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.