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DEDICATION 5 PREFACE 9 HANS DUNDERMANN: THE DUTCH MISER 11 THE WISDOM OF PRESERVING MODERATION IN OUR WISHES 43 THE SICK MOTHER 53 THE EXCELLENCIES OF LYING 75 THE ALCHEMIST: OR, THE MAGIC FUNNEL 87 THE BEAUTY OF A WELL-CULTIVATED HEART 123 THE DREAM OF A LOAFER 133 CONCLUSION 213

DEDICATION.

In this age of prolific intellects, neither author nor editor is compelled to search for a patron of letters amongst a horde of illiterate and conceited noblemen, addle-pated princes and lords; nor is he, in this progressive country, constrained to beg the favor of some distinguished demagogue's name to give caste or currency to the lucubrations of his brain, or the compilations of his industry. This may be regarded as a very favorable change in the times, yet it is not without its inconveniences, which the editor has fully experienced. Not being bold enough to violate a well-established precedent, and send his volume forth into the world without a dedication, he was for a while sorely perplexed in his inquiries for a proper person to whom to inscribe it. Although modern progress could freely dispense with the patronage of the nobility, it still retains the practice which perpetuates their former importance in the literary market. Thus the author who is too cautious to trample upon a time-honored custom, is frequently no little embarrassed in his laudable efforts to observe it, not having an array of aristocratic vanity, ever ready to be redeemed from its insignificance through a lying dedication, from which to make a choice to please his fancy.

True, the editor might have determined to send his volume adrift under false colors, by writing some imaginary creature's name upon the title-page, and then dedicated it to himself,--for which, no doubt, he could have found precedents enough. After giving to this idea the careful deliberation to which it was entitled, he came to the conclusion that no better expedient could be devised to provide him with an even disposition; for should he hear his name noised about by every fool and knave, who are always so vociferous in their praise or censure as to overrule entirely the worthier opinions of the wise and honest, his temper would never fall below the seething point. He therefore wisely avoided, in this wilful manner, to hazard both his character and his happiness. "But," he hears you ask, "had he no rich and flourishing acquaintance, who would gladly have permitted the inscription, and verily believed it a great honor?" He is not so fortunate as to be without at least a score of the kind; but not one of whom would have failed to degrade his book, through a cursed propensity "to turn everything into a speculation." Then, too, he might have dedicated it to some personal friend, but upon looking around, he could see none whom he particularly desired to own as such, except a few poor fellows with whom he occasionally whiles away an entertaining hour on a gloomy Sunday. Amongst these, however, he recognised none whose poverty,--than which few things sooner fall under the ban of the world,--did not seem too heavy a burthen to be borne by so unpretending a production.

In this dilemma, his benevolence, perhaps a little influenced by the thought that the man who reads his book is his best friend, came to his aid, and he at once concluded that it should be generously and freely

DEDICATED TO THE READER.

He is not impelled to this by a design to propitiate the favor, to influence the judgment, or to moderate the criticisms of any one, but simply and solely by the charitable desire of pleasing all. He thus provokes no one's envy by showing more favor to another, and gives to each the opportunity of having a book dedicated to himself. Lest, however, the editor should furnish but another illustration of the maxim, that "they who seek to please all, will surely succeed in pleasing none," it is here carefully set down--that should any not wish the distinction sought to be conferred upon him in this dedication, he may rest well assured that it was not in the least designed for him. With this happy disposition to accommodate all, he has only to ask of the reader, that his book be not consigned, before ascertaining what it is made of, to some murky closet, to keep company with the dusty and decaying volumes already imprisoned there; and for the faithful observance of this request, he subscribes himself,

Most respectfully and sincerely, His Reader's wellwisher and friend, THE EDITOR.

PREFACE

If it has been established as a precedent that every book should have a dedication, it has been more imperatively enjoined that none should make its appearance without a preface. These are matters of punctilio which it might appear ill-breeding to neglect, and constitute the soft and easy civilities through which books find favor in the eyes of their readers. As no one is disposed kindly to welcome the rude boor who intrudes into his presence, and without a polite nod or pleasant smile at once encounters him with rough speech, so none is inclined to enter upon the perusal of a volume without first knowing somewhat concerning it.

Now, it is only necessary for the editor, in the discharge of his trifling duty, to inform the reader that sometime ago the records of an old association came into his possession. The precise date when this junto was formed could not be definitely discovered, yet it has been certainly ascertained that it was gifted with a very peculiar kind of life--surpassing, in the tenacity with which it adhered to existence, the nine lives ascribed to the cat. Though it had been defunct, to all appearances, more than a dozen times, it was as often revived to flourish again for a brief period. Not many years have elapsed since it received its last blow; but whether this has given it the final quietus, being neither a diviner nor prophet, the editor cannot decide: yet he is inclined to the opinion, that if those of the present generation will do nothing to restore it to life again, their rising posterity will not suffer it to sleep in peace.

It was the design of this organization to unite the useful with the amusing, and each member was required to furnish his quota of the one or the other. The consequence was that a large number of papers were collected together, some of which are now "for the first time given to the world." Whether the world will do them the honor to value them, remains to be seen; yet the editor flatters himself, that in the deluge of literature which this age is incessantly pouring forth upon the poor reader, they will float along with the endless array of small craft, and perhaps his book may prove as successful as some others in contributing its just portion to produce the wreck and ruin of some better and worthier production.

MAURICE EUGENE.

A MANUSCRIPT,

The author of the following paper vouches for the correctness of the whole story, having himself received it from the person who enacted the part of the spirit therein. When it was read at our meeting, a large number of listeners, who had been enjoying themselves in promiscuous conversation, were seated around the table in a cheerful circle. Although some were at first inclined, perhaps more from a habit to find fault than from a displeasure at the tale itself, to cavil at and doubt it rather than to be amused, there was an honest and bewitching humor in the face of the speaker which alone seemed to entitle his story to full belief: so that by the time he had finished it, but one or two continued serious, whilst all the rest at once agreed that it was creditable in every particular. Whether they were not influenced to this conclusion more through their mirth than their careful judgment, I could not well ascertain; yet I am disposed to think, they merely meant to "take the story for what it was worth."

An old gentleman now advanced, who had not only been careful all his life long to avoid the frivolities of the world, but who had also experienced some of its rough realities, if true inferences were deducible from his care-worn appearance and thread-bare garments. Not satisfied with what had been read, the old man gazed inquiringly into the speaker's face, and then so overwhelmed the poor fellow with troublesome questions, that he resolved from that moment never to read or narrate another story, without previously demanding a solemn pledge from his auditory that they will remain content with what he may choose to give them, and under no circumstances trouble him for further explanations. Whilst thus pelted with the old man's queries to his great relief a smiling little gentleman stepped up, and turning to the questioner, told him that every story would be spoiled by too much minuteness in its narration; that wherever he found a blank he should fill it up with his own fancy, otherwise he would experience nothing but annoyance; and that the moral of the tale he had heard, simply warned him against too strong a love for worldly things,--a warning for which I could see no necessity in his case,--so that if he should ever be tempted by spirits or ghosts, he might avoid the alarming fatalities which so seriously afflicted poor Hans Dundermann.

HANS DUNDERMANN: THE DUTCH MISER.

One of the most foolish and deplorable passions that could possibly influence the conduct of men, is that wretched penuriousness so frequently encountered in our intercourse with some of our fellows. We often find it the object of hatred and contempt, of disgust and ridicule, and even of a bitter malice which, if not just, seldom secures censure or elicits rebuke. We rarely see it exhibited to a very marked degree in men of substantial intelligence or liberal experience in the socialities of life, and its generous interchanges of friendship. When discovered in such, it is usually the part of discretion to avoid, if possible, a close intimacy with them. The wider range of their knowledge, and their greater sagacity, though rendering them less contemptible, only make them the more dangerous. It not unfrequently, however, constitutes the ruling principle of those not possessed of a superior order of intellect, and whose ideas of life are measured by the narrow aims for which they contend and struggle. This may, perhaps, be greatly owing to the fact that wealth consists of material things, which they can readily see and appreciate; whilst the riches that pertain to mind and heart, not being directly visible to them, are beyond their comprehension.

I have a German acquaintance who resides in a small village at which I occasionally sojourn, and who is known by the euphonious nomenclature of Dutch Hans Dundermann. Whether this be the name he lawfully inherited from his paternal ancestors, or whether certain peculiarities of which he is remarkably possessed, and which are by no means well calculated to render him an agreeable companion, or make him a desirable neighbor, can claim the credit of having obtained for him so musical an appellation, the villagers have not yet been able positively to determine. However he may have acquired this title of recognition, which can be matter of small consequence to the present generation of the villagers, and much less to their rising posterity, he is one of those inveterate misers who have no scruples to check their desire for acquisition, and whose parsimonious propensities invariably incur general ridicule and displeasure. Whatever of good may be in their compositions is totally overshadowed by the sordid motives which usually govern them, and thus they always prove successful in arousing the disgust of all with whom they may come in contact. This miserly element in Hans Dundermann's character is so exceedingly prominent that it is supposed to counterbalance and control his entire nature. It is constantly urging him to the commission of acts which his neighbors readily construe into heinous offences, and it has accordingly earned for him no very enviable reputation. To describe to any one acquainted with him the height of petty and disgusting meanness, it is only necessary to use his name in the adjective form; and the attempts to do so are not unfrequently even more ridiculous than the subjects which occasion them. Hans, however, though he may exert himself to increase his store, if not absolutely lazy, is not free from the slowness of his native race; to which he adds a stupidity so excessively Dutch, that scarcely anything beyond the glitter of a coin can make the least impression upon his mind.

After thus briefly introducing my acquaintance in as favorable a manner as circumstances permit, I will narrate a little incident in the adventurous portion of his life, which occurred whilst he was yet in the vigor of manhood physically, and intellectually no better off than he is now. Time, which never progresses without making some changes, has utterly failed to renovate or improve him. Whilst advancing years have worn upon his bodily powers, apparently the only thing impressible about him, experience has had no effect, either for the better or worse, upon his mind, into which no idea, unless connected with his ruling desire, seems capable of penetrating. A life so selfish, and absorbed in the contemplation of one thing, and that by no means as well intended to expand his intellect as to contract his heart, can afford but little of adventure; yet the trifles which we sometimes encounter in such a life, are so peculiar in their nature, or so marked in their effects, that we welcome and enjoy them the more. They often provoke our merriment or elicit our surprise, excite our admiration or awaken our sympathies. The cold torpor which becomes natural to the inactive man through the eternal sameness of his daily career, renders him a fitting and interesting object for our gaze when he is drawn into positions demanding the exercise of his energies. Whatever may be the effect of the occurrences here related--whether their recital may interest or prove tedious--they certainly constitute the most prominent events in the life of my acquaintance, the Dutch miser of the village.

After they had thus interested the miser's feelings, one of the company visited him on the evening of the following day. When brought into the presence of Hans, he commenced a train of very vague remarks, as though he had something important to reveal, yet seemed doubtful whether it were better to make it known than to treasure the secret. Confining himself to the subjects which he knew were ever uppermost in Hans' thoughts, he soon succeeded in drawing the miser into a very animated conversation, which, however, was rendered somewhat uneasy by his mysterious demeanor. From some cause or other, perhaps because he was thinking of the matter at the time, for he had thought of little else during the entire day, Hans immediately surmised that his visitor sustained some connexion with the singular letter he had received. This impression was not only strengthened more and more by every word that fell from the stranger, but his very dress, which gave him the appearance of a fashionable gentleman of the preceding century, seemed to confirm it. When, however, his visitor introduced the general carelessness of the world, a point upon which Hans had always been well decided, and to which alone, he had often said, was to be attributed all the poverty in it, he became certain that his surmise was correct, and watched carefully for something which might reveal the rich mine referred to in that mysterious and treasured billet. When he had been worked into a state of uncontrollable anxiety and excitement, the stranger, still preserving his mysterious air, suddenly rose from his seat, and rolling his eyes upwards in an agonized manner, preceded by several terrible yawns, he rapidly repeated a few very singular words, not found in Hans' vocabulary, if in any other. This had the desired effect, for it so surprised and stupefied the poor Dutchman that the stranger, in the increasing darkness, readily made his exit unobserved. After the miser had somewhat recovered from the shock occasioned to his nerves and ascertained that his visitor had vanished, it was clear to him that the stranger could not have disappeared as he had entered, but must either have sunk through the floor or ascended through the ceiling. Recollecting the supplicating manner in which he had turned up his eyes, Hans quickly inferred that the latter was the course he had taken, and under the exciting circumstances of the occasion, it was not long before the inference became a conviction which has ever since been most sacredly believed and maintained.

Now, Hans Dundermann, it should be known, had frequently held interesting conversations with Heinrich Speitzer and Yorick Bozum, two of his most intimate friends in "vaterland," and was perfectly satisfied that ghosts and spirits had as real an existence as gold and silver, though their presence was far less acceptable. He used to listen to the stories of these tried companions, and tremble from head to foot when he was told how the wicked Frederick Metzel, on a dark and dismal winter's night, had been claimed in pursuance of a contract, attested by his own hand and seal, and carried off by the devil, amid great lightning and thunder, to no one knew whither; for the place of his abode was beyond the power of human discovery. It is true some of his warmest friends, who had always been his companions, and enjoyed his favors during his prosperity, and who had never neglected to sound his praises upon every fitting occasion, now shook their heads significantly and solemnly whenever his name was mentioned. This may have been intended as nothing but an exhibition of their deep regret for what they had lost, yet the uncharitable soon interpreted it unfavorably for the future of poor Frederick, whilst the more humane and hopeful remained silent, simply because they knew not what to say. Hans still remembered how the spirit of old Herr Von Reicher, sorely troubled because he had refused to reveal an important secret before his departure from the lower world, returned to the home six months previously left to mourn his death, and made known to the daughter of his grand-child,--who had always been his favorite,--the cause that prevented his rest. This was done by directing her to a dark and almost impenetrable recess of his castle, where great treasures were concealed, which he had hoarded up and frequently visited during his life. Now, however, that he had no further occasion for such visits, his sense of justice, which had never in the least troubled him whilst living, would not permit him to deprive his friends, who had so carefully attended to his dying wants, of so valuable a secret, nor his creditors of the only means through which their demands could be satisfied. Nor had Hans Dundermann forgotten how the son of Karl Keiser, a pleasant companion with whom he had spent many hours rehearsing wonderful tales, the accuracy of which he never doubted, had been accosted in the rough woods, on a dark October night, by a copper-colored man, out of the crown of whose head issued a constant flame of fire, and led several leagues from home. What had been the object of this singular and startling apparition--whether it had been an evil spirit and intended the young man as one of its victims, or whether it had merely meant to disclose some great and troublesome mystery--had to remain undetermined, for day intervened and summoned the vision to its abiding place. Many surmises were occasioned by this strange affair, vouched for by the person himself whom it most concerned; but the majority agreed in the opinion that no harm had been intended to the young man, otherwise the spectre would not have waited until daylight to be deprived of its prey: others expressed their conviction that it simply designed to relieve itself of some serious trouble, whilst there was still a third class who pronounced the matter all a foolish tale, which owed its origin to too much Rhienish wine and the cold winds of October.

Whilst Hans was reflecting upon these marvelous stories of his youthful wonder, and thus endeavoring to assist his mind in determining the character of his late visitor, he gave evident signs of being engaged in a new employment. Although he had heard many strange things in his time, and often threw up his hands towards the skies, opened his mouth as wide as nature permitted, and exclaimed "mein Gott!" in surprise, he certainly had never before been called upon to decide whether any of his visions had been a ghost or a spirit, a witch or the devil himself. In this troublesome dilemma he resolved to consult his old housekeeper, whom he had brought with him from Germany, and whose greater age and experience, he hoped, might be capable of relieving him from his perplexity. This indispensable article of his household seemed to have descended to him with his father's estate, and presented an appearance even more than ridiculously Dutch; but Hans had been taught to regard her as a pattern of good taste, and as she had always manifested the strongest devotion to his interests, he never doubted her superior excellence. To give a faint description of her would be no trifling labor, for she had apparently been worked together by nature without reference to form or proportion; and whenever seen, was invariably covered with a superfluous amount of greasy calico, which seemed to have no other support but a twisted chord that encircled her extensive waist. Her head was remarkable for nothing but a large quantity of light flaxen hair, to which the sun had failed to give a ruddier tinge, although, as since her twentieth year she had scarcely ever worn a covering, it had shone upon her pate fairly and with full effect for more than thirty summers. Increasing age, though it had robbed her of her teeth, put wrinkles in her face, and somewhat loosened her joints, seemed to be equally powerless to make the least visible impression upon it. The singular conduct of the stranger, who had been observed but casually by the old woman as he had entered, was fully considered and commented upon by her and Hans. Though she sympathized with him as much as her nature permitted, and gave ample evidence of her desire to render him all possible assistance, she could offer no suggestions which tended in the least to solve the mystery. Her many exclamations, however, if useless in the explication of a mysterious and difficult problem, brought some relief; and thus consoled, he reluctantly concluded to await the full development of what he believed had just fairly commenced with the letter he had received and the visit of the stranger.

"Whatever this may forebode," said Hans, "it is so very strange that we must wait until the end shall come; yet I hope that my end may not be like that of Frederick Metzel. Let me be spared the terrors that fell to the lot of Karl Keiser's son, and if the worst should come, let it be no worse than that which happened to the great-grand-daughter of Herr Von Reicher."

These remarkable occurrences, constituting some of the most startling he had stored up in his memory, had been so repeatedly told to his housekeeper, with great embellishments, that she had become perfectly familiar with them. Although Hans did not much like to have dealings with spirits; yet, had he been certain that the mysterious stranger would never afterwards have troubled him, he would gladly have entertained him once more, if assured of a revelation similar to that made to the youthful daughter of Herr Von Reicher's grand-child.

"Yes, yes," responded the old woman, whose frame trembled violently at the supposition that calamities so terrible could possibly befall them, "heaven avert such fatalities! Surely, Hans, nothing of this kind can happen to us, for you have never had any intercourse with the evil one, nor have you ever been closely allied to any of those poor creatures whose spirits are not even permitted to rest quietly in their graves."

As he had thus, for several days been moved by strange thoughts, it was observed by those whom he happened to meet that a very singular change had suddenly come over him. His actions seemed to be dictated by a variety of conflicting impulses, and the little mind he had once possessed was absent more than half the time. He would make long pauses in his conversation, abruptly change from one topic to another, and occasionally, to the great amazement of those with whom he conversed, he would walk off before he had half completed a sentence. Then, too, he was frequently seen to stop in his solitary walks and engage in earnest conversation with himself, a smile sometimes animating his countenance, whilst at others he appeared very sullen and dejected. On several of these occasions he was overheard to speak audibly of spirits and treasures, which so greatly surprised all who heard him that some even suggested an investigation into his soundness of mind. To those acquainted with the design to play upon his stupid and credulous nature, it was daily becoming more apparent that he believed vast quantities of gold were somewhere concealed in the vicinity, and that he was troubled to know where, and how he could secure them. At length his changed demeanor became the subject of remark throughout the entire neighborhood. Some of the villagers, in their efforts to account for it, expressed the belief that his heart was beginning to soften and that he was relenting of his former penuriousness--a reformation which, in his case, it was generally conceded would have been sufficient to account for his singular conduct. Others, however, more strenuously maintained, that so far from his heart undergoing so favorable a change, it was simply passing through the last stages of ossification. That the former were mistaken in their charitable surmises, was soon ascertained by an experiment eminently calculated to arouse his generosity; but there are those still amongst the latter, who contend that they were correct in their opinion, and are determined to obtain positive evidence of the fact, upon the miser's decease, through the aid of an anatomist, who has already been duly engaged for that purpose.

When it was supposed that Hans was exclusively abstracted in the train of reflections suggested to his mind by the circumstances related, it was deemed expedient for the stranger to venture another visit, which he accordingly did. It so happened that he obtained admission unobserved into the same room in which he had before met Hans, and giving seven distinct raps on the old oaken floor, he was soon brought into the presence of the miser. After the latter's surprise had partially subsided, and his face assumed something like its original hue, the stranger commenced addressing him in a manner equally hasty and incoherent, but Hans was all attention as if determined to absorb the import of every word as it was uttered. He by no means comprehended all that was said, yet he distinctly understood the request of his visitor to meet him that night, at the hour of twelve, at the edge of the wood bordering on the western extremity of the village, where the important secret was to be revealed. The stranger had scarcely finished this request, when he was seized with a violent cough, resulting from a stream of munched tobacco which had unforbidden entered down his gullet, as if offended at being imprisoned within his mouth whilst personating a character whose dignity would not permit him to eject it. Giving vent to an almost inaudible curse, which was unfortunately mistaken for a call for water, Hans immediately seized a pitcher, and hurried out of the room, informing the old housekeeper, as he was in the act of passing her in the kitchen, of the presence of the spirit. Upon her reminding him that spirits were never in want of such earthly necessaries, surprised at his own absence of thought, he dropped the pitcher and quickly returned; but the stranger, no doubt glad of so favorable an opportunity, had disappeared.

