great amazement of those with whom he conversed,
he would walk off before he had half completed a sentence. Then, too,
he was frequently seen to stop in his solitary walks and engage in
earnest conversation with himself, a smile sometimes animating his
countenance, whilst at others he appeared very sullen and dejected.
On several of these occasions he was overheard to speak audibly of
spirits and treasures, which so greatly surprised all who heard
him that some even suggested an investigation into his soundness of
mind. To those acquainted with the design to play upon his stupid and
credulous nature, it was daily becoming more apparent that he believed
vast quantities of gold were somewhere concealed in the vicinity, and
that he was troubled to know where, and how he could secure them. At
length his changed demeanor became the subject of remark throughout
the entire neighborhood. Some of the villagers, in their efforts to
account for it, expressed the belief that his heart was beginning
to soften and that he was relenting of his former penuriousness--a
reformation which, in his case, it was generally conceded would have
been sufficient to account for his singular conduct. Others, however,
more strenuously maintained, that so far from his heart undergoing
so favorable a change, it was simply passing through the last stages
of ossification. That the former were mistaken in their charitable
surmises, was soon ascertained by an experiment eminently calculated to
arouse his generosity; but there are those still amongst the latter,
who contend that they were correct in their opinion, and are determined
to obtain positive evidence of the fact, upon the miser’s decease,
through the aid of an anatomist, who has already been duly engaged for
that purpose.

When it was supposed that Hans was exclusively abstracted in the train
of reflections suggested to his mind by the circumstances related,
it was deemed expedient for the stranger to venture another visit,
which he accordingly did. It so happened that he obtained admission
unobserved into the same room in which he had before met Hans, and
giving seven distinct raps on the old oaken floor, he was soon brought
into the presence of the miser. After the latter’s surprise had
partially subsided, and his face assumed something like its original
hue, the stranger commenced addressing him in a manner equally hasty
and incoherent, but Hans was all attention as if determined to absorb
the import of every word as it was uttered. He by no means comprehended
all that was said, yet he distinctly understood the request of his
visitor to meet him that night, at the hour of twelve, at the edge of
the wood bordering on the western extremity of the village, where the
important secret was to be revealed. The stranger had scarcely finished
this request, when he was seized with a violent cough, resulting from
a stream of munched tobacco which had unforbidden entered down his
gullet, as if offended at being imprisoned within his mouth whilst
personating a character whose dignity would not permit him to eject
it. Giving vent to an almost inaudible curse, which was unfortunately
mistaken for a call for water, Hans immediately seized a pitcher, and
hurried out of the room, informing the old housekeeper, as he was in
the act of passing her in the kitchen, of the presence of the spirit.
Upon her reminding him that spirits were never in want of such earthly
necessaries, surprised at his own absence of thought, he dropped the
pitcher and quickly returned; but the stranger, no doubt glad of so
favorable an opportunity, had disappeared.

Hans Dundermann, at the earnest entreaty of his old housekeeper, whom
I shall here name Malchen, not because she was so christened, but
simply out of solicitude for the jaw-bones of those who might attempt
to pronounce her ponderous title were it fully given, retired to his
bed at an early hour that evening. It has already been stated that
he desired no intimacy with spirits, and especially with such as
disappeared so unexpectedly; but his endeavors to banish from his mind
the request of the stranger were unavailing, and the tempting promise
which accompanied it would not permit him to close his eyes in sleep.
Impelled by an irresistible anxiety to secure the imagined treasure, he
arose from his bed, and walked up and down the room in great agitation
until within a few minutes of midnight. His love of gold, however, at
last succeeded in conquering his fears, so, seizing a German bible,
which had evidently grown antiquated by neglect amid dust and cobwebs,
and cautiously placing it in his capacious pocket, for he had often
heard that whilst he had so good a book about his person no evil spirit
could harm him, he repaired to the appointed spot. Here he had for
some time been intently peering into the dark wood, when suddenly he
heard a strange noise behind him, and upon turning he obtained a full
view of the stranger, who had taken the precaution to provide against
the prevailing darkness by a lantern, the red rays of which only gave
to everything around a more gloomy appearance. Hans involuntarily
startled and most heartily wished himself in his bed again, but it
was now too late. Gazing supplicatingly into the pale face of the
spirit, for he was fully persuaded that he stood in the presence of
a veritable spirit, he commenced imploringly inquiring about his
personal safety and the prospect of securing the treasure. His appeal,
however, failed to draw a word of consolation or encouragement from
his supernatural companion who simply indicated by a sign that silence
had to be observed, and pointing into the uninviting wood signified to
him to move on. Tremblingly the miser proceeded, frequently staring
wildly around. Whether it was all imagination, or a fancy which had
some substance for its basis, he certainly thought, upon passing
several large trees, he saw odd figures behind them. However this
may have been, a death-like silence was maintained, nor did Hans seem
inclined to break it after his first rebuff. At length they arrived
at a small old building, which, though it was not many miles from his
residence, he had never before seen. All now surrounding him was dark
and strange, and he gazed upon the structure with mingled emotions the
like of which he had never before experienced. Whilst endeavoring to
collect his wandering wits during this momentary halt at the antiquated
building, an unearthly howl was suddenly set up around it, which so
frightened him that he at once attempted to test what virtue there
was in his heels. Alas! poor Hans! His knees knocked together and his
frame shook so violently, he could not move. He was as much a prisoner
to his terror as the chained criminal in his cell. It was now that
the solicitous advice of his faithful Malchen came rushing upon his
memory, and he deplored the folly which had caused him to disobey it.
His regrets however, it is believed, were more owing to the wealth he
had left behind him than to his having disregarded her good advice, for
he began to apprehend that he should never see it more. During this
interval of his great consternation, the spirit had remained perfectly
calm and composed; and after the noise had entirely subsided it again
exhorted him to silence, and softly whispered into his ears that
the place was surrounded and protected by numerous imps of the devil
who had been commissioned to guard the treasure. Though many before
Hans’ time may have been in equally close contact with some of Satan’s
extensive brood and felt no fear, and although he had spent nearly all
his days in executing to their master an indisputable title to himself,
he found no consolation in what the spirit had told him. If he was
inclined to render service to Lucifer he preferred doing so at a more
convenient distance from him.

Without any visible intervention of the spirit, at least such is
the testimony of Hans Dundermann, an opening into the cellar of the
building now appeared. Here he was bidden to enter, which he did more
through fear than inclination, attended by his mysterious guide. The
red glare reflected by the lantern, gave the place a very solemn and
haunted appearance, and made the old walls resemble more the neglected
ruins of some venerable edifice, than what they purported to be. They
had evidently been built when masonic skill was in its infancy and when
huge, substantial clumsiness was the fashion. He surveyed the cavern,
for such it appeared to him, with wild respect, confident that this had
once been the retreat of the Englishman whose memory had so long been
perpetuated in the traditions of the village. What was next to befall
him, now that he was entirely at the mercy and in the power of the
spirit, he could not divine. He was carefully watching its movements
as it walked around the cellar, cautiously treading the damp ground,
until it came to a stand, and beckoned him to approach. Here, then, he
ascertained, was hidden the treasure which had so much engrossed his
attention, and caused him so many perplexing thoughts. His fears now
yielded to the first flushes occasioned by the almost certain assurance
of securing the hoarded gold. Thus animated by the promising prospect
before him; his recent regrets were entirely forgotten, and he felt
pleased and proud that he had left his bed for so bold and profitable
an adventure. His anxious anticipations, however, were not to be so
easily gratified as he had at first imagined. The wealth he coveted was
still a considerable distance under ground, but this, to him, appeared
but a trifling obstacle. He had often handled the pick and spade for
a paltry price per diem; and now, that a great reward was to be the
issue, he could use them to advantage. The requisite utensils were
soon supplied by the spirit, and Hans squandered no time in commencing
vigorous operations. Though a veritable Dutchman, he entirely lost
the Dutchman’s slowness upon this memorable occasion. He relied more
upon energetic effort for success than upon tedious perseverance
and plodding patience, and the soft earth was made to fly in every
direction. The excitement of the employment soon brought back his usual
complexion, and gave his plump face a greasy and shining appearance;
when off went hat and coat, and every other article of apparel which
generally encumbers a Dutchman whilst at labor. He was now too intently
engaged to pay any attention to the spirit, which made its exit from
the cellar unnoticed and unheeded.

For some time all continued quiet, not a sound being heard beyond
the noise occasioned by himself. He was making rapid progress and
congratulating himself upon soon reaching the expected bounty, when
his pleasant reflections were suddenly disturbed by another terrible
and unearthly howl, much resembling that which had before so greatly
excited his fears. In its hollow re-echoes through the cellar it was
rendered even more terrific. The spade dropped from his hand, and
turning round in his bewilderment, he now first discovered that the
spirit had abandoned him. Although he had previously most heartily
desired it to leave him and permit him to find his way home again, he
now regarded its disappearance as ominous of ill. Alone, with nothing
but a credulous and excited imagination for his guide, he was made the
victim of a thousand unpleasant impulses, and realized all the dread
horrors of unrestrained fear. His face became deathly pale and big
drops of cold perspiration stood upon it, whilst his hair rose on end
and his eyes dilated and literally sparkled. For a time, as he stood
the impersonation of terror, he was unable to comprehend his position,
but with returning reason he applied himself to diligent search for
the opening through which he had entered. Every nook and corner was
quickly examined, but no means of escape were discoverable. Although
that awful howl subsided almost simultaneously with his dropping of
the spade, he could not approach the spot where he had been digging
for the treasure without hearing it again. Had not the spirit told
him that the place was guarded by the imps of the devil, and how
could he be expected to withstand them? Had not Frederick Metzel been
carried off, notwithstanding his resistance, and never heard of more?
Oh, Malchen, this for neglecting your anxious and wholesome advice!
All these reflections, and ten thousand others no more comforting
in their nature, passed rapidly through his mind. The thoughts of a
life-time were now crowded into a few of his minutes, and a volume
could not give a faithful transcript of the many marvelous stories
that spontaneously rushed through his brain. When the devil seemed
determined to prevent Luther from prosecuting his work, the Reformer
seized an ink-stand and hurled it at his head. Though the missile
had little effect upon the object at which it was aimed, being simply
dashed to pieces against the wall, upon which the black marks are said
still to remain, the tormentor nevertheless vanished. Hans could not
deal thus summarily with the great adversary, who happened to have no
small claim upon his miserly soul, ready for settlement at any moment.
Debtors, and especially those indebted to Satan, are obliged to be more
courteous. He was therefore compelled to yield to an influence which
his more devotional countryman had only overcome with great difficulty.
All ideas of obtaining the treasure were accordingly abandoned, and
imprisoned as he was, his first great care was to effect his release.
How this was to be accomplished he knew not, as he more slowly and
carefully re-examined the old walls, with lantern in hand, escaping
only the place where he had so faithfully dug for the hidden wealth.
That he could not think of approaching, for he now distinctly and
unmistakeably saw a half grown imp seated upon the fresh earth he had
thrown up, who was eyeing him in no very complacent manner. Hans has
since described him as the very image of a picture in one of his German
books, which he had often contemplated with feelings of melancholy
dread, and which had equally often puzzled his brain by the thoughts
invariably suggested to his mind whenever he beheld it. He never could
divine the real policy of tolerating the existence of such hideous
monsters; and, perhaps more influenced by personal considerations than
feelings of charity for mankind in general, he had frequently most
heartily wished their utter extermination and the total annihilation
of their constantly increasing kingdom. The puny devil before Hans’
eyes was undoubtedly a legitimate offshoot of the parent stock. He
had a large two-pronged fork in his right hand, and in his left he
held one end of a strong chain, whilst the other was fastened to his
body, so that its great bulk had to trail upon the ground. His long
tail, pointed like an arrow, and erected several feet above his head,
appeared even more formidable than the fork. His posture much resembled
that of an old man, seated upon a low stool, his stiff legs drawn up
towards his body. He was almost entirely covered with rough, brown
hair, and the bristles upon his head pointed in every direction. There
was a fiery glitter in his eyes, and the expression of his countenance,
according to Hans’ description, could be handsomely counterfeited by
compounding together the faces of a grinning monkey and a fat Dutchman.

At last, fortunately, Hans Dundermann thought he discovered a prospect
of delivery from his torments. Not possessing the magic power of the
spiritual guide that had led him into this horrible prison, the walls
could not be expected to part at his simple bidding, and he therefore
wisely determined to test the virtue of more natural means. Seizing the
spade, he made a number of vigorous thrusts against the substantial
masonry, which, though it resisted his efforts for a considerable time,
was eventually compelled to yield him a passage, through which he could
escape. Thanks! he was now once more in the open air and breathed
again! The devils set up another howl, as if in exultation, and several
seemed to be slyly approaching him; but Hans, relying upon his nether
limbs, which appeared to have derived strength for the occasion,
hurried off with remarkable rapidity. Not content, however, with having
prevented him from obtaining the treasure, the whole pack of imps now
followed close upon his heels, crying his name at the top of their
voices, but this only increased his speed the more. No obstacle seemed
a hindrance to him. Dark as it was, he scaled the rocks, and stones,
and stumps, in his leaps, as on he flew, leaving those in pursuit far
behind. There was no manifestation of the tardy Dutchman in that chase,
as he pursued his course for miles, not knowing whither it led and
feeling little inclination to pause and consider. When, at last, he
came to a stand, lo! the veritable spirit which had enticed him into
the wood stood at his side and was calmly gazing upon him. Hans shut
his eyes, but it was still there. Drawing in his breath, he bolted in
another direction with a speed that outdistanced even this supernatural
vision, but led him far from his home. Hatless and coatless, he
eventually seated himself upon the earth, determined to await the
approach of day. Though he knew not in what locality he was, nor how,
lost in the wood, he should find the village again, he was yet consoled
by the reflection that he was free from the clutches of satan and his
imps. The terrors of Karl Keiser’s son had been nothing in comparison
to those he had endured.

When morning dawned,--and never had Hans Dundermann more welcomed the
approach of day,--he betook himself to the difficult task of searching
for his home. His venerable housekeeper had been thrown into great
consternation upon discovering his absence. Not knowing whither he had
gone, or what had become of him, her fears at once made her conclude
that he had shared the sad fate of Frederick Metzel, and been carried
off by the spirit during the night, as a terrible punishment for having
neglected to meet it as he had been requested. She now reproached
herself for having obtruded her advice upon him, but to make amends,
she told the matter to her neighbors, and search was immediately
commenced for the lost. He was not discovered until the succeeding
day, and when brought to his residence to the great delight of Malchen,
gave a narration of his adventures which alike astonished the credulous
and amused the doubting.

Those who heard it at once determined to investigate the matter, and,
if possible, obtain the treasure and make a general distribution of
it amongst themselves. Hans now had the entire neighborhood at his
heels, many fully believing his entire tale and looking anxiously for a
portion of the spoils; others following from sheer impulse, not knowing
what to think or say; whilst others still were led on by curiosity
to see the end of what they simply believed to be a foolish vagary
of a distempered brain. He was but a sorry guide, however, and after
vainly searching for the old building to which he had been led by the
spirit, he gave it as his settled conviction that the imps must have
removed it, leaving no trace behind that it had once existed, lest
they might experience too much difficulty in preserving the wealth it
contained. The conclusion was a wise one, and if it taught nothing
more, it at least illustrated the remark of a learned Genoese, that
“miser’s worship no God but money, and will deny even the very faith
they profess rather than fail in schemes to augment their treasures.”
However faithful servants of satan they may be, he knows that they
would betray even him to gratify their desire, and understands them too
well not to place his possessions beyond their wily clutches, in which
he is certainly more judicious than many mortals.

  T. D.



REMARKS


The succeeding essay was read before the Association, and appears, from
the following prefatory remarks, to have been the production of one of
its committees.--EDITOR.

 “Your committee, simply from the want of a new theme, have been
 compelled, even at the hazard of proving tedious, to confine
 themselves to an old one. The many extravagancies daily exhibited by
 those around us might perhaps afford more matter for ridicule than
 admonition, but few are willing that their follies should be made the
 means of amusing others, whilst none will object to a little kind
 advice, though he be determined not to heed it. We therefore concluded
 that the latter mode of treating our subject, if the most stupid,
 would still possess the merit of being the least annoying. Then, too,
 stupidity having become a common quality, in which each is privileged
 to deal, a sacred right not to be denied without closing the mouths of
 more than nine-tenths of the world, our dullness can be no trespass
 and consequently needs no apology.”



AN ESSAY.

THE WISDOM OF PRESERVING MODERATION IN OUR WISHES.


  “Life runs best on little: nature’s store
   Can make all happy that will use their power.”

IN the extended range of our wishes and their diversified character,
the reflective man will recognise one of the greatest sources of
human misery. The many desires which impel us affect alike the mind
and heart, frequently disturbing the healthy repose of the one, and
rendering the other cold and selfish. The illusory nature of life
and its schemes, and the changing influences which ever surround
us, seldom permit us to attain the most moderate aspirations of our
youth. Through the lively impetus constantly given to the imagination
during that period of life, we are prone to devise certain plans and
arrange magnificent schemes to accomplish our desires; yet the weight
of years steals upon us gradually, until we look upon the past but as
a long chain of circumstances, and our present life and condition as
its result. One by one our determinations, however long and fervently
cherished, pass away unrealized; whilst our sanguine wishes, with their
ardor perhaps somewhat abated through the influence of experience and
the cool meditations of riper age, still remain ungratified. He who had
contrived and contemplated schemes to amass wealth, and then retire
to repose amid the comforts and luxuries of the world, may linger out
a life of toil and poverty in some humble hamlet; he who had longed
to ascend the steeps of science and gather in abundance its noble
treasures, may feel the admonishing wrinkles upon his brow even before
he has made one permanent acquisition; and he who had encouraged dreams
of ambition, and courted the uncertain plaudits of fame, may die at
last forgotten and unknown.

Moderation in our wishes is as rarely witnessed as their realization.
It was an argument with the Cynics that absence of all want was the
natural condition of the Gods, and therefore he who stood in need of
but few things most resembled them. The remark ascribed to Taxilles is
admirable and philosophic, “What occasion is there, Alexander, that you
and I must needs quarrel and fight; since you neither came to rob us
of our water nor of our food, which are the only two things that men
in their wits think worth contending for?” The idea of the Cynics is
rarely exemplified in human life, and the moderate desires expressed by
Taxilles equally seldom infuse into men the modest wishes they suggest
to our minds. St. Cyprian, and others before and after him, distributed
their possessions amongst their fellows, reducing themselves to
poverty. If all cannot admire the wisdom of their action, certainly
none can find anything in their motives to condemn. They who have
thus mastered their selfishness and avarice, two vices sufficiently
powerful to destroy many of the nobler virtues, have obtained a command
over themselves more desirable than wealth or distinction. They have
conquered impulses whose end not unfrequently is agony of mind and
destruction to all the sensibilities of the soul; they have subjected
their wishes and tamed their desires to encounter the vicissitudes of
life with philosophic calmness.

The present pleasure may pass away into oblivion, or it may leave
a permanent sting behind; and yet it is for this that extravagant
wishes leap into being and expand to the limit of possibility, or to
the extent of our comprehension. The diviner philosophy which teaches
us the vanity of our desires, and the vexation of spirit attending
even their full gratification, is neglected until forced upon us by
the irresistible teachings of experience. The most excellent lessons
of virtue are treated with indifference to further imposing schemes
for riches, for fame, or for power; yet the one is not attended by
peace of mind, the other brings no quiet comfort to the soul, and the
third fails to realize happiness and contentment. The flatteries of
friends and sycophants which follow you in each, only fill your face
with frowns and your heart with loathing and disgust. The wealth of
Crassus, the Rich, brought him neither contentment nor protection; the
distinction of Pompey could not brook the rising glory of his great
rival, and but provoked his malice and his envy; the power of Cæsar
only increased his ambition, which continued to prey upon his soul
and in his longings for the crown it became his own avenger; and the
flatterers of Canute but made him feel his insignificance and aroused
his contempt.

The wish for distinction and renown, however, may not only be blameless
in itself, but when restrained within proper bounds, highly honorable.
There is a medium between ambition and a total neglect of reputation
as hard distinctly to define as it is difficult to practice. Few have
known how to follow it, and many whose wishes were at first confined to
the rule of a town, afterwards aspired to empire. History even refuses
to agree with Cicero in according to Cæsar the credit of having, at
the beginning of his career, devised and pursued a definite plan to
subvert the Roman Commonwealth and elevate himself to the tyranny.
None would add to the infamy of Marius or Sylla by supposing that
the first aspirations of either were for absolute power. When it is
remembered how difficult it is to be restrained within this medium, it
will not appear strange that so many should have overstepped it, often
to the great injury of themselves and more frequently still to the
great affliction of the people. If our wishes be prompted by motives
to promote the public good, they may justly acquire the title of
patriotism; and when, in addition, they are so wholly under our control
as to enable us to assume the command to-day and renounce it to-morrow
should the interests of the country require it, we are eminently
qualified for every sphere or position in the Republic. Frederick,
the Elector of Saxony, refused the crown under the impression that an
Emperor more powerful than himself was needed to preserve Germany;
and the humble Cincinnatus found more repose and pleasure in the
cultivation of his little fields than in the exercise of power or the
trappings of wealth. Unlike the treacherous decemviri, when the duties
of his high positions had been performed, he meekly resigned them again
to seek the approving smiles of his Attillia and the content of his
humble home. These are examples with which history does not abound, and
whatever credit we may accord to their deeds of worth and valor, we
yet see more to admire in their generous humility and the noble command
they constantly reserved over themselves.

It is a small matter to wish for virtue, yet a more worthy desire never
entered the mind of man. Virtue is the highest of all treasures, and
however rarely it may be seen, is neither beyond the reach of any nor
above his comprehension. The high and low, the prince and the peasant,
are alike possessed with the power of attaining it. All the greater
excellencies of nature are free and within universal reach. It is the
remark of an old philosopher, that “many people, without having their
reason improved by study, live nevertheless in a manner conformable to
the dictates of right reason;” and Montaigne observes that the life of
the peasant is frequently more agreeable to philosophy than that of
the philosopher himself. This wish is none the less ennobling because
its answer is within universal reach. It is even more rarely realized
than desires for wealth or power, and is infinitely preferable to
either when attained. There is nothing in nature more useful, for what
evils does it not avert? It renders us impregnable to the stealthy
encroachments of vice; relieves us of all selfishness, guile, and
hypocrisy; robs us of all malice, deceit, and treachery; frees us
from the gnawings of envy, the miseries of hate, and the slavery of
passion; delivers us from the bondage of avarice, ambition, and the
remorse which so frequently attends them; and fits us not only to think
of but to do “whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest,
whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever
things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report.” It is no less
permanent than it is useful. We scarcely know which most to admire, the
cool indifference of Phalereus, or the tribute which he pays to the
durable nature of virtue, in his reply, when told that the Athenian
people had thrown down and destroyed his statues: “Well, but they
cannot overturn that virtue for the sake of which they were erected.”
It is a noble companion for every sphere of life, teaching us how to
wear, with just humility, the honors we may acquire, and how to submit,
with becoming dignity, to the reverses of fortune, the treachery of
friends, and the persecution of enemies. Under its guidance, the world
is seen in its true character, and our duties towards it discharged
with forbearance and charity. Without it, none can be truly great nor
truly happy. With it, all may obtain a just share of human happiness
and contentment, and each secure for himself the noble tribute which
history has paid to Epaminondas, a higher eulogy than ever yet was
acquired through the realization of the grandest schemes for wealth
or glory: “HE WAS A MAN ADORNED WITH EVERY VIRTUE, AND STAINED BY NO
VICE.”



EXPLANATORY.


  “Good men live twice: it doubleth every hour
  To look with joy on that which passed before.”

The author of the following paper, having himself witnessed and heard
what he has attempted to detail, merely designed to attract attention
to a rich resource of pleasure inherent in every good man. To him who
has carefully kept himself free from dishonor, and whose life has never
been marred by the stains of vice, there is nothing so happily adapted
to beguile the hours of solitude as reflections upon the past. Seneca
calls the “unmoved tranquility of a happy mind, a great reward.” He
who has so lived as to obtain it, whatever his present condition, may
always find in his own thoughts the purest enjoyment, perhaps realizing
in this healthful exercise of the resources within him, that there is
much more of reality than fancy in what Iamblicus has said: “We must
take this as a certain truth, that nothing properly evil shall happen
to a good man, either in this life, or after it.”

  M. S----G.



THE SICK MOTHER.


I have never sat by the sick-bed of a mother without finding gradually
stealing over me a deeply melancholy and impressive feeling. Nature
has so constituted the human mind as to render it susceptible of
an infinite variety of emotions, and made it so expansive in its
grasp as to enable it to contemplate everything within the boundless
universe. However finite it may be, there is nothing of which it
cannot think; and although there are many things which it fails to
understand, they all inspire some feeling or awaken some emotion
within the invisible recesses of our nature. The many truths of which
we know, and the countless beauties mirrored before our eyes by the
imagination dwelling upon uncertainties and doubtful probabilities,
often give rise to a variety of sensations so powerful as to hold
us spell-bound. The deep springs of the heart, frequently hidden to
our comprehension, are ever flowing for our enjoyment. Of this I was
recently reminded, in a very impressive manner, by being ushered
into the presence of a mother, who had, for three successive years,
been confined to a sick-bed. The information of her sore affliction
suggested a train of thought, and prompted a number of reflections,
the recollection of which will forever abide fresh in my memory.
She was yet young, and notwithstanding her many trials, exhibited a
vigor of mind and a freshness of heart seldom discovered in the most
healthy and buoyant. The knowledge of her prostration for years, in
the prime of her life, and when possessed of all the impulsive desires
and sanguine expectations common to those of her age, saddened me to
sickness as I first entered her apartment; but upon discovering her
genuine animation, her beauty of heart and sprightliness of mind, my
feelings alternately changed from sadness to surprise, from surprise
to veneration. How many pleasures, thought I, had I enjoyed during the
past three years! How had I, watching the changing seasons, relished
the many delightful things each of them had brought forth! In the
mellow sunlight of the morning, I had drank in the beauties of the
earth; and in the sweet twilight of the evening, I had reaped the
richest bounties it afforded. I had daily sported with my friends,
many of whom had never felt a wish unanswered, yet still remained
unsatisfied; I had played alike with the young and old with an
intensity of interest that touched every chord of the heart; and
I had felt the ecstacy of a variety of joys, whilst the vigor of
uninterrupted health but spread out before me all that heart could
wish, or soul desire. There were our glorious winter parties, where
kindness, friendship, and love, ministered to our wishes; gleeful rides
over the silvery snow, cozily muffled in furs, and almost buried in
robes, our exuberant hilarity rising high above the jingling music of
the bells; summer meetings beneath the shady branches of the willow,
in the downy meadow; and moonlight strolls with cherished companions
all around us, and loved ones leaning tenderly on our arms. We had
our social enjoyments in all their diversified characters; our many
exhibitions of the noblest intellect fraught with the golden treasures
of study; our seasonable round of vivifying concerts by the highest
talent in the wide world; our splendid and attractive operas, with
all the more and less refined amusements which the age required to
make up the sum total of this never satisfied and insatiable human
life. Whether in door or out, we found all that could be desired to
make existence pleasing, and attach us the more firmly to it; yet here
was one who had none, or few of these things. Chained down within
the narrow compass of her bed, her ill destiny had denied to her the
pleasures of the world without. How could she endure it? Would not
her heart wither for want of food, and her mind perish for lack of
stimulants? Nothing in the least approaching to this was perceptible.
She ever seemed the happy spirit that could rise above the afflictions
of fate, and over which no misfortune could cast a cloud of despair.

In conversation, she spoke of the world with a knowledge and a heart
that would have persuaded you she constantly moved with the busiest
portion of it. She was fully aware of the condition and employments of
her friends, enjoying their sports and amusements as much, apparently,
as though she was participating in them; and often, with her own
delicate hands, she had prepared some trifling and expressive thing,
which told how much she wished their happiness. There was no complaint
in her, nor could you force repining regrets upon her. Her answers to
your queries were always the same in sweetness and resignation, and
such as might almost have led you to think she preferred her condition
to one of health, and its attendant pleasures. It is true, she did
not conceal that, at first, her situation seemed indeed terrible to
herself, yet principally from one cause, which never ceased more or
less to trouble her. She had a young and devoted husband, and she
regretted more for his sake than her own, her incapacity to mingle
in the social spheres of life, and thus afford him enjoyments which
were denied him in her condition. Her selfishness, if she ever had
any, was changed from herself and directed towards him, upon whom she
would have conferred every merit or good quality she possessed, had
she had the power, and many more, if possible, and regarded the task
the most delightful she had ever performed. His very desires and aims
of life had become her’s, and I believe she would have suffered any
personal inconvenience or sacrifice to have gratified him in them all;
his troubles and vexations, by some strange and inexplicable influence
of sympathy, she had invariably succeeded in removing from his mind,
and placing in their stead a new and more exalted vigor: in truth, he
had never felt a regret, a pang, a trial, however trifling, in which
she had not participated, and which, by some mysterious balm distilled
by her own sympathetic heart, she had not contributed to remove or
obliterate. If, however, she shared so much in his sorrows, she partook
none the less of his joys. His happiness was her own; his successes and
his triumphs were her’s; and the just rewards of his ceaseless labors,
deservedly elevating him in public esteem, were even more gratifying
to her than to himself. In his honorable elevation, she beheld her
personal advancement, and in the brightness of his reputation, she felt
additions to her own. When his aspirations had been realized, she had
experienced a gratification superior to his, and when he had attained
a point through assiduous effort, the acquisition afforded mutual
pleasure. Thus entering into his very existence, she deplored her
affliction more from a desire to promote his happiness than from any
wish or anxiety for personal gratification and enjoyment.

The apartment occupied by her was neatly fitted up and arranged with a
view of making her situation as comfortable as possible, and evidences
were not wanting of the generous sympathies of her friends. Whatever
was supposed capable of affording her a moment’s cheerful amusement,
or of lessening the tedium of her constant confinement, was supplied;
and the innumerable attentions bestowed upon her bore ample testimony
of the esteem in which she was held. Her acquaintances seemed really
to be vieing with each other who could do most to attest the good
wishes entertained in her behalf, and the many expedients invented to
gratify her, well exhibited the magnanimous ingenuity and skill of
their authors. How highly did she appreciate this kindness, and how
enthusiastically did she speak of it! To hear her, was to forget her
afflictions, and partake of her grateful and joyous feelings. She had
often exclaimed, in the fullness of her heart, that she could wish
for no more; and indeed, turn where you would, you could see nothing
but tokens of sympathy and love, which the stricken soul alone can
fully know how to cherish. Then, too, she had a little bright-eyed,
prattling boy, the best and happiest in the world, she would say.
With him she would play for hours together, and pet him with tender
caresses, attesting the power of her motherly affections, and evincing
how much she treasured him. In his gleeful gambols, she would watch him
with ineffable fondness, and his infantile freaks elicited emotions
which she would not have bartered for the world. Next to her husband,
her boy was her greatest earthly idol, and a stay which, though tender,
made life, however afflicted, a boon that filled her heart with
gratitude.

Whilst seated in her apartment, in conversation with her, her husband,
with whom I had spent many of my youthful days, and once taken a long
excursion through several provinces, entered, without observing me,
and, walking to the bedside of his wife, he tenderly embraced her, and
then sat silently down before her. I fancied I saw a tear glistening
in his eye, and I never was more moved to pity. How much I had been
mistaken, and how misdirected had been my compassion, I was pleased to
ascertain soon after. As I was upon the point of addressing him, she
cast a look upon him so sweetly soft and gentle, that, once seen, it
could never be forgotten, and smilingly said,

“Come, Charles, be more cheerful and communicative. Let me know what
has been astir within the past few hours since your return. You
certainly do not appear to be displeased, and yet you are not disposed
to be talkative.”

“Nothing has in the least ruffled my temper, I assure you. I am as well
contented with myself and the world now as ever, and would not so belie
the home of my friend as to cause a supposition that my visit to him
had rendered me dull and gloomy.”

“What, then, makes you so silent? I have noticed your quiet moments, at
times, heretofore, without being able to divine their cause, and you
have never been pleased to make it known.”

“That was because I thought your own heart knew it, and felt it: but
as I am in the mood, I shall endeavor to tell you. You are well aware
that there are periods when the heart speaks more in silence than the
tongue could possibly express--when a momentary pause reveals more than
the talk of a day could unfold. I know you have sometimes found your
feelings too powerful for utterance, and in silent thought permitted
them partially to subside before you ventured to speak and break the
spell that enchained you. Nature has so constituted those capable
of genuine love, that, whilst feeling the influence of so sacred an
affection, their ecstacy should not be disturbed even by the pleasures
of conversation. The strength of this passion, at times, overpowers
every other impulse; and though it may then enforce silence, it only
does so to enable us to enjoy the more the rich treasures of our own
hearts. Depend upon it, such moments wear the touches of angels, and
furnish us with the sublimest idea of the enjoyments of heaven that
can be realized in the present life. Their recurrence cannot come too
often, nor can they be retained too long, when present, for they are
our choicest blessings.”

If ever, thought I, a wife had been answered to her heart’s full
satisfaction, this sick and helpless one was in the present instance.
It was now her turn to become silent, and changing her position,
I obtained a full view of her animated countenance, from which I
inferred that the words of her husband had penetrated into her soul
to be secretly treasured there. My position had already become too
embarrassing to allow me to remain silent any longer; so, rising
from my seat, I advanced towards him, and was about offering an
apology, but he overwhelmed me with joyful greetings. Upon his
pressing invitation, I was prevailed upon to remain with him and his
family until the succeeding day, and thus I was favored with ample
opportunities to witness the disposition of the sick mother, and enjoy
her conversations. For this, though I never much liked a sick room, I
afterwards became thankful; for I felt that I had, in rehearsing the
many exploits I had had with her husband, opened new sources for her
enjoyment, whilst I likewise learnt a lesson of the human heart which I
can never fail to hold in remembrance. Upon one occasion, in entering
her apartment, I found her affectionately playing with her boy, and
remarked upon the pleasure she must experience in the possession of so
fine a plaything.

“Indeed, sir,” said she, “I have my amusement with him. Day after day
I thus while away many an hour, which might otherwise be rendered dull
and tedious, so pleasantly that I scarcely note its passage.”

“Without him,” remarked I, desirous of ascertaining how so long a
period of confinement could be endured, “time would, no doubt, hang
heavily upon you, and your sources of comfort and pleasure be much
diminished?”

“Since I have become accustomed to the many gratifications he has
brought me, I can scarcely endure his absence for a single day. Though
he is not my only source of comfort and amusement, to lose him would be
a most terrible affliction.”

“How,” continued I, putting the question direct, “could you tolerate
this long confinement, and yet retain your youthful glee? I should long
since have perished from utter despondency.”

“It was not so easily done,” was her answer, whilst a pleasant smile
lighted up her countenance, “yet I made every effort to maintain my
spirits, and with the kind assistance of all around me, I happily
succeeded.” After speaking of the many kindnesses of her friends, and
the constant devotion of her husband, in so animating a manner that
I could not help fully sharing in her feelings, she continued: “If I
cannot move with the busy world, I constantly hear of it, and often
think of it. To appreciate and feel its pleasures, it is not always
necessary that we should actively participate in them. The heart and
mind are the seats of true enjoyment, and the occurrences and events
of busy life can only be pleasing as they harmonize with the one or
the other, whatever may be your condition. There is no joy, unless you
reach them by the right direction, and no pain, unless you approach
them wrongly. The measure of happiness depends more upon the manner
in which they are made to move, than upon external causes. They are
likewise mighty sources of comfort and amusement within themselves.
I had lived happily for a number of years, partaking of all the
enjoyments my tastes suggested, or opportunity presented; and since
confined in this room, I have again and again lived over my former
life. Every incident has been reviewed, even from my infancy to the
present hour. This retrospective life, if I may so denominate it,
is very singular, and withal, very pleasing. The pure pleasure of a
good action is often little experienced whilst you are performing it,
but felt most keenly after it has been done. At times an occurrence
makes you tremble with affright whilst beholding it, and when your
momentary terror has subsided, its ridiculous nature convulses you with
laughter. I have known men to fret, and scold, and swear, for entire
days at the inconveniences that beset them, and when safely over their
difficulties, sit down and detail them again and again with the most
heartfelt merriment. I remember having once encountered a traveller,
who was so provoked at the miserable condition of the road, and the
cold winter weather, as very audibly to wish the company in a much
warmer locality more than fifty times during the slow journey; yet, a
few days after, I met him comfortably seated before a cheerful fire
with a friend, whilst tears of unrestrained laughter rolled down his
cheeks, as he rehearsed this part of his rough experience. Such are the
effects of a combination of the past and the present upon the mind,
and so is it with this retrospective life. That which caused pleasure
once, or made you joyful and merry, will always renew the like emotions
whenever you think of it; that which truly enlisted the feelings of
the heart at one time, will never fail to do so again whenever you
ponder upon it; that which in any way seriously affected you once, will
continue to do so as often as it may be brought to your remembrance;
and the recollection even of many of those things which you would fain
have averted or avoided, may prove objects of gratification. Think of
this, if you please, and by directing your attention more studiously
and carefully upon the past, experiment for yourself, and you will
find that the soul’s impressions are not perishable. Examine the hours
gone by, and you will discover for your future old age beauties which
your present youth cannot fully comprehend or justly appreciate, and
sources of enjoyment scarcely known to you now. Nature has so ordained,
and most charitably and wisely, that each day passed in active,
vigorous youth, should provide for the quiet amusements of age--that
the pleasures of one period of life should happily be productive of
delights for the other, instead of being felt but for the moment and
then forgotten forever.”

“No doubt, madam,” remarked I, “you are very correct in what you have
said; but to be compelled by necessity, at an age like yours, just
properly adapted for active participation in the affairs and pleasures
of life, to resort to such means of enjoyment, can scarcely be supposed
to place you in so happy a condition as that which you have assigned to
old age.”

“You may, perhaps,” continued she, “be partly right, but you are
much more wrong. Short, comparatively, as has been my life, it has
furnished material enough for an age of thought, and by using it I
have again and again felt the pleasures of the soul. Then, too, this
was not a dream life, the idle vapors of which could be dispelled by
a sudden transition to reality, for there was nothing in it that had
not, at one time, been really seen and felt. It was rather a life of
quiet and happy reflection. It is not a dream nor delusion to wander
back, by the marvellous power of thought, and take your accustomed
place once more at the social board of a loved and peaceful home, and
have again renewed within you the feelings of youth. It so resembles
the substantial truth that we can scarcely discern a difference, and
revives sympathies so pleasing that we involuntarily desire their
constant presence. The spirit ever retains its hold upon the past,
and the delightful hours of childhood, when we drank in the many joys
of our young and unruffled life, come back again to awaken the same
emotions that animated us then. The affections once more leap into
young and untainted existence, and we feel as guilelessly happy and
buoyant as in youth. No occurrence fails to re-enlist our attention,
but each trifling incident contributes its just portion to our
pleasure. How much we doat upon these things, and how fondly we cherish
them! There,” directing my attention to a neat little article, “lies a
trifling relic of one with whom I had spent many of my days in girlish
companionship. She no more walks the earth, for she sank quietly and
peacefully into the grave, just as she was budding into beautiful
womanhood. She had done the work appointed unto her, and Death gathered
her to himself; but, though she is buried, I never gaze upon that
small trinket without calling up again her sweet image from its solemn
resting place to experience once more, perhaps more vigorously than
ever, the many pleasures we had enjoyed together. Here,” lifting up her
hand, “is a token of friendship which I need but gaze upon to revive a
variety of remembrances so pleasing that I would not exchange them for
the most valuable treasure. How well do I remember the day, the very
hour, though sad it may have been, when this tiny ring first encircled
my finger! It was an hour of parting between loving friends, yet not
an hour in which they forgot each other. Though far away, she still
remembers me as ardently as I retain my recollections of her, and the
many happy moments we spent together. Happily, however, it needs not
these material trifles to wrest from oblivion the incidents of our
lives. One after another we can breathe them into existence as often
as we will, through the powers upon which they have made an enduring
impression, and as they re-appear before us, the hallowed shadows of
substances once enjoyed, we become enchanted with their loveliness.
There is a beauty in this review of life, in thus living over again the
years gone by, that affords the richest comfort to the soul.”

“Is it then,” queried I, “by thus asking pleasures of an active and
happy past, that you have maintained your freshness of mind and
brilliancy of spirits? In another, the same things would have caused
melancholy and desponding regrets, by exhibiting in contrast a hopeless
and pleasureless future.”

“My future,” she pleasantly replied, “is not hopeless, but were it even
so, the consequences could not be so sad; neither will it ever be more
void of amusement than the present, which is full of enjoyment. It is
an old Spanish maxim, well suited to the temper of the Spaniard, that
‘he who loseth wealth, loseth much; he who loseth a friend, loseth
more; but he who loseth his spirits, loseth all.’ With so fatal a
loss, the mind sinks deep into despair, and the heart finds nothing to
cheer it. Our natural organization, however, is happily provided with
guards and barriers against it, and to those who are not permitted to
mingle in society, this retrospective life is the best and noblest of
them all. There is no reliable middle course in affliction, and if you
guard against the pressure of unfavorable circumstances, you not merely
avoid the dangers of despondency, but also increase your capacities
for enjoyment. Your heart will mellow and expand by sickness, and
whatever coldness or indifference characterized it, will yield before
the power of sympathy. The ill in your nature will be imperceptibly
destroyed, and the good remain standing alone. Where before you were
quick to censure, you will manifest generous forbearance, and even
positive injuries will be forgotten and forgiven. How well is this
state and condition adapted for a review of the past! Whilst it causes
you to extend friendship to those whom you hated, it attaches you so
closely to those whom you loved that your very being seems to become
blended with theirs. In your adoration of them, their lives are made
part of your own, and though they may not always claim an interest so
intense, they afford equal enjoyment. You ponder upon their adventures,
contrasting them with your own, and each separate incident affords new
matter for the employment of your thoughts. If, then, I have my own
life spread out before me, and the lives of those who are nearest and
dearest to me, have I not sources of enjoyment sufficient to do much
more than maintain my present spirits and buoyancy.”

Thus she continued ever finding something to interest her mind,
and bring pleasure to her lively affections; whilst I felt pleased
with this happy manifestation of her well-trained disposition, and
found in it much to instruct. Here was one whom I had regarded as a
fit object for compassion, enjoying herself more than the vast mass
of humanity much better situated for enjoyment. All this, too, by
properly guarding and guiding her thoughts. Here was a commentary on
human happiness, showing how well we are adapted for pleasure, and what
sources of comfort we may be of ourselves. The deep and unseen springs
of sensibility and joy within us, thus made to gush forth at our will,
augur a higher and sublimer destiny. The crude philosopher, or the
still cruder sceptic, may doubt and deny, but still they will continue
to direct him to the imperishable testimonies of immortality. It is not
within us to believe, that the power which dictates and controls our
thoughts and our impulses, so tender that every impression made upon
it even in infancy retains its hold until the grave closes over us, is
destined to be forever obliterated. Even in life, it gives us evidences
of eternity. Should we live for countless ages, though the particles
composing our bodies might continually yield to decay and be replaced
by others, its own identity would be maintained, nor could we erase
from it the impressions of our childhood. No change in life can destroy
it, or move it from its directing and controlling sphere. Is it, then,
merely the unsatisfying mystery of an invisible element, endowed with
the capacity of preserving and summoning before us the shadows of
past beauties, though doomed itself to perish? Is it only a fleeting,
flickering ray, simply given to illumine our physical existence, whose
last flash shall be forever extinguished when the nature to which it
was joined sinks before the rough contacts of earth, or slowly dies
out of its own infirmities? Happily, it awakens sweeter thoughts, and
inspires higher hopes. Its brightness is not like the passing lustre of
the moonbeam, receding behind the first murky cloud that floats across
its path, but may be made to shine only the more brilliantly through
the surrounding darkness. With her, whose afflictions and pleasures I
have faintly described, it was not a mere visionary creature, conjured
up by powerful imagery, and clothed with the devices of a fine fancy,
yet compelled to fall before the first truthful reality it encountered.
Following out its mission in truth, it is our faithful companion and
guide through life; and who shall deny it another sphere of nobler
existence, where it may never cease to feast upon the untold loveliness
of creation, and forever dwell upon the past, reviewing its own good
deeds with unabating gratitude to its author, and unending happiness to
itself.



AN ANONYMOUS WRITING,

WHICH HAD SERVED AS AN ENVELOPE TO THE FOLLOWING PAPER.


The manuscript enclosed was found upon the desk of the Secretary and
read by permission. The author, perhaps to his own credit, cautiously
withheld his name. Though many inquiries were made without success,
I could not avoid ascribing its paternity to a young rogue near me,
who appeared greatly pleased with it; and after the reading, desired
the Junto to take the labor of reducing the practice of lying to a
science under its immediate supervision and protection. This imprudent
expression of his wish at once involved him in numerous difficulties.
It was looked upon as a very slanderous reflection, and the poor fellow
was so roughly handled that he not only gladly withdrew it, but himself
also, perhaps a little wiser than he had been before. His difficulties
no doubt impressed him with a proper idea of the value of discretion,
and certainly taught him that no matter how much men may be given to
evil habits, they are averse to having their faults paraded before
their own eyes as well as to seeing them exposed to the gaze of others.
They may be addicted to a disgraceful practice, yet ask them to avow
and openly protect it, and they will raise such a terrible clatter
about your ears that you are fain to withdraw as speedily as possible.



THE EXCELLENCIES OF LYING.


  “The art of silence and of well-term’d speech.” OLD POET.

Of the many practices to which our people are addicted, and which
exhibit their progress towards the higher walks of civilization, there
is none more prominent than the habit of lying. Celius wrote of Pompey,
“he is wont to think one thing and speak another;” and we may say, that
amongst us, it has almost become difficult to decide, whether we act
upon the principle that language was invented to express our thoughts,
or simply for the purpose of enabling us to conceal them.

I have an old friend who, adding to a mind accustomed to accurate
observation, more than fifty years of experience, frequently remarks
that he has never yet had half a dozen conversations with any person,
without detecting a falsehood.[1] It is well known that in our day it
is scarcely possible to bargain even with a saint, without discovering
him a liar; and I verily believe that had all who ever indulged this
habit been treated like Ananias and his spouse, the world would long
since have been depopulated. Fortunately, none are now so summarily
punished, or there would be a terrible “falling down and giving up
of the ghost.” For this generous forbearance, we may, perhaps, be
indebted to the superiority which we have acquired over these two
rude victims. We have certainly improved somewhat upon their example,
yet it must be owned that our progress in this habit has not been
commensurate with that made in the other improvements of the age. Some
of the fabrications of the Carthaginians and old Assyrians, noted
for their proficiency in this particular, were greatly superior to
any encountered in the present day. We have lost the ancient spirit,
which, it is feared, can only be revived by re-enacting some of the
ancient laws. For instance, in Sparta, it is said, thieves were
punished, not for stealing, but for permitting themselves to be caught;
the law-makers, no doubt, arguing that the fool deserves severer
chastisement than the rogue. Were the same rule adopted now as to
lying, it would soon close the mouths of those arrant bunglers who so
frequently provoke our ridicule and contempt.

Man was originally endowed with the power of clear and distinct
articulation, which, after some improvement, enabled him to convey what
ideas he pleased to his fellows. It is agreeable to all experience that
in using this excellent gift, he should consult his own convenience,
and he has accordingly introduced this habit of lying. From the highest
to the humblest, and from the gray-haired old man to his youthful
grand-child, all find it of use. The priest, the lawyer, the physician,
have rendered it a necessary part of their professions. Tradesmen and
mechanics have by no means neglected it, and some have made such signal
use of it, that we now look upon the sons of Crispin as comparable only
to a horde of Cretians, who, we are assured by excellent authority,
_were always liars_. The conveniences resulting from this practice have
ever been so very apparent, that its origin was almost coeval with the
existence of man; for one of our primitive ancestors, after exhibiting
his moral depravity by murdering his brother, was stupid enough,
when asked the whereabouts of the slain, to answer the all-knowing
questioner, “I know not; am I my brother’s keeper?” Since his day it
has been introduced into every walk of life, and is now used without
reference to the occasion--some being even so addicted to it as to
tell a lie when the simple truth would answer better. In childhood we
seek to avoid the rod by resorting to it, and when we attain to years
of discretion we find it convenient upon much more trifling occasions.
Does some intolerable bore intrude upon you, you dismiss him to the
digestion of a lie, and find pleasure in the reflection of having done
so. When an impatient creditor duns you, what more convenient than
a plausible falsehood? When an appeal is made to your purse by some
importunate borrower or beggar, you know well how to answer him by an
untruth. Should you get into difficulty, you study what virtue there is
in language, and use it to effect your end. When an inquisitive wife
pests you with her troublesome inquiries, you have the example of an
honorable Roman senator for telling her a lie; and when you have broken
a promise, why, you know well how to excuse yourself by resorting to
the same means that caused its violation.

Knowing the great conveniences of this habit, and being masters of
our tongues, the fault lies with us if we cannot touch whatever chord
in the nature of our fellows that we wish to arouse. To attain this
degree of perfection, however, we should be properly schooled. Ever
since the times of Thauth, Hermes, and Cadmus, many have endeavored
to excel in efforts to reduce the gift of speech to writing, and to
regular rules and systems. Every variety of sciences, whatever their
pretensions, have so used it as best to promote their interests,
inventing new words, or assigning strange meanings to old ones,
whenever occasion required. It has been the great fountain and support
of every excellence of which we know, and the powerful medium of every
humbug that has heretofore cursed society. It may, therefore, appear
strange that no one has yet, for the great benefit of mankind in
general, resorted to it for the elements to establish, as a distinct
profession, the art of well and skillfully framing a falsehood.

The schools of philosophy have settled it that men may lie. Whether
they have done so upon the strength of the bold opinion of the crafty
Lysander, that truth and falsehood are indifferent things; or upon the
comprehensive saying of Sophocles, “I judge no speech amiss that is of
use;” or upon the more designing maxim of the Spaniard, “tell a lie and
you will get out the truth;” or upon the anatomical principle of the
petit Prince of Bantam, which will certainly be admired by our modern
physiologists, “my tongue has no bone in it to make it more stiff than
is necessary for my interest;” it is not material here to determine.
Suffice it; that it has been so settled, and as our practices conform
to so enlightened a decision, policy would seem to require that they
be reduced to regular and systematic rules. It is true, some have
manifested considerable anxiety to secure for this habit a kind of
scientific distinction. They have accordingly had resort to the stars,
or if despairing of flights so lofty, the hand or a pack of cards
answered equally well to tell a fortune by. Though their plans and
schemes were sufficiently ingenious, lying itself could not endure
them. They could hope for no proselytes except amongst the credulous,
and even amongst those they could only gain such as believed there was
as much “pleasure in being cheated as to cheat.” Thus their efforts in
this excellent work, have not only been defeated, notwithstanding the
high encouragement they sometimes received, but if Euripides speaks to
the purpose, they themselves have been made to feel the consequences of
their mistakes:

  “What’s an Astrologer? I thus reply,
  A man who speaks few truths, but many a lie,
  Which, when found out, he takes his heels to fly.”

Perhaps their great failure is principally to be attributed to the
narrow defectiveness of the founder of their tribe. It is true, the
worthy man’s name has not yet been definitely ascertained, but then
this very ignorance has helped us out of our perplexities in searching
for it. The writers and critics upon Junius, when unable to discover
the author of the famous letters, very sagely conclude that he was a
man who had made himself acquainted with the affairs of his time, and
who was, withal, somewhat of a genius. So Voltaire has disposed of this
query in a very summary manner, by assuring us that “the first rogue
who met with the first block-head” was the inventor of soothsaying.
Whilst this conclusion has been generally accepted as a very
satisfactory one, it must be admitted that, though he may have been
an acute rogue, he was none the less an indiscreet one, or he would
not have attempted to confine this important privilege and practice of
lying within so exclusive a circle.

There could be no lack of material in speech upon which to construct
a system of scientific lying. Perhaps, by applying to it a term
which has long since been banished from “ears polite,” on account of
its harshness, I may be accused of a want of interest in so noble
an enterprise. If so, I can only render as an excuse, that if lying
can claim any one merit more than another, it is that of having ever
maintained its own identity, no matter what efforts were made to
increase its respectability by titles supposed to be more delicate. In
this particular, it must be owned, it has always resembled its author,
who, whether known as Satan or Beelzebub, Lucifer or Pluto, is nothing
but the plain, common devil after all; and who, though you should call
him an angel, would be the devil still. Thus sacrificing no merit which
it can justly claim, the difficulties of reducing it to a science could
be easily overcome.

An old maxim has it that “fools and children sometimes speak the
truth.” If “maxims are the condensed good sense of nations,” as
Sir James Mackintosh pithily observes, it would require excessive
presumption to deny the wisdom of this one, so universally received
and acted upon. The ancient moralists, after rearing a queer medley
of truth and nonsense upon a few wise sayings, pronounced the
heterogeneous mass the “Science of Morality.” This was at least
generous, for it must be owned that a more convenient appellation for
all who desired to sin according to moral law, could not have been
invented by their philosophic magnanimity. “It is in the creed, sir,”
would have answered every accusation, and put an end to all further
contention. “Know thyself,” and “Too much of nothing,” proverbial
sayings for ages, were so well received that the seven wise men of
Greece consecrated them to Apollo, and inscribed them in letters of
gold upon the door of his temple at Delphos. After so important a
precedent of respect to maxims, notwithstanding the many changes
wrought by time since the days of Thales and Solon, he who should seek
to reduce the practice of lying to scientific rules, might claim equal
consideration for the axiom given above, which he would of course so
interpret as to make all wise men liars. If the wisest and the best who
ever assumed the troublesome nature of man, could hang all the law and
the prophets upon two commandments, surely the modern man of science
might build a system upon a single maxim, whose object would be more to
increase the dominion of Satan than the glory of a different kingdom.
The service he would thus render to society would be incalculable, and
forever perpetuate his name as one of its most worthy benefactors. By
teaching the public, young and old, and without distinction of sex, to
lie according to an approved system, our contempt would no longer be
aroused by the fools now addicted to the practice, and who constantly
exhibit a stupidity only equalled by that of the first liar of whom
we have any record. Though we may have mules in the professions, who
only make work for keener and shrewder knaves, and blunderers in the
sciences, this should be no excuse for bunglers in this most worthy art
of lying. Such, however, could readily be got rid of by elevating the
habit to the dignity of a science, which each should be permitted to
practice after being skilled in its rules. To secure the more general
proficiency of those who desired to study the system, it should be
made an indispensable antecedent requisite, that they be fully worthy
of their Prince, and as honest as the Lombardian sect spoken of in the
bull of Pope Adrian VI., who fully acknowledged the devil as their
head, and promised obedience to him.

  P. A.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] _Note._--The editor was at first inclined to believe that this
old man could never have been within the circle of good society, but
the developments of the times have removed this uncharitable opinion.
When one half, or more, of the independent lay people of this country,
together with perhaps one-third of the ministers of the Gospel, (for
such is the general estimate,) can voluntarily connect themselves with
a secret political organization, one of whose principles is universally
felt to be the worst species of lying, it may not be long before it
will be extremely difficult to find a man of real truth.--ED.



A PAPER

FILED AWAY WITH THE FOLLOWING TALE.


The tale of the Alchemist was related at our meeting to a concourse of
as drowsy listeners as I ever saw congregated around a cheerful fire.
The individual who related it, however, manifested a deep interest
in every incident of the story. Indeed, when he arrived at some of
the more startling and mysterious passages in it, he gave them with a
ghostly intonation of voice, slowly and cautiously, looking anxiously
around him to discover what impression they made. He exerted all his
powers to be interesting, and preserved a very serious air throughout;
which caused me to greatly suspect him as one of those easy-natured
creatures, who are ever willing to believe whatever they hear, without
troubling their heads for philosophic reasons, or permitting their
faith to be at all interfered with by measuring probabilities.

After he had finished, it was soon ascertained that the story is a
genuine tradition, as faithfully believed by many as any chapter in
their Bibles, and certainly oftener thought of and repeated. Upon
being questioned, he replied that he had heard it from a number of
citizens of well-known veracity, and that to doubt it was regarded,
in the neighborhood where the events occurred, as the rankest heresy.
Then, too, he added, it has some strong points to recommend it to our
belief: it definitely disposes of several matters which would otherwise
be compelled to remain forever unsettled; it is old, and many have
heretofore given it full credit, which should make us slow to doubt;
much of it is marvelous, and therefore incomprehensible, and what we
cannot understand it would be irrational to condemn or deny.

This provided against every doubt, and left no other choice but to
believe or remain silent. The latter seemed to be generally preferred,
and the story was accordingly received as one of those strange tales
in which every town used to abound, and filed away as a part of the
traditional history of the village to which it related.

  S----Y



THE ALCHEMIST; OR, THE MAGIC FUNNEL.


In a small village on the banks of the Susquehanna, several miles from
the present location of the capitol of Pennsylvania, many years ago,
there lived a very singular individual known to the villagers by the
name of Felix Deford. He resided in a little log building at one end
of the village, and during the first year of his abode there, never
spoke over half a dozen words to any one of his neighbors. This strange
exclusiveness, in a community so small that each one not only knew
the other but was perfectly familiar with his most trifling habits
and pursuits, excited great curiosity, as could very naturally have
been expected. He at once became the subject of general conversation,
and various surmises were suggested in explanation of his conduct,
in the propounding of which the ladies were decidedly the most
prolific. This was owing, it was affirmed, to their naturally more
inquisitive dispositions; but, in the present instance, I am inclined
to believe that it resulted rather from their having been endowed with
feelings more tender and sympathetic than those of the opposite sex.
This opinion seems to derive great strength from the fact that their
conjectures generally agreed in assigning as the cause of his secluded
habits, some unfortunate occurrence that depressed his spirits, and
made him melancholy.

It was indeed no little entertaining to hear the quiet and simple
villagers, at their gossipping meetings, discussing the case of this
mysterious stranger, for to them he was doubly a stranger, from
whatever view they might regard him. Though they occasionally saw him,
yet so far as social intercourse was concerned, he might as well have
been in China. During the first year of his residence amongst them,
notwithstanding their many efforts to effect an acquaintance, they had
not been able to ascertain anything respecting him beyond his name,
which he never manifested the least disposition to conceal. Whatever
advances had been made towards a closer intimacy he had invariably
repelled, but always in a manner, and with a modest and attractive
politeness, which only prepossessed those who had made them the
more in his favor. Instead of losing their interest in him through
the progress of time, their anxiety daily increased to obtain some
knowledge of his manner of life, if nothing more. As yet, no one had
been inside of his house since he resided in it, not even the rent
collector, upon whom all had looked as likely, at least partially, to
gratify them in this particular.

On a warm evening in the month of August, a large party met at the
house of one of the villagers, when, as was usual at such gatherings,
the subject of conversation turned upon the queer habits of Felix
Deford. One fair young creature, who had once been favored with a sight
of him, gave it as her opinion, that not having heeded the judicious
counsel of Sophocles, “never let woman rob thee of thy wits,” his
hopes had been wrecked in some sad and unsuccessful love adventure.
In giving vent to her sympathies for the unfortunate Felix, she did
not refrain from denouncing the cruelty of some of her sex in a
manner which modestly intimated, that her own heart would never have
permitted her to send so devoted a lover as he must have been into
miserable exile. This was immediately taken up by a sharp-visaged,
hatchet-faced specimen of the ancient maiden lady, whose beauty, had
she lived ages ago, would scarcely have induced the most forlorn
Grecian gallant to pronounce her, in the expressive and complimentary
phrase of his time, “a virgin who gained oxen.” For forty years she
had experienced the terrors of single blessedness, from what cause
she could not divine, which had by no means rendered her patient and
charitable. She unhesitatingly advanced it as her judgment, that his
conduct, if love had anything to do with it, resulted rather from
remorse of conscience for past offences than from female cruelty.
Examples of this kind were not wanting, and she herself had once known
a Frenchman the recollection of whose wicked amours so preyed upon his
mind that he voluntarily banished himself from the sight of men--as
severe a punishment, it was thought, as could possibly be inflicted
upon a Frenchman. An old lady here interposed, and related a story
of a melancholy individual, whose many deplorable mishaps had fully
convinced him of the ancient theory, that each one was born under a
good or an evil genius. It had been his direful fate to have been
ushered into the world under one of the latter kind. Whatever he had
been prompted to undertake, soon gave evidence that, however fickle
a goddess Fortune may be, to him she was ever constant: not that she
loved him, but merely because she was even more patient and spiteful
than an affronted Corsair. Nothing would prosper under his protection,
though he had been as watchful as a vestal virgin. He had frequently
envied the Grecian youth who, killing his step-mother in endeavoring
to hurl a stone at a dog, exclaimed, “Fortune had a better aim than
I.” If luck had been half as favorably inclined towards him, some
fortunate accident would not so long have permitted a Fury in the
form of a termagant wife to have added to his troubles. After wooing
Fortune for a number of years to no purpose, he at length determined
at least to escape her frowns and punishments, if he could not share
her civilities; and therefore betook himself to the wood to adopt
the life of the anchorite. What became of him after this was never
clearly ascertained, but it was supposed his evil genius had found in
him too good a subject to be abandoned to the whining winds of the
forest. To this a young gentleman replied that he had good reason to
believe that Felix was not so much a fool. He at least gave evidence
of possessing more fortitude, judging from the manner in which he had
resisted the repeated and troublesome inquiries of the villagers. It
may be, suggested the young man, that he had come to the village from
mere love of a retired life; or, perhaps, being of studious habits, he
sought its quietude to prosecute his researches. Another one remarked,
that he had once known a very worthy and pious minister, who had been
so exclusively given to religious meditations, that he had often wished
for the most solemn privacy and quietude; and had it not been for the
sweet temper of his lovely wife and her happy efforts to interest and
cheer him, he would inevitably have shut himself up in some dungeon.
An interesting young Miss, who had spent much of her time in reading
novels, now thought it her turn to venture an opinion, which she did
by drawing upon the extensive and valuable stock of stories hoarded
in her memory. She had often read of men, who, though they could not
transform themselves like Mœris, the magical shepherd, or become
altogether lycanthropic, yet abandoned human society to mingle with
wild beasts in forests and deserts, or in the darker recesses of cliffs
and caves. Having fixed their affections upon some object, their souls
became wrapped up in its pursuit and attainment, and when disappointed,
they could not withstand the revulsion of feeling that necessarily
followed, and therefore flew to solitude. Some of these, interrupted
the sharp-visaged elderly lady before alluded to, were no doubt driven
to such extremities through the excessive indulgence of evil passions,
through bitter regrets and remorse, through a deep sense of their
infamy, or to hide their shame whilst planning new villanies to be
practiced after the old ones had been forgotten.

This proved an unfortunate interruption, and had a remarkable effect in
preparing the minds of the party for what followed. Under the influence
of a particular impression, we are often led to make ourselves
ridiculous, or to do that of which we afterwards seriously repent.
The ideas naturally prompted by the words of the last speaker, were
well intended to reverse the course of their remarks when aided by what
transpired immediately after. She had scarcely finished her insinuating
speech, before a new acquisition was made to the circle by the entrance
of a young man, a simple, good-natured soul, whose silly humors had
frequently afforded amusement to his more knowing acquaintances. He
reported that, having just passed Deford’s house, he heard a terrible
racket, and upon endeavoring to ascertain the cause, by placing his
head against the door, he became so much alarmed by the mixed confusion
within that he quickly hastened away. True, he had seen nothing, but
his ears had convinced him that the sounds were unearthly, and not
the voices of ordinary human beings. They were unlike anything he had
ever heard before, and then, too, they were accompanied by singular
groans and painful hisses, by the clatter of chains, and the jingling
of small sharp-sounding bells, and by a confused noise which much
resembled that occasioned by rapidly striking two pieces of sheet-iron
against each other. Such a formidable array of incomprehensible things
had not failed to make a very visible impression upon the countenance
of the young man, which, however, was only regarded as confirming his
tale. After this astonishing narration, though before there were few
in that circle who had not regarded Felix as an honest, well-bred
gentleman, there was little charity left amongst them, and indeed
much less sense. Their minds were now directed into another channel
of thought, and quite different causes were alleged as explanatory of
Deford’s habits--so sure are we to follow the lead of what is uppermost
in our heads, though we should be rendered the veriest fools for our
pains. Each of them now had some fanciful story to relate, and it
soon became the settled conviction that poor Felix had to be shunned,
for there could be no telling what mischief he might bring upon the
village. Some expressed their thoughts that perhaps he might be nothing
more than an escaped convict after all, or some despicable outlaw,
who was compelled to keep himself hid to avoid detection. Others had
heard of highwaymen and freebooters, after a long life of crime and
infamy, retiring to some private habitation quietly to enjoy their
plunder, and repent of their misdeeds at leisure: a practice now much
in vogue amongst lesser criminals, and highly honorable in refined
and civilized communities, though it was then little known to the
rude and industrious villagers. Others, still, had heard of those who
hunted up unfrequented and gloomy places to meet the hideous spectres
of the night in their peregrinations “up and down the earth;” whilst
a fourth even recollected individual instances of miserable wretches
resorting to hidden and secluded spots to hold communion with the evil
one. Certain it was, there were few now in that circle who were willing
to affirm that Deford’s conduct was the result of good motives or an
honorable career. The tide of opinion was turned against him, so sure
is an odd demeanor, sooner or later, destined to breed ill-thoughts in
those around us, and arouse suspicion. Curiosity hates to be baffled,
and when it seizes hold of an entire neighborhood, it becomes a
dangerous thing, and the discreet and judicious man will always avoid
it. Without a guide to govern and control it, the itching phrensy of
inquisitiveness is as limitless in its range as it is void of reason
and discretion.

Whilst, however, the villagers had been moved to the highest degree
of anxiety to learn something more of Felix than simply his name, he
was no less curious concerning matters of quite a different character,
but which were of about equal significance. Unfortunately for him, he
was one of those deluded, so-called philosophers who have always had
their counterparts in all ages of the world; and who, despising simple
and common things, as a French commentator truly observes, followed
the lead of quaint fancies and cheating vagaries, even rejecting the
plainest truths unless they came invested with a charm to gratify their
desire for the extraordinary and marvelous. Every fantastic story of
ghost or goblin that had come to his knowledge, and every mysterious
witch transaction, had, to him, been important matters for study. He
had squandered many days in search of an antidote to decrease the
dominion of death, yet never attempted to wrest from its grasp any poor
victim of disease. “Was there not,” he would ask of himself, “a tree of
life in the garden of Eden, and if its fruit possessed the magic power
of imparting perpetual life, has nature lost the qualities and elements
of which they were composed? Are we not informed by the ancient Skalds
and Sagas, that the heroes and warriors of old, when pressed down and
enfeebled by age, repaired to the fair and beautiful Iduna, to eat of
the ‘apples of youth,’ and become young again?” To him, the efforts
of the Spanish voyager, Juan Ponce de Leon, in search of the mystic
spring, located, by tradition, somewhere amongst the sands of Florida,
a sip of whose precious waters imparted rejuvenescence, and secured
perennial youth, had been an enterprise so noble that better success
should have crowned it. Aureolus Theophrastus Bombastes Paracelsus
Honenhelm, after first pruning down his monstrous name to decent
proportions, which was, perhaps, the most sensible act he performed
during his life, became possessed of the _elixir vita_. “If,” thought
Felix, “the foolish neglect of a careless and fickle world, which not
unfrequently throws away its greatest blessings, or treats them with
contempt for long periods of time, permitted such important knowledge
to be entirely lost, the best, if not the only thing that can be
done, is to endeavor to restore it again.” Most excellent reasoning,
and practical enough for a better cause. How vast, how immeasurably
incalculable would be the results following the revelation of these
hidden mysteries, which formed but a trifling portion of the wonderful
and marvelous things to the investigation of which Felix had devoted
his life! The elixir of Paracelsus would effectually banish from the
world the innumerable nostrums now poured down the throats of the
public in torrents which threaten to supersede entirely the use of
nature’s beverage as a drink. The visitors to Florida would far exceed
in number and array the pilgrims to Mecca, or the deluded travellers
towards the holy waters of the Ganges. Fortunate Iduna! what a mighty
host of love-sick swains would woo thee! Who, then, would have reason
to lament over the terrible inroads of age? The pleasant and innocent
means now resorted to, with most commendable patience and perseverance,
to conceal its hated furrows and wrinkles, would be doomed to oblivion,
as things interdicted from human remembrance. The novelty of nature,
unadorned by such admirable arts, which many have been so anxious to
behold, would then be everywhere paraded to the popular gaze, and
habit would soon accustom us to its sight. Some inspired poet, then,
might sing a doleful requiem over rouge and pearl, and no loving
youth would be compelled to search a clear, unpainted, and unpowdered
spot whereon to kiss his lady-love. None, too, would then be moved to
re-echo the regret of Euripides,

    “----That men should be deny’d
  The gift of springing to a second youth,
  A double age!”

And what might not be the salutary effects upon the world’s morality,
for could

  “----We turn our steps, and tread again
  The path of life, what slips we once had made
  We would correct, and every cheating maze
  Avoid, where folly lost our way before.”

Through these discoveries, so potent in their influence and wide in
their range, the world might possibly become stocked with a superior
order of men, and its wickedness cease to be a constant and an endless
subject of complaint. It would then be a delight to live in it amid its
general harmony and concord; and none would be made to appreciate the
feelings frequently expressed by a friend of mine, who always resolved,
whenever disgusted at the depravity now too common, to emigrate to
some uninhabited island, and commence the world anew, in imitation of
old Adam, firmly believing that he could raise a better brood.

Felix Deford, however, during his residence in the village, had been
more particularly engaged in other inquiries. The things which we
ordinarily encounter during life, were far too dull and stupid for
his ardent nature. He longed for something more extraordinary and
marvelous, and accordingly betook himself to search for it. He had wit
enough to know, that nature, so far as it is understood, has fixed a
certain, definite rule of government which had first to be surmounted
before the supernatural could be attained. This had been done long
before his time, and so very signally, that even the most wonderful
metamorphosis were wrought with perfect ease. Does not Pliny himself
affirm, and he certainly should have known, that the change of females
into males is not fabulous, and Montaigne assure us that he actually
saw a man who had once been a woman? Thanks, we should rather say
to Felix, that such magic powers are known no more; for in our day,
when women so madly aspire to man’s condition, the stock would soon
be entirely lost. Felix, however, apprehended no evil consequences
from such a discovery, for women would then be no longer needed, and
who, argued he, could suffer to be incommoded with them but for their
absolute necessity? Whatever dangers suggested themselves to his mind
upon this score, he rapidly dismissed, with the reflection that the
world was at no loss for inhabitants, and after a sip from the mystic
spring, or a slice from Iduna’s apple, the race would no longer require
replenishing, and could therefore readily afford to dispense with the
fairer portion of creation. If we contemplate with awe the ruins of
nations, ideas of whose imposing grandeur have been transmitted to us
for our admiration and wonder, and ponder with melancholy anguish upon
the fact that millions of human creatures were crushed in their fall,
what strange emotions, what terrible feelings, would not be inspired by
the total extinction of the most lovely of the sexes--the first honored
companion of solitary man in the sacred bowers of Eden! No, Felix;
no discovery, though it should be a secret passage to the gates of
Paradise, could atone for so sad a loss. Woman was the only instrument
of Godly mercy fit to shed a ray of sunshine upon the path of man when
first his race began. Though she caused him to go astray, she has done
much to repair her error. In the bright glory yet in reserve for her,
to calm and cheer the agony and despair of his last hour with the sweet
and exhaustless affection of her lovely nature, well will she redeem
the stain her impulsive confidence brought upon her angelic character.

