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.