Chapter II: Part 2

Moderation in our wishes is as rarely witnessed as their realization. It was an argument with the Cynics that absence of all want was the natural condition of the Gods, and therefore he who stood in need of but few things most resembled them. The remark ascribed to Taxilles is admirable and philosophic, “What occasion is there, Alexander, that you and I must needs quarrel and fight; since you neither came to rob us of our water nor of our food, which are the only two things that men in their wits think worth contending for?” The idea of the Cynics is rarely exemplified in human life, and the moderate desires expressed by Taxilles equally seldom infuse into men the modest wishes they suggest to our minds. St. Cyprian, and others before and after him, distributed their possessions amongst their fellows, reducing themselves to poverty. If all cannot admire the wisdom of their action, certainly none can find anything in their motives to condemn. They who have thus mastered their selfishness and avarice, two vices sufficiently powerful to destroy many of the nobler virtues, have obtained a command over themselves more desirable than wealth or distinction. They have conquered impulses whose end not unfrequently is agony of mind and destruction to all the sensibilities of the soul; they have subjected their wishes and tamed their desires to encounter the vicissitudes of life with philosophic calmness.

The present pleasure may pass away into oblivion, or it may leave a permanent sting behind; and yet it is for this that extravagant wishes leap into being and expand to the limit of possibility, or to the extent of our comprehension. The diviner philosophy which teaches us the vanity of our desires, and the vexation of spirit attending even their full gratification, is neglected until forced upon us by the irresistible teachings of experience. The most excellent lessons of virtue are treated with indifference to further imposing schemes for riches, for fame, or for power; yet the one is not attended by peace of mind, the other brings no quiet comfort to the soul, and the third fails to realize happiness and contentment. The flatteries of friends and sycophants which follow you in each, only fill your face with frowns and your heart with loathing and disgust. The wealth of Crassus, the Rich, brought him neither contentment nor protection; the distinction of Pompey could not brook the rising glory of his great rival, and but provoked his malice and his envy; the power of Cæsar only increased his ambition, which continued to prey upon his soul and in his longings for the crown it became his own avenger; and the flatterers of Canute but made him feel his insignificance and aroused his contempt.

The wish for distinction and renown, however, may not only be blameless in itself, but when restrained within proper bounds, highly honorable. There is a medium between ambition and a total neglect of reputation as hard distinctly to define as it is difficult to practice. Few have known how to follow it, and many whose wishes were at first confined to the rule of a town, afterwards aspired to empire. History even refuses to agree with Cicero in according to Cæsar the credit of having, at the beginning of his career, devised and pursued a definite plan to subvert the Roman Commonwealth and elevate himself to the tyranny. None would add to the infamy of Marius or Sylla by supposing that the first aspirations of either were for absolute power. When it is remembered how difficult it is to be restrained within this medium, it will not appear strange that so many should have overstepped it, often to the great injury of themselves and more frequently still to the great affliction of the people. If our wishes be prompted by motives to promote the public good, they may justly acquire the title of patriotism; and when, in addition, they are so wholly under our control as to enable us to assume the command to-day and renounce it to-morrow should the interests of the country require it, we are eminently qualified for every sphere or position in the Republic. Frederick, the Elector of Saxony, refused the crown under the impression that an Emperor more powerful than himself was needed to preserve Germany; and the humble Cincinnatus found more repose and pleasure in the cultivation of his little fields than in the exercise of power or the trappings of wealth. Unlike the treacherous decemviri, when the duties of his high positions had been performed, he meekly resigned them again to seek the approving smiles of his Attillia and the content of his humble home. These are examples with which history does not abound, and whatever credit we may accord to their deeds of worth and valor, we yet see more to admire in their generous humility and the noble command they constantly reserved over themselves.

It is a small matter to wish for virtue, yet a more worthy desire never entered the mind of man. Virtue is the highest of all treasures, and however rarely it may be seen, is neither beyond the reach of any nor above his comprehension. The high and low, the prince and the peasant, are alike possessed with the power of attaining it. All the greater excellencies of nature are free and within universal reach. It is the remark of an old philosopher, that “many people, without having their reason improved by study, live nevertheless in a manner conformable to the dictates of right reason;” and Montaigne observes that the life of the peasant is frequently more agreeable to philosophy than that of the philosopher himself. This wish is none the less ennobling because its answer is within universal reach. It is even more rarely realized than desires for wealth or power, and is infinitely preferable to either when attained. There is nothing in nature more useful, for what evils does it not avert? It renders us impregnable to the stealthy encroachments of vice; relieves us of all selfishness, guile, and hypocrisy; robs us of all malice, deceit, and treachery; frees us from the gnawings of envy, the miseries of hate, and the slavery of passion; delivers us from the bondage of avarice, ambition, and the remorse which so frequently attends them; and fits us not only to think of but to do “whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report.” It is no less permanent than it is useful. We scarcely know which most to admire, the cool indifference of Phalereus, or the tribute which he pays to the durable nature of virtue, in his reply, when told that the Athenian people had thrown down and destroyed his statues: “Well, but they cannot overturn that virtue for the sake of which they were erected.” It is a noble companion for every sphere of life, teaching us how to wear, with just humility, the honors we may acquire, and how to submit, with becoming dignity, to the reverses of fortune, the treachery of friends, and the persecution of enemies. Under its guidance, the world is seen in its true character, and our duties towards it discharged with forbearance and charity. Without it, none can be truly great nor truly happy. With it, all may obtain a just share of human happiness and contentment, and each secure for himself the noble tribute which history has paid to Epaminondas, a higher eulogy than ever yet was acquired through the realization of the grandest schemes for wealth or glory: “HE WAS A MAN ADORNED WITH EVERY VIRTUE, AND STAINED BY NO VICE.”

EXPLANATORY.

“Good men live twice: it doubleth every hour
To look with joy on that which passed before.”

The author of the following paper, having himself witnessed and heard what he has attempted to detail, merely designed to attract attention to a rich resource of pleasure inherent in every good man. To him who has carefully kept himself free from dishonor, and whose life has never been marred by the stains of vice, there is nothing so happily adapted to beguile the hours of solitude as reflections upon the past. Seneca calls the “unmoved tranquility of a happy mind, a great reward.” He who has so lived as to obtain it, whatever his present condition, may always find in his own thoughts the purest enjoyment, perhaps realizing in this healthful exercise of the resources within him, that there is much more of reality than fancy in what Iamblicus has said: “We must take this as a certain truth, that nothing properly evil shall happen to a good man, either in this life, or after it.”

M. S----G.

THE SICK MOTHER.

I have never sat by the sick-bed of a mother without finding gradually stealing over me a deeply melancholy and impressive feeling. Nature has so constituted the human mind as to render it susceptible of an infinite variety of emotions, and made it so expansive in its grasp as to enable it to contemplate everything within the boundless universe. However finite it may be, there is nothing of which it cannot think; and although there are many things which it fails to understand, they all inspire some feeling or awaken some emotion within the invisible recesses of our nature. The many truths of which we know, and the countless beauties mirrored before our eyes by the imagination dwelling upon uncertainties and doubtful probabilities, often give rise to a variety of sensations so powerful as to hold us spell-bound. The deep springs of the heart, frequently hidden to our comprehension, are ever flowing for our enjoyment. Of this I was recently reminded, in a very impressive manner, by being ushered into the presence of a mother, who had, for three successive years, been confined to a sick-bed. The information of her sore affliction suggested a train of thought, and prompted a number of reflections, the recollection of which will forever abide fresh in my memory. She was yet young, and notwithstanding her many trials, exhibited a vigor of mind and a freshness of heart seldom discovered in the most healthy and buoyant. The knowledge of her prostration for years, in the prime of her life, and when possessed of all the impulsive desires and sanguine expectations common to those of her age, saddened me to sickness as I first entered her apartment; but upon discovering her genuine animation, her beauty of heart and sprightliness of mind, my feelings alternately changed from sadness to surprise, from surprise to veneration. How many pleasures, thought I, had I enjoyed during the past three years! How had I, watching the changing seasons, relished the many delightful things each of them had brought forth! In the mellow sunlight of the morning, I had drank in the beauties of the earth; and in the sweet twilight of the evening, I had reaped the richest bounties it afforded. I had daily sported with my friends, many of whom had never felt a wish unanswered, yet still remained unsatisfied; I had played alike with the young and old with an intensity of interest that touched every chord of the heart; and I had felt the ecstacy of a variety of joys, whilst the vigor of uninterrupted health but spread out before me all that heart could wish, or soul desire. There were our glorious winter parties, where kindness, friendship, and love, ministered to our wishes; gleeful rides over the silvery snow, cozily muffled in furs, and almost buried in robes, our exuberant hilarity rising high above the jingling music of the bells; summer meetings beneath the shady branches of the willow, in the downy meadow; and moonlight strolls with cherished companions all around us, and loved ones leaning tenderly on our arms. We had our social enjoyments in all their diversified characters; our many exhibitions of the noblest intellect fraught with the golden treasures of study; our seasonable round of vivifying concerts by the highest talent in the wide world; our splendid and attractive operas, with all the more and less refined amusements which the age required to make up the sum total of this never satisfied and insatiable human life. Whether in door or out, we found all that could be desired to make existence pleasing, and attach us the more firmly to it; yet here was one who had none, or few of these things. Chained down within the narrow compass of her bed, her ill destiny had denied to her the pleasures of the world without. How could she endure it? Would not her heart wither for want of food, and her mind perish for lack of stimulants? Nothing in the least approaching to this was perceptible. She ever seemed the happy spirit that could rise above the afflictions of fate, and over which no misfortune could cast a cloud of despair.

In conversation, she spoke of the world with a knowledge and a heart that would have persuaded you she constantly moved with the busiest portion of it. She was fully aware of the condition and employments of her friends, enjoying their sports and amusements as much, apparently, as though she was participating in them; and often, with her own delicate hands, she had prepared some trifling and expressive thing, which told how much she wished their happiness. There was no complaint in her, nor could you force repining regrets upon her. Her answers to your queries were always the same in sweetness and resignation, and such as might almost have led you to think she preferred her condition to one of health, and its attendant pleasures. It is true, she did not conceal that, at first, her situation seemed indeed terrible to herself, yet principally from one cause, which never ceased more or less to trouble her. She had a young and devoted husband, and she regretted more for his sake than her own, her incapacity to mingle in the social spheres of life, and thus afford him enjoyments which were denied him in her condition. Her selfishness, if she ever had any, was changed from herself and directed towards him, upon whom she would have conferred every merit or good quality she possessed, had she had the power, and many more, if possible, and regarded the task the most delightful she had ever performed. His very desires and aims of life had become her’s, and I believe she would have suffered any personal inconvenience or sacrifice to have gratified him in them all; his troubles and vexations, by some strange and inexplicable influence of sympathy, she had invariably succeeded in removing from his mind, and placing in their stead a new and more exalted vigor: in truth, he had never felt a regret, a pang, a trial, however trifling, in which she had not participated, and which, by some mysterious balm distilled by her own sympathetic heart, she had not contributed to remove or obliterate. If, however, she shared so much in his sorrows, she partook none the less of his joys. His happiness was her own; his successes and his triumphs were her’s; and the just rewards of his ceaseless labors, deservedly elevating him in public esteem, were even more gratifying to her than to himself. In his honorable elevation, she beheld her personal advancement, and in the brightness of his reputation, she felt additions to her own. When his aspirations had been realized, she had experienced a gratification superior to his, and when he had attained a point through assiduous effort, the acquisition afforded mutual pleasure. Thus entering into his very existence, she deplored her affliction more from a desire to promote his happiness than from any wish or anxiety for personal gratification and enjoyment.

The apartment occupied by her was neatly fitted up and arranged with a view of making her situation as comfortable as possible, and evidences were not wanting of the generous sympathies of her friends. Whatever was supposed capable of affording her a moment’s cheerful amusement, or of lessening the tedium of her constant confinement, was supplied; and the innumerable attentions bestowed upon her bore ample testimony of the esteem in which she was held. Her acquaintances seemed really to be vieing with each other who could do most to attest the good wishes entertained in her behalf, and the many expedients invented to gratify her, well exhibited the magnanimous ingenuity and skill of their authors. How highly did she appreciate this kindness, and how enthusiastically did she speak of it! To hear her, was to forget her afflictions, and partake of her grateful and joyous feelings. She had often exclaimed, in the fullness of her heart, that she could wish for no more; and indeed, turn where you would, you could see nothing but tokens of sympathy and love, which the stricken soul alone can fully know how to cherish. Then, too, she had a little bright-eyed, prattling boy, the best and happiest in the world, she would say. With him she would play for hours together, and pet him with tender caresses, attesting the power of her motherly affections, and evincing how much she treasured him. In his gleeful gambols, she would watch him with ineffable fondness, and his infantile freaks elicited emotions which she would not have bartered for the world. Next to her husband, her boy was her greatest earthly idol, and a stay which, though tender, made life, however afflicted, a boon that filled her heart with gratitude.

Whilst seated in her apartment, in conversation with her, her husband, with whom I had spent many of my youthful days, and once taken a long excursion through several provinces, entered, without observing me, and, walking to the bedside of his wife, he tenderly embraced her, and then sat silently down before her. I fancied I saw a tear glistening in his eye, and I never was more moved to pity. How much I had been mistaken, and how misdirected had been my compassion, I was pleased to ascertain soon after. As I was upon the point of addressing him, she cast a look upon him so sweetly soft and gentle, that, once seen, it could never be forgotten, and smilingly said,

“Come, Charles, be more cheerful and communicative. Let me know what has been astir within the past few hours since your return. You certainly do not appear to be displeased, and yet you are not disposed to be talkative.”

“Nothing has in the least ruffled my temper, I assure you. I am as well contented with myself and the world now as ever, and would not so belie the home of my friend as to cause a supposition that my visit to him had rendered me dull and gloomy.”

“What, then, makes you so silent? I have noticed your quiet moments, at times, heretofore, without being able to divine their cause, and you have never been pleased to make it known.”

“That was because I thought your own heart knew it, and felt it: but as I am in the mood, I shall endeavor to tell you. You are well aware that there are periods when the heart speaks more in silence than the tongue could possibly express--when a momentary pause reveals more than the talk of a day could unfold. I know you have sometimes found your feelings too powerful for utterance, and in silent thought permitted them partially to subside before you ventured to speak and break the spell that enchained you. Nature has so constituted those capable of genuine love, that, whilst feeling the influence of so sacred an affection, their ecstacy should not be disturbed even by the pleasures of conversation. The strength of this passion, at times, overpowers every other impulse; and though it may then enforce silence, it only does so to enable us to enjoy the more the rich treasures of our own hearts. Depend upon it, such moments wear the touches of angels, and furnish us with the sublimest idea of the enjoyments of heaven that can be realized in the present life. Their recurrence cannot come too often, nor can they be retained too long, when present, for they are our choicest blessings.”

If ever, thought I, a wife had been answered to her heart’s full satisfaction, this sick and helpless one was in the present instance. It was now her turn to become silent, and changing her position, I obtained a full view of her animated countenance, from which I inferred that the words of her husband had penetrated into her soul to be secretly treasured there. My position had already become too embarrassing to allow me to remain silent any longer; so, rising from my seat, I advanced towards him, and was about offering an apology, but he overwhelmed me with joyful greetings. Upon his pressing invitation, I was prevailed upon to remain with him and his family until the succeeding day, and thus I was favored with ample opportunities to witness the disposition of the sick mother, and enjoy her conversations. For this, though I never much liked a sick room, I afterwards became thankful; for I felt that I had, in rehearsing the many exploits I had had with her husband, opened new sources for her enjoyment, whilst I likewise learnt a lesson of the human heart which I can never fail to hold in remembrance. Upon one occasion, in entering her apartment, I found her affectionately playing with her boy, and remarked upon the pleasure she must experience in the possession of so fine a plaything.

“Indeed, sir,” said she, “I have my amusement with him. Day after day I thus while away many an hour, which might otherwise be rendered dull and tedious, so pleasantly that I scarcely note its passage.”

“Without him,” remarked I, desirous of ascertaining how so long a period of confinement could be endured, “time would, no doubt, hang heavily upon you, and your sources of comfort and pleasure be much diminished?”

“Since I have become accustomed to the many gratifications he has brought me, I can scarcely endure his absence for a single day. Though he is not my only source of comfort and amusement, to lose him would be a most terrible affliction.”

“How,” continued I, putting the question direct, “could you tolerate this long confinement, and yet retain your youthful glee? I should long since have perished from utter despondency.”

“It was not so easily done,” was her answer, whilst a pleasant smile lighted up her countenance, “yet I made every effort to maintain my spirits, and with the kind assistance of all around me, I happily succeeded.” After speaking of the many kindnesses of her friends, and the constant devotion of her husband, in so animating a manner that I could not help fully sharing in her feelings, she continued: “If I cannot move with the busy world, I constantly hear of it, and often think of it. To appreciate and feel its pleasures, it is not always necessary that we should actively participate in them. The heart and mind are the seats of true enjoyment, and the occurrences and events of busy life can only be pleasing as they harmonize with the one or the other, whatever may be your condition. There is no joy, unless you reach them by the right direction, and no pain, unless you approach them wrongly. The measure of happiness depends more upon the manner in which they are made to move, than upon external causes. They are likewise mighty sources of comfort and amusement within themselves. I had lived happily for a number of years, partaking of all the enjoyments my tastes suggested, or opportunity presented; and since confined in this room, I have again and again lived over my former life. Every incident has been reviewed, even from my infancy to the present hour. This retrospective life, if I may so denominate it, is very singular, and withal, very pleasing. The pure pleasure of a good action is often little experienced whilst you are performing it, but felt most keenly after it has been done. At times an occurrence makes you tremble with affright whilst beholding it, and when your momentary terror has subsided, its ridiculous nature convulses you with laughter. I have known men to fret, and scold, and swear, for entire days at the inconveniences that beset them, and when safely over their difficulties, sit down and detail them again and again with the most heartfelt merriment. I remember having once encountered a traveller, who was so provoked at the miserable condition of the road, and the cold winter weather, as very audibly to wish the company in a much warmer locality more than fifty times during the slow journey; yet, a few days after, I met him comfortably seated before a cheerful fire with a friend, whilst tears of unrestrained laughter rolled down his cheeks, as he rehearsed this part of his rough experience. Such are the effects of a combination of the past and the present upon the mind, and so is it with this retrospective life. That which caused pleasure once, or made you joyful and merry, will always renew the like emotions whenever you think of it; that which truly enlisted the feelings of the heart at one time, will never fail to do so again whenever you ponder upon it; that which in any way seriously affected you once, will continue to do so as often as it may be brought to your remembrance; and the recollection even of many of those things which you would fain have averted or avoided, may prove objects of gratification. Think of this, if you please, and by directing your attention more studiously and carefully upon the past, experiment for yourself, and you will find that the soul’s impressions are not perishable. Examine the hours gone by, and you will discover for your future old age beauties which your present youth cannot fully comprehend or justly appreciate, and sources of enjoyment scarcely known to you now. Nature has so ordained, and most charitably and wisely, that each day passed in active, vigorous youth, should provide for the quiet amusements of age--that the pleasures of one period of life should happily be productive of delights for the other, instead of being felt but for the moment and then forgotten forever.”