The realization of these unnatural powers constituted the dream of
Felix, and for this he had devoted his hours to magic in his solitary
study, which, to the view of a stranger, would have much resembled
the operating room of an industrious philosopher. Old, musty, and
neglected volumes, bearing ample evidence that they had undergone the
vicissitudes of many years, and suffered treatment too barbarous to
be entirely ascribed to the hands of studious and inquisitive man,
were piled promiscuously upon the shelves. Scarcely one of them could
boast an entire cover, and their black letter and roughly ornamented
pages presented a bold contrast to the volumes of the present day.
Around the room were seen numerous instruments, with now and then some
strange apparatus--things for which science had but few names, and
common parlance was a total blank. In one corner your eye met nothing
but crucibles, mortars, urns, pots, kettles, and cans; in another,
you beheld a variety of jugs, decanters, bottles, and vials; whilst
others contained a mass as indescribable as it was nameless. All, too,
bore testimony of having been frequently used, and emitted a repulsive
scent, sufficiently exhibiting that it required no very refined sense
of smell to detest the pursuit of an alchemist. The rules of neatness
and arrangement, however, were not neglected in all this confusion. In
the centre of the room a large circle was drawn, whilst the walls were
totally covered with odd signs, strange figures, and mystic devices.
Here it was that the magician employed his charms, and conjured up his
spells, and here the alchemist pursued his intricate investigations.
Here Felix had applied himself, with a devotion worthy of the greatest
commendation, to realize, by magic and alchemistic means, the dreams
of those deluded Germans whose fantastic theories, for so long a
time, had run away with the reason and good sense of their native
contemporaries, and eventually worked similar results in different
sections of the world. He longed to verify the fancies of Rosencreutz,
which had set many a man’s “wits a wool-gathering,” and made strange
fools of some of the cleverest, but too credulous, fellows of all
Europe and elsewhere. How happy he would have been in having been
brought into closer communion with his Maker, or made the companion
of noble spirits to whose wisdom he could have given the impress of
utility, and thus eventually succeeded in driving pain, disease, and
sorrow from the world! Had not the noted Dr. Torralba a magic Zequiel,
apparently unlimited in power, to accompany him as his pledged and
faithful friend, and had not Naude’s “zenith and rising sun of all the
Alchymists,” the skilful Paracelsus, a spirit confined in the hilt of
his sword, and another imprisoned in a jewel? The famous magician,
Cornelius Agrippa, whose talents are attested by the great Erasmus and
the smooth and gentle Melancthon, did not only command the demons of
the earth and the spirits of the air, but could even break in upon
the repose of the dead, in the presence of whose greatness he would
have cowered during their lives, and summon them before him, clothed
in their accustomed habiliments! Though the tunic and mantle of the
ancient Grecian had been decayed for centuries, and his body consumed
by the devouring limestone which had composed his singular sarcophagus,
the dismembered particles came together again, and were compelled to
reappear at the powerful bidding of Cornelius. This wonderful knowledge
of the historiographer of the Emperor Charles V., and the author of the
“Superiority of the Female Sex,” to the great loss of the world, had
been permitted to perish with him, and perhaps forever. Though Felix
was industriously laboring to restore it again, and revive the marvels
of magic and alchemy, it must be acknowledged he was not exceedingly
well adapted for the task. Although he had energy and perseverance
to surmount every conquerable obstacle, he yet lacked two essential
elements--he possessed too much honesty, and not enough imagination.
Every pursuit requires certain qualities of mind and heart, and in
none have imagery and dishonesty more to do than in that in which he
was engaged. They are indispensable to success in such an enterprise,
and in both Felix was deficient. To speak the simple truth, there was
a limit to his madness. He was weak enough not to doubt the truth of
the superhuman exploits and performances ascribed to the masters in
the art, whose works he had diligently studied; yet not sufficiently
crazy to see unearthly visions appearing in answer to his charms and
incantations, when, in truth, there was nothing but vacancy before his
eyes.

Combining the fanatical theories of Bohmen, with the more rational and
philosophic demonstrations of common chemistry, he would undoubtedly
have triumphed in his inquiries but for his deficiency in the qualities
alluded to as essential to the alchemist. Though he had dreaded a
search for the philosopher’s stone, that great marvel for ages, after
so many had failed before him; yet if Agrippa had so far succeeded as
to change iron into gold, though it was destined to be converted into
simple and worthless stone after one revolution of the earth, might
not an improvement be made which should render the metamorphosis more
permanent? Whether Agrippa had worked this wonder, which, indeed,
would have furnished the clue to all others, by the discovery of the
pebble for which so many had searched in vain, or through the direct
intervention of the devil, had always been a mystery to Felix; but he
had pondered upon it again and again, until it eventually brought him
to the determination of summoning his satanic majesty before him.
Although satan had unquestionably proved himself a bad magician, if he
had been the instrument made use of by Agrippa, Felix believed this
was owing rather to his wily and treacherous nature than to a want of
power. This determination once fixed, he resorted to the best approved
arts usually employed in invoking demons and spirits, and such had
been one of his principal occupations during the latter period of his
residence in the village. He by no means desired their visits upon
mere terms of intimacy and friendship, but demanded absolute dominion
over them before compelling them into his presence. Justin Martyr,
and all the most ancient Fathers,--and certainly their statements
ought to be of great weight,--had too strongly depicted the horrors
wrought by bad demons who had visited the earth, for Felix to desire
their reappearance without possessing full power to control them.
These learned and devout men, venerated even to this day with a kind
of religious fervor, had furnished enough, and more, to show that such
supernatural agents had not lost the worst vices of humanity, but in
addition possessed greater means of indulging them, which they were not
timid in exercising. Felix Deford knew the world’s many afflictions
too well to wish to add any more to their number; but he believed that
a charm so potent as to force the powers of darkness to obey its
summons, had only to be dispelled to drive them back to their homes
again.

It would be wrong to neglect stating here, that if the masters whose
astonishing knowledge and power Felix admired, mingled the mysteries of
religion with their theories and principles, he by no means disregarded
them. If it be true, (and who doubts it?) that in the antediluvian
age, men had lived so many years as to make life resemble a sweet and
pleasant immortality upon earth, a very remarkable change must have
been effected since then. In the opinions of his masters, that this
long life had been the result of a closer communion with the divine
element, of social intercourse with the many good spirits supposed to
inhabit and abound in space, and of possessing a controlling power over
the evil ones, he saw no poetry, but the serious truths of philosophy.
Here, then, there had been sufficient to attract his attention to the
mysterious portions of his Bible, just as the disbeliever is drawn to
those which human intellect is incapable of solving or reconciling. His
researches, however, had a less ruinous effect, for they perplexed only
himself, and did no harm to others.

He pursued his studies, boiled his mystic herbs, applied his
minerals, made his magic mixtures, and resolved his wild problems,
constantly expecting some answer from regions which he was incapable
of penetrating. His failures never daunted him, for the doctrines
of his masters had been too well settled in his mind, and he was too
thoroughly convinced of their accuracy, to permit a supposition of
their untruth. He was neither so vain nor impatient as to reproach
his predecessors because he had failed to meet with equal success,
but ascribed his repeated disappointments to his own deficiencies and
imperfections. He had been too intent upon his studies to have much
concerned himself about the villagers, who, ever since the meeting of
the evening party before described, suspected his motives and feared
his designs. Not knowing what evils he might bring upon them, and
impelled by a very troublesome curiosity, they imagined the worst,
so naturally are we given to exaggeration; and now began to refuse
supplying him with the requisite comforts of life, thus expecting to
bring matters to a decisive point. This, at last, compelled him to
greater sociability, but he refused to become communicative. Though
asked a thousand times, directly and indirectly, concerning his
solitary pursuits, he had as many civil and respectful answers, leaving
his questioners as ignorant as they were before. At length, however,
the curiosity of the village triumphed. A young rogue, more cautious
and cunning than the rest, ascertained what were his employments, and
smiled at the great consternation caused by the discovery. He adorned
his tale with all the poetry of his rough fancy, and so interwove it
with marvels and falsehoods that it gave ample proof that he would have
made a much better alchemist than Felix. His story fully realized the
imaginings of the wildest magician, and soon succeeded in persuading
the villagers that Deford was the absolute controller of spirits,
and the unlimited master of demons. As a dealer in forbidden things,
he was now still more carefully avoided. Had Felix here thrown away
his honesty, for he began to feel the undeserved reputation he was
acquiring, and issued from his cloister publicly to practice his
incantations, he could have performed wonders before the eyes of the
villagers not surpassed in splendor by any accredited to his masters:
but he preferred to continue his studies and his conjurations as if
unconscious of the opinions entertained concerning him. This only had
the effect of increasing the consternation of the villagers still
more. His name at once became an object of dread to the credulous, and
a subject of terror to the old women, who soon made it the fright of
the nursery. Recollections of old and marvelous stories were rapidly
revived, and for some time nothing seemed to be known or talked of
in the village but terrible tales. There was scarcely a man or woman
to be found who had not recently seen a ghost or been troubled by
some fearful spectre, for all which Felix had to bear the blame.
Amongst these, the most conspicuous was the sharp-visaged old maid,
who now saw more ghosts and phantoms than there had been Gods in the
heathen Pantheons, and pointed to this fact as a full and triumphant
verification of the opinions she had first expressed concerning him.
To billet an army upon a town is always attended with great confusion,
and necessarily with no little terror; but she accused him of something
more awful still. She unhesitatingly affirmed that he had filled the
village with spirits and devils, to trouble the repose of its people;
but an incredulous fellow, perhaps moved by a malicious disposition,
insisted that such could not possibly have been the case, otherwise she
could not have been secure for a single moment. No nook or corner could
be found where ghost or goblin had not been. The street had become
the dancing ground of the tenants of darkness, and the limits of the
village the general theatre for their sports and evil practices, and
all through the incantations of the conjuror. Every bare spot which
had refused to yield as abundantly as its neighbor, brought a curse
upon poor Felix; every strange mark discovered was regarded as a sure
indication of superhuman agency, and every odd foot-print afforded a
monstrous theme for conjecture. Singular noises began to be heard in
the air: some exulting and merry--others plaintive and melancholy.
Confusion seized the cattle, the horses became as stubborn as the
women, the dogs kept up a continual howl and fight, and night was
rendered hideous by caterwauls. The pigs and chickens were no less
rebellious, the noisy fowls became more noisy and restless, and the
barn yards resembled perfect Babels. The crow of the cock was no longer
the morning signal of the approach of day, for it was heard at all
hours of the night. Everything seemed to have been turned upside down,
or tossed about by some miraculous and fearful power. It is supposed
that the land inhabited by spirits is pleasant and enchanting, that
fairies and genii seek none but the abodes of beauty, but here all was
dismay. It was not strange that the majority of the villagers should
have been made afraid to venture out of doors after the decline of the
sun; yet notwithstanding all this, Felix had a few defenders. Though
none could deny the evidences of tumult existing, these assigned quite
a different cause for the fact. Make a village mad, said they, drive
all the good sense out of the heads of its women and substitute fear,
spread consternation amongst the children and discord amongst the men,
and it would be truly miraculous if matters followed their usually
peaceful routine. The brute will partake of the turbulent humors of its
master, and when constantly disturbed by surrounding dismay, cannot
avoid becoming infected with the general confusion.

Felix, at last, began to fear the mischief he had unintentionally been
creating, and sallied forth once a day with the view of allaying it.
As secresy was no longer possible, he endeavored to become as sociable
and communicative as circumstances would permit, but the villagers
generally shunned him as though he had been a pestilence. A few only
could tolerate his presence and submit to his conversations, and these
had to encounter the censure of being leagued with him. An evil motive
and wicked intention was now ascribed to every trifling thing he did,
and all his attempts to commingle sociably with the villagers were
quickly attributed to some base design. It is strange how error leads
us to phrensy, but such appears to be its very nature. When once it
has taken root, it spreads and increases with unaccountable rapidity.
With not one half the beauty and attraction of truth and reason; it
yet seems to possess a hundred times their power and influence over
our conduct. Truth moves with slow and certain tread--error with
fearful impetuosity. A town once set in motion the wrong way, presents
a terrific spectacle, and to arrest its career of madness is a task
not easily performed. It had been so in the case of Felix Deford,
and he soon ascertained that it was much less difficult to create a
turbulent storm than to allay it. The villagers became lavish in
threats and curses against him; yet, mistrusting and doubting, their
fears compelled them to act with caution. Repeated deputations were
sent to him, politely requesting him to retire from the village, lest
his personal safety might be endangered. His efforts to remove their
delusion proved unavailing, and they continued to insist until he
dismissed them, no less impatient at their importunities than they had
been apprehensive of his residence amongst them.

Whilst they had been thus engaged in devising means for the
expatriation of Felix, a danger more immediately threatening called
for their undivided attention. Though it had been supposed they were
entirely safe from Indian incursions, they noticed several suspicious
signs and indications which induced them to prepare for an attack.
The friendly feeling that had existed between the villagers and the
savages in their immediate vicinity, had not deterred other tribes from
ravaging wherever opportunities were presented. In this new difficulty,
the alchemist nobly volunteered his assistance. Without waiting for
such a call, he assumed the command as one familiar with the practices
and habits of the savage, and who had frequently been engaged in
similar skirmishes. As was apprehended, the war-whoop was suddenly
heard early one morning, and fully indicated the desperate encounter
to be expected. The attack was commenced with a fury common to Indian
warfare, and it was mainly through the vigilance of the magician
that the contest resulted in the total rout of the savages. All were
compelled to be lavish in their praises of his services, but even
the marvellous exploits which they ascribed to him could not inspire
confidence and friendship. They were simply regarded as convincing
proof of the exercise of forbidden power. Upon being rehearsed again
and again, no little magnified at each repetition, few were willing to
believe that he could have escaped unless protected by some superhuman
agency. Some had even seen strange figures hovering above his head and
arresting the many and repeated blows aimed at him. Others had seen him
surrounded by more than thirty savages at a time, yet none of these
could so closely approach him as to use any weapon. He appeared to be
encompassed by a mystic circle which no one could enter, thus enabling
him to deal destruction around, whilst his assailants were rendered
harmless. When tired of the slaughter in one section of the village, he
almost imperceptibly rose above the heads of friends and foes, and was
quickly transported to another that demanded his aid. Others, still,
had seen him rush wildly into the very midst of savage groups, and
rescue a number of brave villagers who had been defending themselves
against great odds, and so confusing the assailants that they even
fell upon themselves to hurry their retreat. The more marvellous his
exploits, the more did the villagers regret that he lived amongst
them, for he might eventually prove more dangerous than the savages
themselves, and how could they resist him?

Felix, however, was not disposed to be an object of dread to the
villagers any longer. A few days after the incursion of the Indians,
he was no more to be seen. To account for his sudden disappearance, it
was alleged that he had followed the savages, and would continue to
pursue them until their tribe was totally extinct. He was to become
their evil spirit, who would enter into their midst and slaughter as
he pleased, whilst their arms should be unavailing against him. This
opinion obtained almost general consent as the most plausible, after a
careful and cautious examination of his late residence had been made.
Nothing was there to be found or seen save the black circle upon the
floor, which, to the great astonishment of all, resisted every effort
made to erase it. The walls were now more clear and clean than ever,
and retained no traces of the mysterious devices that had formerly
ornamented them. The entire building appeared as though it had been
fitted up for the reception of some fastidious tenant. All this, in the
opinion of the villagers, had been the undoubted work of the spirits
which they supposed the conjuror had under his command, and which would
aid him in his avenging mission.

Their surmises were destined to be materially changed upon the arrival
of one of the villagers who had been absent for several months upon
public business. He was one of the principal men of the village, which
important distinction he had won more through the interest he had
manifested against Felix than any excellent qualities of his own. True,
there was a little of the German’s good nature in his composition,
and he had a great love for all that was wonderful and mysterious.
He heard with astonishment the details of the villagers--how they
had been attacked during his absence, and how Felix had assisted
them, and then suddenly departed, as they supposed, to take vengeance
upon the savages. In return, he had something interesting to relate,
which soon undeceived them. Whilst wending his solitary way towards
the village, he reported, night had overtaken him, and having been
still a considerable distance off, he kindled a fire upon the banks
of the river, intending to repose until morning. Sometime during
the night he was aroused from his quiet slumber, and looking round,
he beheld a bright, blazing light in the air, high above the water.
To his utter amazement, there was Felix Deford in the blaze! He was
vehemently remonstrating with a figure so closely arrayed in black
that its outlines could not be distinctly traced. The discussion
continued sharply for some time. Although circumstances sufficiently
indicated that Felix was in the presence of a superior, his spirit was
unconquerable, and he ever seemed the victor in the wordy conflict,
as the villager inferred from the manner of his antagonist. The black
figure continued to become more terrible at every word, and at last
began emitting foam from its mouth and fire from its nostrils, but
Felix refused to abate the least in his remonstrances. A different
encounter now commenced between them, which promised to be more
decisive than words. The blaze that enveloped them began to spread
and heave as though it partook of the anger of the combatants, much
resembling huge and boisterous billows when dashed into spray in quick
succession against an irresistible rock. It seemed to have been caught
up in a terrible tempest, and amid its turbulent agitation, the contest
between Felix and his antagonist was continued by rapidly hurling
large black darts at each other. No want of skilful aim was exhibited,
yet each appeared to be composed of an impenetrable substance, and
the destructive missiles no sooner touched the person of either than
they rebounded again, or flew off at angles, and vanished into air.
Abandoning these apparently inefficient instruments, they approached,
and engaged hand to hand with fiery swords; but so equally were they
matched in this mode of warfare that they only exhausted themselves,
and after making a number of furious, but ineffectual blows and
thrusts, they threw away their weapons. Panting from the exertion of
the desperate battle, they stood for some time gazing intently at
each other, exhibiting a fearful and unearthly savageness. At length
the contest was again resumed, and huge bolts, whose dark-blue color
contrasted beautifully with the glare that surrounded them, were thrown
with marvellous dexterity, but they were as vigilantly and skilfully
parried or avoided. It was now as difficult to be true to their aim as
it had been easy before, plainly indicating that a blow from the bolt
was held in different esteem than a stroke from the darts previously
used. Suddenly Felix sprang with a savage leap upon his antagonist,
having at the same moment been struck by one of these monstrous
missiles, when instantly the flame disappeared, and both fell rapidly
down into the water. Nothing was now heard but the rushing of the
current, which seemed to have become more boisterous, and the villager
composed himself to sleep again.

He awoke in the morning, and directing his eyes over the body of the
water, he beheld rapid currents from all sides, rushing towards the
spot where the combatants had fallen. The object was strange to
him, and he entered his light canoe determined to investigate it.
Fortunately for his curiosity, before he reached the ungovernable
current, he saw the trunk of a large tree floating down the river.
It was drawn towards the arena that had attracted his attention, and
rapidly approaching the centre, it was whirled round and round, tearing
up the water as if laboring in a mighty whirlwind, or grappling to be
freed from the clutch of a fearful monster. Its terrible struggles were
unavailing, and by a powerful effort, as though the might of the waters
had been concentrated upon one object, it was raised on end, when down,
down it passed from sight. This new wonder was scarcely less surprising
to the villager than the occurrences he had witnessed during the night,
and guarding his fragile bark he for some time watched the raging
element. Every thing that came within reach of the current, which had
formed itself into a great funnel, was dragged down its voracious
centre, however awful or prolonged its struggles. What became of it
afterwards ever remained a close and impenetrable mystery.

After this astonishing report had been heard and fully commented
upon by the villagers, all other surmises in reference to Felix were
abandoned, and many visited the place where he had fought his last
battle. There was none now to be found amongst them who had no regrets
for the poor alchemist. Although he had been an object of fear to them
whilst seen in their midst, he had rendered services too important when
the village had been assailed by the savages, not to have secured the
good wishes of all; and if they had so heartily desired him to remove
his abode elsewhere, they as fervently wished prosperity to attend him.
Even the sharp-visaged old maid, who had before so repeatedly expressed
her ill opinion of him, now exhibited her gratitude. During the assault
of the Indians, she affirmed, he had twice rescued her from the
tomahawk of the savages just in time to prevent the blows that would
certainly have terminated her existence. With all her want of charity
and magnanimity, there was still the sweet tenderness of woman in her
nature, and she could not restrain her lamentations and her tears.

For a long, long time, the story of Felix continued to be the village
talk. The strange disposition of the waters that commemorated his last
exploit, acquired the name of the “Magic Funnel” from the villagers,
and whatever was drawn into it was engulfed forever. Its end or
termination remained unknown. It was a suggestion of some of the more
philosophic villagers, that the immense currents which then fed it may
have entered again into the body of the river at a distance of many
miles, or have had a number of outlets so small that none would have
thought of tracing them to their original source. Whatever of truth or
error there may have been in these and kindred surmises, it is said,
as a truth which was never doubted by the villagers, that the poor and
ill-fated alchemist makes a circuit every year, entering the “Magic
Funnel” again, together with his antagonist. On every anniversary of
his fearful encounter, the singular flame may be seen again in the air,
with a renewal of the battle. Often these waters lash each other as
if in great trouble, and it has passed into a traditional saying with
the sturdy watermen of the Susquehanna, whenever they see them surge
and foam with unusual impetuosity, that the conjuror and his powerful
adversary are at each other again, interchanging their terrible frowns
and hurling their fearful bolts. The humble boatman, as he cautiously
moves by this mysterious place, now far less dangerous than many years
ago, with his fragile skiff or light canoe, still gives a sighing
thought to the memory of the conjuror, and not unfrequently sings a
doleful requiem over the fate of the Village Alchemist.

  H. C.



REMARKS,

INTENDED TO PRECEDE THE FOLLOWING ESSAY.


“If, in the paper herewith submitted, there may be any confusion, or
supposed misapplication of terms, we claim our privilege. In old time,
those who excelled in the sciences were called _Sages_, which was
equivalent to our _learned_. This pedantic appellation, however, could
not be tolerated by the modest Pythagoras, who, being merely an anxious
searcher after knowledge, refused to arrogate to himself its actual
possession, and therefore assumed the title of _Philosopher_, or _Lover
of Wisdom_. He deserves immortal honor for this happy application of
the word, yet we are not quite sure that he would have used it at all
had he foreseen the consequences to which it has led. Ever since his
day, it has become the custom to look upon all whose wild fancies
are inexplicable, as “Philosophers;” and whenever a confused mass of
nonsense is collected together, so heterogeneous that human ingenuity
is at a loss to classify it, it is generally dubbed “Philosophy.”
Whatever of incongruity, confusion, or misapplication may be detected
in our essay, must, therefore, under the most approved customs of the
times, be regarded as wonderfully philosophic, and being thus converted
into a merit, we need add nothing in extenuation.”[2]


FOOTNOTES:

[2] NOTE.--The above introductory remarks, together with the paper
which they accompanied, were read before the Association as the report
of a Committee.--EDITOR.



AN ESSAY.

THE BEAUTY OF A WELL CULTIVATED HEART.


However high and exalted the achievements of mind, and whatever
the pleasures and consolations of knowledge, these are small when
contrasted with the beauties of a well-cultivated heart. The grand
attainments of talent and genius, exhibiting man’s lofty superiority
over all animated existence, may attract our admiration and elicit
our surprise, but the manifestation of those noble qualities which we
ascribe to the heart, alone can make us feel. Mind only appeals to
mind: heart alone to heart.

“Knowledge is wealth,” was a favorite and perhaps somewhat egotistical
saying of the ancient philosophers, and, indeed, without it man would
be a most pitiable creature. It is a maxim ascribed to Zoroaster, that
“he who lives in ignorance knoweth neither God nor religion,” and
Thales, one of the seven wise men of Greece, and founder of the Ionic
sect, calls him “who enjoys good health, finds fortune favorable,
and has well cultivated his soul with sound learning,” the happy
man. Without mental culture, we cannot appreciate the treasures of
nature, and unless we have a knowledge of its laws, obtained through
a study of the sciences, we cannot realize the comforts with which it
is arrayed for the benefit of mankind. Even the merciful government
of God is rendered one of terror and fear through ignorance, whilst
the intercourse with our fellows so essential to social happiness, is
restrained within the most narrow bounds, and we remain little better
than barbarians. The Mitylenians esteemed ignorance of the liberal
arts a deplorable punishment, and thus, when masters of the sea, they
prohibited the revolted allies from teaching their children letters or
music, as the most grievous penalty they could possibly inflict.

The affections, and those virtues which signally reach them, we have
for ages been accustomed to place to the heart’s account. We yield to
it all the virtues of sensibility, and thus it becomes the great source
and centre of feeling. To it we ascribe that generous commiseration
and sympathy which constitute the pillars of society, and which have
long since confirmed the declaration of the great Roman orator, that
no nation has ever existed where civility, good nature, and gratitude,
were not had in esteem, and where the proud, the mischievous, the
cruel, and ungrateful, were not had in contempt and abhorrence. Wisdom
may flatter our self-love, and as it advances, justly challenge our
respect, but we fail to see in it the power or the pleasure which is
inseparable from the heart’s good sentiments. “It is to no purpose to
be wise, unless we are rendered better,” truly observes Lucian. Life
is made a blessing, not through the influence of mind, however much it
may have done to surround us with the means of comfort and enjoyment,
but through the great excellencies of man’s nature. It is a law of
nature, as we are told by the most eminent moralists, that each should
cultivate an agreeable sociability as the best means of promoting the
end for which human society has been instituted. This can never be
successfully done without the virtues of the heart--such as friendship
and love, and above and including all, CHARITY.

The pleasure of man’s intercourse with his fellows depends principally
upon the virtues that adorn him. The wise, if arrogant, vain, and
ungrateful, may only succeed in awakening within the good feelings of
mingled respect and contempt; whilst the generous, the humble, the
just, will ever elicit universal esteem. We rely upon their gratitude
and confide in their friendship, realizing the happiness of their
guileless sincerity and truth. Without friendship, life would be a
gift which we might well despise. “By what other means,” asks Seneca,
“are we preserved, but by the mutual assistance of good turns?” It
is this generous virtue, springing from the heart, that renders our
associations agreeable, and throws around our existence the joys and
pleasures of social life. “If any man,” says Xenophon, “a lover of
virtue, ever found a more profitable companion than Socrates, I deem
that man the happiest of human kind.” This celebrated ancient general
and scholar, in thus speaking of his friend, utters but a truthful
tribute to the virtue of friendship, as exemplified in the life of
every honest man.

The man who has well improved his heart becomes a fit companion for
all, whatever may be their condition. He views the actions of men
through the medium of his generous virtues, rather than through that
rigid severity which accompanies an unforgiving temper. His noble
charity recognizes a universal equality, and whilst he bears with
the errors and follies of those around him, he seeks to remove them
by generous appeals to the heart rather than by censure and rough
rebuke. He remembers that the tender entreaties of his mother, and
the lamentations of his wife and children, prevented Coriolanus
from destroying the Rome that had formerly banished him, and not the
fear of the Romans nor their tempting overtures; and that afterwards
the moderation of Valerius Corvus, the Dictator, quelled a dangerous
mutiny, and accomplished, perhaps a similar end. He is not prone to
look upon every error as a serious crime to be resented, but prefers to
act upon the magnanimous dictum accredited to the Chinese philosophers,
who “reckoned it a true mark of a brave, and wise, and worthy man, to
put up the hurts and affronts he received, without any inclination to
harm the author.” When it becomes necessary to punish a villain, he
prefers the example of Pericles, if circumstances allow it, who, it
is said, endured the ribaldry of a rogue for an entire day, without
exhibiting anger, and then commanded a servant to light him home with
the torch: thus, perhaps, taking the most signal vengeance possible,
for none can patiently bear such generosity and silence from him whom
he hates, and with whom he desires to quarrel. In the wide range of
human blessings there is none to equal those generous impulses which
govern the conduct of such a man. They enable him truly to fulfil
the destiny of his affections, in whatever station he may be called,
despite the circumstances calculated to arouse his passions and excite
the evil elements in his nature.

They who have well cultivated the heart’s true sensibilities, find the
means and sources of enjoyment spread lavishly around them. The fickle
and whimsical pursuits after momentary pleasure, which vex and perplex
so many, never disturb their quiet nor encumber their repose. The
happiness that attends them is unalloyed, not subject to the regrets
of disappointment, nor the frequent remorse which preys upon the mind
of him who had haunted the glittering pleasures of animal life and its
enticing enjoyments. They feel the full gratification of the inward
sense, which is sincere, penetrating, and permanent. The store upon
which they draw is exhaustless. Other elements of nature may perish by
too frequent use, but the sensibilities of the heart only increase in
strength and vigor through every occasion that calls them forth, and
expand the more the more they are exercised. It is use that preserves
them: slothfulness is their great and formidable enemy. “All virtues,”
says an ancient Grecian philosopher, “depend upon exercise and use; to
preserve them, we must practice them.”

The career of man often presents melancholy illustrations of the want
of this true sensibility. The aims of life, too frequently governed
by the arbitrary decrees of society, lead him into paths that rather
blunt than encourage it; and he finds little substantial pleasure in
fulfilling a destiny which circumstances have forced upon him against
the better qualities of his nature. Fortune may have smiled upon him,
enriching him with her bounties, yet these, if simply depending upon
themselves, soon sicken and lose their interest. The riches of the soul
can only be enjoyed through the sensibilities of the heart, which lead
us to the performance of deeds of truth and charity. They alone can
enable us to discharge the mission of sympathy and love towards the
unfortunate and distressed; they alone can qualify us for generous and
magnanimous intercourse with those whose evil destiny deserves our kind
indulgence, and fit us for more exalted association with equals and
superiors; they alone can develope the good germs in our nature into
exceeding excellencies, and lead us to true virtue and its exhaustless
treasures; and they alone can make the journey of life resemble a
smooth and even surface, and surround us with pleasures and comforts
which the insensible may never know. How much, then, is it our duty to
cultivate the heart through the exercise of its sensibilities, and thus
obtain the full gratification of every virtuous faculty in our nature!
How much, then, does it behoove each of us to conquer the sordid and
selfish motives too frequently engendered by surrounding influences,
and bring into more healthful existence those noble affections with
which we are endowed! Thus alone can we truly live in mind and heart,
and effect a happy harmony between soul and body--no longer verifying
the saying of Theophrastus, that the former pays large rent to the
latter for its dwelling.



A PREFACE,

MADE BY THE SECRETARY.


The following paper was read at a full meeting of the Junto, and
listened to with considerable attention: not more than a dozen falling
into a nodding doze during its reading. I was at a loss to account
for this interest, not knowing whether to ascribe it to the style
of the composition or to the manner of the reader, who frequently
indicated his delight, though perhaps at the expense of his charity,
by his insinuating emphasis of particular sentences. To be relieved
of my perplexity, I addressed the inquiry to a gentleman seated near
me, upon whose face I noticed a savage scowl, which had probably been
occasioned by his having heard too accurate a description of his own
character. Turning towards me, perhaps with the view of ascertaining
whether there was not a double meaning in my query, he gruffly replied:
“Neither style nor manner; but scandal, to be sure: the drowsiest cur
will prick its ears at scandal--the sluggard, be he never so sluggish,
never gapes when furnished with a dish well seasoned with its venom.”
That he was correct in this, I shall not here venture to record an
opinion; but certain it is, that at the conclusion he was the loudest
in applause of Peter’s dream, and the first to declare that “it was not
all a dream.” Notwithstanding this emphatic declaration, however, it
was soon ascertained, upon questioning the gentleman who had introduced
the paper, that it was, of a verity, what it purported to be. He had
received the manuscript of a friend, who had heard every incident
therein related from Peter Easy himself, and could not be mistaken.
This seemed to satisfy the curiosity of each, and it was therefore
generously decreed that the “Dream of a Loafer” should be allowed a
place amongst the records of the Association.

  S----Y.



THE DREAM OF A LOAFER.


It has often been matter of surprise to me, that the important and
truly philosophic individual upon whom the community has generously
conferred the title of “loafer,” should frequently be so little
appreciated as to receive no higher encomiums than such as he may be
able to extract from a laugh or a sneer. His title is certainly one of
dignity and distinction, and although many efforts have heretofore been
made to change it, and substitute the more refined and aristocratic
appellation of “gentleman of leisure,” he has ever, and very properly,
in my opinion, indignantly resisted such invidious encroachments upon
it. He has thoroughly examined its derivation, and fully investigated
its import, with all of which he has no reason to find fault, and
therefore remains perfectly content.

That the loafer is a meritorious personage, one fact alone should be
sufficient to satisfy the most doubting: he is always emphatically
a “self-made” man. By carefully studying excellent examples, which
have been increasing ever since the world began, and to which we are
promised many more bright additions, he seldom fails to attain a
great degree of perfection. Unfortunately, our civilization prevents
him from securing that renown to which he is fully able to establish
a just claim, and which had generally been freely granted to his
first predecessors. Should he presume to live, as it is reported of
our primitive ancestors, upon husks and acorns, we would quickly
pronounce him a madman, if for no other reason than because this would
demonstrate that he differed from us in taste, or was blessed with a
better organ of digestion! Should he diet upon raw beef, employ his
naked fingers and the hollow of his hand in preference to the many
table articles invented for our convenience, and now constantly used,
we would soon think it an act of charity to confine him in some lunatic
asylum, instead of immortalizing him as a philosopher! Civilization,
so much admired for the many comforts it has brought with it, has thus
resulted much more to his injury than benefit. If the dial of time
was set back some two or three thousand years, he is perhaps the
only one who would not lose by the change. In truth, civilization
and enlightenment, though he does not deny that they have greatly
benefitted others, are his most formidable enemies. It will therefore
be seen how unreasonable and ungenerous are those who condemn him for
doing nothing to advance either. These elements of modern society have
been the great cause of inducing many to doubt his usefulness, whilst
they have even impelled some seriously to question the necessity of
his existence. In proof of this, I may here state, that I once had a
very inquisitive and philosophic friend, now for several years gathered
to his fathers, whose death, it is said, was occasioned by too close
mental application in efforts to ascertain the usefulness and necessity
of a well-known micher, who was constantly to be seen at the village
tavern. Such, I have been assured, was the precise statement of his
physician, who likewise added, that he might perhaps have survived,
but for the many perplexing difficulties suggested to his mind by
the old command of the apostle, “that if any would not work, neither
should he eat.” This entire statement, however, was much questioned;
but then, those who doubted it, invariably remarked that the doctor,
having so well doctored my friend that he quickly died, had less
regard for the truth than solicitude for his professional skill.
This involves the whole matter in uncertainty, where I must leave it,
not because I belong to the school of the Pyrrhonists, those lying
doubters of old, but simply because the subject is too intricate, and
might perhaps prove as fatal to me as the one before alluded to did
to my worthy friend. Whatever may have been the cause of my friend’s
death, we must feel sorry that, if he was engaged upon so serviceable
a work, he was not permitted to complete it and present the result
of his labors to the world. The information might have proved of
considerable benefit to the philosophically inclined. Indeed, if he
had removed all possible doubt of the usefulness of such individuals,
and shown the real necessity of their existence in our society, a very
difficult problem, I must own, would have been solved. Such a favorable
solution, too, would have afforded much consolation to all of that
class, and might even have caused a great increase of their number. Of
one thing, at least, I am certain: it would have confirmed still more,
if such a thing be possible, the habits of an acquaintance of mine,
who resides in the same village with me. He is known to the villagers
by the designation of Easy Peter, but always writes his name, whenever
you can induce him to perform so much manual labor, PETER EASY. He is
descended from a family whose lineage has been traced to the Welsh and
Germans, of which stocks he is extremely fond of boasting. This, to me,
seems simply to illustrate an excellent trait in his character, for it
exhibits the respect he entertains for his forefathers. Some of the
villagers, however, ascribe his boasts to vanity; declaring that he is
as vain as a woman, and that if mythology had no Narcissus, he would
furnish it with an excellent one. That these are much out in their
reckoning, I am well persuaded; for should he become so enchanted with
the loveliness of his figure as to languish to death at the fountain in
which it might be reflected, they would be the first to attribute his
demise to sheer laziness,--a disease, which, fortunately, is not very
fatal, otherwise epidemics would never cease in the world.

Easy Peter may at all times be seen in our village. If he is not
found at the old log tavern at its eastern end, you are certain to
meet him at the tobacco house at its western extremity, where two
smoky youths have for several years been engaged in “rolling up”
the weed into form for the enjoyment of its devotees. I believe it
is the universal experience that all of Peter’s excellent habits
possess a great proclivity for places of this kind. Whether this may
be owing to a desire for idle associations, or simply to a love of
the articles retailed there, I am not well qualified to decide; but
whatever may be the cause operating upon Peter, he has a peculiar
affinity for these two places in our village, at which his enthusiasm
and verbosity frequently amuse and occasionally astonish his auditors.
It is true, no one seriously apprehends that any modern Festus will
ever impatiently accuse him of being made mad by “much learning,”
however prolific he may be in his speeches. He is in no such danger,
nor is it probable that he will ever earn the reputation of being wise
simply through being boisterous, although many have done so before
him. Always referring to the generous liberality ascribed to Socrates
as an illustration how men should use their knowledge, he even seeks
to surpass this much renowned ancient philosopher, whom he recognizes
as his worthy model, in the lavishness with which he dispenses
whatever he may happen to know. This, it must be acknowledged, is not
so exceedingly much; but then he always mixes it with a marvellous
amount of useless verbiage, principally drawn from his imagination
and his dreams. Herein, it will readily be conceded, he is not at all
singular, and only plays a part for which the times furnish innumerable
examples. The inhabitants of the village are all perfectly acquainted
with him and his habits, and he has therefore long since ceased to
disturb them, not from any reasons of his own, but simply because
they have learned not to heed him. It so happens, however, that we
are not unfrequently visited by strangers, and these invariably stare
with amazement whenever they encounter him at either of his favorite
places of resort. It may be supposed that in these magnanimous efforts
to entertain all who can be induced, from curiosity or other motives,
to while away an idle moment with him, he should naturally indulge
in denunciations against the world and its practices. This, I must
confess, is an inference not in the least repugnant to his habits; but
then he never finds fault from the mere pleasure, of doing so, in which
he is so very singular, that I must leave it to others to determine
whether he is in advance of the age or behind it.

Shortly after the hour of noon, on a certain summer day which will long
be remembered in this locality because of its excessive heat, a young
and sprightly farmer chanced to visit the village. His entrance seemed
to be regarded as an event somewhat remarkable, for so dull was the
season that no strange face had been seen by the villagers for several
weeks. Upon arriving at the tavern, having been curiously stared at
by the occupants of every building he had passed, he encountered
Peter, who immediately entered into heterogeneous conversation, if
that can be called conversation in which the talking is all on one
side. I will here venture the opinion, though cautiously, that it
may, for custom seems to have so decreed, and with few things has
custom had more to do. Having invented no new word fully adequate to
the occasion, and sufficiently expressive, we are led to submit to
its long continued acquiescence in the one now employed. Then, too,
excellent talkers could never consent to change this form of expression
for any other less creditable to themselves, and the good listener
may find sufficient to reconcile himself to it in the remark of old
Simonides, who declared that he had frequently repented of having said
too much, but never of having remained silent. Notwithstanding the
apparent determination to exclude the possibility of a stray word from
the new comer, Peter’s conduct had something of novelty in it to the
stranger which at once induced him patiently to listen. Of course, this
attention was highly pleasing to the talker, for several weeks had
been a very long period for him to remain, on account of the dullness
of the season, in that silence to which the villagers had doomed him
by common consent, under the impression that time spent with him was
unprofitably and irretrievably cast away. When, therefore, he was
invited by the young man to a seat in his conveyance, Peter had no
hesitancy in accepting, and not until they had left the village several
miles behind, did he ascertain that the stranger had no intention of
returning to it again. He now first bethought himself of the ridiculous
blunder he had made in not having informed himself of this fact before.
In this sad plight, very sad indeed to him, he slowly dismounted from
the vehicle, and commenced pondering upon the best means to get back
again to the tavern he had so incautiously left at the bidding of the
stranger. To walk so great a distance he would at any time have looked
upon as an exceedingly laborious task, but in the awful heat of that
day the idea was too terrible to be entertained. At length he concluded
to trust to his luck, which had sometimes favored him, although he
had frequently complained of its hard decrees, thinking that chance
might perhaps send some conveyance that way, through which he could
return to the village. I should be greatly gratified to be able to
say, that in Peter Easy I had found the man who never lamented over
his fate, and who never affirmed that he was the “unluckiest fellow
in the world;” but I cannot claim the credit of having made so happy
a discovery. Whether that fortunate individual has ever set a foot of
real flesh and bone upon earthly soil, is most extremely doubtful;
yet all will confide in their better destiny, as did Peter in the
present instance, though the certainty of disappointment may seem to
stare them in the face. Cheered by so comfortable a hope, he seated
himself by the roadside, beneath the shady branches of a ponderous
tree, and not feeling just then like the young lady who always “dreaded
to retire to bed because she could not talk in her sleep,” he was
soon lazily spread out full length upon the sod. He had not been long
in this posture, before he found gradually stealing over him a dull
and oppressive stupor, which may have owed its origin to a hearty and
undigested dinner, for in his case the saying of the wise man did
not yet apply--“slothfulness casteth into a deep sleep, and an idle
soul shall suffer hunger.” Fortunately for him, his father had been a
careful and judicious man, and thus placed him beyond the calamity of
the latter portion of the proverb, which his habits might otherwise
have reaped; and I much question whether he had ever been so blessed
as to realize the truth of the former by experience. In this state
of unconsciousness, verging unto sleep, he had a dream, which he has
since so often related that it must be very widely known. At least,
such is the inference of the villagers, who suppose that it has been
honored with frequent repetitions by some of the many strangers who
have visited the village since this eventful day in Peter’s life,
none of whom could escape hearing it either in whole or by parcels. I
shall here endeavor to narrate it, though conscious that much of its
effect must necessarily be lost through the absence of his manner and
gestures, which no human skill could transfer upon paper; nor can I
give it precisely in his own words, for reasons which I must withhold,
leaving the reader, however, at liberty to supply such as may best suit
his fancy.

Easy Peter, not so exceedingly easy at the time, imagined in his dream
that some supernatural power had suddenly seized him. From whence it
had come, he could not divine, but it gradually transported him beyond
the confines of earth into another world. This so much resembled our
own, that had he awoke here, he positively affirms, he should not have
been able to discover the least difference. He was not as fortunate as
the man who “dreamed that there was no credit to be given to dreams;”
and strange enough, in his conscious hours, he defends this fanciful
excursion of his momentary slumber as a substantial truth. It has been
so effectually impressed upon his mind, that he speaks of it, not as
the deceptive experience of a dream, but as a real adventure. The
first thing that attracted his attention in this new sphere, was the
variety of employments at which he found the people engaged. A French
philosopher declares, that they are mean souls who are so buried in
business as not to know that the most glorious and principal work of
man is to live well; and as Peter gazed upon the continual efforts and
ceaseless struggles here exhibited, he could not refrain from indulging
in somewhat similar reflections. Scarcely an occasional pause was to
be observed in the general commotion, so intent did each appear upon
some object that hurried him on.--Amongst these eager scramblers,
running to and fro in hot haste, chasing every chimera supposed to
hold out a promise, Peter’s eyes detected one who at once claimed his
entire attention. He was as ugly as a Theban sphynx, lean and lank,
his very gait giving evidence of his cunning and treachery, whilst
his countenance, if it mirrored what was passing in the soul, plainly
cried out, “Money, money! at whatever cost or consequence, I must
have money!” A worthy illustration of the heartless miser, who seeks
for nothing but the gratification of his insatiable desire, he never
hesitated to inflict a wrong, or crush a soul, to obtain possession
of a shilling. The French Vandille, to save the extra expense of
three bleedings at three pence each, let out the four and twenty
ounces of blood at a single operation, thus purchasing his death at a
sixpence--certainly a very cheap transaction. He had his counterpart
in this avaricious wretch, who, Peter positively affirms, would have
added another four and twenty ounces for the gratification of feasting
his eyes upon the glitter of a shekel. “Had he lived,” said a stranger,
“in the days of Eumolpus, he would have been an excellent subject for
remembrance in the will of that whimsical fellow, who ordered that
all to whom he gave legacies, besides his children, should receive
them upon condition that they cut up his body and eat it before the
people.” “Many,” replied Peter, “have waded through disgust to wealth;
and for a trifle, he would never have paused until he had munched it
up entirely.” His miserly propensities urged him to the violation of
every principle, the sacrifice of every virtue that happened to come
in contact with them; and thus he pursued his daily course, still
adding to his store as he lost of his manhood. How very ridiculous it
is, thought Peter in his dream, that men will grasp and grasp without
stopping to ask a question, and thereby only increase the certainty
of being eventually grasped themselves, by most unwelcome clutches,
without being allowed the time to answer any.

Turning from this wretched specimen of humanity, Peter recognised
another who was no less busy, and who seemed as ambitious as Phæton
or Icarus, determined to set the world in a blaze, or what appeared
more likely to happen, break his own neck in his aspiring flights. He
knew of no medium by which to be controlled, and would even have found
pleasure in the reputation of being a fool; but, unfortunately, Hobbes
spoke truth when he said, that “without learning it is impossible for
any man to be either excellently wise or excellently foolish.” Herein
he was deficient, and the “number of common fools far exceeding that of
wise men,” as a German author observes, they were rendered so general
and were so frequently encountered that even this prospect of securing
celebrity promised him nothing. Moved by his “wild distemper” he forgot
the realities by which he was surrounded, and in his impetuosity to
climb up the crooked ladder of distinction, he was hurried to the most
extravagant excesses. Erostratus, to obtain renown, fired the temple
of Diana, but the Ephesians, to bury his memory in eternal oblivion,
prohibited the mention of his name under the penalty of death. This
individual, if not yet driven to such extremities to gratify his
passion, could nevertheless foresee, in the satiric ridicule certain to
follow his mad endeavors, sufficient cause to “go and hang himself out
of sheer mortification.” Such, thought Peter, not unfrequently, is the
melancholy end of the zealot, when his zeal triumphs over his judgment
and dethrones his reason.

As he was watching the manœuvres and expedients of this not uncommon
character, a party of gentlemen suddenly intervened between his vision
and the subject of his gaze. They were all so exceedingly merry that
Peter felt anxious to join in their sport, and declares that he should
have done so had he not been deterred by seeing one of them slyly and
skilfully sliding his hands into the pockets of another, where, he
quite reasonably supposed, it had no business. This was an exploit the
like of which he had never witnessed before; but having frequently
heard of the practices of a learned profession, he immediately
concluded that this cunning villain was a lawyer, so prone are we to
form opinions from general reputation. He soon after discovered his
error, however, for the loud “hue and cry” that met his ears, very
distinctly informed him that upon this world there were pocket pickers
and robbers as well as upon our own, showing that we cannot claim these
blessings as belonging exclusively to us. Inference, thought Peter, is
a very uncertain thing, as often unjust as it is mistaken, and he asked
of himself whether it had ever assigned to him a place in the category
of rogues. Of this he might have been satisfied, for it has not yet
been shown that any has ever escaped such imputations, and we can only
be surprised that so many are foolish enough to manifest doubtful
anxiety in a matter of which each may be so certain.

Another, who was hurrying along with all possible speed, and whose
wild appearance seemed to attract general notice, now claimed Peter’s
attention. Not in the least regarding his late experience, he at once
concluded that this was a madman, in which he was again partially
mistaken. Following after, it was not long before he discovered him
to be an eminent physician, visiting a patient to whom he had the day
before administered a dose, and who was now in his last agonies. “A
wretched, bungling quack! a quack, sir,” exclaimed a young physician,
who became irritated at our dreamer as he was declaiming upon this
portion of his dream. “Perhaps,” replied a stranger, “the people of
that sphere are stupid enough to follow the practice that caused the
uncivil jest of Fabius of Bentivoglio, who, on his way to manufacture a
doctor, by chance espied an ass yawning with open mouth as if he were
laughing. To whom, ‘why laugh you,’ says Fabius, ‘you silly creature?
we can make you a doctor too, if you have but money.’” However this may
have been, the great haste of the physician was matter of surprise to
Peter, who could not understand why a professor, whose business it was
to assist people to get out of the world with ease, should be so much
concerned for the life of a single patient. His wonder, however, soon
subsided upon being furnished with reason to believe that the man of
medicine was a more careful student of the Talmud and the Rabbins than
of his profession, and that he had not been running for the good of the
sick, but for his own fee, which was of infinitely greater importance.
Many a one, thought Peter, is rendering service to the devil, even
at the very time that we may think him engaged in works of superior
excellence.

Easy Peter now lost sight of the physician, but his place was filled by
a straight, slender, and serious looking individual, who was holding
forth in a magnificent building, which had evidently been erected with
a due regard to lodging accommodations. It required nothing beyond
what he saw to inform him that this was a preacher in his fashionable
temple. Peter had seen few men, notwithstanding his extensive
intercourse with the world, who had the faculty of assuming so saintly
an appearance as this one, and he therefore determined to follow him
home. The holy man had scarcely descended from the pulpit before Peter
saw an illustration of how much easier it was to preach humility than
to practice it, and felt how few, even of the priesthood, really
understood the saying of the essayist, that “the souls of kings and
cobblers were cast in the same mould.” To show obeisance to the one,
however guilty and degraded by vice he may be, is easy, and honorable,
and an imitation of Jesus: to shake hands with the other, and seek to
reclaim him by magnanimous and friendly fellowship, is countenancing
and encouraging “publicans and sinners.” To greet with the pleasant
social smile, and the exhibition of generous solicitude, the poor and
ragged parishioner, is changing religion into levity, and “walking in
the counsel of the ungodly, and standing in the way of sinners:” to
fawn upon and court the favor and association of the more fortunate
worshipper, who seldom ever rises from his knees until he has planned
some new scheme to play the villain towards his fellow, is “exhorting
one another daily, while it is called to-day,” or taking “sweet counsel
together, and walking unto the house of God in company.” Peter was not
a little surprised, upon reaching the residence of the minister, to
discover how much better he was fitted to declaim upon the beauties of
charity than to practice magnanimity and forbearance in his own house.
This, thought he, is not the only one who, to obtain skill in lecturing
the public, exercises himself at the expense of his family’s comfort
and happiness.

Peter became interested in the private habits of this reverend
gentleman, and would gladly have remained to ascertain yet more
concerning them, but being unable to direct the course of his dream,
he was unfortunately compelled to follow a melancholy creature who
happened just then to cross his dreamy path. True, he had somewhere
read or heard that melancholy men were naturally endowed with greater
genius than those blessed with more volatile dispositions, and he
therefore expected to gain from this new subject what he had missed by
losing the other. He was led to a large and splendid establishment,
which he regarded as being certainly much better calculated to produce
comfort and happiness than melancholy. He had scarcely entered, before
he heard a harsh, shrill voice re-echoing through the house, and when
the termagant, who seemed to have inherited from nature a perfect right
to its possession, made her appearance, he could not help repeating to
himself the proverb of Solomon, “_It is_ better to dwell in a corner
of the house-top, than with a brawling woman in a wide house.” “What
an excellent Tatianian he would have made,” remarked a pert young lady
of the village, who would sometimes honor Peter with a few moments of
her attention, and to whom the thought of such unfortunate husbands
always afforded matter for merriment. “Why so?” anxiously queried
Peter, who could not fathom her meaning. “Because they maintained that
all, except themselves, were damned through mother Eve, and that women
were made by the devil, to the latter of which tenets your hen-pecked
vision could no doubt have sworn with the strictest of the sect.”
“Notwithstanding such were their origin, we would treasure them,” added
another. “Proving,” replied she, “that the gifts from that quarter are
preferred, and that there is no justice in your complaints when the
penalty is to be paid.” Peter was naturally somewhat sympathetic, and
would gladly have condoled with this melancholy man in his affliction,
but the domestic pest kept too strict a watch to permit it. He
apprehended the consequences likely to follow, should he presume too
much, and therefore wisely concluded not to cause the reigning spirit
of the mansion to “pass still more the equilibrium of her balance.” He
reflected how indiscreet it is to interfere in matters of this kind,
and remembering the advice of the old poet, he thought it judicious not
to disregard it:

  “Have pity on yourself, and, though you’re stout
  As mastiff breed, don’t take a bear by th’ snout.”

As a spectator, Peter Easy would not have objected to remain in this
splendid establishment of domestic misery, with the view of obtaining
some practical knowledge of matrimonial life. He had not ventured
out of single blessedness himself, for which he never gave any other
reason than that he had been predestinated a bachelor. In this he was
believed by many of the villagers, but others continued to maintain
that his single blessedness was simply owing to his aversion to the
trouble necessarily encountered in visiting and courting for a wife.
To this he would only reply, that although he could not, like the old
Thracians and Assyrians, rise from his bed in the morning, attend
the market with his purse, and return in the evening with one of the
fairest and most enchanting maids in the kingdom; nor coolly exchange,
for a lovely and bewitching partner, “one hundred and twenty pounds
of tobacco, cash,” the value of the best article, as was the practice
of his good-natured ancestors, he yet lived in an age affording equal
if not greater matrimonial facilities. “Now,” he would declare, “no
little of the labor of visiting and courting is voluntarily assumed by
the ladies themselves, through ten thousand modest expedients which
their ingenuity has invented; and should this prove insufficient,
why, it is the easiest matter in the world to pick up a wife on any
day of the year upon any highway in the country.” Concluding his
bachelor prejudices to be real, they quite naturally induced him to
believe that in the domestic affairs of this magnificent mansion, he
could see the fruits and consequences of marriage in their true and
proper light. Fortune, however, was inclined to deal more favorably
with him, and his attention was arrested by a handsome young man who
hurried from the building as if anxious to escape the unpleasant sounds
of the voice within. Peter followed him as he walked leisurely and
contentedly along, until he came to his residence, which was a small,
yet handsomely arranged and neatly furnished building. As the young
man opened the door, his pretty young wife was the first to meet and
welcome him with her cheerful countenance and happy smiles, and then
they so lovingly embraced each other, that Peter’s heart, though long
a stranger to such feelings, impulsively began to respond to theirs.
He turned away, perhaps to check its beatings, but now affirms he did
so simply to resolve this astounding mystery; for it was his firm
conviction, based upon his own extensive observation, that marriages
were formed with no other design than that of providing for the parties
a proper and convenient person with whom to fight and quarrel whenever
inclination prompted. “It was well to turn away,” replied the pert
young lady before alluded to, “for your eyes should never be permitted
to feast upon so holy a scene. Like all of your bachelor kin, you
‘are not worthy to see a man first in the morning,’ as the saying of
the Benjins used to have it. The unhappy Dido, who pronounced you a
pack of brutes, spoke only the truth; and you deserve no better fate
than that decreed by the Spartan ruler, who ordained that all of your
species should be excluded from the sports and dances of the women, and
compelled to run up and down the Forum, unclad and freezing, singing
songs in dishonor of themselves.” “Surely,” replied Peter, “rather
than endure so rigorous a discipline or punishment, each of us would
follow Luther’s jest, and carve unto himself an obedient wife out of
a block of stone; or if that would not suffice, perhaps profit by the
example of Henry VIII., and ‘put his neck into the yoke, as the only
remedy,’ though the spouse provided for him should prove to be nothing
but ‘a great Flander’s mare.’” When Peter again looked upon the young
couple, they were comfortably seated together, and both seemed still to
enjoy the “tender caress” just as much as they could have done in their
wooing days; but this was so contrary to his previous observation,
and so conflicted with his theory, that he sadly misinterpreted their
conduct. He had forgotten the advice of a friend who had repeatedly
warned him against indiscriminately venturing opinions upon matters
concerning which he was entirely ignorant, lest he might find frequent
cause to repent of his errors; for should he happen to be right once
in a hundred times, he would certainly be more fortunate than the
rest of mankind generally are. He accordingly gives it as his settled
opinion, that these two visions of his dream were so addicted to such
demonstrations of affection that they could not avoid indulging in
them, nor be very particular towards whom they were exhibited. Such
practices, Peter declares, are so very common; and he even presumes to
account through them for the habits of tenderness which some married
people happen to acquire. He could, therefore, not well decide which
were the most blessed--this apparently well satisfied couple, or the
pair he had seen at the splendid mansion, under the lowering of a
domestic storm.

When Peter emerged from the cottage, he came into a dreary street,
studded with rows of dilapidated houses on either side, each of which
seemed to give ample evidence of the wretchedness existing within. Here
he encountered three “ministers of mercy,” who visited this locality
on pretence of relieving the wants and distresses of the people. Their
holy mission at once arrested his attention, and claimed his regard.
How happy the influence of charity, reflected he, coming like the sweet
sympathy of angels to bless this suffering community. It was a maxim
of Plato, that the “end and aim of all human actions is some good;”
and in no other channel can more be accomplished than in the one in
which these seemingly worthy men appeared to be engaged. Who can ponder
upon the mission of the noble vivandiere, the providence of the French
soldier, as he sees her following the camp, extending to the weak and
weary, the disabled and fatigued, the hand of help and hospitality,
without feeling how small are all things compared with human sympathy
and love? Her self-sacrificing and sublime benignity,--attending the
rough warrior in his danger, relieving him when in want, aiding him
when in distress, ministering to him in sickness, tenderly raising
him when he falls upon the field of carnage and providing a place of
safety, binding his wounds with her salves, her balsams, and her rolls
of soft linen, and freely sharing her delicacies, her smiles, and her
good wishes,--gives us a foretaste of that eternity of bliss which
shall be the just reward of the good, after a separation from the
blighting struggles, and contentions, and jealousies of human life. How
well for the world were each a vivandiere, alike in peace and in war!
What suffering would be driven from our midst, what misery averted,
what wretchedness reclaimed, what happiness dispensed around! Peter
imagined he here saw an imitation of her example, and it acted like
a charm upon his easy nature. How sad, then, was the sudden change
of his feelings when he discovered his mistake, and ascertained that
these were nothing but shrewd pretenders after all, who had succeeded,
by cunning and hypocrisy, to secure somewhat of a reputation for
honesty and charity. Affecting religiously to help the poor, they were
only magnanimously helping themselves, at the expense of the little
generosity left in the community. How often, thought he, do people
obtain credit for possessing a “big heart” just because they have none
at all?

Peter was no longer inclined to follow these unworthy administrators
of the public bounty, and turning round he beheld a small, hump-backed
individual, who at once excited his interest. There was something
peculiarly repulsive in this man’s countenance, which invariably
prompted all who came in contact with him to put their hands into
their pockets and their fingers upon their purses. Peter was not
long in ascertaining that he was a broker and usurer, who, following
his profession in the midst of these poor and humble creatures,
seemed to fatten upon their poverty as does the vulture upon its
unfortunate prey. Whenever Peter relates this incident of his dream,
he declaims with all the vehemence he possesses. These inhuman and
unfeeling wretches, he declares, are the most formidable servants of
the devil, and always inherit his qualities to so eminent a degree
that no stranger could distinguish the servants from the master. As
the hawk pounces upon the helpless and trembling little sparrow, they
fasten their greedy talons upon the tatters of a ragged dress with
inextricable clutch; and as the savage beast licks the gore of its
victim, they suck the blood of theirs until crimson to the dewlap and
purple to the elbows. Pandora let loose her horde of evils to trouble
the world, said the heathens. The Christian acknowledges that God has
not so restricted the power of Satan as to prevent him from sending
his scourges upon the earth, of which he has liberally availed himself
by establishing his agents in the form of usurers and brokers in every
section of the world. Of old, they were justly regarded as little
better than murderers, and decidedly worse than thieves; for, says Cato
in Cicero, “our ancestors enacted in their laws, that a thief should
be condemned to pay double, but an usurer quadruple.” The Jew has at
least bigotry and prejudice, inherited from his fathers for nearly
two thousand years, to offer as an excuse when he robs the Gentile,
and yet it is a common saying, “that every day he takes an oath to
do what he can to cheat the Christians;” but these indiscriminately
plunder heathen and Christian, exhibiting no emotion beyond a satanic
chuckle over their success. They are ravenous pests who speculate upon
poverty and misfortune, and digest the misery around them with savage
glee--knaves who, for want of souls themselves, seek to crush the
souls of the unfortunate and distressed, apparently finding happiness
in their agonies, and nectar in their tears. Ah! thought Peter, what
worthy denizens of the pit they will make, and what amusement they will
afford to their master in their efforts to prey upon each other, for
doubtlessly they will follow their unrighteous trade, as the only one
fit to be pursued in hell!

Easy Peter regarded this as truly an afflicted street when he was
drawn from the usurer to the rendezvous of the speculators. Amid the
wretchedness and poverty of this locality, there was an abundance of
ill-gotten gain, as he had sufficient opportunity to witness. These new
visions of his dream had assembled for the purpose of making a renewed
effort in their swindling schemes, and were engaged in revolving
their plans with evident satisfaction. Brigands have their leaders,
pirates their captains, and these, brigands and pirates sanctioned by
society, had their master spirit too. The common bands of freebooters
generally select as their chiefs the most desperate and daring amongst
them--these had elevated the most heartless to equal distinction.
Peter watched them framing their lies, and fortifying them with
plausibility, and pronounced the loathsome mass a fit dish for public
gullibility to digest. Here were schemes for particular purposes and
special individuals--there preparations for each, however large or
limited his means. Their enterprises had but a single basis: a design
to enrich themselves, at whatever cost to their fellows. This one end
had swallowed up every principle of integrity, every entity in morals,
every sympathetic impulse of the heart. The misery and distress, the
tears, and suffering, and despair, necessarily occasioned by their
deceptions, and frauds, and robberies, never disturbed their quiet,
but were simply regarded as pleasing comicalities to amuse them whilst
pocketing the plunder. Homer assures us that the profession of the
robber was regarded as glorious by some of the ancients, and Plutarch
informs us that amongst the Spaniards his exploits passed for gallant
adventures. Though we punish the bold and daring rogue, without making
the least allowance for his hair-breadth escapes, the treacherous
plunderer in our midst, who does not even possess the redeeming
trait of physical courage, receives our countenance and esteem. As
Peter was witnessing this excellent illustration of selfishness and
thievery, which a credulous people first pay dearly for and then
honor, their operations were interrupted for a moment by the entrance
of the Chief, or President of the band, in company with a well-to-do
looking individual, on whose arm he was affectionately leaning. They
had been friends for many years, and through the false yet plausible
representations of the former, the latter soon fell into the snare.
Unsuspectingly he became the victim to their designs, and though he
left perfectly content, another revolution of the earth was certain
to find him a bankrupt. It is true, reflected Peter, that villany is
often disguised under the garb of friendship, and where we most confide
suspicion is most required.

Peter now heard a great noise in the street, and hurrying to the place
from whence it proceeded, he witnessed a grand display of pugilistic
skill. What had given origin to the quarrel he was unable to ascertain,
yet so bitter was the rage of the antagonists, who numbered some dozen
or more, that it had already lasted a considerable time, nor did it
seem to be in the least abating. There were but two spectators to the
scene, one of whom appeared to be much frightened and concerned, and
was using every persuasion to pacify the heated combatants. The other
looked calmly on, perfectly composed at what he saw, until unable to
contain himself any longer, he approached his friend and very mildly
addressed him: “Sir, I crave your pardon for having been amused at
your generous but mistaken efforts to quell this foolish quarrel. You
must know that there are those in this strange world of ours who have
totally blunted every feeling of refinement, and utterly destroyed
whatever moral sensibility they may once have possessed. Upon such your
honest appeals are always in vain. That they should not be entirely
placed beneath mortality, however, God has kindly endowed them with a
physical sensibility, through which you may often successfully reach
their depraved minds and obdurate hearts. You have appealed to the
moral feelings of these rioters to no purpose; and now, to demonstrate
what I have said, let me ascertain what impression can be made upon
their physical sensibilities.” Thus saying, he threw off a portion of
his cumbersome apparel, and giving notice that he had watched their
proceedings for upwards of an hour, he declared that the battle must
now be ended. This proving ineffectual, he entered into their midst,
and making several (to use a technical phrase,) “feel the unpleasant
weight of his fists,” he soon dispersed the boisterous crowd. An odd
mode, thought Peter, of making peace, yet in this instance a very
effectual one.

Immediately after quiet had been restored, the street suddenly became
very populous, and Peter’s attention was arrested by the occupant of
a splendid conveyance, who was industriously engaged in answering the
polite recognitions that greeted him from every side. That this was a
personage of no little distinction seemed so evident that Peter asked
of the first passer-by what place of trust or honor he filled to such
general satisfaction. The inquiry simply elicited the information that
he was a private gentleman, who had succeeded in amassing great wealth
by taking usury from the poor, and selling worthless stocks to all whom
he could deceive into a purchase. He was but one of many illustrations
of what Juvenal has written,

  “That sins alike unlike rewards have found,
  And whilst this villain’s hang’d, the other’s crowned.”

Though every one knew him to be a rogue and a thief, the good condition
in which his practices had placed him, secured public obeisance. What a
multitude of sins, thought Peter, can be covered by a coach, and what
monstrous respect we extend to the knave when blessed with the smiles
of fortune!

Turning from the occupant of the coach, Peter beheld a singularly
ludicrous, but withal a very distressing spectacle. A poor,
poverty-cursed creature was dying of starvation, whilst a wealthy
gentleman, who had been pitying him for days, was tenderly bending over
him and deploring his great distress, but could not so much open his
heart as to reach into his well-filled purse and draw forth a paltry
dollar to give relief. Strange, thought Peter, that men will whine, and
fret, and lament, over human misery and suffering, and yet so fastly
clutch a shilling as not to use it freely in obtaining aid and giving
succour.

As Peter was gazing upon this unhappy scene, a smiling little gentleman
crossed his path, whom he was now compelled to follow. This interesting
individual appeared to be the friend of all whom he encountered, being
exceedingly social and affable. His friendly greetings were always
returned with the same politeness, though frequently with much less
affection. He had acquired a great reputation for benevolence, which
so elicited Peter’s esteem that he was pleased with every mark of
attention exhibited towards him. It was a maxim of the Stoics that
“men were, for the sake of men, brought into the world, that they
might assist and benefit each other,” and Peter fancied he here saw
one, at least, who lived up to this magnanimous aphorism. This good
opinion, however, was suddenly changed upon reaching his residence and
discovering that he was the head of a mongrel banking institution, and
so well adapted to his business that he experienced little difficulty
in defrauding and plundering his customers, even whilst swearing how
much he designed to befriend them. He was extremely pleasant to all in
front of the counter, and though profusely lavish and exceedingly fair
in promises, these were only made to afford him amusement in devising
the most ingenious modes in which to break them. He had long robbed
the State of its just portion of the dividends, used the funds of the
institution in fraudulent transactions, and placed them out secretly
at usury. After thus plundering thousands, he very generously gave
a little of the booty in charity to the poor. How very easy it is,
thought Peter, to win a good name, if you but know how to play the
hypocrite behind a fortune.

When Peter emerged from the bank, his eyes encountered a character
whose odd appearance at once challenged his notice. He seemed to “take
the world extremely easy,” being quite philosophic in his indifference
to passing events, yet prided himself upon always rendering full
justice to mankind, and their good and evil practices, their virtues
and their vices, their errors and their follies. Peter ascertained that
he had been suddenly raised, by some fortunate occurrence, from abject
poverty to considerable wealth. The cruel manner in which he had been
neglected when poor by many whose flatteries now daily greeted him,
had somewhat soured his disposition; and although he was generous to
those who had once befriended him, he felt little sympathy for the
rest of the species. Peter learned that he had engaged to give to a
stranger, who contemplated removing his residence to that place, some
knowledge of the people, their character and habits. Nothing could have
been more gratifying to Peter Easy, so he kept close to his heels until
he arrived at the corner of one of the principal streets, the place
appointed for their meeting, where he found the stranger in waiting.

There, said he to the stranger, as a poor, though apparently happy
individual passed by, is a personation of honesty. With such a man, the
old peasants used to say, “one may safely play at mora in the dark.”
This, however, is a very questionable compliment in our day, and has
brought him nothing but poverty as his reward, than which few evils
could be greater under our present social organization. Possessed of
a good nature, and feeling a proper interest in the welfare of his
friends, he never refused to extend his helping hand, until he has been
placed in the deplorable condition of being compelled to hunt for aid
himself. A task, thought Peter, which Pluto should have devised for
human punishment, instead of providing a hades.

The short gentleman, continued he, who has just passed, is an honored
and skilful follower of a profession which has acquired considerable
note in the world, though now it must be practiced secretly. What has
occasioned this interdict is not easily discovered. Should you say to
that gentleman that an improved moral public opinion caused it, he
would merrily take your arm, and by leading you to a number of highly
respectable resorts, soon show you how much, at least in practice, the
majority is on the other side. It is said of the old Germans, that in
their passion for gaming, they often staked their persons upon a die,
and if unsuccessful, patiently became slaves. The world has made of
human life nothing but an uncertain game, in which the shrewdest cheats
frequently obtain the greatest honor. No wonder, then, that many who
would not purchase heaven by a little inconvenience, never hesitate to
follow in the German’s wake, profiting if successful, and enduring if
unlucky. That gentleman’s skill has thus far saved him. When he first
came amongst us, one of his bachelor kin was reputed wealthy, whilst
he was designated as the only heir. Notwithstanding his professional
practices, which were of course not taken into account, he married a
most respectable citizen’s daughter, who had long been angling for an
heir: but the bargain has proved an unprofitable one after all. His
wealthy kin, becoming intimate with his pretty housekeeper, eventually
married her--thus establishing a different order of succession. Ah,
thought Peter, “the best laid plans o’ men and mice gang aft aglie,”
and the foolish dreams of fickle maidens often end in a life of good
repentance.

Yonder, sir, is another professional gentleman, but his profession is
of a different cast. He mistook his calling, and without possessing
any brain, desired to become a lawyer, but has failed even to make a
tolerable pettifogger. I am assured that his teacher, who swore that
his skull was so “miserably thick” that scarcely an idea could be
battered into it, constantly importuned and urged him to venture upon
some learned profession, having been fully persuaded, from observation,
that the stupidity which he so eminently possessed, was one of the
most essential qualifications for such an undertaking. I have advised
him to turn his attention to medicine, as being better suited to his
calibre, and in which he might perhaps prove more prosperous, or at
least find greater security for his deficiencies. He still clings to
his profession, however, and having thus far maintained his dignity by
constant calls upon his acquaintances, he is now prepared to cheat them
all. A practice, thought Peter, quite common, but no one need expect
to pass through the world without contributing his quota towards
supporting the drones that are in it.

There, sir, you may rest assured you see a moral man. Never mind his
rags, for you must know that young men, morality, and fine linen,
seldom go together in this world, where fathers invite libertines
to their houses, where mothers welcome the attentions paid to their
daughters by noted debauchees, and where young maidens themselves
prefer a smile from wealthy licentiousness to a nod from virtuous
poverty. Though he is neither Godwardly nor manwardly crooked,
which should secure him esteem in a world of such great pretence
to excellence, he has sufficiently experienced that virtue, when
contrasted only with its present social rewards, is but an “empty name,
a phantom, an abject slave, exposed to the insults of fortune,” as
the dying Roman Stoic has declared. He has been tempted enough, but
relying upon the self-approval which has never abandoned him, this has
only made him a more shining example. I proclaim to you, upon better
authority than my own, that there is a resting place provided for the
troubled, and that men like he will inherit it. Thanks, thought Peter,
for the happy prospect of adding another to the names in my little
volume. [Here it must be explained that Peter had long kept a small
book, in which he had written the names of all whom he personally
encountered during his life, and who, he supposed, might stand a
respectable chance of profiting by the exchange of worlds to be made
at their last gasp; but thus far he had occasion to call it into
requisition only on three several occasions. The third time, however,
having discovered his own deception, he used it to amend by erasing one
of the names previously registered there.]

You see yonder group of three: the one is a petty printer, the other an
unscrupulous politician, and the third an independent voter. Altogether
there is wit enough amongst them to make one tolerable fool, and heart
enough to make one paltry villain. The first endeavors to persuade the
public that the second is an honest and patriotic citizen, for which he
receives the common rewards of the political toady: a pleasant smile
and lavish promises to begin,--a bitter curse, worse treachery, and a
parting kick, to end; the other has already been in office for a time,
and has stolen sufficient for another campaign; whilst the third is
just preparing to increase his shouts for the good of the country, for
which he demands a greater indulgence to his appetites. The palate is a
marvellous channel through which to obtain distinction and preferment,
an easy manufactory of good opinion, extorting pledges of eternal
friendship with astonishing rapidity, and clinching a kind conclusion
with emphatic precision. The old maxim has it, that “you may easily
pin down a fellow’s nose to a full table,” and much of the success
and distinction in the world has no better basis. The aspirant yonder
knows full well how to avail himself of this one of our good-natured
imperfections, and having duped the people once, through its aid and
the assistance of his companions, this success has emboldened him to
make another effort. Beware of them all, for though they may be loud in
their declamations and vociferous in their patriotic demonstrations,
they still answer Seneca’s description,--“their liberty consists
principally in stuffing their bellies”--and may yet incur the general
ridicule instead of obtaining the public plunder. The most serious
public matters, you know, are often made the merest farces, and the
frequent promotion of knaves as often incurs no paltry penalties, as
you may learn from that red-faced individual approaching this way.
“Mankind,” says an old philosopher, “are not so happy, as that the best
things shall have the most patrons and defenders;” and notwithstanding
the habits of that officer, he has been elevated to the chief position
of this place, and now sits in judgment upon all offenders. His first
morning task is to meet his friends at the “Stag’s Head” yonder, his
second to feast upon and imbibe the wherewith to maintain his ruddy
hue, and his third to reel to his office, open his judicial council,
and dispose of the drunken or offending creatures who may have been
taken into custody during the night, not so much for ill behaviour
as to provide a paltry fee for the police. Of course, a police whose
rewards depend upon the number of unfortunate creatures that may fall
into their clutches, cannot be remarkably cautious upon whom they
exercise their authority, nor measure personal freedom by any very
exact or liberal scale. Nothing beyond the prospect of a few picayunes,
thought Peter, is required to make men’s vision double, and cause them
to discover heinous offences where the disinterested and humane only
see matter for merriment or pity.

Here comes a peculiar organization of human qualities. Avarice,
prodigality, and falsehood, are that man’s principal characteristics--a
combination of inconsistent vices which make him rather a petty fool
than a sensible knave, to which latter distinction he seems to aspire.
To day he will clutch a shilling with a grasp so powerful that nothing
can extort it, and to-morrow he will contract a debt to gratify the
most paltry vice that may move him. Should he happen to get into your
debt upon such an occasion, he will not be at a loss for lies to evade
your demand. When Mareschal de Rochelaure was accused of taking part
with the Duke of Mayenne, he answered the king that he “did not follow
the duke, but his own money, for his debt would be but in a desperate
condition, if he did not stick close to his debtor.” Your tenacity
in sticking close to that man would only extort from him the same
falsehood a thousand times, and if detected and reproached, he would
coolly ask you whether you were so cursed a fool as to believe him! He
never enjoys a hearty laugh, save when he has duped some unsuspecting
individual who may have been induced to confide in him.----You need not
be surprised at his quick and sudden disappearance around the corner;
for yonder comes his especial friend, the collector, who has caused
him to tell more lies than a dozen of satan’s imps could register in a
year, and make more clumsy dodges than could be chronicled in a volume
as large as a quarto Bible. Of all dreaded things in our place, that
collector is the most dreaded. He is a clever, sociable, and amusing
fellow, who first puts you in a happy humor by his joviality, and
then draws the money from your purse before you are aware of it. He
was quite a favorite a few years ago, his society being universally
courted, but since he has engaged in his present employment every body
dodges and runs from him. My dear sir, if you wish to preserve your
friendly intercourse with a neighborhood, never become a collector;
but should you ever be beset with more friends than you know what to
do with, I know of no honorable process by which you can so easily get
rid of them as by commencing this troublesome business. However brave
a people may be, reflected Peter, they have never yet had the courage
boldly to face a bill, and many who had laughed danger in the face,
skulked like cowards into the darkest corner upon beholding the simple
shadow of a creditor.

You observe yonder lynx-eyed individual moving slowly along. He sees
all that is passing within vision around him. His two eyes seem to
answer the purposes of a hundred, and are constantly in motion.
Although everything within their range falls under their quick and
penetrating scrutiny, they behold nothing to admire or to make him
glad. They might as well gaze upon an utter blank, and certainly he
would experience more comfort should they recognise only a wide and
dismal waste instead of prosperity and happiness. He is as despicable
a victim of envy as the world ever saw, which simply moves him to hate
the success of those around him, and repine at their happiness. He can
only find gratification in their distress and joy in their calamities.
A tinge of envy, however much descried, is sometimes productive of
good results, for I have known it to prove an incentive to exertion
where all else had failed; but when permanently retained, it becomes
the powerful and fertile cause of hypocricies, lies, deceits,
treacheries, slanders, annihilating every good quality in nature, and
yet unsatisfied, still adding fuel to its evil ones. That man would
not hesitate to blast the qualities of your brain, merely because he
cannot bear your superiority; nor would he pause to ruin you in your
possessions, although he should not derive the least profit from it.
Whilst, however, he discovers pleasure in the ruin alike of those
above and below him, he finds a vulture in his evil passion, which,
“like iron over-run with rust, not only defiles, but destroys himself
continually.” It is well, reflected Peter, that passions which can
only experience delight in the evil fate of others, should likewise
make a meal upon their possessor, and that whilst he smiles upon the
calamities of the unfortunate, his smile should be but an expression of
his inward torture.

There you may recognise a bald-pated knave, whose age, instead of
preserving him from the snares of the young, only seems to encourage
and embolden him the more. He is in company with his son-in-law, to
whom he once refused to give his daughter’s hand in marriage, for
reasons which he did not care to make known either to her or his
household. The vigilance and curiosity of those less interested,
however, soon succeeded in ascertaining them, and the discovery
afforded no little amusement at his perplexity. The chief priests and
scribes were not in a greater quandary when they had the choice to say
“yea,” and be convicted of their baseness, or “nay,” and be stoned by
the people. He had too often met the aspirant to his daughter’s hand
at places of resort where none of our community who values his moral
character is likely to go. Peter was somewhat at a loss here, yet he
could not help reflecting that the father who visits places of crime,
is in a very ridiculous dilemma when compelled to make use of his
personal knowledge and his own dishonor to preserve the reputation of
his family.

See there--worthy patterns of a gentleman and lady. He is an honest
and faithful husband, and she an affectionate and virtuous wife. They
love wisely and well, live happily in each other, and are models to
all who know them. Make them your friends, for the very atmosphere in
which they move is worth more than all the attention a thousand such
as have yet passed us could bestow. The lord who loves his lady truly,
and ever keeps unbroken the faith he has plighted to her, becomes as
much an example to the world as a joy to his wife; and the lady who
never forgets her affection and allegiance to her lord, is so much
superior to the common woman that to him she always seems an angel out
of Paradise. “An honest man,” said old Simonides, “can have nothing in
this world better than a good wife,” and surely an honest woman can
ask no higher blessing than a good husband. You see such in those two,
and may well seek their friendship and profit by their excellencies of
character and correctness of habits. Ah! thought Peter, a happy oasis
in the desert of matrimonial life, still inspiring reverence for the
institution, though it be made the fickle plaything of the world, its
common game of heedless chance and hazard.

There, sir, in that old man you see an impersonation of prejudice, a
quality not inaptly defined as “the spider of the mind, filling it with
cobwebs.” His opinion once set, no power on earth can change it, and
beware that you press not too closely, lest he adopt the convincing
logic of Frederick the Great, who, it is said, when argument failed
to enforce his convictions, had recourse to “kicking the shins of his
opponent.” Guide his thoughts into one channel and they will follow
it, though it should lead him to the devil. His prejudices frequently
render him as obstinate as a mule, and as often not as wise. He still
stands where his fathers stood before him, and joined to the idols
and follies of a past age, he has no sympathies with the present. If
he thinks at all, he does so simply to fasten upon his mind the more
his cherished errors, and your only policy is to “let him alone.”
Never, reflected Peter, undertake to straighten the crooked nature
of the prejudiced man, for to him all your facts are nothing but a
stumbling-block, and all your reasons simple foolishness.

Yonder lame individual furnishes a story well illustrating the
fickleness of the human heart. Though we may appear to be enraptured
with a single feeling, the intervention of a trifling circumstance not
unfrequently entirely relieves us of it. That gentleman courted a fair
young maiden, and eventually his attentions resulted in a betrothal. An
unfortunate accident soon after deprived him of a leg, and being thus
deformed, his love required little time to extinguish her affection,
and accordingly broke her faith. She had bargained more for a solid man
than a sound head or heart, and being disabled from complying with the
conditions, he was politely rejected. Thus good luck often springs from
misfortune, and he gained greatly by the loss of a limb. What a world
of cripples, thought Peter, this would suddenly become, could all who
desired it be relieved by the loss of a leg of the ills from which his
fortunate misfortune preserved him.

Turn your eyes to the left, and you may behold a fanciful pair
approaching towards us. That pursy and apparently very jovial
fellow--mine host of yonder inn--keeps a resort for gentility, and
under the cover of respectability, sends forth unnumbered evils to
infest and afflict the community. The practices of his house flourish
admirably under the beauty of a fashionable exterior; yet the
pestiferous rottenness within could not withstand the eye of modern
justice for a moment if disguised only in rags. Public morality in
the case where gold is concerned, is quite a different thing from
that wherein simple copper is brought into the scale. Respectable
crime easily escapes the keen vigilance of those who guard the public
virtue, whilst we are loud in their praises when some poor, abandoned,
God-forsaken wretch is hurried to his doom amid the imposing show of
a high morality and an even-handed justice. That man may lavishly
spread his fearful evils--the only things with which men appear to be
truly bountiful--with unchecked freedom; and whenever they press too
heavily upon us, a few plaintive groans will soon arouse the slumbering
sentinels of the law. Powerful justice will sound its signal,
triumphantly make a brutal “descent” upon some paltry hut, and drag its
starving inmates to the slaughter. Well, has not Carneades pronounced
his definitive sentence that “justice is folly;” and what matters
it whether I offend, and some more unfortunate creature pays the
penalty, so that justice is appeased? It must have victims, and fate,
ill-fortune, and poverty, have not been miserly in providing them.
Thus it is never at a loss for the means wherewith to preserve that
reputation which Tully thought so essential “that even those who lived
by outrage and villany could not subsist without at least its shadow
or semblance.” That fortunate knave may prosper in his practices, and
though their fatal consequences may sometimes arouse our vengeance,
there never will be wanting those whose immolation will allay it. His
tall, robust companion is a character--a perfect original. He will hug,
and pet, and caress you with the tenderness of a captivated maiden, all
for a picayune; and when he has thus fondled it out of your possession,
having no prospect of realizing more, he would as lovingly kick you out
of doors for a ha’penny--thus making you as profitable a customer as
the circumstances could possibly admit. Headlong and heedless withal,
his actions ever in advance of his thoughts, he is a mass of locomotive
matter, tumbling about on the earth, with no idea to accomplish, no
purpose to fulfil. This is not the only one, reflected Peter, who has,
by some comical dispensation of nature, been placed outside of his
orbit, as if it designed to exhibit what a fickle whirligig can be made
of man by unhinging his directing power.

Look to that building yonder. The gentleman who has just entered it
is a modern reformer. He railed against the evil habits of men, and
the sinful and dishonest practices of the world, until sent to the
penitentiary for having attached another man’s name to a small piece
of bankable paper. The imitation was good, but unfortunately for him
history had chronicled the adventures of Saavadra, the famous and
somewhat romantic nuncio of Portugal, and having failed, in his mania
for improvement, to improve upon this noted forger, he atoned for his
unsuccessful attempt by faithfully serving the full period of his
sentence. He is now riding his hobby-horse of “Reform” again, with even
greater boldness than before. This may be owing to the extra courage
acquired, or perhaps to the change effected in the times, during the
period which he devoted to solitary meditations. The sledge-hammer mode
of reform has since accomplished marvels and become highly fashionable;
but it is now greatly feared that many too charitable fellows, in
their exceedingly magnanimous efforts to drive the erring back from
the brink of perdition, will stand a very excellent chance of tumbling
in themselves. He has abandoned the task of persuading for the more
exalted one of coercing, which may prove more profitable; but should
he branch out a second time upon his own responsibility, it is hoped
he may realize his ideas of improvement by choosing some species of
roguery wherein he shall leave no historical example unexcelled. It is
no uncommon occurrence of the ludicrous in life, reflected Peter, to
see those in whom the ordinary thief could not confide, suddenly become
reformers, and find patrons for their presumption and fools to regard
them as patterns of moral propriety.

Note that gentleman and lady opposite. He is her husband. Having seen
his wife in dishabille the morning after his wedding, and meeting
her upon his return home at noon arrayed for public inspection, it
is currently reported, he found her so much improved and beautified
that he mistook her for a stranger, and absolutely asked her of the
whereabout of his spouse. Nature has been exceedingly kind after all.
If it has ordained that youth should fade, it has generously furnished
the material whereby a century can be made to assume the appearance of
a score. What matters it that old Father Cyprian thought all change the
work of satan, and pronounced it running counter to the will of God
to paint or black the hair, because he had read, “Thou canst not make
one hair white or black?” Who cares for the declaration of Tertullian,
that “it is the devil that mounts the actors on their buskins, in order
to make Jesus Christ a liar, who has said, that no one can add one
cubit to his stature?” They were both wofully mistaken, and our ladies
have most triumphantly refuted their errors, by silently exhibiting
that a hundred Tophets could not supply imps enough to make half the
changes and additions which they daily parade before our eyes. It is
marvellous, reflected Peter, what artificial charms can be conjured
up by those who properly understand the art of beauty; and why should
they fret and complain against fate, when, with paint, powder, and
cotton, they are constantly proving that their troublesome deficiencies
were simply meant as so many kindnesses, by leaving them at liberty to
manufacture whatever hue and dimensions that might best please their
fancies?

The young lady and gentleman who have just passed by, seem to have
arrested your attention. They are intimate acquaintances, and it is
conjectured they will be something more in due time. You heard her
indignant remark upon the dissoluteness of that young man yonder, a
distant and ill-starred connexion of hers, and her emphatic wish for an
edict providing for the decapitation of all such reckless creatures.
Her creed, my dear sir, if impartially carried into effect, would
scarcely permit a head to remain solidly upon the shoulders of a single
citizen in the country; and her companion, though he does share her
virtuous affections, would be one of the first to despair for his
own. If shrewder and more cunning, he certainly is no better than the
individual who has elicited her censure, though she knows it not.
Her ignorance is blissful, however deceptive. Should some superhuman
agency, thought Peter, suddenly reveal the truthful characters of
Cupid’s followers, how many confiding maidens would be startled at
having admired the most knavish deceivers, and how many foolish swains
would stand aghast with horror at the dishonest treachery of their
lady-loves!

In that young man approaching this way, you may recognise somewhat of
a philosopher. You might as well attempt to scale the mountains of the
moon as to persuade him that there was much real virtue in the world.
“We are honest,” he argues, “from convenience or policy, and apparently
moral from a fear of society, which has established certain rules,
and is given to certain general opinions, the violations of which are
always attended with some difficulties or vexations. The old Romans
had their censors, whose chief business it was to inspect the morals
of the citizens, and could we, by following some such example, spread
out before us the hidden conduct and practices of each individual, the
little of real conscience and truth, substantial honesty and morality,
we should be able to detect, might tempt us to abandon our moral code
entirely. Or could we, by a glance, penetrate the past lives and
habits, and scrutinize the secret sins of all whom we encounter, what
a terrible blushing there would be in the world, and how many would
laugh in each other’s faces! Many whose apparent honesty now claims
your respect, unable any longer to disguise their hypocrisy, would only
make merry over the numerous counterparts of themselves with whom they
should constantly come in contact. The virtuous Thrasea spoke but the
truth in his favorite maxim, that ‘he who suffers himself to hate vice
will hate mankind;’ for, although all must pretend to virtue from a
kind of social necessity, it is a garment which they cast aside without
a pause when rendered safe from detection, ever faithfully illustrating
the saying of Agathias, that ‘virtue upon necessity is just as long
lived as the fear that occasions it.’ The world seems desperately
determined to vindicate what its Saviour has affirmed, and no prophecy
promises to be more fully realized than his sorrowful declaration that
‘narrow is the way which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find
it.’” Such is a taste of the young man’s opinions, in which he is so
firmly rooted, that should you persuade him that the fate of the town
depended upon ten righteous men to be found within it, he would at once
take to his heels, and never pause until he was far out of danger.
Whether there is not too much of correctness in his melancholy views,
you must determine for yourself.--No very difficult matter, reflected
Peter, amid the many unpleasant examples that are destined daily to
bring unwelcome aid to your judgment, and exhibit to your gaze so many
who seem but to struggle the hardest to obtain the greatest curses.

You will pardon the interruption, said the stranger, but my attention
has been arrested by the counterfeit manikin suspended by the neck to
the branch of yonder tree, and my curiosity excited to know what fickle
whim or fancy placed it there. Its import, replied the other, not
endeavoring to restrain his merriment, is very significant. The female
occupants of the adjoining houses have for some time been engaged in a
bitter quarrel. The intolerable scolding propensities of one of them,
common report avers, caused her husband to resort to that effective
mode of obtaining relief. The cunning of the other, in the progress of
the quarrel, has devised that silent but expressive expedient as an
annoyance and remembrancer to her enemy, and by replacing it as often
as it is destroyed, promises fair to be the conqueror in the end.

Here you may recognise one of those silly or knavish creatures, in whom
it is difficult to tell whether the mule or the monkey predominates.
He knows but of one vice in the world, and it is the subject of his
constant denunciations. He is ceaseless in his praises of honesty, and
as “opportunity makes the thief,” according to the proverb, he will
probably preserve his reputation as long as he remains amongst those
who know him. It is given as a rule, and in case you encounter him it
may prove of service, always to mistrust the man who too much prides
himself upon possessing a certain quality, and to be suspicious of
him who constantly deals in vehement complaints against a particular
vice. Such are generally weak in what they boast themselves strong, and
their darts are frequently directed against the very fault peculiar to
themselves. It is so, thought Peter, even with the great world, which
ever descries its own practices, and yet tenaciously continues in them,
as if loathe to part with such excellent causes to elicit its censure,
and such admirable escape-valves through which its wrath may freely
ooze itself away.

There is an amusing and withal pitiable victim of a mistake. He was a
lodger at a public inn, and rising early one morning, he was mistaken
for a burglar, and received a terrible beating from his hasty and
suspicious host. To redress this injury, he flew to the law--a very
singular power to decide upon a mistake. The landlord, not thus to be
outdone, brought a more serious charge against him in retaliation. The
blind Goddess, whose determinations were ascertained by two intelligent
juries, very magnanimously gave each the benefit of the mistake, and
both found comfortable lodgings in the county prison. There, thought
Peter, they had leisure at least to cool their sanguine tempers, and
reflect upon the frequent tendency of the merest trifles to grow into
importance.

Opposite, you may see a genuine specimen of what the world calls
a “successful fellow.” He claims to be a proper person to reside
upon this especial sphere of God’s creation, and bases his peculiar
fitness upon two facts: he is not encumbered with an extra amount
of conscience, nor is he restrained by any settled principles of
virtue--two things, he avers, not well calculated to promote prosperity
in a world where the right and wrong of human actions are so generally
estimated by profit and loss. He will never suffer on account of
possessing too much of either, both of which he regards as certain
roads to poverty, and consequently loss of the world’s esteem. To
persuade you that he is doing you a service whilst plundering you, he
thinks the perfection of skill and ingenuity. Should he ever tempt you
to enter into any of his promising schemes, beware of his plausible
representations, for you may swear they only conceal a design to pick
your pocket with your own consent. No very uncommon occurrence,
reflected Peter, in a world where prosperity is made to depend upon a
cunning address, and where a shrewd head is so much preferred to an
honest heart.

Approaching us, you may see a specimen of that sad human depravity
so frequently encountered, and whom the good morals of the virtuous
public have generally indulged under the plea of necessity. She was
unfortunate recently in disturbing the peace of a very respectable
locality, and having thus over-stepped the bounds of that necessity
which tolerated her, she fell into the meshes of the law, and gave us
rather a funny illustration of the melancholy effect misfortune has
upon friends. Her most punctual visitors, whom she had always received
so very graciously, perhaps having a view to their circumstances and
positions in society, now repulsed her the most roughly, and gave
free vent to their virtuous indignation when she presumed to solicit
_their_ aid. After experiencing this ingratitude and baseness, she
became seriously ill from the excitement; and despairing of being
again restored, her repentant fears set her raving as if mad. Her
disconnected revelations were watched with wonderful anxiety, affording
great amusement to some, and as greatly exciting the fears of others;
but when she expressed it as a Christian duty that a _very_ minute
account of her ill-spent life should be given, she caused more genuine
consternation than could have followed a siege of the town. The fearful
disclosures of a few dozen of her kind, reflected Peter, in each city
and town of the country, specifically setting forth the names of their
visitors and lovers, could create more confusion than attended the
marches of Alexander, and cause a panic perhaps only equalled by that
of ancient Rome when invaded by the barbarians.

Turn, however, from this unwelcome picture, and behold that fancy young
man yonder. He is too ignorant to be of any service in the position of
life to which he pretends, and too much inflated with his own conceit
to render himself useful in a different calling. Between these not
uncommon qualities, he manages to trudge along, cheating his tailor,
defrauding his landlord, and swindling all who may be so unfortunate as
to mistake his appearance for respectability and his pretensions for
honesty. How such palpable fools manage to maintain their stupidity
upon the plunder of more sensible knaves, is one of those inexplicable
mysteries of life which few have attempted to determine. We have
repudiated the rule of Aristotle, that only those employments are to
be reputed mean which render either the body or the soul unfit for the
practice of virtue; and by making certain pursuits a test of social
standing, and the neglect of all, a sure index of respectability,
we have admirably succeeded in rearing a brood of vagabonds whom it
would now be ungenerous to neglect. Thus, perhaps, they owe more to
our indulgence and kindness than we are willing to acknowledge, being
content to endure an occasional swindle, and in this silent manner
atone somewhat for an evil which we have ourselves created. It is so
much easier, reflected Peter, to tolerate some errors than to reform
them, and we are happily prepared to submit to their inconveniences if
they will only do us the kindness a little to tickle our vanity.

Look to the windows of yonder houses--two handsome females. You may
learn a salutary lesson by carefully contemplating their countenances.
The one has led a life of guilt--the other one of innocence and virtue.
Look at their smiles: what sadness there is in the one, and what
satisfaction there seems to linger around the other! With the guilty,
a smile springs only from the lips; with the good, it pleasantly
indicates and answers emotions of the heart. See how vexed and restless
the manner of the one, and how easy and calm that of the other--a noble
contrast between abandonment and graceful dignity. The very bearing
of the one indicates a knowledge of her degradation, whilst that of
the other firmly yet modestly asserts her equality and her claim to
respect. In their loneliness there, you may clearly read the thoughts
of each mirrored in her face. What an expression of languor, regret,
melancholy, remorse, agony, despair, you see in the one; what quiet
repose, comfort, content, pleasure, happiness, joy, is depicted in
the other! See in contrast, a spectre of deep, guilty sorrow, peering
out from the wrinkles and furrows which tell of fearful tempests and
revulsions within, and a calm placid vision beaming forth the life
and buoyancy that speak only of the sweet serenity of the soul: dark,
dreary, desolate night, filled with treacheries, conspiracies, murders,
sprites, and hobgoblins, and bright, mellow sunshine, awakening every
impulse and arousing every feeling to chaste delights! The terrors of
guilt must indeed be fathomless, if it mixes a remorseful recollection
with every smile, and tortures with mental anguish even the moments
treasured for repose. Excitement cannot silence or drive thought from
the brain, and retirement cannot prevent the soul from shrinking from
its own pollution. “All nature is too weak a fence for sin,” observes
an ancient poet, and “hell itself can find no fiercer torment than a
guilty mind,” remarks another. Whatever, reflected Peter, may be the
evil practices of the world, it cannot avoid the furies which they
invoke, nor escape the terrors of their revenge.

Ah! see my worthy friend approaching. He is a preacher, and I believe
a good man, who loves his fellows, and means all mankind well. His
head and heart, however, do not work well together--the one is as
empty as the other is full. Well, if the devout Japanese can perform
his devotions by machinery, having his _chu-kor_ constantly fixed in
some running stream, where it never ceases praying for the prosperity
of his house, why may not we go through ours with equal convenience?
We are told that our ceremonies seldom trouble our hearts, and if so,
surely there is little reason why they should trouble our tongues
or limbs. Some such reflection, no doubt, has induced our people to
invent many fashionable and easy modes of getting into heaven, for
which they deserve lasting gratitude; but then the ways of the Lord are
inscrutable, and he has raised up a brood of stupid, prosey, old-women
preachers to pest and afflict them. They may make the sanctuary airy,
or shut out the chill, together with their servants, and then snooze
away on soft, easy cushions, just as though it was the most paltry
trifle to inherit the kingdom; yet the Lord is generous, and will
frequently remind them of their error by inflicting upon them the
sermons of such stupid though good meaning servants as my friend here.
When, therefore, reflected Peter, we rightly understand the uses of
“bad preachers,” a very common and very equivocal complaint, they
reveal a design the wisdom of which it is sinful to censure.

The dumpy individual yonder, wearing the badge of authority, is
a worthy constable. Like the great number of his class, he is an
excellent man for his calling, wanting both heart and brain, and being
consequently little troubled with conscience or integrity. Every
poor wretch, whom misfortune has dragged beneath our compassion,
adds a trifle to his purse, and immeasurably to his glory. Living
on the world’s depravity, he seeks to deprave it the more, that he
may increase the profits of his trade. Under the plea of justice he
is constantly outraging its holy decrees, and instead of protecting
society, he has become one of the worst of its pests. He will boast for
hours of his shrewdness, and gloat with wonderful exultation over the
ruin of a victim to his formidable oath. Justice would be fearfully
crippled without his excellent eyes, whose vision neither doors nor
masonry can shut out, and rendered almost entirely powerless without
his ears, which happily possess the sharpness to detect the minutest
particulars of a crime carried wonderful distances through the whispers
of the wind. Though a score should surround him and witness an event,
he would hear more than their forty ears, and surprise them all at the
absolute worthlessness of their eyes, when he came to narrate his tale
in that convenient arena for the exhibition of his talents, a criminal
court. Like the pander in Terence, “to have the knack of perjury” he
considers a necessary accomplishment, and he never fails to bring down
his game when once fairly brought within the range of his oath. Ah,
reflected Peter, how many a poor wretch’s fate has depended upon so
excellent a swearer, and no one pitied him!

In that slender young man you behold a miserable victim to his own
base passions. He moves along, a loathing disgrace to himself,
encountering the contempt of all who have not fallen equally low in
general esteem. You will preserve your reputation by following their
example, and carefully avoiding him. His evil habits have rendered him
so exceedingly infamous that nothing less than the sudden acquisition
of about fifty thousand dollars could make him a respectable man in
the estimation of our community. Should fortune thus favor him, you
may consider the interdict removed, and gain credit by doing obeisance
alike to him and his sins. What an excellent badge of character,
thought Peter, that can work such marvellous changes in public opinion,
and hide more faults and render invisible more defects than the mystic
ring of Gyges.

There is a poor fellow whose head has been turned by not properly
inquiring into the good subject which engrossed his attention. Running
wild in his good excitement, he at last fancied he was blessed with
extraordinary power, and for a time labored with exceeding great
industry in casting out devils! He has now, however, abandoned the
excellent work, declaring that he found so many possessed that his
efforts were rendered entirely useless, and vowing that the harvest
is still as great as it was ages ago, and the laborers equally few.
No doubt, thought Peter, he who shall undertake so laborious a task,
will have little time for idleness, for to set all things right for
eternity, would require nothing short of eternity itself.

When nature made that man yonder, it no doubt went outside of itself
in search of additional material. He is a compound too singular to
have been made up entirely of its own qualities. He practices medicine
without being able to read; plays the preacher and sometimes the
prophet, and occasionally acts the pettifogger. By the one he pretends
to save lives, souls by the other, and property by the third. He prays
vociferously and predicts astounding developments, but never pays his
debts; he is vehement in his denunciations of falsehood, but takes to
lying quite naturally when it promises a fair remuneration; he deplores
the errors of the world, and professes infallibly to drive away the
charms of witches; he denounces credulity, and sees “spooks;” he is a
philosopher, and pow-wows until exhausted in breath over all diseases
too powerful for his remedies. Never entertaining more than one idea
at a time, he must be ruled by it, no matter what it be or to what
foolishness it may lead him. To-night he may dream of some impossible
event or marvellous discovery, and to-morrow he will proclaim it as a
settled fact or superhuman revelation. He is constantly propounding
schemes to revolutionize the opinions and change the manners and
practices of the world, and yet swears by his faith in predestination.
A mass of incongruities, an embodiment of nonsense, he nevertheless
finds dupes who, perhaps tired of existence, will swallow his
prescriptions, meet their doom through his prophecies, and go to ruin
through his counsel. Well, reflected Peter, many a man has prospered
just because he was ignorant and stupid, and where wisdom starves
foolishness must often grow fat.

Here you may behold a poor victim of misfortune, and a melancholy
illustration of how much human nature is capable of enduring. From his
boyhood he has been forced to encounter the terrors of adversity, and
submit to the agonies of poverty and want. The thumps and cuffs, he
declares, originally intended for equal distribution amongst several
scores, through some sad mistake, have daily been heaped upon his
single head, nor could he dodge the most trifling bump. Unable to
counteract his evil fate, he eventually sought refuge against it by
adopting the life of the soldier. Thus flying into the face of his
destiny, with the odds all against him, he only aggravated it the more,
adding to his miseries and increasing his privations. He has figured
upon many a field of carnage, but fortune has ever refused to send some
stray ball to end his career. Abbas, the Persian king, to prevent the
indignities of his misfortunes from falling upon his wives, commanded
their heads to be cut off in case he lost the battle--certainly an
infallible preventative. Not being disposed to apply so rigorous a
remedy to obtain relief, that unhappy creature has continued to submit
to the fatalities he could not avoid, and perhaps there are few evils
in nature which he has not felt. Though he has won the reputation of
a brave soldier, it is the only thing he has ever gained from his
countrymen, save their ingratitude. He has been to the wars, and
returned to beg his bread. He has stood a faithful sentinel over his
country’s honor in times of danger, and in its peace and prosperity
he has hungered and thirsted, and no one pitied him. He has grappled
with the foe, and been victorious: he has fought against his fate, and
it conquered him; yet he is the same old patriot still. It is said
that the enjoyments of life always counterbalance its ills, but he can
present a tear for every pleasurable emotion he has ever experienced,
and a pang for every impulse of joy that has ever lighted up his soul.
There is, reflected Peter, a hardness of heart in the world which
sometimes seems directed against a single individual, making his
existence a fearful burthen and rendering even his hopes a terror to
himself.

See there--an excellent humbug. He pretends to science, and under
the pretext of enlightening our people, he has visited our town. To
instruct the public is certainly an honorable employment, but he is
a miserable preceptor. In the science to which he pretends he is a
marvellous fool, but as an imposter he is a cunning knave. Knowing his
ignorance, he wisely seeks to take advantage of the public curiosity,
and by working it into a state of itching excitement, he effects
more for himself than the most consummate skill or knowledge could
attain. His stupid lectures are nightly greeted by gaping crowds,
for which he is solely indebted to the fact, that he has provoked
the general inquisitiveness through the common and always effectual
expedient--giving private lectures to the ladies! Arouse the morbid
tastes of a community, and the silliest mountebank will receive its
encouragement. What a happy and convenient thing is science, reflected
Peter, not only furnishing a sufficient excuse for all kinds of
familiar discourse, but also taking off our hands much unpleasant labor
by giving currency to such magnanimous instructors.

Here you may recognise an uncongenial creature who could not survive
a single day without some object upon which to exercise his malice.
Though he may never before have seen you, you may rest assured he
will report you a villain, or something not far removed from one. Of
course, it is his especial business to know all concerning you and your
possessions, and his imagination will readily account for everything:
in such a manner, too, as to leave you little cause for self-esteem.
His only true delight appears to be in slander, and he would barter
heaven for a bit of scandal; yet it were folly to endeavor to avoid
him, for he is not without numerous counterparts whom you could
scarcely hope to escape, though you should immediately quit the town.
Should we now, reflected Peter, revive the ancient punishment of the
Poles, who publicly forced the slanderer beneath a table and there
compelled him to bark three several times, declaring that he “had lied
like a dog,” what a fearful and terrific yelling and howling would
suddenly be set up in the world!

See yonder--a “clever fellow.” He has managed to store his head with
an abundance of old jokes and anecdotes, which, having formed an
effectual barrier against anything else entering into it, are ever at
his service. His tongue never flags, which may perhaps be owing to the
light burthens it is required to bear, for he never troubles it to give
expression to a heavy thought or weighty idea. It is said that Tithonus
was transformed into a grasshopper on account of his inclination to
talk, but the same propensity has only succeeded in converting that man
into a liar. He can sing a song, whistle a jig, and although he may
have talent to play a tolerable tune, it must be confessed he plays
a game at cards with much greater skill. Polite and affable, he has
the address to pass for a gentleman, which, together with a readiness
to do their little errands and oblige their whims, brought him into
great favor with the ladies, as you observe he is kindly recognised
by every one who passes by him. He has a happy faculty of adapting
himself to the company into which he may be introduced; and by long
practice he has become so expert, that he now finds no more difficulty
in entertaining a circle of staid, sober, and inquisitive dotards
with “old wives’ fables,” than in directing some licentious carousal.
Amongst the gifts with which nature has blessed him, none has proved
of more service to him than his excellent stomach, which seems to be
perfect proof against the law of “wear and tear.” He can keep you
company at the table until you become stupid, drink your health until
you become drunk, and then coolly furnish you with a lying excuse to
avert the threatening frowns or pacify the angry rage of your wife.
His opinions and his conscience are alike pliable, which enables him
without trouble to suit himself either to your mind or heart, or to
both if required. He will defend the prejudices and errors of the one
with true friendly zeal, and commend the good of the other with the
enthusiasm of a saint, or encourage its wickedness with the skill of
a panderer. Whatever pleases you will be certain to delight him, and
he will soon be so assimilated to your tastes as to declare you his
“second self.” A rioting, roistering life, however, best comports with
his fancy, and he is constantly leading some of his numerous friends
into indecorous exploits or lawless adventures. He swears the world
was “made for sport,” and why should he be as morose as an anchorite,
or shut himself up like some sleepy monk, too drowsy to brush a fly
from his nose? Then, too, he is so very liberal--not only generously
sharing his pleasures with you, but even providing you with excellent
reasons why you should partake of them, and reducing your most heinous
offences into “common, every-day peccadilloes.” Are you young, he will
persuade you that few faults or vices are so monstrous as to be denied
a place amongst youthful follies; and if old, what could be wiser than
to employ the little time remaining for you in the pursuit of pleasure
and enjoyment? Freely mingling with all, and never finding fault with
any, his accomplishments or traits of character have won for him the
fine distinction of being a “very clever fellow,”--which to you may
mean that he is an excellent and worthy man, inclined to society and
familiar colloquies; whilst to another it would simply indicate that he
is a silly and amusing clown, or a shrewd and cunning villain. Well,
though such distinction may be highly honorable, it has been courted by
so many, and is now so promiscuously conferred, that I make it a rule
always to look with caution upon him who wears it, and only trust him
in proportion to his cleverness.

Easy Peter heard nothing more, for his attention was here arrested by
a large, overgrown youth, who was leaning against a ponderous tree
which had very magnanimously been spared from the axe, in the progress
of improvement, for the benefit of weary and sweltering pedestrians.
This venerable relic of a past age, still standing erect with its
extended branches, as if defying the inroads of time, had long been a
great favorite with all the lazy loungers of the place, and its huge
trunk, to the height of some five or six feet, presented a surface
whose glistening and greasy smoothness could not have been imitated by
any tradesman’s skill. Many were the changes it had witnessed, both
in the old time and in the new, and there was not a loiterer within
miles around whose faults and foibles had not been exhibited beneath
its sheltering branches. Here the idle personages of the town would
congregate in knots and coteries, detailing for the thousandth time
their dry anecdotes, stale jokes, and wonderful traditions, in many of
which the aged tree itself bore so conspicuous a part that nothing but
its constant and inflexible immobility could have satisfied you that it
was not a moving, active, and sensible creature. This happy retreat had
become so very attractive indeed, that many an unpleasant and unquiet
home was abandoned for its more peaceful shades; and numerous were
the imprecations uttered against it by the ill-tempered dames of the
neighborhood, who, rather than acknowledge a less creditable cause in
their own tongues, accused the unconscious tree of enticing away their
husbands to the great annoyance and neglect of themselves. If evil
wishes could have blasted it, it would not have survived a single hour;
and there was never a thunder cloud seen in the distance which was not
hailed with many a prayer that the storm might terminate by casting
its fragments and splinters to the winds. Though these viragoes could
quickly raise terrific tempests around their husbands’ ears which never
failed to take effect, the thunderbolts of nature had very wisely been
placed beyond their reach; and thus they may renew their vengeful
imprecations and malignant wishes, but the venerable tree continues to
rear its towering form, and their disobedient husbands still take their
ease beneath its shady limbs.

It was one of these idle individuals whom Peter now beheld, and his
appearance sufficiently indicated that he had inherited a full portion
of the rewards usually attending the habits to which he was addicted.
His old, weather-beaten hat admirably betokened that it had done good
service in its time. Although the many misfortunes it had encountered,
and the narrow escapes it had made, left some very visible impressions,
they had failed to deprive it of its entire brim and crown, and the
shreds that remained still adhered to each other with a tenacity that
spoke eloquently of their former harmonious love. His ill-conditioned
apparel, like a divided household, evinced a strong disposition to
mutiny and separate, and though much had been done to keep it together,
evidently by his own unskilful hands, it still obstinately resisted his
kind endeavors. Rent pieces of what had once borne a resemblance to
cloth dangled loosely about his ankles, his knees and elbows, refusing
to be confined, had broken through the tender barriers that had encased
them, and many an old patch about his person would flap and flutter as
the soft breeze whispered by him. These outward evidences of decay,
having penetrated no deeper than his garments, exhibited his healthy
and robust proportions in attractive and amusing contrast. A smile of
satisfaction, which many of his more fortunate and prosperous neighbors
might have envied, only contributed to bring out his prominent lips in
bolder relief, and his countenance was radiant with that self-content
which admires whatever is presented, and finds no fault with anything
but inconvenience and labor. Happily for him, his rulers were more
indulgent than Draco, the Athenian law-giver, who punished idleness
with death, and the laws under which he lived more lenient than those
of the ancient Gauls, which imposed a penalty upon the young for
exceeding the measure of their girdles, because “so large a paunch,
at such early years, could proceed from nothing else but laziness and
gormandizing.” Blessed by having been born in more auspicious times,
he seemed fully aware of his better destiny. Leaning against the shady
side of his venerable friend, in whose mute companionship he so much
delighted, he was looking leisurely around, as if engaged in taking
the exact measurement of every object that met his vision. His easy
carelessness appeared to make him oblivious of the busy world, being
only occasionally disturbed as he gazed, now upon some blackened
chimney, perhaps scenting the delicious odors of a grand Epicurean
feast in the ascending smoke, then upon some stately mansion, no doubt
pondering upon the tempting yet unattainable luxuries preparing within.

The more Peter contemplated this newly discovered subject, the more
did the apparent similarity in sympathies and habits to himself,
elicit his admiration. There is no one, thought he, so eminently wise
and philosophic as the genuine loafer. Whilst the rest of mankind are
struggling and grasping, losing to-morrow what they held with tenacious
clutch to-day, this idle philosopher looks calmly on and laughs at the
butterfly chase. He sees his fellows contending with bitterness and
jealousy for a fancied good, and beholds the only pleasure it could
afford crushed in their own hands in their eagerness to attain it. In
the conflict around him, the passions of men are arrayed against each
other, and the good sentiments of their natures compelled to yield
before the concussions they encounter. It is a struggle in which he
sees the most vicious too often carry off the greatest prizes, whilst
none retires from the field without leaving a portion of his soul
behind. Others may follow the alluring promises which tempt them, and
be carried away by the first surging wave of excitement that sweeps
along, he remains unmoved. Let the world go as it will, he betakes
himself to the sweet shade of some friendly tree, and calmly, though
rudely it may be, philosophises upon the vanities which dazzle other
eyes and bedizzen other heads, but never soften the bed of the grave,
nor promise repose beyond it. He knows that heaven is not to be
purchased by the fleeting things that charm the eye and gratify human
vanity, and the harmony of his spirits is never broken up in conflicts
to possess them. Happily the dial of time moves on, never too slow nor
too fast for him, and his even temper keeps him in a perpetual calm.
Unmoved by the discord around him, he remains content in his solitary
leisure, or quietly takes his ease with his companions, furnishing a
worthy illustration of genuine and perfect freedom. Even Tully himself
could not look upon that man as properly free who had not the privilege
of sometimes doing nothing--a privilege rightly appreciated and justly
exercised only by the loafer.

As Peter was indulging in these and like reflections, the vision upon
which he gazed, and which had occasioned them, suddenly vanished.
The rustling of the leaves had aroused him from his slumber, and
behold! all had been but a dream. Rubbing his eyes and collecting
his wandering thoughts, the only realities that greeted his returning
senses were the hot sun above him, whose burning rays, no longer
arrested by the shadow, which had gradually moved in another direction,
had for some time been illuminating his countenance, and the unpleasant
recollection that the village and his home were still several
miles distant. To have his dreamy fancies thus dispelled by such a
disagreeable transition, at some other time, might have urged him to
the exhibition of no little ill-temper; but now he had enough to occupy
his mind in reflecting upon the diversified visions of his dream. These
he reviewed again and again, until unable to submit any longer to
that itching desire which so often disturbs the ease of poor mortals
when they imagine they have something interesting to communicate, he
arose and slowly commenced the exceeding great labor of walking to the
village. He reached it at last, just as the sun was sinking into the
far west, and panting from the heat, more than from the exertion, he
again seated himself in front of the tavern. He had added greatly to
his store, and at once commenced to detail the events of his dream, and
from that day to this he has faithfully continued to narrate them to
every willing or unwilling listener.

  M. H.



CONCLUSION.


Although the editor cannot see the least necessity for informing the
readers of the “Records” that they have now reached the end of his
book, (a fact which they would so certainly have discovered without his
aid,) his reverence for well-established precedents would not permit
him to consider his volume fully completed without a “Conclusion.”
Those who have thus far perused it, must have observed that the
papers it contains were the products of intervals of time stolen from
the regular pursuits of their authors. This, however, though it may
be somewhat of an apology for the imperfections of the manuscripts
themselves, can afford no excuse for the editor. He fully acknowledges
his responsibility for all the faults of the book, well knowing that he
cannot be justified in thrusting it before a public already so terribly
afflicted with the dregs of literature, unless it shall contain
something to amuse or instruct. This reflection, at one time, overcame
his determination to send the manuscripts to the publisher. Upon more
mature deliberation, however, he blundered upon the conclusion, that
if this be not, in fact, the age of literary mediocrity, our people
have so much indulged it that it has, in its bold effrontery, risen
to a premium and obtained greater “success” (to use a publisher’s
term,) than ever crowned the highest talent. Where brave men had
failed, the coward often succeeded, and thus infused a boisterous and
overflowing courage into the whole army of little patriots, making
them as presumptuous and pugilistic as the saucy cur which thinks the
honor lies in attacking its superiors rather than in conquering them.
A similar cause, it may be, has produced like effects amongst authors,
and the editor is by no means certain that it has not been instrumental
in emboldening him to send his volume forth upon its voyage. However
this may be, he can now only bespeak for it the treatment which the
reader may think it deserves--nothing more. He might perhaps have made
better selections from the stock on hand, but he is not certain that
this would have added to the attractions of the book. He can only
promise, that upon the success of this volume of the Records, depends
the fate of the rest--whether they shall be given to the world, or
remain in the murky receptacles of the Old Association.


THE END.



Transcriber’s Note

In a few cases, obvious errors in punctuation have been corrected.

Page 29: “and especialy with such” changed to “and especially with
such” “Impelled by an irresistable” changed to “Impelled by an
irresistible”

Page 46: “by the irresistable teachings” changed to “by the
irresistible teachings”

Page 50: “and Montagne observes” changed to “and Montaigne observes”

Page 86: “fully ackowledged the devil” changed to “fully acknowledged
the devil”

Page 96: “we rightly understaud” changed to “we rightly understand”

Page 104: “of their native cotemporaries” changed to “of their native
contemporaries”

Page 155: “nor cooly exchange” changed to “nor coolly exchange”



*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Oak Shade, or, Records of a Village Literary Association" ***

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