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,
“——That men should be deny’d
The gift of springing to a second youth,
A double age!”
And what might not be the salutary effects upon the world’s morality, for could
“——We turn our steps, and tread again
The path of life, what slips we once had made
We would correct, and every cheating maze
Avoid, where folly lost our way before.”
Through these discoveries, so potent in their influence and wide in their range, the world might possibly become stocked with a superior order of men, and its wickedness cease to be a constant and an endless subject of complaint. It would then be a delight to live in it amid its general harmony and concord; and none would be made to appreciate the feelings frequently expressed by a friend of mine, who always resolved, whenever disgusted at the depravity now too common, to emigrate to some uninhabited island, and commence the world anew, in imitation of old Adam, firmly believing that he could raise a better brood.
Felix Deford, however, during his residence in the village, had been more particularly engaged in other inquiries. The things which we ordinarily encounter during life, were far too dull and stupid for his ardent nature. He longed for something more extraordinary and marvelous, and accordingly betook himself to search for it. He had wit enough to know, that nature, so far as it is understood, has fixed a certain, definite rule of government which had first to be surmounted before the supernatural could be attained. This had been done long before his time, and so very signally, that even the most wonderful metamorphosis were wrought with perfect ease. Does not Pliny himself affirm, and he certainly should have known, that the change of females into males is not fabulous, and Montaigne assure us that he actually saw a man who had once been a woman? Thanks, we should rather say to Felix, that such magic powers are known no more; for in our day, when women so madly aspire to man’s condition, the stock would soon be entirely lost. Felix, however, apprehended no evil consequences from such a discovery, for women would then be no longer needed, and who, argued he, could suffer to be incommoded with them but for their absolute necessity? Whatever dangers suggested themselves to his mind upon this score, he rapidly dismissed, with the reflection that the world was at no loss for inhabitants, and after a sip from the mystic spring, or a slice from Iduna’s apple, the race would no longer require replenishing, and could therefore readily afford to dispense with the fairer portion of creation. If we contemplate with awe the ruins of nations, ideas of whose imposing grandeur have been transmitted to us for our admiration and wonder, and ponder with melancholy anguish upon the fact that millions of human creatures were crushed in their fall, what strange emotions, what terrible feelings, would not be inspired by the total extinction of the most lovely of the sexes—the first honored companion of solitary man in the sacred bowers of Eden! No, Felix; no discovery, though it should be a secret passage to the gates of Paradise, could atone for so sad a loss. Woman was the only instrument of Godly mercy fit to shed a ray of sunshine upon the path of man when first his race began. Though she caused him to go astray, she has done much to repair her error. In the bright glory yet in reserve for her, to calm and cheer the agony and despair of his last hour with the sweet and exhaustless affection of her lovely nature, well will she redeem the stain her impulsive confidence brought upon her angelic character.
The realization of these unnatural powers constituted the dream of Felix, and for this he had devoted his hours to magic in his solitary study, which, to the view of a stranger, would have much resembled the operating room of an industrious philosopher. Old, musty, and neglected volumes, bearing ample evidence that they had undergone the vicissitudes of many years, and suffered treatment too barbarous to be entirely ascribed to the hands of studious and inquisitive man, were piled promiscuously upon the shelves. Scarcely one of them could boast an entire cover, and their black letter and roughly ornamented pages presented a bold contrast to the volumes of the present day. Around the room were seen numerous instruments, with now and then some strange apparatus—things for which science had but few names, and common parlance was a total blank. In one corner your eye met nothing but crucibles, mortars, urns, pots, kettles, and cans; in another, you beheld a variety of jugs, decanters, bottles, and vials; whilst others contained a mass as indescribable as it was nameless. All, too, bore testimony of having been frequently used, and emitted a repulsive scent, sufficiently exhibiting that it required no very refined sense of smell to detest the pursuit of an alchemist. The rules of neatness and arrangement, however, were not neglected in all this confusion. In the centre of the room a large circle was drawn, whilst the walls were totally covered with odd signs, strange figures, and mystic devices. Here it was that the magician employed his charms, and conjured up his spells, and here the alchemist pursued his intricate investigations. Here Felix had applied himself, with a devotion worthy of the greatest commendation, to realize, by magic and alchemistic means, the dreams of those deluded Germans whose fantastic theories, for so long a time, had run away with the reason and good sense of their native contemporaries, and eventually worked similar results in different sections of the world. He longed to verify the fancies of Rosencreutz, which had set many a man’s “wits a wool-gathering,” and made strange fools of some of the cleverest, but too credulous, fellows of all Europe and elsewhere. How happy he would have been in having been brought into closer communion with his Maker, or made the companion of noble spirits to whose wisdom he could have given the impress of utility, and thus eventually succeeded in driving pain, disease, and sorrow from the world! Had not the noted Dr. Torralba a magic Zequiel, apparently unlimited in power, to accompany him as his pledged and faithful friend, and had not Naude’s “zenith and rising sun of all the Alchymists,” the skilful Paracelsus, a spirit confined in the hilt of his sword, and another imprisoned in a jewel? The famous magician, Cornelius Agrippa, whose talents are attested by the great Erasmus and the smooth and gentle Melancthon, did not only command the demons of the earth and the spirits of the air, but could even break in upon the repose of the dead, in the presence of whose greatness he would have cowered during their lives, and summon them before him, clothed in their accustomed habiliments! Though the tunic and mantle of the ancient Grecian had been decayed for centuries, and his body consumed by the devouring limestone which had composed his singular sarcophagus, the dismembered particles came together again, and were compelled to reappear at the powerful bidding of Cornelius. This wonderful knowledge of the historiographer of the Emperor Charles V., and the author of the “Superiority of the Female Sex,” to the great loss of the world, had been permitted to perish with him, and perhaps forever. Though Felix was industriously laboring to restore it again, and revive the marvels of magic and alchemy, it must be acknowledged he was not exceedingly well adapted for the task. Although he had energy and perseverance to surmount every conquerable obstacle, he yet lacked two essential elements—he possessed too much honesty, and not enough imagination. Every pursuit requires certain qualities of mind and heart, and in none have imagery and dishonesty more to do than in that in which he was engaged. They are indispensable to success in such an enterprise, and in both Felix was deficient. To speak the simple truth, there was a limit to his madness. He was weak enough not to doubt the truth of the superhuman exploits and performances ascribed to the masters in the art, whose works he had diligently studied; yet not sufficiently crazy to see unearthly visions appearing in answer to his charms and incantations, when, in truth, there was nothing but vacancy before his eyes.
Combining the fanatical theories of Bohmen, with the more rational and philosophic demonstrations of common chemistry, he would undoubtedly have triumphed in his inquiries but for his deficiency in the qualities alluded to as essential to the alchemist. Though he had dreaded a search for the philosopher’s stone, that great marvel for ages, after so many had failed before him; yet if Agrippa had so far succeeded as to change iron into gold, though it was destined to be converted into simple and worthless stone after one revolution of the earth, might not an improvement be made which should render the metamorphosis more permanent? Whether Agrippa had worked this wonder, which, indeed, would have furnished the clue to all others, by the discovery of the pebble for which so many had searched in vain, or through the direct intervention of the devil, had always been a mystery to Felix; but he had pondered upon it again and again, until it eventually brought him to the determination of summoning his satanic majesty before him. Although satan had unquestionably proved himself a bad magician, if he had been the instrument made use of by Agrippa, Felix believed this was owing rather to his wily and treacherous nature than to a want of power. This determination once fixed, he resorted to the best approved arts usually employed in invoking demons and spirits, and such had been one of his principal occupations during the latter period of his residence in the village. He by no means desired their visits upon mere terms of intimacy and friendship, but demanded absolute dominion over them before compelling them into his presence. Justin Martyr, and all the most ancient Fathers,—and certainly their statements ought to be of great weight,—had too strongly depicted the horrors wrought by bad demons who had visited the earth, for Felix to desire their reappearance without possessing full power to control them. These learned and devout men, venerated even to this day with a kind of religious fervor, had furnished enough, and more, to show that such supernatural agents had not lost the worst vices of humanity, but in addition possessed greater means of indulging them, which they were not timid in exercising. Felix Deford knew the world’s many afflictions too well to wish to add any more to their number; but he believed that a charm so potent as to force the powers of darkness to obey its summons, had only to be dispelled to drive them back to their homes again.
