The Oak Shade, or, Records of a Village Literary Association
Author: Unknown
Date: 2022-03-11T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: American literature -- 19th century

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Title: The Oak Shade, or, Records of a Village Literary Association

Editor: Maurice Eugene

Release date: March 11, 2022 [eBook #67605]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Willis P. Hazzard

Credits: Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OAK SHADE, OR, RECORDS OF 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”

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Table of Contents

- THE OAK SHADE, OR RECORDS OF A VILLAGE LITERARY ASSOCIATION.

- CONTENTS.

- DEDICATION.

- PREFACE.

- A MANUSCRIPT,

- HANS DUNDERMANN: THE DUTCH MISER.

- REMARKS

- AN ESSAY.

- EXPLANATORY.

- THE SICK MOTHER.

- AN ANONYMOUS WRITING,

- THE EXCELLENCIES OF LYING.

- FOOTNOTES:

- A PAPER

- THE ALCHEMIST; OR, THE MAGIC FUNNEL.

- REMARKS,

- FOOTNOTES:

- AN ESSAY.

- A PREFACE,

- THE DREAM OF A LOAFER.

- CONCLUSION.

- Transcriber’s Note

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE