has always been said, that the head and eldest son of that family had it
at his option to live forever, if he could only make up his mind to it.
But seemingly there were difficulties in the way. There was probably a
certain diet and regimen to be observed, certain strict rules of life to
be kept, a certain asceticism to be imposed on the person, which was not
quite agreeable to young men; and after the period of youth was passed,
the human frame became incapable of being regenerated from the seeds of
decay and death, which, by that time, had become strongly developed in it.
In short, while young, the possessor of the secret found the terms of
immortal life too hard to be accepted, since it implied the giving up of
most of the things that made life desirable in his view; and when he came
to a more reasonable mind, it was too late. And so, in all the generations
since Friar Bacon's time, the Nortons have been born, and enjoyed their
young days, and worried through their manhood, and tottered through their
old age (unless taken off sooner by sword, arrow, ball, fever, or what
not), and died in their beds, like men that had no such option; and so
this old yellow paper has done not the least good to any mortal. Neither
do I see how it can do any good to you, since you know not the rules,
moral or dietetic, that are essential to its effect. But how did you come
by it?"
"It matters not how," said Septimius, gloomily. "Enough that I am its
rightful possessor and inheritor. Can you read these old characters?"
"Most of them," said the doctor; "but let me tell you, my young friend, I
have no faith whatever in this secret; and, having meddled with such
things myself, I ought to know. The old physicians and chemists had
strange ideas of the virtues of plants, drugs, and minerals, and equally
strange fancies as to the way of getting those virtues into action. They
would throw a hundred different potencies into a caldron together, and put
them on the fire, and expect to brew a potency containing all their
potencies, and having a different virtue of its own. Whereas, the most
likely result would be that they would counteract one another, and the
concoction be of no virtue at all; or else some more powerful ingredient
would tincture the whole."
He read the paper again, and continued:--
"I see nothing else so remarkable in this recipe, as that it is chiefly
made up of some of the commonest things that grow; plants that you set
your foot upon at your very threshold, in your garden, in your wood-walks,
wherever you go. I doubt not old Aunt Keziah knows them, and very likely
she has brewed them up in that hell-drink, the remembrance of which is
still rankling in my stomach. I thought I had swallowed the Devil himself,
whom the old woman had been boiling down. It would be curious enough if
the hideous decoction was the same as old Friar Bacon and his acolyte
discovered by their science! One ingredient, however, one of those plants,
I scarcely think the old lady can have put into her pot of Devil's elixir;
for it is a rare plant, that does not grow in these parts."
"And what is that?" asked Septimius.
"_Sanguinea sanguinissima_" said the doctor; "it has no vulgar name;
but it produces a very beautiful flower, which I have never seen, though
some seeds of it were sent me by a learned friend in Siberia. The others,
divested of their Latin names, are as common as plantain, pig-weed, and
burdock; and it stands to reason that, if vegetable Nature has any such
wonderfully efficacious medicine in store for men, and means them to use
it, she would have strewn it everywhere plentifully within their reach."
"But, after all, it would be a mockery on the old dame's part," said the
young man, somewhat bitterly, "since she would thus hold the desired thing
seemingly within our reach; but because she never tells us how to prepare
and obtain its efficacy, we miss it just as much as if all the ingredients
were hidden from sight and knowledge in the centre of the earth. We are
the playthings and fools of Nature, which she amuses herself with during
our little lifetime, and then breaks for mere sport, and laughs in our
faces as she does so."
"Take care, my good fellow," said the doctor, with his great coarse laugh.
"I rather suspect that you have already got beyond the age when the great
medicine could do you good; that speech indicates a great toughness and
hardness and bitterness about the heart that does not accumulate in our
tender years."
Septimius took little or no notice of the raillery of the grim old doctor,
but employed the rest of the time in getting as much information as he
could out of his guest; and though he could not bring himself to show him
the precious and sacred manuscript, yet he questioned him as closely as
possible without betraying his secret, as to the modes of finding out
cryptic writings. The doctor was not without the perception that his
dark-browed, keen-eyed acquaintance had some purpose not openly avowed in
all these pertinacious, distinct questions; he discovered a central
reference in them all, and perhaps knew that Septimius must have in his
possession some writing in hieroglyphics, cipher, or other secret mode,
that conveyed instructions how to operate with the strange recipe that he
had shown him.
