Read Ebook: The Oak Shade or Records of a Village Literary Association by Eugene Maurice Editor

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 173 lines and 48700 words, and 4 pages

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. 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.

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.

P. A.

FOOTNOTES:

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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, 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.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet