contrary to his supposition beforehand, of certain rules of life; he would
have taken it, on a casual inspection, for an essay of counsel, addressed
by some great and sagacious man to a youth in whom he felt an
interest,--so secure and good a doctrine of life was propounded, such
excellent maxims there were, such wisdom in all matters that came within
the writer's purview. It was as much like a digested synopsis of some old
philosopher's wise rules of conduct, as anything else. But on closer
inspection, Septimius, in his unsophisticated consideration of this
matter, was not so well satisfied. True, everything that was said seemed
not discordant with the rules of social morality; not unwise: it was
shrewd, sagacious; it did not appear to infringe upon the rights of
mankind; but there was something left out, something unsatisfactory,--what
was it? There was certainly a cold spell in the document; a magic, not of
fire, but of ice; and Septimius the more exemplified its power, in that he
soon began to be insensible of it. It affected him as if it had been
written by some greatly wise and worldly-experienced man, like the writer
of Ecclesiastes; for it was full of truth. It was a truth that does not
make men better, though perhaps calmer; and beneath which the buds of
happiness curl up like tender leaves in a frost. What was the matter with
this document, that the young man's youth perished out of him as he read?
What icy hand had written, it, so that the heart was chilled out of the
reader? Not that Septimius was sensible of this character; at least, not
long,--for as he read, there grew upon him a mood of calm satisfaction,
such as he had never felt before. His mind seemed to grow clearer; his
perceptions most acute; his sense of the reality of things grew to be
such, that he felt as if he could touch and handle all his thoughts, feel
round about all their outline and circumference, and know them with a
certainty, as if they were material things. Not that all this was in the
document itself; but by studying it so earnestly, and, as it were,
creating its meaning anew for himself, out of such illegible materials, he
caught the temper of the old writer's mind, after so many ages as that
tract had lain in the mouldy and musty manuscript. He was magnetized with
him; a powerful intellect acted powerfully upon him; perhaps, even, there
was a sort of spell and mystic influence imbued into the paper, and
mingled with the yellow ink, that steamed forth by the effort of this
young man's earnest rubbing, as it were, and by the action of his mind,
applied to it as intently as he possibly could; and even his handling the
paper, his bending over it, and breathing upon it, had its effect.
It is not in our power, nor in our wish, to produce the original form, nor
yet the spirit, of a production which is better lost to the world: because
it was the expression of a human intellect originally greatly gifted and
capable of high things, but gone utterly astray, partly by its own
subtlety, partly by yielding to the temptations of the lower part of its
nature, by yielding the spiritual to a keen sagacity of lower things,
until it was quite fallen; and yet fallen in such a way, that it seemed
not only to itself, but to mankind, not fallen at all, but wise and good,
and fulfilling all the ends of intellect in such a life as ours, and
proving, moreover, that earthly life was good, and all that the
development of our nature demanded. All this is better forgotten; better
burnt; better never thought over again; and all the more, because its
aspect was so wise, and even praiseworthy. But what we must preserve of it
were certain rules of life and moral diet, not exactly expressed in the
document, but which, as it were, on its being duly received into
Septimius's mind, were precipitated from the rich solution, and
crystallized into diamonds, and which he found to be the moral dietetics,
so to speak, by observing which he was to achieve the end of earthly
immortality, whose physical nostrum was given in the recipe which, with
the help of Doctor Portsoaken and his Aunt Keziah, he had already pretty
satisfactorily made out.
"Keep thy heart at seventy throbs in a minute; all more than that wears
away life too quickly. If thy respiration be too quick, think with thyself
that thou hast sinned against natural order and moderation.
"Drink not wine nor strong drink; and observe that this rule is worthiest
in its symbolic meaning.
"Bask daily in the sunshine and let it rest on thy heart.
"Run not; leap not; walk at a steady pace, and count thy paces per day.
"If thou feelest, at any time, a throb of the heart, pause on the instant,
and analyze it; fix thy mental eye steadfastly upon it, and inquire why
such commotion is.
"Hate not any man nor woman; be not angry, unless at any time thy blood
seem a little cold and torpid; cut out all rankling feelings, they are
poisonous to thee. If, in thy waking moments, or in thy dreams, thou hast
thoughts of strife or unpleasantness with any man, strive quietly with
thyself to forget him.
"Have no friendships with an imperfect man, with a man in bad health, of
violent passions, of any characteristic that evidently disturbs his own
life, and so may have disturbing influence on thine. Shake not any man by
the hand, because thereby, if there be any evil in the man, it is likely
to be communicated to thee.
"Kiss no woman if her lips be red; look not upon her if she be very fair.
Touch not her hand if thy finger-tips be found to thrill with hers ever so
little. On the whole, shun woman, for she is apt to be a disturbing
influence. If thou love her, all is over, and thy whole past and remaining
labor and pains will be in vain.
"Do some decent degree of good and kindness in thy daily life, for the
result is a slight pleasurable sense that will seem to warm and delectate
thee with felicitous self-laudings; and all that brings thy thoughts to
thyself tends to invigorate that central principle by the growth of which
thou art to give thyself indefinite life.
"Do not any act manifestly evil; it may grow upon thee, and corrode thee in
after-years. Do not any foolish good act; it may change thy wise habits.
"Eat no spiced meats. Young chickens, new-fallen lambs, fruits, bread four
days old, milk, freshest butter will make thy fleshy tabernacle youthful.
"From sick people, maimed wretches, afflicted people--all of whom show
themselves at variance with things as they should be,--from people beyond
their wits, from people in a melancholic mood, from people in extravagant
joy, from teething children, from dead corpses, turn away thine eyes and
depart elsewhere.
"If beggars haunt thee, let thy servants drive them away, thou withdrawing
out of ear-shot.
"Crying and sickly children, and teething children, as aforesaid, carefully
avoid. Drink the breath of wholesome infants as often as thou conveniently
canst,--it is good for thy purpose; also the breath of buxom maids, if
thou mayest without undue disturbance of the flesh, drink it as a
morning-draught, as medicine; also the breath of cows as they return from
rich pasture at eventide.
"If thou seest human poverty, or suffering, and it trouble thee, strive
moderately to relieve it, seeing that thus thy mood will be changed to a
pleasant self-laudation.
"Practise thyself in a certain continual smile, for its tendency will be to
compose thy frame of being, and keep thee from too much wear.
"Search not to see if thou hast a gray hair; scrutinize not thy forehead to
find a wrinkle; nor the corners of thy eyes to discover if they be
corrugated. Such things, being gazed at, daily take heart and grow.
"Desire nothing too fervently, not even life; yet keep thy hold upon it
mightily, quietly, unshakably, for as long as thou really art resolved to
live, Death with all his force, shall have no power against thee.
"Walk not beneath tottering ruins, nor houses being put up, nor climb to
the top of a mast, nor approach the edge of a precipice, nor stand in the
way of the lightning, nor cross a swollen river, nor voyage at sea, nor
ride a skittish horse, nor be shot at by an arrow, nor confront a sword,
nor put thyself in the way of violent death; for this is hateful, and
breaketh through all wise rules.
"Say thy prayers at bedtime, if thou deemest it will give thee quieter
sleep; yet let it not trouble thee if thou forgettest them.
"Change thy shirt daily; thereby thou castest off yesterday's decay, and
imbibest the freshness of the morning's life, which enjoy with smelling to
roses, and other healthy and fragrant flowers, and live the longer for it.
Roses are made to that end.
"Read not great poets; they stir up thy heart; and the human heart is a
soil which, if deeply stirred, is apt to give out noxious vapors."
Such were some of the precepts which Septimius gathered and reduced to
definite form out of this wonderful document; and he appreciated their
wisdom, and saw clearly that they must be absolutely essential to the
success of the medicine with which they were connected. In themselves,
almost, they seemed capable of prolonging life to an indefinite period, so
wisely were they conceived, so well did they apply to the causes which
almost invariably wear away this poor short life of men, years and years
before even the shattered constitutions that they received from their
forefathers need compel them to die. He deemed himself well rewarded for
all his labor and pains, should nothing else follow but his reception and
proper appreciation of these wise rules; but continually, as he read the
manuscript, more truths, and, for aught I know, profounder and more
practical ones, developed themselves; and, indeed, small as the manuscript
looked, Septimius thought that he should find a volume as big as the most
ponderous folio in the college library too small to contain its wisdom. It
seemed to drip and distil with precious fragrant drops, whenever he took
it out of his desk; it diffused wisdom like those vials of perfume which,
small as they look, keep diffusing an airy wealth of fragrance for years
and years together, scattering their virtue in incalculable volumes of
invisible vapor, and yet are none the less in bulk for all they give;
whenever he turned over the yellow leaves, bits of gold, diamonds of good
size, precious pearls, seemed to drop out from between them.
And now ensued a surprise which, though of a happy kind, was almost too
much for him to bear; for it made his heart beat considerably faster than
the wise rules of his manuscript prescribed. Going up on his hill-top, as
summer wore away (he had not been there for some time), and walking by the
little flowery hillock, as so many a hundred times before, what should he
see there but a new flower, that during the time he had been poring over
the manuscript so sedulously had developed itself, blossomed, put forth
its petals, bloomed into full perfection, and now, with the dew of the
morning upon it, was waiting to offer itself to Septimius? He trembled as
he looked at it, it was too much almost to bear,--it was so very
beautiful, so very stately, so very rich, so very mysterious and
wonderful. It was like a person, like a life! Whence did it come? He stood
apart from it, gazing in wonder; tremulously taking in its aspect, and
thinking of the legends he had heard from Aunt Keziah and from Sibyl Dacy;
and how that this flower, like the one that their wild traditions told of,
had grown out of a grave,--out of a grave in which he had laid one slain
by himself.
The flower was of the richest crimson, illuminated with a golden centre of
a perfect and stately beauty. From the best descriptions that I have been
able to gain of it, it was more like a dahlia than any other flower with
which I have acquaintance; yet it does not satisfy me to believe it really
of that species, for the dahlia is not a flower of any deep
characteristics, either lively or malignant, and this flower, which
Septimius found so strangely, seems to have had one or the other. If I
have rightly understood, it had a fragrance which the dahlia lacks; and
there was something hidden in its centre, a mystery, even in its fullest
bloom, not developing itself so openly as the heartless, yet not
dishonest, dahlia. I remember in England to have seen a flower at Eaton
Hall, in Cheshire, in those magnificent gardens, which may have been like
this, but my remembrance of it is not sufficiently distinct to enable me
to describe it better than by saying that it was crimson, with a gleam of
gold in its centre, which yet was partly hidden. It had many petals of
great richness.
Septimius, bending eagerly over the plant, saw that this was not to be the
only flower that it would produce that season; on the contrary, there was
to be a great abundance of them, a luxuriant harvest; as if the crimson
offspring of this one plant would cover the whole hillock,--as if the dead
youth beneath had burst into a resurrection of many crimson flowers! And
in its veiled heart, moreover, there was a mystery like death, although it
seemed to cover something bright and golden.
Day after day the strange crimson flower bloomed more and more abundantly,
until it seemed almost to cover the little hillock, which became a mere
bed of it, apparently turning all its capacity of production to this
flower; for the other plants, Septimius thought, seemed to shrink away,
and give place to it, as if they were unworthy to compare with the
richness, glory, and worth of this their queen. The fervent summer burned
into it, the dew and the rain ministered to it; the soil was rich, for it
was a human heart contributing its juices,--a heart in its fiery youth
sodden in its own blood, so that passion, unsatisfied loves and longings,
ambition that never won its object, tender dreams and throbs, angers,
lusts, hates, all concentrated by life, came sprouting in it, and its
mysterious being, and streaks and shadows, had some meaning in each of
them.
The two girls, when they next ascended the hill, saw the strange flower,
and Rose admired it, and wondered at it, but stood at a distance, without
showing an attraction towards it, rather an undefined aversion, as if she
thought it might be a poison flower; at any rate she would not be inclined
to wear it in her bosom. Sibyl Dacy examined it closely, touched its
leaves, smelt it, looked at it with a botanist's eye, and at last remarked
to Rose, "Yes, it grows well in this new soil; methinks it looks like a
new human life."
"What is the strange flower?" asked Rose.
"The _Sanguinea sanguinissima_" said Sibyl.
It so happened about this time that poor Aunt Keziah, in spite of her
constant use of that bitter mixture of hers, was in a very bad state of
health. She looked all of an unpleasant yellow, with bloodshot eyes; she
complained terribly of her inwards. She had an ugly rheumatic hitch in her
motion from place to place, and was heard to mutter many wishes that she
had a broomstick to fly about upon, and she used to bind up her head with
a dishclout, or what looked to be such, and would sit by the kitchen fire
even in the warm days, bent over it, crouching as if she wanted to take
the whole fire into her poor cold heart or gizzard,--groaning regularly
with each breath a spiteful and resentful groan, as if she fought
womanfully with her infirmities; and she continually smoked her pipe, and
sent out the breath of her complaint visibly in that evil odor; and
sometimes she murmured a little prayer, but somehow or other the evil and
bitterness, acridity, pepperiness, of her natural disposition overcame the
acquired grace which compelled her to pray, insomuch that, after all, you
would have thought the poor old woman was cursing with all her rheumatic
might. All the time an old, broken-nosed, brown earthen jug, covered with
the lid of a black teapot, stood on the edge of the embers, steaming
forever, and sometimes bubbling a little, and giving a great puff, as if
it were sighing and groaning in sympathy with poor Aunt Keziah, and when
it sighed there came a great steam of herby fragrance, not particularly
pleasant, into the kitchen. And ever and anon,--half a dozen times it
might be,--of an afternoon, Aunt Keziah took a certain bottle from a
private receptacle of hers, and also a teacup, and likewise a little,
old-fashioned silver teaspoon, with which she measured three teaspoonfuls
of some spirituous liquor into the teacup, half filled the cup with the
hot decoction, drank it off, gave a grunt of content, and for the space of
half an hour appeared to find life tolerable.
But one day poor Aunt Keziah found herself unable, partly from rheumatism,
partly from other sickness or weakness, and partly from dolorous
ill-spirits, to keep about any longer, so she betook herself to her bed;
and betimes in the forenoon Septimius heard a tremendous knocking on the
floor of her bedchamber, which happened to be the room above his own. He
was the only person in or about the house; so with great reluctance, he
left his studies, which were upon the recipe, in respect to which he was
trying to make out the mode of concoction, which was told in such a
mysterious way that he could not well tell either the quantity of the
ingredients, the mode of trituration, nor in what way their virtue was to
be extracted and combined.
Running hastily up stairs, he found Aunt Keziah lying in bed, and groaning
with great spite and bitterness; so that, indeed, it seemed not
improvidential that such an inimical state of mind towards the human race
was accompanied with an almost inability of motion, else it would not be
safe to be within a considerable distance of her.
"Seppy, you good-for-nothing, are you going to see me lying here, dying,
without trying to do anything for me?"
"Dying, Aunt Keziah?" repeated the young man. "I hope not! What can I do
for you? Shall I go for Rose? or call a neighbor in? or the doctor?"
"No, no, you fool!" said the afflicted person. "You can do all that anybody
can for me; and that is to put my mixture on the kitchen fire till it
steams, and is just ready to bubble; then measure three teaspoonfuls--or
it may be four, as I am very bad--of spirit into a teacup, fill it half
full,--or it may be quite full, for I am very bad, as I said afore; six
teaspoonfuls of spirit into a cup of mixture, and let me have it as soon
as may be; and don't break the cup, nor spill the precious mixture, for
goodness knows when I can go into the woods to gather any more. Ah me! ah
me! it's a wicked, miserable world, and I am the most miserable creature
in it. Be quick, you good-for-nothing, and do as I say!"
Septimius hastened down; but as he went a thought came into his head, which
it occurred to him might result in great benefit to Aunt Keziah, as well
as to the great cause of science and human good, and to the promotion of
his own purpose, in the first place. A day or two ago, he had gathered
several of the beautiful flowers, and laid them in the fervid sun to dry;
and they now seemed to be in about the state in which the old woman was
accustomed to use her herbs, so far as Septimius had observed. Now if
these flowers were really, as there was so much reason for supposing, the
one ingredient that had for hundreds of years been missing out of Aunt
Keziah's nostrum,--if it was this which that strange Indian sagamore had
mingled with his drink with such beneficial effect,--why should not
Septimius now restore it, and if it would not make his beloved aunt young
again, at least assuage the violent symptoms, and perhaps prolong her
valuable life some years, for the solace and delight of her numerous
friends? Septimius, like other people of investigating and active minds,
had a great tendency to experiment, and so good an opportunity as the
present, where (perhaps he thought) there was so little to be risked at
worst, and so much to be gained, was not to be neglected; so, without more
ado, he stirred three of the crimson flowers into the earthen jug, set it
on the edge of the fire, stirred it well, and when it steamed, threw up
little scarlet bubbles, and was about to boil, he measured out the
spirits, as Aunt Keziah had bidden him and then filled the teacup.