It would be wrong to neglect stating here, that if the masters whose astonishing knowledge and power Felix admired, mingled the mysteries of religion with their theories and principles, he by no means disregarded them. If it be true, (and who doubts it?) that in the antediluvian age, men had lived so many years as to make life resemble a sweet and pleasant immortality upon earth, a very remarkable change must have been effected since then. In the opinions of his masters, that this long life had been the result of a closer communion with the divine element, of social intercourse with the many good spirits supposed to inhabit and abound in space, and of possessing a controlling power over the evil ones, he saw no poetry, but the serious truths of philosophy. Here, then, there had been sufficient to attract his attention to the mysterious portions of his Bible, just as the disbeliever is drawn to those which human intellect is incapable of solving or reconciling. His researches, however, had a less ruinous effect, for they perplexed only himself, and did no harm to others.
He pursued his studies, boiled his mystic herbs, applied his minerals, made his magic mixtures, and resolved his wild problems, constantly expecting some answer from regions which he was incapable of penetrating. His failures never daunted him, for the doctrines of his masters had been too well settled in his mind, and he was too thoroughly convinced of their accuracy, to permit a supposition of their untruth. He was neither so vain nor impatient as to reproach his predecessors because he had failed to meet with equal success, but ascribed his repeated disappointments to his own deficiencies and imperfections. He had been too intent upon his studies to have much concerned himself about the villagers, who, ever since the meeting of the evening party before described, suspected his motives and feared his designs. Not knowing what evils he might bring upon them, and impelled by a very troublesome curiosity, they imagined the worst, so naturally are we given to exaggeration; and now began to refuse supplying him with the requisite comforts of life, thus expecting to bring matters to a decisive point. This, at last, compelled him to greater sociability, but he refused to become communicative. Though asked a thousand times, directly and indirectly, concerning his solitary pursuits, he had as many civil and respectful answers, leaving his questioners as ignorant as they were before. At length, however, the curiosity of the village triumphed. A young rogue, more cautious and cunning than the rest, ascertained what were his employments, and smiled at the great consternation caused by the discovery. He adorned his tale with all the poetry of his rough fancy, and so interwove it with marvels and falsehoods that it gave ample proof that he would have made a much better alchemist than Felix. His story fully realized the imaginings of the wildest magician, and soon succeeded in persuading the villagers that Deford was the absolute controller of spirits, and the unlimited master of demons. As a dealer in forbidden things, he was now still more carefully avoided. Had Felix here thrown away his honesty, for he began to feel the undeserved reputation he was acquiring, and issued from his cloister publicly to practice his incantations, he could have performed wonders before the eyes of the villagers not surpassed in splendor by any accredited to his masters: but he preferred to continue his studies and his conjurations as if unconscious of the opinions entertained concerning him. This only had the effect of increasing the consternation of the villagers still more. His name at once became an object of dread to the credulous, and a subject of terror to the old women, who soon made it the fright of the nursery. Recollections of old and marvelous stories were rapidly revived, and for some time nothing seemed to be known or talked of in the village but terrible tales. There was scarcely a man or woman to be found who had not recently seen a ghost or been troubled by some fearful spectre, for all which Felix had to bear the blame. Amongst these, the most conspicuous was the sharp-visaged old maid, who now saw more ghosts and phantoms than there had been Gods in the heathen Pantheons, and pointed to this fact as a full and triumphant verification of the opinions she had first expressed concerning him. To billet an army upon a town is always attended with great confusion, and necessarily with no little terror; but she accused him of something more awful still. She unhesitatingly affirmed that he had filled the village with spirits and devils, to trouble the repose of its people; but an incredulous fellow, perhaps moved by a malicious disposition, insisted that such could not possibly have been the case, otherwise she could not have been secure for a single moment. No nook or corner could be found where ghost or goblin had not been. The street had become the dancing ground of the tenants of darkness, and the limits of the village the general theatre for their sports and evil practices, and all through the incantations of the conjuror. Every bare spot which had refused to yield as abundantly as its neighbor, brought a curse upon poor Felix; every strange mark discovered was regarded as a sure indication of superhuman agency, and every odd foot-print afforded a monstrous theme for conjecture. Singular noises began to be heard in the air: some exulting and merry—others plaintive and melancholy. Confusion seized the cattle, the horses became as stubborn as the women, the dogs kept up a continual howl and fight, and night was rendered hideous by caterwauls. The pigs and chickens were no less rebellious, the noisy fowls became more noisy and restless, and the barn yards resembled perfect Babels. The crow of the cock was no longer the morning signal of the approach of day, for it was heard at all hours of the night. Everything seemed to have been turned upside down, or tossed about by some miraculous and fearful power. It is supposed that the land inhabited by spirits is pleasant and enchanting, that fairies and genii seek none but the abodes of beauty, but here all was dismay. It was not strange that the majority of the villagers should have been made afraid to venture out of doors after the decline of the sun; yet notwithstanding all this, Felix had a few defenders. Though none could deny the evidences of tumult existing, these assigned quite a different cause for the fact. Make a village mad, said they, drive all the good sense out of the heads of its women and substitute fear, spread consternation amongst the children and discord amongst the men, and it would be truly miraculous if matters followed their usually peaceful routine. The brute will partake of the turbulent humors of its master, and when constantly disturbed by surrounding dismay, cannot avoid becoming infected with the general confusion.
Felix, at last, began to fear the mischief he had unintentionally been creating, and sallied forth once a day with the view of allaying it. As secresy was no longer possible, he endeavored to become as sociable and communicative as circumstances would permit, but the villagers generally shunned him as though he had been a pestilence. A few only could tolerate his presence and submit to his conversations, and these had to encounter the censure of being leagued with him. An evil motive and wicked intention was now ascribed to every trifling thing he did, and all his attempts to commingle sociably with the villagers were quickly attributed to some base design. It is strange how error leads us to phrensy, but such appears to be its very nature. When once it has taken root, it spreads and increases with unaccountable rapidity. With not one half the beauty and attraction of truth and reason; it yet seems to possess a hundred times their power and influence over our conduct. Truth moves with slow and certain tread—error with fearful impetuosity. A town once set in motion the wrong way, presents a terrific spectacle, and to arrest its career of madness is a task not easily performed. It had been so in the case of Felix Deford, and he soon ascertained that it was much less difficult to create a turbulent storm than to allay it. The villagers became lavish in threats and curses against him; yet, mistrusting and doubting, their fears compelled them to act with caution. Repeated deputations were sent to him, politely requesting him to retire from the village, lest his personal safety might be endangered. His efforts to remove their delusion proved unavailing, and they continued to insist until he dismissed them, no less impatient at their importunities than they had been apprehensive of his residence amongst them.
