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,