Hans Dundermann, at the earnest entreaty of his old housekeeper, whom I shall here name Malchen, not because she was so christened, but simply out of solicitude for the jaw-bones of those who might attempt to pronounce her ponderous title were it fully given, retired to his bed at an early hour that evening. It has already been stated that he desired no intimacy with spirits, and especially with such as disappeared so unexpectedly; but his endeavors to banish from his mind the request of the stranger were unavailing, and the tempting promise which accompanied it would not permit him to close his eyes in sleep. Impelled by an irresistible anxiety to secure the imagined treasure, he arose from his bed, and walked up and down the room in great agitation until within a few minutes of midnight. His love of gold, however, at last succeeded in conquering his fears, so, seizing a German bible, which had evidently grown antiquated by neglect amid dust and cobwebs, and cautiously placing it in his capacious pocket, for he had often heard that whilst he had so good a book about his person no evil spirit could harm him, he repaired to the appointed spot. Here he had for some time been intently peering into the dark wood, when suddenly he heard a strange noise behind him, and upon turning he obtained a full view of the stranger, who had taken the precaution to provide against the prevailing darkness by a lantern, the red rays of which only gave to everything around a more gloomy appearance. Hans involuntarily startled and most heartily wished himself in his bed again, but it was now too late. Gazing supplicatingly into the pale face of the spirit, for he was fully persuaded that he stood in the presence of a veritable spirit, he commenced imploringly inquiring about his personal safety and the prospect of securing the treasure. His appeal, however, failed to draw a word of consolation or encouragement from his supernatural companion who simply indicated by a sign that silence had to be observed, and pointing into the uninviting wood signified to him to move on. Tremblingly the miser proceeded, frequently staring wildly around. Whether it was all imagination, or a fancy which had some substance for its basis, he certainly thought, upon passing several large trees, he saw odd figures behind them. However this may have been, a death-like silence was maintained, nor did Hans seem inclined to break it after his first rebuff. At length they arrived at a small old building, which, though it was not many miles from his residence, he had never before seen. All now surrounding him was dark and strange, and he gazed upon the structure with mingled emotions the like of which he had never before experienced. Whilst endeavoring to collect his wandering wits during this momentary halt at the antiquated building, an unearthly howl was suddenly set up around it, which so frightened him that he at once attempted to test what virtue there was in his heels. Alas! poor Hans! His knees knocked together and his frame shook so violently, he could not move. He was as much a prisoner to his terror as the chained criminal in his cell. It was now that the solicitous advice of his faithful Malchen came rushing upon his memory, and he deplored the folly which had caused him to disobey it. His regrets however, it is believed, were more owing to the wealth he had left behind him than to his having disregarded her good advice, for he began to apprehend that he should never see it more. During this interval of his great consternation, the spirit had remained perfectly calm and composed; and after the noise had entirely subsided it again exhorted him to silence, and softly whispered into his ears that the place was surrounded and protected by numerous imps of the devil who had been commissioned to guard the treasure. Though many before Hans' time may have been in equally close contact with some of Satan's extensive brood and felt no fear, and although he had spent nearly all his days in executing to their master an indisputable title to himself, he found no consolation in what the spirit had told him. If he was inclined to render service to Lucifer he preferred doing so at a more convenient distance from him.

Without any visible intervention of the spirit, at least such is the testimony of Hans Dundermann, an opening into the cellar of the building now appeared. Here he was bidden to enter, which he did more through fear than inclination, attended by his mysterious guide. The red glare reflected by the lantern, gave the place a very solemn and haunted appearance, and made the old walls resemble more the neglected ruins of some venerable edifice, than what they purported to be. They had evidently been built when masonic skill was in its infancy and when huge, substantial clumsiness was the fashion. He surveyed the cavern, for such it appeared to him, with wild respect, confident that this had once been the retreat of the Englishman whose memory had so long been perpetuated in the traditions of the village. What was next to befall him, now that he was entirely at the mercy and in the power of the spirit, he could not divine. He was carefully watching its movements as it walked around the cellar, cautiously treading the damp ground, until it came to a stand, and beckoned him to approach. Here, then, he ascertained, was hidden the treasure which had so much engrossed his attention, and caused him so many perplexing thoughts. His fears now yielded to the first flushes occasioned by the almost certain assurance of securing the hoarded gold. Thus animated by the promising prospect before him; his recent regrets were entirely forgotten, and he felt pleased and proud that he had left his bed for so bold and profitable an adventure. His anxious anticipations, however, were not to be so easily gratified as he had at first imagined. The wealth he coveted was still a considerable distance under ground, but this, to him, appeared but a trifling obstacle. He had often handled the pick and spade for a paltry price per diem; and now, that a great reward was to be the issue, he could use them to advantage. The requisite utensils were soon supplied by the spirit, and Hans squandered no time in commencing vigorous operations. Though a veritable Dutchman, he entirely lost the Dutchman's slowness upon this memorable occasion. He relied more upon energetic effort for success than upon tedious perseverance and plodding patience, and the soft earth was made to fly in every direction. The excitement of the employment soon brought back his usual complexion, and gave his plump face a greasy and shining appearance; when off went hat and coat, and every other article of apparel which generally encumbers a Dutchman whilst at labor. He was now too intently engaged to pay any attention to the spirit, which made its exit from the cellar unnoticed and unheeded.

For some time all continued quiet, not a sound being heard beyond the noise occasioned by himself. He was making rapid progress and congratulating himself upon soon reaching the expected bounty, when his pleasant reflections were suddenly disturbed by another terrible and unearthly howl, much resembling that which had before so greatly excited his fears. In its hollow re-echoes through the cellar it was rendered even more terrific. The spade dropped from his hand, and turning round in his bewilderment, he now first discovered that the spirit had abandoned him. Although he had previously most heartily desired it to leave him and permit him to find his way home again, he now regarded its disappearance as ominous of ill. Alone, with nothing but a credulous and excited imagination for his guide, he was made the victim of a thousand unpleasant impulses, and realized all the dread horrors of unrestrained fear. His face became deathly pale and big drops of cold perspiration stood upon it, whilst his hair rose on end and his eyes dilated and literally sparkled. For a time, as he stood the impersonation of terror, he was unable to comprehend his position, but with returning reason he applied himself to diligent search for the opening through which he had entered. Every nook and corner was quickly examined, but no means of escape were discoverable. Although that awful howl subsided almost simultaneously with his dropping of the spade, he could not approach the spot where he had been digging for the treasure without hearing it again. Had not the spirit told him that the place was guarded by the imps of the devil, and how could he be expected to withstand them? Had not Frederick Metzel been carried off, notwithstanding his resistance, and never heard of more? Oh, Malchen, this for neglecting your anxious and wholesome advice! All these reflections, and ten thousand others no more comforting in their nature, passed rapidly through his mind. The thoughts of a life-time were now crowded into a few of his minutes, and a volume could not give a faithful transcript of the many marvelous stories that spontaneously rushed through his brain. When the devil seemed determined to prevent Luther from prosecuting his work, the Reformer seized an ink-stand and hurled it at his head. Though the missile had little effect upon the object at which it was aimed, being simply dashed to pieces against the wall, upon which the black marks are said still to remain, the tormentor nevertheless vanished. Hans could not deal thus summarily with the great adversary, who happened to have no small claim upon his miserly soul, ready for settlement at any moment. Debtors, and especially those indebted to Satan, are obliged to be more courteous. He was therefore compelled to yield to an influence which his more devotional countryman had only overcome with great difficulty. All ideas of obtaining the treasure were accordingly abandoned, and imprisoned as he was, his first great care was to effect his release. How this was to be accomplished he knew not, as he more slowly and carefully re-examined the old walls, with lantern in hand, escaping only the place where he had so faithfully dug for the hidden wealth. That he could not think of approaching, for he now distinctly and unmistakeably saw a half grown imp seated upon the fresh earth he had thrown up, who was eyeing him in no very complacent manner. Hans has since described him as the very image of a picture in one of his German books, which he had often contemplated with feelings of melancholy dread, and which had equally often puzzled his brain by the thoughts invariably suggested to his mind whenever he beheld it. He never could divine the real policy of tolerating the existence of such hideous monsters; and, perhaps more influenced by personal considerations than feelings of charity for mankind in general, he had frequently most heartily wished their utter extermination and the total annihilation of their constantly increasing kingdom. The puny devil before Hans' eyes was undoubtedly a legitimate offshoot of the parent stock. He had a large two-pronged fork in his right hand, and in his left he held one end of a strong chain, whilst the other was fastened to his body, so that its great bulk had to trail upon the ground. His long tail, pointed like an arrow, and erected several feet above his head, appeared even more formidable than the fork. His posture much resembled that of an old man, seated upon a low stool, his stiff legs drawn up towards his body. He was almost entirely covered with rough, brown hair, and the bristles upon his head pointed in every direction. There was a fiery glitter in his eyes, and the expression of his countenance, according to Hans' description, could be handsomely counterfeited by compounding together the faces of a grinning monkey and a fat Dutchman.

At last, fortunately, Hans Dundermann thought he discovered a prospect of delivery from his torments. Not possessing the magic power of the spiritual guide that had led him into this horrible prison, the walls could not be expected to part at his simple bidding, and he therefore wisely determined to test the virtue of more natural means. Seizing the spade, he made a number of vigorous thrusts against the substantial masonry, which, though it resisted his efforts for a considerable time, was eventually compelled to yield him a passage, through which he could escape. Thanks! he was now once more in the open air and breathed again! The devils set up another howl, as if in exultation, and several seemed to be slyly approaching him; but Hans, relying upon his nether limbs, which appeared to have derived strength for the occasion, hurried off with remarkable rapidity. Not content, however, with having prevented him from obtaining the treasure, the whole pack of imps now followed close upon his heels, crying his name at the top of their voices, but this only increased his speed the more. No obstacle seemed a hindrance to him. Dark as it was, he scaled the rocks, and stones, and stumps, in his leaps, as on he flew, leaving those in pursuit far behind. There was no manifestation of the tardy Dutchman in that chase, as he pursued his course for miles, not knowing whither it led and feeling little inclination to pause and consider. When, at last, he came to a stand, lo! the veritable spirit which had enticed him into the wood stood at his side and was calmly gazing upon him. Hans shut his eyes, but it was still there. Drawing in his breath, he bolted in another direction with a speed that outdistanced even this supernatural vision, but led him far from his home. Hatless and coatless, he eventually seated himself upon the earth, determined to await the approach of day. Though he knew not in what locality he was, nor how, lost in the wood, he should find the village again, he was yet consoled by the reflection that he was free from the clutches of satan and his imps. The terrors of Karl Keiser's son had been nothing in comparison to those he had endured.

When morning dawned,--and never had Hans Dundermann more welcomed the approach of day,--he betook himself to the difficult task of searching for his home. His venerable housekeeper had been thrown into great consternation upon discovering his absence. Not knowing whither he had gone, or what had become of him, her fears at once made her conclude that he had shared the sad fate of Frederick Metzel, and been carried off by the spirit during the night, as a terrible punishment for having neglected to meet it as he had been requested. She now reproached herself for having obtruded her advice upon him, but to make amends, she told the matter to her neighbors, and search was immediately commenced for the lost. He was not discovered until the succeeding day, and when brought to his residence to the great delight of Malchen, gave a narration of his adventures which alike astonished the credulous and amused the doubting.

Those who heard it at once determined to investigate the matter, and, if possible, obtain the treasure and make a general distribution of it amongst themselves. Hans now had the entire neighborhood at his heels, many fully believing his entire tale and looking anxiously for a portion of the spoils; others following from sheer impulse, not knowing what to think or say; whilst others still were led on by curiosity to see the end of what they simply believed to be a foolish vagary of a distempered brain. He was but a sorry guide, however, and after vainly searching for the old building to which he had been led by the spirit, he gave it as his settled conviction that the imps must have removed it, leaving no trace behind that it had once existed, lest they might experience too much difficulty in preserving the wealth it contained. The conclusion was a wise one, and if it taught nothing more, it at least illustrated the remark of a learned Genoese, that "miser's worship no God but money, and will deny even the very faith they profess rather than fail in schemes to augment their treasures." However faithful servants of satan they may be, he knows that they would betray even him to gratify their desire, and understands them too well not to place his possessions beyond their wily clutches, in which he is certainly more judicious than many mortals.

T. D.

REMARKS

The succeeding essay was read before the Association, and appears, from the following prefatory remarks, to have been the production of one of its committees.--EDITOR.

"Your committee, simply from the want of a new theme, have been compelled, even at the hazard of proving tedious, to confine themselves to an old one. The many extravagancies daily exhibited by those around us might perhaps afford more matter for ridicule than admonition, but few are willing that their follies should be made the means of amusing others, whilst none will object to a little kind advice, though he be determined not to heed it. We therefore concluded that the latter mode of treating our subject, if the most stupid, would still possess the merit of being the least annoying. Then, too, stupidity having become a common quality, in which each is privileged to deal, a sacred right not to be denied without closing the mouths of more than nine-tenths of the world, our dullness can be no trespass and consequently needs no apology."

AN ESSAY.

THE WISDOM OF PRESERVING MODERATION IN OUR WISHES.

"Life runs best on little: nature's store Can make all happy that will use their power."

IN the extended range of our wishes and their diversified character, the reflective man will recognise one of the greatest sources of human misery. The many desires which impel us affect alike the mind and heart, frequently disturbing the healthy repose of the one, and rendering the other cold and selfish. The illusory nature of life and its schemes, and the changing influences which ever surround us, seldom permit us to attain the most moderate aspirations of our youth. Through the lively impetus constantly given to the imagination during that period of life, we are prone to devise certain plans and arrange magnificent schemes to accomplish our desires; yet the weight of years steals upon us gradually, until we look upon the past but as a long chain of circumstances, and our present life and condition as its result. One by one our determinations, however long and fervently cherished, pass away unrealized; whilst our sanguine wishes, with their ardor perhaps somewhat abated through the influence of experience and the cool meditations of riper age, still remain ungratified. He who had contrived and contemplated schemes to amass wealth, and then retire to repose amid the comforts and luxuries of the world, may linger out a life of toil and poverty in some humble hamlet; he who had longed to ascend the steeps of science and gather in abundance its noble treasures, may feel the admonishing wrinkles upon his brow even before he has made one permanent acquisition; and he who had encouraged dreams of ambition, and courted the uncertain plaudits of fame, may die at last forgotten and unknown.

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 Caesar 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 Caesar 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."

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.

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