"You had better trust me fully, my good sir," said he. "Not but what I will
give you all the aid I can without it; for you have done me a greater
benefit than you are aware of, beforehand. No--you will not? Well, if you
can change your mind, seek me out in Boston, where I have seen fit to
settle in the practice of my profession, and I will serve you according to
your folly; for folly it is, I warn you."
Nothing else worthy of record is known to have passed during the doctor's
visit; and in due time he disappeared, as it were, in a whiff of
tobacco-smoke, leaving an odor of brandy and tobacco behind him, and a
traditionary memory of a wizard that had been there. Septimius went to
work with what items of knowledge he had gathered from him; but the
interview had at least made him aware of one thing, which was, that he
must provide himself with all possible quantity of scientific knowledge of
botany, and perhaps more extensive knowledge, in order to be able to
concoct the recipe. It was the fruit of all the scientific attainment of
the age that produced it (so said the legend, which seemed reasonable
enough), a great philosopher had wrought his learning into it; and this
had been attempered, regulated, improved, by the quick, bright intellect
of his scholar. Perhaps, thought Septimius, another deep and earnest
intelligence added to these two may bring the precious recipe to still
greater perfection. At least it shall be tried. So thinking, he gathered
together all the books that he could find relating to such studies; he
spent one day, moreover, in a walk to Cambridge, where he searched the
alcoves of the college library for such works as it contained; and
borrowing them from the war-disturbed institution of learning, he betook
himself homewards, and applied himself to the study with an earnestness of
zealous application that perhaps has been seldom equalled in a study of so
quiet a character. A month or two of study, with practice upon such plants
as he found upon his hill-top, and along the brook and in other
neighboring localities, sufficed to do a great deal for him. In this
pursuit he was assisted by Sibyl, who proved to have great knowledge in
some botanical departments, especially among flowers; and in her cold and
quiet way, she met him on this subject and glided by his side, as she had
done so long, a companion, a daily observer and observed of him, mixing
herself up with his pursuits, as if she were an attendant sprite upon
him.
But this pale girl was not the only associate of his studies, the only
instructress, whom Septimius found. The observation which Doctor
Portsoaken made about the fantastic possibility that Aunt Keziah might
have inherited the same recipe from her Indian ancestry which had been
struck out by the science of Friar Bacon and his pupil had not failed to
impress Septimius, and to remain on his memory. So, not long after the
doctor's departure, the young man took occasion one evening to say to his
aunt that he thought his stomach was a little out of order with too much
application, and that perhaps she could give him some herb-drink or other
that would be good for him.
"That I can, Seppy, my darling," said the old woman, "and I'm glad you have
the sense to ask for it at last. Here it is in this bottle; and though
that foolish, blaspheming doctor turned up his old brandy nose at it, I'll
drink with him any day and come off better than he."
So saying, she took out of the closet her brown jug, stopped with a cork
that had a rag twisted round it to make it tighter, filled a mug half full
of the concoction and set it on the table before Septimius.
"There, child, smell of that; the smell merely will do you good; but drink
it down, and you'll live the longer for it."
"Indeed, Aunt Keziah, is that so?" asked Septimius, a little startled by a
recommendation which in some measure tallied with what he wanted in a
medicine. "That's a good quality."