"Ah, this will do her good; little does she think, poor old thing, what a
rare and costly medicine is about to be given her. This will set her on
her feet again."
The hue was somewhat changed, he thought, from what he had observed of Aunt
Keziah's customary decoction; instead of a turbid yellow, the crimson
petals of the flower had tinged it, and made it almost red; not a
brilliant red, however, nor the least inviting in appearance. Septimius
smelt it, and thought he could distinguish a little of the rich odor of
the flower, but was not sure. He considered whether to taste it; but the
horrible flavor of Aunt Keziah's decoction recurred strongly to his
remembrance, and he concluded that were he evidently at the point of
death, he might possibly be bold enough to taste it again; but that
nothing short of the hope of a century's existence at least would repay
another taste of that fierce and nauseous bitterness. Aunt Keziah loved
it; and as she brewed, so let her drink.
He went up stairs, careful not to spill a drop of the brimming cup, and
approached the old woman's bedside, where she lay, groaning as before, and
breaking out into a spiteful croak the moment he was within ear-shot.
"You don't care whether I live or die," said she. "You've been waiting in
hopes I shall die, and so save yourself further trouble."
"By no means, Aunt Keziah," said Septimius. "Here is the medicine, which I
have warmed, and measured out, and mingled, as well as I knew how; and I
think it will do you a great deal of good."
"Won't you taste it, Seppy, my dear?" said Aunt Keziah, mollified by the
praise of her beloved mixture. "Drink first, dear, so that my sick old
lips need not taint it. You look pale, Septimius; it will do you good."
"No, Aunt Keziah, I do not need it; and it were a pity to waste your
precious drink," said he.
"It does not look quite the right color," said Aunt Keziah, as she took the
cup in her hand. "You must have dropped some soot into it." Then, as she
raised it to her lips, "It does not smell quite right. But, woe's me! how
can I expect anybody but myself to make this precious drink as it should
be?"
She drank it off at two gulps; for she appeared to hurry it off faster than
usual, as if not tempted by the exquisiteness of its flavor to dwell upon
it so long.
"You have not made it just right, Seppy," said she in a milder tone than
before, for she seemed to feel the customary soothing influence of the
draught, "but you'll do better the next time. It had a queer taste,
methought; or is it that my mouth is getting out of taste? Hard times it
will be for poor Aunt Kezzy, if she's to lose her taste for the medicine
that, under Providence, has saved her life for so many years."
She gave back the cup to Septimius, after looking a little curiously at the
dregs.
"It looks like bloodroot, don't it?" said she. "Perhaps it's my own fault
after all. I gathered a fresh bunch of the yarbs yesterday afternoon, and
put them to steep, and it may be I was a little blind, for it was between
daylight and dark, and the moon shone on me before I had finished. I
thought how the witches used to gather their poisonous stuff at such
times, and what pleasant uses they made of it,--but those are sinful
thoughts, Seppy, sinful thoughts! so I'll say a prayer and try to go to
sleep. I feel very noddy all at once."
Septimius drew the bedclothes up about her shoulders, for she complained of
being very chilly, and, carefully putting her stick within reach, went
down to his own room, and resumed his studies, trying to make out from
those aged hieroglyphics, to which he was now so well accustomed, what was
the precise method of making the elixir of immortality. Sometimes, as men
in deep thought do, he rose from his chair, and walked to and fro the four
or five steps or so that conveyed him from end to end of his little room.
At one of these times he chanced to look in the little looking-glass that
hung between the windows, and was startled at the paleness of his face. It
was quite white, indeed. Septimius was not in the least a foppish young
man; careless he was in dress, though often his apparel took an unsought
picturesqueness that set off his slender, agile figure, perhaps from some
quality of spontaneous arrangement that he had inherited from his Indian
ancestry. Yet many women might have found a charm in that dark, thoughtful
face, with its hidden fire and energy, although Septimius never thought of
its being handsome, and seldom looked at it. Yet now he was drawn to it by
seeing how strangely white it was, and, gazing at it, he observed that
since he considered it last, a very deep furrow, or corrugation, or
fissure, it might almost be called, had indented his brow, rising from the
commencement of his nose towards the centre of the forehead. And he knew
it was his brooding thought, his fierce, hard determination, his intense
concentrativeness for so many months, that had been digging that furrow;
and it must prove indeed a potent specific of the life-water that would
smooth that away, and restore him all the youth and elasticity that he had
buried in that profound grave.