Whilst they had been thus engaged in devising means for the expatriation of Felix, a danger more immediately threatening called for their undivided attention. Though it had been supposed they were entirely safe from Indian incursions, they noticed several suspicious signs and indications which induced them to prepare for an attack. The friendly feeling that had existed between the villagers and the savages in their immediate vicinity, had not deterred other tribes from ravaging wherever opportunities were presented. In this new difficulty, the alchemist nobly volunteered his assistance. Without waiting for such a call, he assumed the command as one familiar with the practices and habits of the savage, and who had frequently been engaged in similar skirmishes. As was apprehended, the war-whoop was suddenly heard early one morning, and fully indicated the desperate encounter to be expected. The attack was commenced with a fury common to Indian warfare, and it was mainly through the vigilance of the magician that the contest resulted in the total rout of the savages. All were compelled to be lavish in their praises of his services, but even the marvellous exploits which they ascribed to him could not inspire confidence and friendship. They were simply regarded as convincing proof of the exercise of forbidden power. Upon being rehearsed again and again, no little magnified at each repetition, few were willing to believe that he could have escaped unless protected by some superhuman agency. Some had even seen strange figures hovering above his head and arresting the many and repeated blows aimed at him. Others had seen him surrounded by more than thirty savages at a time, yet none of these could so closely approach him as to use any weapon. He appeared to be encompassed by a mystic circle which no one could enter, thus enabling him to deal destruction around, whilst his assailants were rendered harmless. When tired of the slaughter in one section of the village, he almost imperceptibly rose above the heads of friends and foes, and was quickly transported to another that demanded his aid. Others, still, had seen him rush wildly into the very midst of savage groups, and rescue a number of brave villagers who had been defending themselves against great odds, and so confusing the assailants that they even fell upon themselves to hurry their retreat. The more marvellous his exploits, the more did the villagers regret that he lived amongst them, for he might eventually prove more dangerous than the savages themselves, and how could they resist him?
Felix, however, was not disposed to be an object of dread to the villagers any longer. A few days after the incursion of the Indians, he was no more to be seen. To account for his sudden disappearance, it was alleged that he had followed the savages, and would continue to pursue them until their tribe was totally extinct. He was to become their evil spirit, who would enter into their midst and slaughter as he pleased, whilst their arms should be unavailing against him. This opinion obtained almost general consent as the most plausible, after a careful and cautious examination of his late residence had been made. Nothing was there to be found or seen save the black circle upon the floor, which, to the great astonishment of all, resisted every effort made to erase it. The walls were now more clear and clean than ever, and retained no traces of the mysterious devices that had formerly ornamented them. The entire building appeared as though it had been fitted up for the reception of some fastidious tenant. All this, in the opinion of the villagers, had been the undoubted work of the spirits which they supposed the conjuror had under his command, and which would aid him in his avenging mission.
Their surmises were destined to be materially changed upon the arrival of one of the villagers who had been absent for several months upon public business. He was one of the principal men of the village, which important distinction he had won more through the interest he had manifested against Felix than any excellent qualities of his own. True, there was a little of the German’s good nature in his composition, and he had a great love for all that was wonderful and mysterious. He heard with astonishment the details of the villagers—how they had been attacked during his absence, and how Felix had assisted them, and then suddenly departed, as they supposed, to take vengeance upon the savages. In return, he had something interesting to relate, which soon undeceived them. Whilst wending his solitary way towards the village, he reported, night had overtaken him, and having been still a considerable distance off, he kindled a fire upon the banks of the river, intending to repose until morning. Sometime during the night he was aroused from his quiet slumber, and looking round, he beheld a bright, blazing light in the air, high above the water. To his utter amazement, there was Felix Deford in the blaze! He was vehemently remonstrating with a figure so closely arrayed in black that its outlines could not be distinctly traced. The discussion continued sharply for some time. Although circumstances sufficiently indicated that Felix was in the presence of a superior, his spirit was unconquerable, and he ever seemed the victor in the wordy conflict, as the villager inferred from the manner of his antagonist. The black figure continued to become more terrible at every word, and at last began emitting foam from its mouth and fire from its nostrils, but Felix refused to abate the least in his remonstrances. A different encounter now commenced between them, which promised to be more decisive than words. The blaze that enveloped them began to spread and heave as though it partook of the anger of the combatants, much resembling huge and boisterous billows when dashed into spray in quick succession against an irresistible rock. It seemed to have been caught up in a terrible tempest, and amid its turbulent agitation, the contest between Felix and his antagonist was continued by rapidly hurling large black darts at each other. No want of skilful aim was exhibited, yet each appeared to be composed of an impenetrable substance, and the destructive missiles no sooner touched the person of either than they rebounded again, or flew off at angles, and vanished into air. Abandoning these apparently inefficient instruments, they approached, and engaged hand to hand with fiery swords; but so equally were they matched in this mode of warfare that they only exhausted themselves, and after making a number of furious, but ineffectual blows and thrusts, they threw away their weapons. Panting from the exertion of the desperate battle, they stood for some time gazing intently at each other, exhibiting a fearful and unearthly savageness. At length the contest was again resumed, and huge bolts, whose dark-blue color contrasted beautifully with the glare that surrounded them, were thrown with marvellous dexterity, but they were as vigilantly and skilfully parried or avoided. It was now as difficult to be true to their aim as it had been easy before, plainly indicating that a blow from the bolt was held in different esteem than a stroke from the darts previously used. Suddenly Felix sprang with a savage leap upon his antagonist, having at the same moment been struck by one of these monstrous missiles, when instantly the flame disappeared, and both fell rapidly down into the water. Nothing was now heard but the rushing of the current, which seemed to have become more boisterous, and the villager composed himself to sleep again.
