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He was named John. His familiars, in token of their appreciation of his good-nature, and to show the geniality of their affection, called him JOHNTY. They did not intend this as a nick-name, but merely as a fond term of endearment. He was a jolly, dumpling-shaped man, with a great, round, rosy face, and large protuberant blue eyes, who always laughed in all sorts of weather, and always attended all the funerals. He was an Odd-Fellow, and a 'Sonny'; which latter was the vernacular for a Son of Temperance. He did not set up for a wise man, nor did he ever attempt philosophical conversation. He knew what he knew; and he could say more, if he wanted to. It was unfortunate for him that he happened to have been born and brought up before the school-house was built; but certainly, no blame, on this account, is to be laid at his door. Had he been imprisoned six hours a day in a schoolroom, and been once a week well flogged by a master, he might have turned out a historical, instead of a house-painter. However, he was a useful man in the village; somewhat lazy, it is true; but always willing and desirous to paint, if he was driven by any necessity.

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As I was returning home one Sunday afternoon of a pleasant summerday, inhaling the sweet fragrance that the south-wind was bringing from the clover-fields, and stopping now and then to watch the young wheat in its graceful wavings, and meditating upon whatever. came of itself into my mind, I was suddenly informed that Johnty was 'werry' ill, and wished me to wisit' him. I hastily retraced my steps, and knocked gently at Johnty's door. The opened door admitted me immediately into his presence. He was lying in one corner of the darkened room, upon a couch of domestic manufacture, which had been stained by his own hands, with an intention of imitating either mahogany, or rose-wood, or black walnut, I could not tell which; although he knew, I suppose. He was packed under blankets, over which was spread a patch-work quilt, that must have far surpassed in variety of color even Joseph's coat. Around him were sitting six female relatives, in a crescent of chairs that had been gaily ornamented by his inventive brush. I inquired as to the nature of his illness, and was answered that he was werry' sick with painter's colic, and that the Doctor had been in to see him. I said that it was my custom, when sent for to visit the sick, always to have prayers. The sick man_responded, in a good, healthy voice, from underneath his blankets, 'I am a praying man.' I said at once, 'Let us pray.' Imagine my surprise, at seeing the sick man leap out of bed with full activity of limb, and, as I thought at the time, and still think, not with a proper regard for modesty - although, in some vicinages, clothes are mere conventualities and kneel down with us. As soon as I had finished praying, he dexterously snuggled himself again beneath the flashy drapery of the quilt. Of course, it was expected by all, that I should say something. I did not disappoint them, although the sick man did me, as his reply will make evident. I said to him, that in a day or two, he would in all probability, be out again; that he ought to improve religiously these few days that confined him to his bed and house; that they were days pro

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videntially furnished him for reviewing his past life, and for repenting of his sins, and for preparing for that final sickness which would end in death.' This I repeated, in substance, once or twice; and concluded by saying, that it was always good for us to be withdrawn, by slight sicknesses, from our temporal business, provided that we occupied ourselves in praying, and in holy reading, and in thoughts about things eternal; that I had no doubt but that, as he was a praying man, this short sickness would do him good.' Yes, Sir,' he answered, 'I'm sure it will. Ever since spring set in, I've been awfully bilious!'

SECONDLY:

THE MYSTERIOUS

VISITOR.

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I HAD left my study, and was sitting before a blazing oak-wood fire, in what was properly called, once a day, the dining-room. It was, in fact, breakfast-room, and tea-room, and sitting-room, and parlor. There were but two rooms on the lower floor, in addition to a kitchen. Owing to a small mistake on the part of the mason and I have had a dislike for masons ever since the parlor was uninhabitable in the winter. It was a Siberia on a small scale. I never went into it, that I did not expect to encounter a white bear. The mason had built the chimney, as I think, in an inverted position. Nothing could induce the smoke to go up it. The draught was always down-furiously down; and, under its tyranny smoke, and flame, and ashes, were compelled into our parlor. The only remedy was to open wide the three windows, and that defeated the end for which the fire was kindled. Therefore, I was sitting in the dining-room.

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The month was December. The hour was that contemplative hour between day-light and dark. Outside, the snow was falling fast, and whitening every tree, and roof, and field; and giving promise for the morrow of the merry sleigh and the jingling bells. The knock of a whip-handle called me to the door. It was not a downright bold knock. There was a tremulousness about it, as though the knocker was in mental agitation. Good evening, Sir,' I said; walk in.' We shook hands. People always shake hands in the country. There was a tremulousness about his shake. It was a half-convulsive shake. He kicked his feet a few times against the step, and walked in. There was a tremulousness about his kick. I placed a chair for him before the fire. He sat down in a nervous way. I took his whip first, and deposited that in a corner, beyond his reach for I did not know what his intentions might be and then I took his hat. He drew off his gloves very nervously. He had not spoken up to this time. Designing to give him opportunity to collect himself, I looked out of the window, and discovered that he had tied a horse, with the appendage of a covered wagon, to the lofty liberty-pole that the patriotic villagers had elevated opposite my door, in order to keep Fourth of July. I returned to my chair; but still he said nothing. Can he be a bringer of bad news? I thought. Has he any evil purpose? I looked to see that the whip was where I put it. Can he be a travelling preacher ? a tract-colporteur? Can he be the sheriff? I observed that he was attired in his best suit; that his boots had recently had a brush with Day and Martin; that his hair had been perseveringly combed and glossed; that his

collar was stiff from extra starch; that his cravat-tie had been long labored at.

'Have you driven far?' I asked.

He answered, 'yes.'

'Perhaps,' I added, 'you wish to see me on business of a private nature.'

He answered, 'yes;' but it was a timid yes.

Please walk up into my study,' I said.

I gave another glance at the whip, to satisfy myself that it had not been disturbed, and guided him up a very steep, break-neck stair-case. He sat himself down, and looked most intently at a knot-hole in the floor, that could not be covered in consequence of the diminutive size of my carpet. What does he see in that hole? I wondered. What can be the mystery of all this silence? I was beginning to grow nervous myself. I said to him, 'It has been a cold day.' He replied, 'yes.' I hazarded an additional remark, that it was snowing. He replied, 'yes.' He adhered to this monosyllable like a new plaster to a rheumatic back. A polysyllable from him would have been a luxury. I concluded that it was now his turn to take the lead in conversation; and so I looked at the knot-hole. I had never before discovered that it was a hole of interest. He drew forth, or rather twitched out of his pocket, a red handkerchief, redolent with domestic cologne, and disposed it across his knees. He then repeated to me the information that I had but just conveyed to him. It has been a cold day.' I returned him his 'yes.' 'It is snowing outside.' I returned him another 'yes'; and again he was curious about the knot-hole.

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I hope that I was not hasty in my determination to bring things to a crisis. Full twenty minutes had elapsed since the knock of the whip. 'You wished to see me on business of a private nature,' I said: can I serve you in any way?' Out came again his old monosyllable. I ventured upon calling him friend. My friend, will you please state to me your business?' It seemed as if the knot-hole had grown larger from being looked at by our four eyes, so long and so steadily. He actually articulated or, what will better describe his mode of utterance, jerked a sentence: I WANT TO BE MARRIED!' Perhaps my impatient ardor to behold his wish gratified, caused me to be somewhat premature with my next question. Where,' I asked, 'is the lady?' Oh what romance was in his answer! SHE'S OUTSIDE, IN THE WAGON!' THIRDLY:

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THE VILLAGE PHILOSOPHER.

I was sauntering along the roadside, one cloudless and fragrant Maymorning, querying with myself what I should preach about on the next Sunday. I always aimed at ascertaining what I wanted to preach about; for I remembered that when it was my place to hear sermons, instead of preaching them, nothing made me more nervous than the discovery that the preacher knew no more what he wanted to preach about than the helmsman of a canal-boat knows about the navigation of an East-India ship; no more than a man who rakes oysters knows about harpooning whales. Across my path a little reptile, of about

two feet longitude, and a trifle larger round than a harpoon-line, had stretched himself to enjoy the luxury of being shined on by the sun. I am not so 'notioned' as to think that a man must kill every snake he chances to meet, in order to show his hatred of the devil. Killing snakes, I always thought, was a cruel kind of Christian treatment. I had determined, after I had looked at him enough for my curiosity, to cross the road and leave him undisturbed in his feast upon the sun-shine. Whether he was ignorant of that established proverb, which concedes to a cat the right of looking at a king, I am unable to say. I think that he was. At any rate, he seemed to regard my looking at him, as an inexcusable impertinence. He showed every symptom of great His eyes flashed fire; he darted out his tongue; he flattened his head; and made at me, evidently for fight. A broken rail being conveniently at hand, I assisted him in his head-flattening process.

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In the village was a young English chemist, who was very curious about snakes. To gratify his innocent curiosity, I denied myself of my walk; and securing the snake to a string by a clove-hitch-I always carry a string in my pocket-I turned back, dragging his snakeship after me in triumph; something as Achilles dragged Hector.

The laboratory was opposite the village store. Wishing to call the snake by his right name, when I should exhibit him to the chemist, Į introduced him into the store. The VILLAGE PHILOSOPHER was there sitting very philosophically upon the counter, and at his old and expert business of doing nothing. Life, with him, consisted in perpetual sitting upon that counter, and expressing to every one who would listen, his views upon every subject that was within the reach of the human mind. I addressed my interrogatory to him: 'Is this an adder?' He answered promptly: No: that snake 's no adder. He's a wiper.' An opportunity was given him to express his views. He seized it with that rapidity with which a terrier-dog seizes a rat. Oh! that I might have listened to him in a grove! It would have been so Athenian-like! so quietly Grecian! so richly classical! However, the true philosopher is as much at home in a grocery-store, as was Plato in his academy-garden, or as Diogenes in his tub. It has always been a question with me, whether that tub was a mammoth tub, or whether Diogenes was a small philosopher. He certainly was not an economical philosopher, or he never would have gone about the country, carrying a lighted lantern in the day-time; although, perhaps, this was only an eccentric freak on his part. Most philosophers have been eccentric. Democritus laughed all the time. Heraclitus wept all the time. Aristotle walked while he was discoursing. Not that eccentricities are to be limited to philosophers. Demosthenes, although only an orator, was peculiarly eccentric. To cure himself of stuttering, he McAdamized his mouth. Occasionally, for two or three months together, he would burrow underground, like a rabbit, that he might not be interrupted in his studies; and would shave one side of his head, that he might be ashamed to be seen on the surface.

The VILLAGE PHILOSOPHER was eccentric. He wore an eccentric hat; smoked an eccentric pipe. His diet was eccentric. He would eat frogs, and fresh-water turtle; preferred a raw turnip to an apple ;

invariably, if he could get them, ate buckwheat-cakes at bed-time; and always took two drinks of apple-jack and bitters before breakfast. But he was chiefly eccentric in his views of things.

The wiper' was lying on the floor, as dead as a hammer, or a doornail. I employ this comparison because it is universal; although I must confess that I have never been able to ascertain satisfactorily why utter extinction of life should be symbolized by a hammer and a doornail. I have sometimes thought that the notion might have come from that story about Jael Heber's wife — driving a nail with a hammer into Sisera's temple. There is a difficulty, I am aware, in the way of this solution. The nail happened to be a tent-pin. But no man of generous mind and noble aspiration will make a mountain out of such a mole-hill!

The philosopher looked at the wiper,' and then at me. It was an inquisitive look, and was followed immediately by this quasi-question: 'I suppose you think that snake is dead?

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I replied that I rather supposed he was.

Well, he is n't,' was the rejoinder, with something of philosophic tartness at my being so decided in opinion. 'You preachers think you know a good deal, and perhaps you do, about that old snake that crawled into Eden but I've never seen one of you who knew much about snakes in general. Going to college, and studying books, is n't every thing. There must be obserwation. That snake is n't dead, I tell you; and he won't be till sun-down. I guess you've never heard my views about snakes?'

I answered 'no;' with that rising inflection of voice, which implied that it would give me pleasure to hear them. He caught at once the signification of the inflection, and went on to express his views.

I lay it down as a fact,' he said, 'that heat is the principle of animal life. You stick a bullock, or chop off a chicken's head, or lance a man (the cannibal!) and you find that the blood of all is hot.'

I suggested, red-hot.' But he was too serious for playfulness.

Now, as soon as the blood has run out, the bullock dies; not, as most people think, from loss of blood, but, as I tell you, from loss of heat. And this is proved by the fact, that the bullock grows cold when he is dead; which could not happen, except from absence of heat. The blood generates the heat. It is a kind of stove, inside the animal.' I suggested, whether the simile of steam-pipes would not be in better analogy with the arterial system, than that of a stove. But he was not in the sportive vein.

'Do I understand you to say,' I asked, 'that the bullock does not bleed to death, but chills to death?'

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'That's just my view, exactly,' was the answer. Heat, as I told you, is the principle of life. Take away the blood which gives out the heat, and death follows because of cold.'

I instanced, as being to the point, the case of a man freezing to death. There was no loss of blood attending such a death.

His reply was, that the case established the correctness of his views; and also added, that he thought I was coming round to his side. Here, he made a small digression from his argument. I tell you what;' he

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