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.
Easy Peter may at all times be seen in our village. If he is not found at the old log tavern at its eastern end, you are certain to meet him at the tobacco house at its western extremity, where two smoky youths have for several years been engaged in “rolling up” the weed into form for the enjoyment of its devotees. I believe it is the universal experience that all of Peter’s excellent habits possess a great proclivity for places of this kind. Whether this may be owing to a desire for idle associations, or simply to a love of the articles retailed there, I am not well qualified to decide; but whatever may be the cause operating upon Peter, he has a peculiar affinity for these two places in our village, at which his enthusiasm and verbosity frequently amuse and occasionally astonish his auditors. It is true, no one seriously apprehends that any modern Festus will ever impatiently accuse him of being made mad by “much learning,” however prolific he may be in his speeches. He is in no such danger, nor is it probable that he will ever earn the reputation of being wise simply through being boisterous, although many have done so before him. Always referring to the generous liberality ascribed to Socrates as an illustration how men should use their knowledge, he even seeks to surpass this much renowned ancient philosopher, whom he recognizes as his worthy model, in the lavishness with which he dispenses whatever he may happen to know. This, it must be acknowledged, is not so exceedingly much; but then he always mixes it with a marvellous amount of useless verbiage, principally drawn from his imagination and his dreams. Herein, it will readily be conceded, he is not at all singular, and only plays a part for which the times furnish innumerable examples. The inhabitants of the village are all perfectly acquainted with him and his habits, and he has therefore long since ceased to disturb them, not from any reasons of his own, but simply because they have learned not to heed him. It so happens, however, that we are not unfrequently visited by strangers, and these invariably stare with amazement whenever they encounter him at either of his favorite places of resort. It may be supposed that in these magnanimous efforts to entertain all who can be induced, from curiosity or other motives, to while away an idle moment with him, he should naturally indulge in denunciations against the world and its practices. This, I must confess, is an inference not in the least repugnant to his habits; but then he never finds fault from the mere pleasure, of doing so, in which he is so very singular, that I must leave it to others to determine whether he is in advance of the age or behind it.
Shortly after the hour of noon, on a certain summer day which will long be remembered in this locality because of its excessive heat, a young and sprightly farmer chanced to visit the village. His entrance seemed to be regarded as an event somewhat remarkable, for so dull was the season that no strange face had been seen by the villagers for several weeks. Upon arriving at the tavern, having been curiously stared at by the occupants of every building he had passed, he encountered Peter, who immediately entered into heterogeneous conversation, if that can be called conversation in which the talking is all on one side. I will here venture the opinion, though cautiously, that it may, for custom seems to have so decreed, and with few things has custom had more to do. Having invented no new word fully adequate to the occasion, and sufficiently expressive, we are led to submit to its long continued acquiescence in the one now employed. Then, too, excellent talkers could never consent to change this form of expression for any other less creditable to themselves, and the good listener may find sufficient to reconcile himself to it in the remark of old Simonides, who declared that he had frequently repented of having said too much, but never of having remained silent. Notwithstanding the apparent determination to exclude the possibility of a stray word from the new comer, Peter’s conduct had something of novelty in it to the stranger which at once induced him patiently to listen. Of course, this attention was highly pleasing to the talker, for several weeks had been a very long period for him to remain, on account of the dullness of the season, in that silence to which the villagers had doomed him by common consent, under the impression that time spent with him was unprofitably and irretrievably cast away. When, therefore, he was invited by the young man to a seat in his conveyance, Peter had no hesitancy in accepting, and not until they had left the village several miles behind, did he ascertain that the stranger had no intention of returning to it again. He now first bethought himself of the ridiculous blunder he had made in not having informed himself of this fact before. In this sad plight, very sad indeed to him, he slowly dismounted from the vehicle, and commenced pondering upon the best means to get back again to the tavern he had so incautiously left at the bidding of the stranger. To walk so great a distance he would at any time have looked upon as an exceedingly laborious task, but in the awful heat of that day the idea was too terrible to be entertained. At length he concluded to trust to his luck, which had sometimes favored him, although he had frequently complained of its hard decrees, thinking that chance might perhaps send some conveyance that way, through which he could return to the village. I should be greatly gratified to be able to say, that in Peter Easy I had found the man who never lamented over his fate, and who never affirmed that he was the “unluckiest fellow in the world;” but I cannot claim the credit of having made so happy a discovery. Whether that fortunate individual has ever set a foot of real flesh and bone upon earthly soil, is most extremely doubtful; yet all will confide in their better destiny, as did Peter in the present instance, though the certainty of disappointment may seem to stare them in the face. Cheered by so comfortable a hope, he seated himself by the roadside, beneath the shady branches of a ponderous tree, and not feeling just then like the young lady who always “dreaded to retire to bed because she could not talk in her sleep,” he was soon lazily spread out full length upon the sod. He had not been long in this posture, before he found gradually stealing over him a dull and oppressive stupor, which may have owed its origin to a hearty and undigested dinner, for in his case the saying of the wise man did not yet apply—“slothfulness casteth into a deep sleep, and an idle soul shall suffer hunger.” Fortunately for him, his father had been a careful and judicious man, and thus placed him beyond the calamity of the latter portion of the proverb, which his habits might otherwise have reaped; and I much question whether he had ever been so blessed as to realize the truth of the former by experience. In this state of unconsciousness, verging unto sleep, he had a dream, which he has since so often related that it must be very widely known. At least, such is the inference of the villagers, who suppose that it has been honored with frequent repetitions by some of the many strangers who have visited the village since this eventful day in Peter’s life, none of whom could escape hearing it either in whole or by parcels. I shall here endeavor to narrate it, though conscious that much of its effect must necessarily be lost through the absence of his manner and gestures, which no human skill could transfer upon paper; nor can I give it precisely in his own words, for reasons which I must withhold, leaving the reader, however, at liberty to supply such as may best suit his fancy.
Easy Peter, not so exceedingly easy at the time, imagined in his dream that some supernatural power had suddenly seized him. From whence it had come, he could not divine, but it gradually transported him beyond the confines of earth into another world. This so much resembled our own, that had he awoke here, he positively affirms, he should not have been able to discover the least difference. He was not as fortunate as the man who “dreamed that there was no credit to be given to dreams;” and strange enough, in his conscious hours, he defends this fanciful excursion of his momentary slumber as a substantial truth. It has been so effectually impressed upon his mind, that he speaks of it, not as the deceptive experience of a dream, but as a real adventure. The first thing that attracted his attention in this new sphere, was the variety of employments at which he found the people engaged. A French philosopher declares, that they are mean souls who are so buried in business as not to know that the most glorious and principal work of man is to live well; and as Peter gazed upon the continual efforts and ceaseless struggles here exhibited, he could not refrain from indulging in somewhat similar reflections. Scarcely an occasional pause was to be observed in the general commotion, so intent did each appear upon some object that hurried him on.—Amongst these eager scramblers, running to and fro in hot haste, chasing every chimera supposed to hold out a promise, Peter’s eyes detected one who at once claimed his entire attention. He was as ugly as a Theban sphynx, lean and lank, his very gait giving evidence of his cunning and treachery, whilst his countenance, if it mirrored what was passing in the soul, plainly cried out, “Money, money! at whatever cost or consequence, I must have money!” A worthy illustration of the heartless miser, who seeks for nothing but the gratification of his insatiable desire, he never hesitated to inflict a wrong, or crush a soul, to obtain possession of a shilling. The French Vandille, to save the extra expense of three bleedings at three pence each, let out the four and twenty ounces of blood at a single operation, thus purchasing his death at a sixpence—certainly a very cheap transaction. He had his counterpart in this avaricious wretch, who, Peter positively affirms, would have added another four and twenty ounces for the gratification of feasting his eyes upon the glitter of a shekel. “Had he lived,” said a stranger, “in the days of Eumolpus, he would have been an excellent subject for remembrance in the will of that whimsical fellow, who ordered that all to whom he gave legacies, besides his children, should receive them upon condition that they cut up his body and eat it before the people.” “Many,” replied Peter, “have waded through disgust to wealth; and for a trifle, he would never have paused until he had munched it up entirely.” His miserly propensities urged him to the violation of every principle, the sacrifice of every virtue that happened to come in contact with them; and thus he pursued his daily course, still adding to his store as he lost of his manhood. How very ridiculous it is, thought Peter in his dream, that men will grasp and grasp without stopping to ask a question, and thereby only increase the certainty of being eventually grasped themselves, by most unwelcome clutches, without being allowed the time to answer any.