He awoke in the morning, and directing his eyes over the body of the water, he beheld rapid currents from all sides, rushing towards the spot where the combatants had fallen. The object was strange to him, and he entered his light canoe determined to investigate it. Fortunately for his curiosity, before he reached the ungovernable current, he saw the trunk of a large tree floating down the river. It was drawn towards the arena that had attracted his attention, and rapidly approaching the centre, it was whirled round and round, tearing up the water as if laboring in a mighty whirlwind, or grappling to be freed from the clutch of a fearful monster. Its terrible struggles were unavailing, and by a powerful effort, as though the might of the waters had been concentrated upon one object, it was raised on end, when down, down it passed from sight. This new wonder was scarcely less surprising to the villager than the occurrences he had witnessed during the night, and guarding his fragile bark he for some time watched the raging element. Every thing that came within reach of the current, which had formed itself into a great funnel, was dragged down its voracious centre, however awful or prolonged its struggles. What became of it afterwards ever remained a close and impenetrable mystery.
After this astonishing report had been heard and fully commented upon by the villagers, all other surmises in reference to Felix were abandoned, and many visited the place where he had fought his last battle. There was none now to be found amongst them who had no regrets for the poor alchemist. Although he had been an object of fear to them whilst seen in their midst, he had rendered services too important when the village had been assailed by the savages, not to have secured the good wishes of all; and if they had so heartily desired him to remove his abode elsewhere, they as fervently wished prosperity to attend him. Even the sharp-visaged old maid, who had before so repeatedly expressed her ill opinion of him, now exhibited her gratitude. During the assault of the Indians, she affirmed, he had twice rescued her from the tomahawk of the savages just in time to prevent the blows that would certainly have terminated her existence. With all her want of charity and magnanimity, there was still the sweet tenderness of woman in her nature, and she could not restrain her lamentations and her tears.
For a long, long time, the story of Felix continued to be the village talk. The strange disposition of the waters that commemorated his last exploit, acquired the name of the “Magic Funnel” from the villagers, and whatever was drawn into it was engulfed forever. Its end or termination remained unknown. It was a suggestion of some of the more philosophic villagers, that the immense currents which then fed it may have entered again into the body of the river at a distance of many miles, or have had a number of outlets so small that none would have thought of tracing them to their original source. Whatever of truth or error there may have been in these and kindred surmises, it is said, as a truth which was never doubted by the villagers, that the poor and ill-fated alchemist makes a circuit every year, entering the “Magic Funnel” again, together with his antagonist. On every anniversary of his fearful encounter, the singular flame may be seen again in the air, with a renewal of the battle. Often these waters lash each other as if in great trouble, and it has passed into a traditional saying with the sturdy watermen of the Susquehanna, whenever they see them surge and foam with unusual impetuosity, that the conjuror and his powerful adversary are at each other again, interchanging their terrible frowns and hurling their fearful bolts. The humble boatman, as he cautiously moves by this mysterious place, now far less dangerous than many years ago, with his fragile skiff or light canoe, still gives a sighing thought to the memory of the conjuror, and not unfrequently sings a doleful requiem over the fate of the Village Alchemist.
H. C.