He looked into the mug, and saw a turbid, yellow concoction, not at all
attractive to the eye; he smelt of it, and was partly of opinion that Aunt
Keziah had mixed a certain unfragrant vegetable, called skunk-cabbage,
with the other ingredients of her witch-drink. He tasted it; not a mere
sip, but a good, genuine gulp, being determined to have real proof of what
the stuff was in all respects. The draught seemed at first to burn in his
mouth, unaccustomed to any drink but water, and to go scorching all the
way down into his stomach, making him sensible of the depth of his inwards
by a track of fire, far, far down; and then, worse than the fire, came a
taste of hideous bitterness and nauseousness, which he had not previously
conceived to exist, and which threatened to stir up his bowels into utter
revolt; but knowing Aunt Keziah's touchiness with regard to this
concoction, and how sacred she held it, he made an effort of real heroism,
squelched down his agony, and kept his face quiet, with the exception of
one strong convulsion, which he allowed to twist across it for the sake of
saving his life.
"It tastes as if it might have great potency in it, Aunt Keziah," said this
unfortunate young man. "I wish you would tell me what it is made of, and
how you brew it; for I have observed you are very strict and secret about
it."
"Aha! you have seen that, have you?" said Aunt Keziah, taking a sip of her
beloved liquid, and grinning at him with a face and eyes as yellow as that
she was drinking. In fact the idea struck him, that in temper, and all
appreciable qualities, Aunt Keziah was a good deal like this drink of
hers, having probably become saturated by them while she drank of it. And
then, having drunk, she gloated over it, and tasted, and smelt of the cup
of this hellish wine, as a winebibber does of that which is most fragrant
and delicate. "And you want to know how I make it? But first, child, tell
me honestly, do you love this drink of mine? Otherwise, here, and at once,
we stop talking about it."
"I love it for its virtues," said Septimius, temporizing with his
conscience, "and would prefer it on that account to the rarest wines."
"So far good," said Aunt Keziah, who could not well conceive that her
liquor should be otherwise than delicious to the palate. "It is the most
virtuous liquor that ever was; and therefore one need not fear drinking
too much of it. And you want to know what it is made of? Well; I have
often thought of telling you, Seppy, my boy, when you should come to be
old enough; for I have no other inheritance to leave you, and you are all
of my blood, unless I should happen to have some far-off uncle among the
Cape Indians. But first, you must know how this good drink, and the
faculty of making it, came down to me from the chiefs, and sachems, and
Peow-wows, that were your ancestors and mine, Septimius, and from the old
wizard who was my great-grandfather and yours, and who, they say, added
the fire-water to the other ingredients, and so gave it the only one thing
that it wanted to make it perfect."
And so Aunt Keziah, who had now put herself into a most comfortable and
jolly state by sipping again, and after pressing Septimius to mind his
draught (who declined, on the plea that one dram at a time was enough for
a new beginner, its virtues being so strong, as well as admirable), the
old woman told him a legend strangely wild and uncouth, and mixed up of
savage and civilized life, and of the superstitions of both, but which yet
had a certain analogy, that impressed Septimius much, to the story that
the doctor had told him.
She said that, many ages ago, there had been a wild sachem in the forest, a
king among the Indians, and from whom, the old lady said, with a look of
pride, she and Septimius were lineally descended, and were probably the
very last who inherited one drop of that royal, wise, and warlike blood.
The sachem had lived very long, longer than anybody knew, for the Indians
kept no record, and could only talk of a great number of moons; and they
said he was as old, or older, than the oldest trees; as old as the hills
almost, and could remember back to the days of godlike men, who had arts
then forgotten. He was a wise and good man, and could foretell as far into
the future as he could remember into the past; and he continued to live
on, till his people were afraid that he would live forever, and so disturb
the whole order of nature; and they thought it time that so good a man,
and so great a warrior and wizard, should be gone to the happy
hunting-grounds, and that so wise a counsellor should go and tell his
experience of life to the Great Father, and give him an account of matters
here, and perhaps lead him to make some changes in the conduct of the
lower world. And so, all these things duly considered, they very
reverently assassinated the great, never-dying sachem; for though safe
against disease, and undecayable by age, he was capable of being killed by
violence, though the hardness of his skull broke to fragments the stone
tomahawk with which they at first tried to kill him.
So a deputation of the best and bravest of the tribe went to the great
sachem, and told him their thought, and reverently desired his consent to
be put out of the world; and the undying one agreed with them that it was
better for his own comfort that he should die, and that he had long been
weary of the world, having learned all that it could teach him, and
having, chiefly, learned to despair of ever making the red race much
better than they now were. So he cheerfully consented, and told them to
kill him if they could; and first they tried the stone hatchet, which was
broken against his skull; and then they shot arrows at him, which could
not pierce the toughness of his skin; and finally they plastered up his
nose and mouth (which kept uttering wisdom to the last) with clay, and set
him to bake in the sun; so at last his life burnt out of his breast,
tearing his body to pieces, and he died.
[_Make this legend grotesque, and express the weariness of the tribe at
the intolerable control the undying one had of them; his always bringing
up precepts from his own experience, never consenting to anything new, and
so impeding progress; his habits hardening into him, his ascribing to
himself all wisdom, and depriving everybody of his right to successive
command; his endless talk, and dwelling on the past, so that the world
could not bear him. Describe his ascetic and severe habits, his rigid
calmness, etc._]
But before the great sagamore died he imparted to a chosen one of his
tribe, the next wisest to himself, the secret of a potent and delicious
drink, the constant imbibing of which, together with his abstinence from
luxury and passion, had kept him alive so long, and would doubtless have
compelled him to live forever. This drink was compounded of many
ingredients, all of which were remembered and handed down in tradition,
save one, which, either because it was nowhere to be found, or for some
other reason, was forgotten; so that the drink ceased to give immortal
life as before. They say it was a beautiful purple flower. [_Perhaps the
Devil taught him the drink, or else the Great Spirit,--doubtful
which._] But it still was a most excellent drink, and conducive to
health, and the cure of all diseases; and the Indians had it at the time
of the settlement by the English; and at one of those wizard meetings in
the forest, where the Black Man used to meet his red children and his
white ones, and be jolly with them, a great Indian wizard taught the
secret to Septimius's great-grandfather, who was a wizard, and died for
it; and he, in return, taught the Indians to mix it with rum, thinking
that this might be the very ingredient that was missing, and that by
adding it he might give endless life to himself and all his Indian
friends, among whom he had taken a wife.
"But your great-grandfather, you know, had not a fair chance to test its
virtues, having been hanged for a wizard; and as for the Indians, they
probably mixed too much fire-water with their liquid, so that it burnt
them up, and they all died; and my mother, and her mother,--who taught the
drink to me,--and her mother afore her, thought it a sin to try to live
longer than the Lord pleased, so they let themselves die. And though the
drink is good, Septimius, and toothsome, as you see, yet I sometimes feel
as if I were getting old, like other people, and may die in the course of
the next half-century; so perhaps the rum was not just the thing that was
wanting to make up the recipe. But it is very good! Take a drop more of
it, dear."
"Not at present, I thank you, Aunt Keziah," said Septimius, gravely; "but
will you tell me what the ingredients are, and how you make it?"
"Yes, I will, my boy, and you shall write them down," said the old woman;
"for it's a good drink, and none the worse, it may be, for not making you
live forever. I sometimes think I had as lief go to heaven as keep on
living here."
Accordingly, making Septimius take pen and ink, she proceeded to tell him a
list of plants and herbs, and forest productions, and he was surprised to
find that it agreed most wonderfully with the recipe contained in the old
manuscript, as he had puzzled it out, and as it had been explained by the
doctor. There were a few variations, it is true; but even here there was a
close analogy, plants indigenous to America being substituted for cognate
productions, the growth of Europe. Then there was another difference in
the mode of preparation, Aunt Keziah's nostrum being a concoction, whereas
the old manuscript gave a process of distillation. This similarity had a
strong effect on Septimius's imagination. Here was, in one case, a drink
suggested, as might be supposed, to a primitive people by something
similar to that instinct by which the brute creation recognizes the
medicaments suited to its needs, so that they mixed up fragrant herbs for
reasons wiser than they knew, and made them into a salutary potion; and
here, again, was a drink contrived by the utmost skill of a great
civilized philosopher, searching the whole field of science for his
purpose; and these two drinks proved, in all essential particulars, to be
identically the same.
"O Aunt Keziah," said he, with a longing earnestness, "are you sure that
you cannot remember that one ingredient?"
"No, Septimius, I cannot possibly do it," said she. "I have tried many
things, skunk-cabbage, wormwood, and a thousand things; for it is truly a
pity that the chief benefit of the thing should be lost for so little. But
the only effect was, to spoil the good taste of the stuff, and, two or
three times, to poison myself, so that I broke out all over blotches, and
once lost the use of my left arm, and got a dizziness in the head, and a
rheumatic twist in my knee, a hardness of hearing, and a dimness of sight,
and the trembles; all of which I certainly believe to have been caused by
my putting something else into this blessed drink besides the good New
England rum. Stick to that, Seppy, my dear."
So saying, Aunt Keziah took yet another sip of the beloved liquid, after
vainly pressing Septimius to do the like; and then lighting her old clay
pipe, she sat down in the chimney-corner, meditating, dreaming, muttering
pious prayers and ejaculations, and sometimes looking up the wide flue of
the chimney, with thoughts, perhaps, how delightful it must have been to
fly up there, in old times, on excursions by midnight into the forest,
where was the Black Man, and the Puritan deacons and ladies, and those
wild Indian ancestors of hers; and where the wildness of the forest was so
grim and delightful, and so unlike the common-placeness in which she spent
her life. For thus did the savage strain of the woman, mixed up as it was
with the other weird and religious parts of her composition, sometimes
snatch her back into barbarian life and its instincts; and in Septimius,
though further diluted, and modified likewise by higher cultivation, there
was the same tendency.
Septimius escaped from the old woman, and was glad to breathe the free air
again; so much had he been wrought upon by her wild legends and wild
character, the more powerful by its analogy with his own; and perhaps,
too, his brain had been a little bewildered by the draught of her
diabolical concoction which she had compelled him to take. At any rate, he
was glad to escape to his hill-top, the free air of which had doubtless
contributed to keep him in health through so long a course of morbid
thought and estranged study as he had addicted himself to.
Here, as it happened, he found both Rose Garfield and Sibyl Dacy, whom the
pleasant summer evening had brought out. They had formed a friendship, or
at least society; and there could not well be a pair more unlike,--the one
so natural, so healthy, so fit to live in the world; the other such a
morbid, pale thing. So there they were, walking arm in arm, with one arm
round each other's waist, as girls love to do. They greeted the young man
in their several ways, and began to walk to and fro together, looking at
the sunset as it came on, and talking of things on earth and in the
clouds.
"When has Robert Hagburn been heard from?" asked Septimius, who, involved
in his own pursuits, was altogether behindhand in the matters of the
war,--shame to him for it!
"There came news, two days past," said Rose, blushing. "He is on his way
home with the remnant of General Arnold's command, and will be here
soon."
"He is a brave fellow, Robert," said Septimius, carelessly. "And I know
not, since life is so short, that anything better can be done with it than
to risk it as he does."
"I truly think not," said Rose Garfield, composedly.
"What a blessing it is to mortals," said Sibyl Dacy, "what a kindness of
Providence, that life is made so uncertain; that death is thrown in among
the possibilities of our being; that these awful mysteries are thrown
around us, into which we may vanish! For, without it, how would it be
possible to be heroic, how should we plod along in commonplaces forever,
never dreaming high things, never risking anything? For my part, I think
man is more favored than the angels, and made capable of higher heroism,
greater virtue, and of a more excellent spirit than they, because we have
such a mystery of grief and terror around us; whereas they, being in a
certainty of God's light, seeing his goodness and his purposes more
perfectly than we, cannot be so brave as often poor weak man, and weaker
woman, has the opportunity to be, and sometimes makes use of it. God gave
the whole world to man, and if he is left alone with it, it will make a
clod of him at last; but, to remedy that, God gave man a grave, and it
redeems all, while it seems to destroy all, and makes an immortal spirit
of him in the end."
"Dear Sibyl, you are inspired," said Rose, gazing in her face.