Turning from this wretched specimen of humanity, Peter recognised another who was no less busy, and who seemed as ambitious as Phæton or Icarus, determined to set the world in a blaze, or what appeared more likely to happen, break his own neck in his aspiring flights. He knew of no medium by which to be controlled, and would even have found pleasure in the reputation of being a fool; but, unfortunately, Hobbes spoke truth when he said, that “without learning it is impossible for any man to be either excellently wise or excellently foolish.” Herein he was deficient, and the “number of common fools far exceeding that of wise men,” as a German author observes, they were rendered so general and were so frequently encountered that even this prospect of securing celebrity promised him nothing. Moved by his “wild distemper” he forgot the realities by which he was surrounded, and in his impetuosity to climb up the crooked ladder of distinction, he was hurried to the most extravagant excesses. Erostratus, to obtain renown, fired the temple of Diana, but the Ephesians, to bury his memory in eternal oblivion, prohibited the mention of his name under the penalty of death. This individual, if not yet driven to such extremities to gratify his passion, could nevertheless foresee, in the satiric ridicule certain to follow his mad endeavors, sufficient cause to “go and hang himself out of sheer mortification.” Such, thought Peter, not unfrequently, is the melancholy end of the zealot, when his zeal triumphs over his judgment and dethrones his reason.
As he was watching the manœuvres and expedients of this not uncommon character, a party of gentlemen suddenly intervened between his vision and the subject of his gaze. They were all so exceedingly merry that Peter felt anxious to join in their sport, and declares that he should have done so had he not been deterred by seeing one of them slyly and skilfully sliding his hands into the pockets of another, where, he quite reasonably supposed, it had no business. This was an exploit the like of which he had never witnessed before; but having frequently heard of the practices of a learned profession, he immediately concluded that this cunning villain was a lawyer, so prone are we to form opinions from general reputation. He soon after discovered his error, however, for the loud “hue and cry” that met his ears, very distinctly informed him that upon this world there were pocket pickers and robbers as well as upon our own, showing that we cannot claim these blessings as belonging exclusively to us. Inference, thought Peter, is a very uncertain thing, as often unjust as it is mistaken, and he asked of himself whether it had ever assigned to him a place in the category of rogues. Of this he might have been satisfied, for it has not yet been shown that any has ever escaped such imputations, and we can only be surprised that so many are foolish enough to manifest doubtful anxiety in a matter of which each may be so certain.
Another, who was hurrying along with all possible speed, and whose wild appearance seemed to attract general notice, now claimed Peter’s attention. Not in the least regarding his late experience, he at once concluded that this was a madman, in which he was again partially mistaken. Following after, it was not long before he discovered him to be an eminent physician, visiting a patient to whom he had the day before administered a dose, and who was now in his last agonies. “A wretched, bungling quack! a quack, sir,” exclaimed a young physician, who became irritated at our dreamer as he was declaiming upon this portion of his dream. “Perhaps,” replied a stranger, “the people of that sphere are stupid enough to follow the practice that caused the uncivil jest of Fabius of Bentivoglio, who, on his way to manufacture a doctor, by chance espied an ass yawning with open mouth as if he were laughing. To whom, ‘why laugh you,’ says Fabius, ‘you silly creature? we can make you a doctor too, if you have but money.’” However this may have been, the great haste of the physician was matter of surprise to Peter, who could not understand why a professor, whose business it was to assist people to get out of the world with ease, should be so much concerned for the life of a single patient. His wonder, however, soon subsided upon being furnished with reason to believe that the man of medicine was a more careful student of the Talmud and the Rabbins than of his profession, and that he had not been running for the good of the sick, but for his own fee, which was of infinitely greater importance. Many a one, thought Peter, is rendering service to the devil, even at the very time that we may think him engaged in works of superior excellence.
Easy Peter now lost sight of the physician, but his place was filled by a straight, slender, and serious looking individual, who was holding forth in a magnificent building, which had evidently been erected with a due regard to lodging accommodations. It required nothing beyond what he saw to inform him that this was a preacher in his fashionable temple. Peter had seen few men, notwithstanding his extensive intercourse with the world, who had the faculty of assuming so saintly an appearance as this one, and he therefore determined to follow him home. The holy man had scarcely descended from the pulpit before Peter saw an illustration of how much easier it was to preach humility than to practice it, and felt how few, even of the priesthood, really understood the saying of the essayist, that “the souls of kings and cobblers were cast in the same mould.” To show obeisance to the one, however guilty and degraded by vice he may be, is easy, and honorable, and an imitation of Jesus: to shake hands with the other, and seek to reclaim him by magnanimous and friendly fellowship, is countenancing and encouraging “publicans and sinners.” To greet with the pleasant social smile, and the exhibition of generous solicitude, the poor and ragged parishioner, is changing religion into levity, and “walking in the counsel of the ungodly, and standing in the way of sinners:” to fawn upon and court the favor and association of the more fortunate worshipper, who seldom ever rises from his knees until he has planned some new scheme to play the villain towards his fellow, is “exhorting one another daily, while it is called to-day,” or taking “sweet counsel together, and walking unto the house of God in company.” Peter was not a little surprised, upon reaching the residence of the minister, to discover how much better he was fitted to declaim upon the beauties of charity than to practice magnanimity and forbearance in his own house. This, thought he, is not the only one who, to obtain skill in lecturing the public, exercises himself at the expense of his family’s comfort and happiness.
Peter became interested in the private habits of this reverend gentleman, and would gladly have remained to ascertain yet more concerning them, but being unable to direct the course of his dream, he was unfortunately compelled to follow a melancholy creature who happened just then to cross his dreamy path. True, he had somewhere read or heard that melancholy men were naturally endowed with greater genius than those blessed with more volatile dispositions, and he therefore expected to gain from this new subject what he had missed by losing the other. He was led to a large and splendid establishment, which he regarded as being certainly much better calculated to produce comfort and happiness than melancholy. He had scarcely entered, before he heard a harsh, shrill voice re-echoing through the house, and when the termagant, who seemed to have inherited from nature a perfect right to its possession, made her appearance, he could not help repeating to himself the proverb of Solomon, “It is better to dwell in a corner of the house-top, than with a brawling woman in a wide house.” “What an excellent Tatianian he would have made,” remarked a pert young lady of the village, who would sometimes honor Peter with a few moments of her attention, and to whom the thought of such unfortunate husbands always afforded matter for merriment. “Why so?” anxiously queried Peter, who could not fathom her meaning. “Because they maintained that all, except themselves, were damned through mother Eve, and that women were made by the devil, to the latter of which tenets your hen-pecked vision could no doubt have sworn with the strictest of the sect.” “Notwithstanding such were their origin, we would treasure them,” added another. “Proving,” replied she, “that the gifts from that quarter are preferred, and that there is no justice in your complaints when the penalty is to be paid.” Peter was naturally somewhat sympathetic, and would gladly have condoled with this melancholy man in his affliction, but the domestic pest kept too strict a watch to permit it. He apprehended the consequences likely to follow, should he presume too much, and therefore wisely concluded not to cause the reigning spirit of the mansion to “pass still more the equilibrium of her balance.” He reflected how indiscreet it is to interfere in matters of this kind, and remembering the advice of the old poet, he thought it judicious not to disregard it: