"My Aunt Keziah is no more," said Septimius.
"No more! Well, I trust in Heaven she has carried her secret with her,"
said the doctor. "If anything could comfort you for her loss, it would be
that. But what brings you to Boston?"
"Only a dried flower or two," said Septimius, producing some specimens of
the strange growth of the grave. "I want you to tell me about them."
The naturalist took the flowers in his hand, one of which had the root
appended, and examined them with great minuteness and some surprise; two
or three times looking in Septimius's face with a puzzled and inquiring
air; then examined them again.
"Do you tell me," said he, "that the plant has been found indigenous in
this country, and in your part of it? And in what locality?"
"Indigenous, so far as I know," answered Septimius. "As to the
locality,"--he hesitated a little,--"it is on a small hillock, scarcely
bigger than a molehill, on the hill-top behind my house."
The naturalist looked steadfastly at him with red, burning eyes, under his
deep, impending, shaggy brows; then again at the flower.
"Flower, do you call it?" said he, after a reëxamination. "This is no
flower, though it so closely resembles one, and a beautiful one,--yes,
most beautiful. But it is no flower. It is a certain very rare fungus,--so
rare as almost to be thought fabulous; and there are the strangest
superstitions, coming down from ancient times, as to the mode of
production. What sort of manure had been put into that hillock? Was it
merely dried leaves, the refuse of the forest, or something else?"
Septimius hesitated a little; but there was no reason why he should not
disclose the truth,--as much of it as Doctor Portsoaken cared to know.
"The hillock where it grew," answered he, "was a grave."
"A grave! Strange! strange!" quoth Doctor Portsoaken. "Now these old
superstitions sometimes prove to have a germ of truth in them, which some
philosopher has doubtless long ago, in forgotten ages, discovered and made
known; but in process of time his learned memory passes away, but the
truth, undiscovered, survives him, and the people get hold of it, and make
it the nucleus of all sorts of folly. So it grew out of a grave! Yes, yes;
and probably it would have grown out of any other dead flesh, as well as
that of a human being; a dog would have answered the purpose as well as a
man. You must know that the seeds of fungi are scattered so universally
over the world that, only comply with the conditions, and you will produce
them everywhere. Prepare the bed it loves, and a mushroom will spring up
spontaneously, an excellent food, like manna from heaven. So superstition
says, kill your deadliest enemy, and plant him, and he will come up in a
delicious fungus, which I presume to be this; steep him, or distil him,
and he will make an elixir of life for you. I suppose there is some
foolish symbolism or other about the matter; but the fact I affirm to be
nonsense. Dead flesh under some certain conditions of rain and sunshine,
not at present ascertained by science, will produce the fungus, whether
the manure be friend, or foe, or cattle."
"And as to its medical efficacy?" asked Septimius.
"That may be great for aught I know," said Portsoaken; "but I am content
with my cobwebs. You may seek it out for yourself. But if the poor fellow
lost his life in the supposition that he might be a useful ingredient in a
recipe, you are rather an unscrupulous practitioner."
"The person whose mortal relics fill that grave," said Septimius, "was no
enemy of mine (no private enemy, I mean, though he stood among the enemies
of my country), nor had I anything to gain by his death. I strove to avoid
aiming at his life, but he compelled me."
"Many a chance shot brings down the bird," said Doctor Portsoaken. "You say
you had no interest in his death. We shall see that in the end."
Septimius did not try to follow the conversation among the mysterious hints
with which the doctor chose to involve it; but he now sought to gain some
information from him as to the mode of preparing the recipe, and whether
he thought it would be most efficacious as a decoction, or as a
distillation. The learned chemist supported most decidedly the latter
opinion, and showed Septimius how he might make for himself a simpler
apparatus, with no better aids than Aunt Keziah's teakettle, and one or
two trifling things, which the doctor himself supplied, by which all might
be done with every necessary scrupulousness.
"Let me look again at the formula," said he. "There are a good many minute
directions that appear trifling, but it is not safe to neglect any
minutiae in the preparation of an affair like this; because, as it is all
mysterious and unknown ground together, we cannot tell which may be the
important and efficacious part. For instance, when all else is done, the
recipe is to be exposed seven days to the sun at noon. That does not look
very important, but it may be. Then again, 'Steep it in moonlight during
the second quarter.' That's all moonshine, one would think; but there's no
saying. It is singular, with such preciseness, that no distinct directions
are given whether to infuse, decoct, distil, or what other way; but my
advice is to distil."
"I will do it," said Septimius, "and not a direction shall be neglected."
"I shall be curious to know the result," said Doctor Portsoaken, "and am
glad to see the zeal with which you enter into the matter. A very valuable
medicine may be recovered to science through your agency, and you may make
your fortune by it; though, for my part, I prefer to trust to my cobwebs.
This spider, now, is not he a lovely object? See, he is quite capable of
knowledge and affection."
There seemed, in fact, to be some mode of communication between the doctor
and his spider, for on some sign given by the former, imperceptible to
Septimius, the many-legged monster let himself down by a cord, which he
extemporized out of his own bowels, and came dangling his huge bulk down
before his master's face, while the latter lavished many epithets of
endearment upon him, ludicrous, and not without horror, as applied to such
a hideous production of nature.
"I assure you," said Dr. Portsoaken, "I run some risk from my intimacy with
this lovely jewel, and if I behave not all the more prudently, your
countrymen will hang me for a wizard, and annihilate this precious spider
as my familiar. There would be a loss to the world; not small in my own
case, but enormous in the case of the spider. Look at him now, and see if
the mere uninstructed observation does not discover a wonderful value in
him."
In truth, when looked at closely, the spider really showed that a care and
art had been bestowed upon his make, not merely as regards curiosity, but
absolute beauty, that seemed to indicate that he must be a rather
distinguished creature in the view of Providence; so variegated was he
with a thousand minute spots, spots of color, glorious radiance, and such
a brilliance was attained by many conglomerated brilliancies; and it was
very strange that all this care was bestowed on a creature that, probably,
had never been carefully considered except by the two pair of eyes that
were now upon it; and that, in spite of its beauty and magnificence, could
only be looked at with an effort to overcome the mysterious repulsiveness
of its presence; for all the time that Septimius looked and admired, he
still hated the thing, and thought it wrong that it was ever born, and
wished that it could be annihilated. Whether the spider was conscious of
the wish, we are unable to say; but certainly Septimius felt as if he were
hostile to him, and had a mind to sting him; and, in fact, Dr. Portsoaken
seemed of the same opinion.
"Aha, my friend," said he, "I would advise you not to come too near
Orontes! He is a lovely beast, it is true; but in a certain recess of this
splendid form of his he keeps a modest supply of a certain potent and
piercing poison, which would produce a wonderful effect on any flesh to
which he chose to apply it. A powerful fellow is Orontes; and he has a
great sense of his own dignity and importance, and will not allow it to be
imposed on."
Septimius moved from the vicinity of the spider, who, in fact, retreated,
by climbing up his cord, and ensconced himself in the middle of his web,
where he remained waiting for his prey. Septimius wondered whether the
doctor were symbolized by the spider, and was likewise waiting in the
middle of his web for his prey. As he saw no way, however, in which the
doctor could make a profit out of himself, or how he could be victimized,
the thought did not much disturb his equanimity. He was about to take his
leave, but the doctor, in a derisive kind of way, bade him sit still, for
he purposed keeping him as a guest, that night, at least.
"I owe you a dinner," said he, "and will pay it with a supper and
knowledge; and before we part I have certain inquiries to make, of which
you may not at first see the object, but yet are not quite purposeless. My
familiar, up aloft there, has whispered me something about you, and I rely
greatly on his intimations."
Septimius, who was sufficiently common-sensible, and invulnerable to
superstitious influences on every point except that to which he had
surrendered himself, was easily prevailed upon to stay; for he found the
singular, charlatanic, mysterious lore of the man curious, and he had
enough of real science to at least make him an object of interest to one
who knew nothing of the matter; and Septimius's acuteness, too, was piqued
in trying to make out what manner of man he really was, and how much in
him was genuine science and self-belief, and how much quackery and
pretension and conscious empiricism. So he stayed, and supped with the
doctor at a table heaped more bountifully, and with rarer dainties, than
Septimius had ever before conceived of; and in his simpler cognizance,
heretofore, of eating merely to live, he could not but wonder to see a man
of thought caring to eat of more than one dish, so that most of the meal,
on his part, was spent in seeing the doctor feed and hearing him discourse
upon his food.
"If man lived only to eat," quoth the doctor, "one life would not suffice,
not merely to exhaust the pleasure of it, but even to get the rudiments of
it."
When this important business was over, the doctor and his guest sat down
again in his laboratory, where the former took care to have his usual
companion, the black bottle, at his elbow, and filled his pipe, and seemed
to feel a certain sullen, genial, fierce, brutal, kindly mood enough, and
looked at Septimius with a sort of friendship, as if he had as lief shake
hands with him as knock him down.
"Now for a talk about business," said he.
Septimius thought, however, that the doctor's talk began, at least, at a
sufficient remoteness from any practical business; for he began to
question about his remote ancestry, what he knew, or what record had been
preserved, of the first emigrant from England; whence, from what shire or
part of England, that ancestor had come; whether there were any memorial
of any kind remaining of him, any letters or written documents, wills,
deeds, or other legal paper; in short, all about him.
Septimius could not satisfactorily see whether these inquiries were made
with any definite purpose, or from a mere general curiosity to discover
how a family of early settlement in America might still be linked with the
old country; whether there were any tendrils stretching across the gulf of
a hundred and fifty years by which the American branch of the family was
separated from the trunk of the family tree in England. The doctor partly
explained this.
"You must know," said he, "that the name you bear, Felton, is one formerly
of much eminence and repute in my part of England, and, indeed, very
recently possessed of wealth and station. I should like to know if you are
of that race."
Septimius answered with such facts and traditions as had come to his
knowledge respecting his family history; a sort of history that is quite
as liable to be mythical, in its early and distant stages, as that of
Rome, and, indeed, seldom goes three or four generations back without
getting into a mist really impenetrable, though great, gloomy, and
magnificent shapes of men often seem to loom in it, who, if they could be
brought close to the naked eye, would turn out as commonplace as the
descendants who wonder at and admire them. He remembered Aunt Keziah's
legend and said he had reason to believe that his first ancestor came over
at a somewhat earlier date than the first Puritan settlers, and dwelt
among the Indians where (and here the young man cast down his eyes, having
the customary American abhorrence for any mixture of blood) he had
intermarried with the daughter of a sagamore, and succeeded to his rule.
This might have happened as early as the end of Elizabeth's reign, perhaps
later. It was impossible to decide dates on such a matter. There had been
a son of this connection, perhaps more than one, but certainly one son,
who, on the arrival of the Puritans, was a youth, his father appearing to
have been slain in some outbreak of the tribe, perhaps owing to the
jealousy of prominent chiefs at seeing their natural authority abrogated
or absorbed by a man of different race. He slightly alluded to the
supernatural attributes that gathered round this predecessor, but in a way
to imply that he put no faith in them; for Septimius's natural keen sense
and perception kept him from betraying his weaknesses to the doctor, by
the same instinctive and subtle caution with which a madman can so well
conceal his infirmity.
On the arrival of the Puritans, they had found among the Indians a youth
partly of their own blood, able, though imperfectly, to speak their
language,--having, at least, some early recollections of it,--inheriting,
also, a share of influence over the tribe on which his father had grafted
him. It was natural that they should pay especial attention to this youth,
consider it their duty to give him religious instruction in the faith of
his fathers, and try to use him as a means of influencing his tribe. They
did so, but did not succeed in swaying the tribe by his means, their
success having been limited to winning the half-Indian from the wild ways
of his mother's people, into a certain partial, but decent accommodation
to those of the English. A tendency to civilization was brought out in his
character by their rigid training; at least, his savage wildness was
broken. He built a house among them, with a good deal of the wigwam, no
doubt, in its style of architecture, but still a permanent house, near
which he established a corn-field, a pumpkin-garden, a melon-patch, and
became farmer enough to be entitled to ask the hand of a Puritan maiden.
There he spent his life, with some few instances of temporary relapse into
savage wildness, when he fished in the river Musquehannah, or in Walden,
or strayed in the woods, when he should have been planting or hoeing; but,
on the whole, the race had been redeemed from barbarism in his person, and
in the succeeding generations had been tamed more and more. The second
generation had been distinguished in the Indian wars of the provinces, and
then intermarried with the stock of a distinguished Puritan divine, by
which means Septimius could reckon great and learned men, scholars of old
Cambridge, among his ancestry on one side, while on the other it ran up to
the early emigrants, who seemed to have been remarkable men, and to that
strange wild lineage of Indian chiefs, whose blood was like that of
persons not quite human, intermixed with civilized blood.
"I wonder," said the doctor, musingly, "whether there are really no
documents to ascertain the epoch at which that old first emigrant came
over, and whence he came, and precisely from what English family. Often
the last heir of some respectable name dies in England, and we say that
the family is extinct; whereas, very possibly, it may be abundantly
flourishing in the New World, revived by the rich infusion of new blood in
a new soil, instead of growing feebler, heavier, stupider, each year by
sticking to an old soil, intermarrying over and over again with the same
respectable families, till it has made common stock of all their vices,
weaknesses, madnesses. Have you no documents, I say, no muniment deed?"
"None," said Septimius.
"No old furniture, desks, trunks, chests, cabinets?"
"You must remember," said Septimius, "that my Indian ancestor was not very
likely to have brought such things out of the forest with him. A wandering
Indian does not carry a chest of papers with him. I do remember, in my
childhood, a little old iron-bound chest, or coffer, of which the key was
lost, and which my Aunt Keziah used to say came down from her
great-great-grandfather. I don't know what has become of it, and my poor
old aunt kept it among her own treasures."
"Well, my friend, do you hunt up that old coffer, and, just as a matter of
curiosity, let me see the contents."
"I have other things to do," said Septimius.
"Perhaps so," quoth the doctor, "but no other, as it may turn out, of quite
so much importance as this. I'll tell you fairly: the heir of a great
English house is lately dead, and the estate lies open to any
well-sustained, perhaps to any plausible, claimant. If it should appear
from the records of that family, as I have some reason to suppose, that a
member of it, who would now represent the older branch, disappeared
mysteriously and unaccountably, at a date corresponding with what might be
ascertained as that of your ancestor's first appearance in this country;
if any reasonable proof can be brought forward, on the part of the
representatives of that white sagamore, that wizard pow-wow, or however
you call him, that he was the disappearing Englishman, why, a good case is
made out. Do you feel no interest in such a prospect?"
"Very little, I confess," said Septimius.
"Very little!" said the grim doctor, impatiently. "Do not you see that, if
you make good your claim, you establish for yourself a position among the
English aristocracy, and succeed to a noble English estate, an ancient
hall, where your forefathers have dwelt since the Conqueror; splendid
gardens, hereditary woods and parks, to which anything America can show is
despicable,--all thoroughly cultivated and adorned, with the care and
ingenuity of centuries; and an income, a month of which would be greater
wealth than any of your American ancestors, raking and scraping for his
lifetime, has ever got together, as the accumulated result of the toil and
penury by which he has sacrificed body and soul?"
"That strain of Indian blood is in me yet," said Septimius, "and it makes
me despise,--no, not despise; for I can see their desirableness for other
people,--but it makes me reject for myself what you think so valuable. I
do not care for these common aims. I have ambition, but it is for prizes
such as other men cannot gain, and do not think of aspiring after. I could
not live in the habits of English life, as I conceive it to be, and would
not, for my part, be burdened with the great estate you speak of. It might
answer my purpose for a time. It would suit me well enough to try that
mode of life, as well as a hundred others, but only for a time. It is of
no permanent importance."
"I'll tell you what it is, young man," said the doctor, testily, "you have
something in your brain that makes you talk very foolishly; and I have
partly a suspicion what it is,--only I can't think that a fellow who is
really gifted with respectable sense, in other directions, should be such
a confounded idiot in this."
Septimius blushed, but held his peace, and the conversation languished
after this; the doctor grimly smoking his pipe, and by no means increasing
the milkiness of his mood by frequent applications to the black bottle,
until Septimius intimated that he would like to go to bed. The old woman
was summoned, and ushered him to his chamber.
At breakfast, the doctor partially renewed the subject which he seemed to
consider most important in yesterday's conversation.
"My young friend," said he, "I advise you to look in cellar and garret, or
wherever you consider the most likely place, for that iron-bound coffer.
There may be nothing in it; it may be full of musty love-letters, or old
sermons, or receipted bills of a hundred years ago; but it may contain
what will be worth to you an estate of five thousand pounds a year. It is
a pity the old woman with the damnable decoction is gone off. Look it up,
I say."
"Well, well," said Septimius, abstractedly, "when I can find time."
So saying, he took his leave, and retraced his way back to his home. He had
not seemed like himself during the time that elapsed since he left it, and
it appeared an infinite space that he had lived through and travelled
over, and he fancied it hardly possible that he could ever get back again.
But now, with every step that he took, he found himself getting miserably
back into the old enchanted land. The mist rose up about him, the pale
mist-bow of ghostly promise curved before him; and he trod back again,
poor boy, out of the clime of real effort, into the land of his dreams and
shadowy enterprise.
"How was it," said he, "that I can have been so untrue to my convictions?
Whence came that dark and dull despair that weighed upon me? Why did I let
the mocking mood which I was conscious of in that brutal, brandy-burnt
sceptic have such an influence on me? Let him guzzle! He shall not tempt
me from my pursuit, with his lure of an estate and name among those heavy
English beef-eaters of whom he is a brother. My destiny is one which kings
might envy, and strive in vain to buy with principalities and kingdoms."
So he trod on air almost, in the latter parts of his journey, and instead
of being wearied, grew more airy with the latter miles that brought him to
his wayside home.
So now Septimius sat down and began in earnest his endeavors and
experiments to prepare the medicine, according to the mysterious terms of
the recipe. It seemed not possible to do it, so many rebuffs and
disappointments did he meet with. No effort would produce a combination
answering to the description of the recipe, which propounded a brilliant,
gold-colored liquid, clear as the air itself, with a certain fragrance
which was peculiar to it, and also, what was the more individual test of
the correctness of the mixture, a certain coldness of the feeling, a
chillness which was described as peculiarly refreshing and invigorating.
With all his trials, he produced nothing but turbid results, clouded
generally, or lacking something in color, and never that fragrance, and
never that coldness which was to be the test of truth. He studied all the
books of chemistry which at that period were attainable,--a period when,
in the world, it was a science far unlike what it has since become; and
when Septimius had no instruction in this country, nor could obtain any
beyond the dark, mysterious charlatanic communications of Doctor
Portsoaken. So that, in fact, he seemed to be discovering for himself the
science through which he was to work. He seemed to do everything that was
stated in the recipe, and yet no results came from it; the liquid that he
produced was nauseous to the smell,--to taste it he had a horrible
repugnance, turbid, nasty, reminding him in most respects of poor Aunt
Keziah's elixir; and it was a body without a soul, and that body dead. And
so it went on; and the poor, half-maddened Septimius began to think that
his immortal life was preserved by the mere effort of seeking for it, but
was to be spent in the quest, and was therefore to be made an eternity of
abortive misery. He pored over the document that had so possessed him,
turning its crabbed meanings every way, trying to get out of it some new
light, often tempted to fling it into the fire which he kept under his
retort, and let the whole thing go; but then again, soon rising out of
that black depth of despair, into a determination to do what he had so
long striven for. With such intense action of mind as he brought to bear
on this paper, it is wonderful that it was not spiritually distilled; that
its essence did not arise, purified from all alloy of falsehood, from all
turbidness of obscurity and ambiguity, and form a pure essence of truth
and invigorating motive, if of any it were capable. In this interval,
Septimius is said by tradition to have found out many wonderful secrets
that were almost beyond the scope of science. It was said that old Aunt
Keziah used to come with a coal of fire from unknown furnaces, to light
his distilling apparatus; it was said, too, that the ghost of the old
lord, whose ingenuity had propounded this puzzle for his descendants, used
to come at midnight and strive to explain to him this manuscript; that the
Black Man, too, met him on the hill-top, and promised him an immediate
release from his difficulties, provided he would kneel down and worship
him, and sign his name in his book, an old, iron-clasped, much-worn
volume, which he produced from his ample pockets, and showed him in it the
names of many a man whose name has become historic, and above whose ashes
kept watch an inscription testifying to his virtues and devotion,--old
autographs,--for the Black Man was the original autograph collector.
But these, no doubt, were foolish stories, conceived andpropagated in
chimney-corners, while yet there were chimney-corners and firesides, and
smoky flues. There wasno truth in such things, I am sure; the Black Man
had changedhis tactics, and knew better than to lure the human soul thus
to come to him with his musty autograph-book. So Septimiusfought with his
difficulty by himself, as many a beginner inscience has done before him;
and to his efforts in this way arepopularly attributed many herb-drinks,
and some kinds ofspruce-beer, and nostrums used for rheumatism, sore
throat,and typhus fever; but I rather think they all came from AuntKeziah;
or perhaps, like jokes to Joe Miller, all sorts ofquack medicines,
flocking at large through the community, areassigned to him or her. The
people have a little mistaken thecharacter and purpose of poor Septimius,
and remember him as aquack doctor, instead of a seeker for a secret, not
the lesssublime and elevating because it happened to be unattainable.
I know not through what medium or by what means, but it got noised abroad
that Septimius was engaged in some mysterious work; and, indeed, his
seclusion, his absorption, his indifference to all that was going on in
that weary time of war, looked strange enough to indicate that it must be
some most important business that engrossed him. On the few occasions when
he came out from his immediate haunts into the village, he had a strange,
owl-like appearance, uncombed, unbrushed, his hair long and tangled; his
face, they said, darkened with smoke; his cheeks pale; the indentation of
his brow deeper than ever before; an earnest, haggard, sulking look; and
so he went hastily along the village street, feeling as if all eyes might
find out what he had in his mind from his appearance; taking by-ways where
they were to be found, going long distances through woods and fields,
rather than short ones where the way lay through the frequented haunts of
men. For he shunned the glances of his fellow-men, probably because he had
learnt to consider them not as fellows, because he was seeking to withdraw
himself from the common bond and destiny,--because he felt, too, that on
that account his fellow-men would consider him as a traitor, an enemy, one
who had deserted their cause, and tried to withdraw his feeble shoulder
from under that great burden of death which is imposed on all men to bear,
and which, if one could escape, each other would feel his load
propertionably heavier. With these beings of a moment he had no longer any
common cause; they must go their separate ways, yet apparently the
same,--they on the broad, dusty, beaten path, that seemed always full, but
from which continually they so strangely vanished into invisibility, no
one knowing, nor long inquiring, what had become of them; he on his lonely
path, where he should tread secure, with no trouble but the loneliness,
which would be none to him. For a little while he would seem to keep them
company, but soon they would all drop away, the minister, his accustomed
towns-people, Robert Hagburn, Rose, Sibyl Dacy,--all leaving him in
blessed unknownness to adopt new temporary relations, and take a new
course.