“No doubt, madam,” remarked I, “you are very correct in what you have said; but to be compelled by necessity, at an age like yours, just properly adapted for active participation in the affairs and pleasures of life, to resort to such means of enjoyment, can scarcely be supposed to place you in so happy a condition as that which you have assigned to old age.”

“You may, perhaps,” continued she, “be partly right, but you are much more wrong. Short, comparatively, as has been my life, it has furnished material enough for an age of thought, and by using it I have again and again felt the pleasures of the soul. Then, too, this was not a dream life, the idle vapors of which could be dispelled by a sudden transition to reality, for there was nothing in it that had not, at one time, been really seen and felt. It was rather a life of quiet and happy reflection. It is not a dream nor delusion to wander back, by the marvellous power of thought, and take your accustomed place once more at the social board of a loved and peaceful home, and have again renewed within you the feelings of youth. It so resembles the substantial truth that we can scarcely discern a difference, and revives sympathies so pleasing that we involuntarily desire their constant presence. The spirit ever retains its hold upon the past, and the delightful hours of childhood, when we drank in the many joys of our young and unruffled life, come back again to awaken the same emotions that animated us then. The affections once more leap into young and untainted existence, and we feel as guilelessly happy and buoyant as in youth. No occurrence fails to re-enlist our attention, but each trifling incident contributes its just portion to our pleasure. How much we doat upon these things, and how fondly we cherish them! There,” directing my attention to a neat little article, “lies a trifling relic of one with whom I had spent many of my days in girlish companionship. She no more walks the earth, for she sank quietly and peacefully into the grave, just as she was budding into beautiful womanhood. She had done the work appointed unto her, and Death gathered her to himself; but, though she is buried, I never gaze upon that small trinket without calling up again her sweet image from its solemn resting place to experience once more, perhaps more vigorously than ever, the many pleasures we had enjoyed together. Here,” lifting up her hand, “is a token of friendship which I need but gaze upon to revive a variety of remembrances so pleasing that I would not exchange them for the most valuable treasure. How well do I remember the day, the very hour, though sad it may have been, when this tiny ring first encircled my finger! It was an hour of parting between loving friends, yet not an hour in which they forgot each other. Though far away, she still remembers me as ardently as I retain my recollections of her, and the many happy moments we spent together. Happily, however, it needs not these material trifles to wrest from oblivion the incidents of our lives. One after another we can breathe them into existence as often as we will, through the powers upon which they have made an enduring impression, and as they re-appear before us, the hallowed shadows of substances once enjoyed, we become enchanted with their loveliness. There is a beauty in this review of life, in thus living over again the years gone by, that affords the richest comfort to the soul.”

“Is it then,” queried I, “by thus asking pleasures of an active and happy past, that you have maintained your freshness of mind and brilliancy of spirits? In another, the same things would have caused melancholy and desponding regrets, by exhibiting in contrast a hopeless and pleasureless future.”

“My future,” she pleasantly replied, “is not hopeless, but were it even so, the consequences could not be so sad; neither will it ever be more void of amusement than the present, which is full of enjoyment. It is an old Spanish maxim, well suited to the temper of the Spaniard, that ‘he who loseth wealth, loseth much; he who loseth a friend, loseth more; but he who loseth his spirits, loseth all.’ With so fatal a loss, the mind sinks deep into despair, and the heart finds nothing to cheer it. Our natural organization, however, is happily provided with guards and barriers against it, and to those who are not permitted to mingle in society, this retrospective life is the best and noblest of them all. There is no reliable middle course in affliction, and if you guard against the pressure of unfavorable circumstances, you not merely avoid the dangers of despondency, but also increase your capacities for enjoyment. Your heart will mellow and expand by sickness, and whatever coldness or indifference characterized it, will yield before the power of sympathy. The ill in your nature will be imperceptibly destroyed, and the good remain standing alone. Where before you were quick to censure, you will manifest generous forbearance, and even positive injuries will be forgotten and forgiven. How well is this state and condition adapted for a review of the past! Whilst it causes you to extend friendship to those whom you hated, it attaches you so closely to those whom you loved that your very being seems to become blended with theirs. In your adoration of them, their lives are made part of your own, and though they may not always claim an interest so intense, they afford equal enjoyment. You ponder upon their adventures, contrasting them with your own, and each separate incident affords new matter for the employment of your thoughts. If, then, I have my own life spread out before me, and the lives of those who are nearest and dearest to me, have I not sources of enjoyment sufficient to do much more than maintain my present spirits and buoyancy.”

Thus she continued ever finding something to interest her mind, and bring pleasure to her lively affections; whilst I felt pleased with this happy manifestation of her well-trained disposition, and found in it much to instruct. Here was one whom I had regarded as a fit object for compassion, enjoying herself more than the vast mass of humanity much better situated for enjoyment. All this, too, by properly guarding and guiding her thoughts. Here was a commentary on human happiness, showing how well we are adapted for pleasure, and what sources of comfort we may be of ourselves. The deep and unseen springs of sensibility and joy within us, thus made to gush forth at our will, augur a higher and sublimer destiny. The crude philosopher, or the still cruder sceptic, may doubt and deny, but still they will continue to direct him to the imperishable testimonies of immortality. It is not within us to believe, that the power which dictates and controls our thoughts and our impulses, so tender that every impression made upon it even in infancy retains its hold until the grave closes over us, is destined to be forever obliterated. Even in life, it gives us evidences of eternity. Should we live for countless ages, though the particles composing our bodies might continually yield to decay and be replaced by others, its own identity would be maintained, nor could we erase from it the impressions of our childhood. No change in life can destroy it, or move it from its directing and controlling sphere. Is it, then, merely the unsatisfying mystery of an invisible element, endowed with the capacity of preserving and summoning before us the shadows of past beauties, though doomed itself to perish? Is it only a fleeting, flickering ray, simply given to illumine our physical existence, whose last flash shall be forever extinguished when the nature to which it was joined sinks before the rough contacts of earth, or slowly dies out of its own infirmities? Happily, it awakens sweeter thoughts, and inspires higher hopes. Its brightness is not like the passing lustre of the moonbeam, receding behind the first murky cloud that floats across its path, but may be made to shine only the more brilliantly through the surrounding darkness. With her, whose afflictions and pleasures I have faintly described, it was not a mere visionary creature, conjured up by powerful imagery, and clothed with the devices of a fine fancy, yet compelled to fall before the first truthful reality it encountered. Following out its mission in truth, it is our faithful companion and guide through life; and who shall deny it another sphere of nobler existence, where it may never cease to feast upon the untold loveliness of creation, and forever dwell upon the past, reviewing its own good deeds with unabating gratitude to its author, and unending happiness to itself.

AN ANONYMOUS WRITING,

WHICH HAD SERVED AS AN ENVELOPE TO THE FOLLOWING PAPER.

The manuscript enclosed was found upon the desk of the Secretary and read by permission. The author, perhaps to his own credit, cautiously withheld his name. Though many inquiries were made without success, I could not avoid ascribing its paternity to a young rogue near me, who appeared greatly pleased with it; and after the reading, desired the Junto to take the labor of reducing the practice of lying to a science under its immediate supervision and protection. This imprudent expression of his wish at once involved him in numerous difficulties. It was looked upon as a very slanderous reflection, and the poor fellow was so roughly handled that he not only gladly withdrew it, but himself also, perhaps a little wiser than he had been before. His difficulties no doubt impressed him with a proper idea of the value of discretion, and certainly taught him that no matter how much men may be given to evil habits, they are averse to having their faults paraded before their own eyes as well as to seeing them exposed to the gaze of others. They may be addicted to a disgraceful practice, yet ask them to avow and openly protect it, and they will raise such a terrible clatter about your ears that you are fain to withdraw as speedily as possible.

THE EXCELLENCIES OF LYING.

“The art of silence and of well-term’d speech.” OLD POET.

Of the many practices to which our people are addicted, and which exhibit their progress towards the higher walks of civilization, there is none more prominent than the habit of lying. Celius wrote of Pompey, “he is wont to think one thing and speak another;” and we may say, that amongst us, it has almost become difficult to decide, whether we act upon the principle that language was invented to express our thoughts, or simply for the purpose of enabling us to conceal them.

I have an old friend who, adding to a mind accustomed to accurate observation, more than fifty years of experience, frequently remarks that he has never yet had half a dozen conversations with any person, without detecting a falsehood.[1] It is well known that in our day it is scarcely possible to bargain even with a saint, without discovering him a liar; and I verily believe that had all who ever indulged this habit been treated like Ananias and his spouse, the world would long since have been depopulated. Fortunately, none are now so summarily punished, or there would be a terrible “falling down and giving up of the ghost.” For this generous forbearance, we may, perhaps, be indebted to the superiority which we have acquired over these two rude victims. We have certainly improved somewhat upon their example, yet it must be owned that our progress in this habit has not been commensurate with that made in the other improvements of the age. Some of the fabrications of the Carthaginians and old Assyrians, noted for their proficiency in this particular, were greatly superior to any encountered in the present day. We have lost the ancient spirit, which, it is feared, can only be revived by re-enacting some of the ancient laws. For instance, in Sparta, it is said, thieves were punished, not for stealing, but for permitting themselves to be caught; the law-makers, no doubt, arguing that the fool deserves severer chastisement than the rogue. Were the same rule adopted now as to lying, it would soon close the mouths of those arrant bunglers who so frequently provoke our ridicule and contempt.

Man was originally endowed with the power of clear and distinct articulation, which, after some improvement, enabled him to convey what ideas he pleased to his fellows. It is agreeable to all experience that in using this excellent gift, he should consult his own convenience, and he has accordingly introduced this habit of lying. From the highest to the humblest, and from the gray-haired old man to his youthful grand-child, all find it of use. The priest, the lawyer, the physician, have rendered it a necessary part of their professions. Tradesmen and mechanics have by no means neglected it, and some have made such signal use of it, that we now look upon the sons of Crispin as comparable only to a horde of Cretians, who, we are assured by excellent authority, _were always liars_. The conveniences resulting from this practice have ever been so very apparent, that its origin was almost coeval with the existence of man; for one of our primitive ancestors, after exhibiting his moral depravity by murdering his brother, was stupid enough, when asked the whereabouts of the slain, to answer the all-knowing questioner, “I know not; am I my brother’s keeper?” Since his day it has been introduced into every walk of life, and is now used without reference to the occasion--some being even so addicted to it as to tell a lie when the simple truth would answer better. In childhood we seek to avoid the rod by resorting to it, and when we attain to years of discretion we find it convenient upon much more trifling occasions. Does some intolerable bore intrude upon you, you dismiss him to the digestion of a lie, and find pleasure in the reflection of having done so. When an impatient creditor duns you, what more convenient than a plausible falsehood? When an appeal is made to your purse by some importunate borrower or beggar, you know well how to answer him by an untruth. Should you get into difficulty, you study what virtue there is in language, and use it to effect your end. When an inquisitive wife pests you with her troublesome inquiries, you have the example of an honorable Roman senator for telling her a lie; and when you have broken a promise, why, you know well how to excuse yourself by resorting to the same means that caused its violation.

Knowing the great conveniences of this habit, and being masters of our tongues, the fault lies with us if we cannot touch whatever chord in the nature of our fellows that we wish to arouse. To attain this degree of perfection, however, we should be properly schooled. Ever since the times of Thauth, Hermes, and Cadmus, many have endeavored to excel in efforts to reduce the gift of speech to writing, and to regular rules and systems. Every variety of sciences, whatever their pretensions, have so used it as best to promote their interests, inventing new words, or assigning strange meanings to old ones, whenever occasion required. It has been the great fountain and support of every excellence of which we know, and the powerful medium of every humbug that has heretofore cursed society. It may, therefore, appear strange that no one has yet, for the great benefit of mankind in general, resorted to it for the elements to establish, as a distinct profession, the art of well and skillfully framing a falsehood.

The schools of philosophy have settled it that men may lie. Whether they have done so upon the strength of the bold opinion of the crafty Lysander, that truth and falsehood are indifferent things; or upon the comprehensive saying of Sophocles, “I judge no speech amiss that is of use;” or upon the more designing maxim of the Spaniard, “tell a lie and you will get out the truth;” or upon the anatomical principle of the petit Prince of Bantam, which will certainly be admired by our modern physiologists, “my tongue has no bone in it to make it more stiff than is necessary for my interest;” it is not material here to determine. Suffice it; that it has been so settled, and as our practices conform to so enlightened a decision, policy would seem to require that they be reduced to regular and systematic rules. It is true, some have manifested considerable anxiety to secure for this habit a kind of scientific distinction. They have accordingly had resort to the stars, or if despairing of flights so lofty, the hand or a pack of cards answered equally well to tell a fortune by. Though their plans and schemes were sufficiently ingenious, lying itself could not endure them. They could hope for no proselytes except amongst the credulous, and even amongst those they could only gain such as believed there was as much “pleasure in being cheated as to cheat.” Thus their efforts in this excellent work, have not only been defeated, notwithstanding the high encouragement they sometimes received, but if Euripides speaks to the purpose, they themselves have been made to feel the consequences of their mistakes:

“What’s an Astrologer? I thus reply,
A man who speaks few truths, but many a lie,
Which, when found out, he takes his heels to fly.”

Perhaps their great failure is principally to be attributed to the narrow defectiveness of the founder of their tribe. It is true, the worthy man’s name has not yet been definitely ascertained, but then this very ignorance has helped us out of our perplexities in searching for it. The writers and critics upon Junius, when unable to discover the author of the famous letters, very sagely conclude that he was a man who had made himself acquainted with the affairs of his time, and who was, withal, somewhat of a genius. So Voltaire has disposed of this query in a very summary manner, by assuring us that “the first rogue who met with the first block-head” was the inventor of soothsaying. Whilst this conclusion has been generally accepted as a very satisfactory one, it must be admitted that, though he may have been an acute rogue, he was none the less an indiscreet one, or he would not have attempted to confine this important privilege and practice of lying within so exclusive a circle.

There could be no lack of material in speech upon which to construct a system of scientific lying. Perhaps, by applying to it a term which has long since been banished from “ears polite,” on account of its harshness, I may be accused of a want of interest in so noble an enterprise. If so, I can only render as an excuse, that if lying can claim any one merit more than another, it is that of having ever maintained its own identity, no matter what efforts were made to increase its respectability by titles supposed to be more delicate. In this particular, it must be owned, it has always resembled its author, who, whether known as Satan or Beelzebub, Lucifer or Pluto, is nothing but the plain, common devil after all; and who, though you should call him an angel, would be the devil still. Thus sacrificing no merit which it can justly claim, the difficulties of reducing it to a science could be easily overcome.

An old maxim has it that “fools and children sometimes speak the truth.” If “maxims are the condensed good sense of nations,” as Sir James Mackintosh pithily observes, it would require excessive presumption to deny the wisdom of this one, so universally received and acted upon. The ancient moralists, after rearing a queer medley of truth and nonsense upon a few wise sayings, pronounced the heterogeneous mass the “Science of Morality.” This was at least generous, for it must be owned that a more convenient appellation for all who desired to sin according to moral law, could not have been invented by their philosophic magnanimity. “It is in the creed, sir,” would have answered every accusation, and put an end to all further contention. “Know thyself,” and “Too much of nothing,” proverbial sayings for ages, were so well received that the seven wise men of Greece consecrated them to Apollo, and inscribed them in letters of gold upon the door of his temple at Delphos. After so important a precedent of respect to maxims, notwithstanding the many changes wrought by time since the days of Thales and Solon, he who should seek to reduce the practice of lying to scientific rules, might claim equal consideration for the axiom given above, which he would of course so interpret as to make all wise men liars. If the wisest and the best who ever assumed the troublesome nature of man, could hang all the law and the prophets upon two commandments, surely the modern man of science might build a system upon a single maxim, whose object would be more to increase the dominion of Satan than the glory of a different kingdom. The service he would thus render to society would be incalculable, and forever perpetuate his name as one of its most worthy benefactors. By teaching the public, young and old, and without distinction of sex, to lie according to an approved system, our contempt would no longer be aroused by the fools now addicted to the practice, and who constantly exhibit a stupidity only equalled by that of the first liar of whom we have any record. Though we may have mules in the professions, who only make work for keener and shrewder knaves, and blunderers in the sciences, this should be no excuse for bunglers in this most worthy art of lying. Such, however, could readily be got rid of by elevating the habit to the dignity of a science, which each should be permitted to practice after being skilled in its rules. To secure the more general proficiency of those who desired to study the system, it should be made an indispensable antecedent requisite, that they be fully worthy of their Prince, and as honest as the Lombardian sect spoken of in the bull of Pope Adrian VI., who fully acknowledged the devil as their head, and promised obedience to him.

P. A.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] _Note._--The editor was at first inclined to believe that this old man could never have been within the circle of good society, but the developments of the times have removed this uncharitable opinion. When one half, or more, of the independent lay people of this country, together with perhaps one-third of the ministers of the Gospel, (for such is the general estimate,) can voluntarily connect themselves with a secret political organization, one of whose principles is universally felt to be the worst species of lying, it may not be long before it will be extremely difficult to find a man of real truth.--ED.

A PAPER

FILED AWAY WITH THE FOLLOWING TALE.

The tale of the Alchemist was related at our meeting to a concourse of as drowsy listeners as I ever saw congregated around a cheerful fire. The individual who related it, however, manifested a deep interest in every incident of the story. Indeed, when he arrived at some of the more startling and mysterious passages in it, he gave them with a ghostly intonation of voice, slowly and cautiously, looking anxiously around him to discover what impression they made. He exerted all his powers to be interesting, and preserved a very serious air throughout; which caused me to greatly suspect him as one of those easy-natured creatures, who are ever willing to believe whatever they hear, without troubling their heads for philosophic reasons, or permitting their faith to be at all interfered with by measuring probabilities.

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.