Idolatry | Page 3

with extreme
old age. The forehead is wide and low, supported by regular eyebrows;
the face beneath long and narrow, of a dark and dry complexion. In
sleep, open-mouthed, the expression is rather inane; though we can
readily imagine the waking face to be not devoid of a certain intensity
and comeliness of aspect, marred, however, by an air of guarded
anxiety which is apparent even now.

We prattle of the dead past, and use to fancy that peace must dwell
there, if nothing else. Only in the past, say we, is security from jostle,
danger, and disturbance; who would live at his ease must number his
days backwards; no charm so potent as the years, if read from right to
left. Living in the past, prophecy and memory are at one; care for the
future can harass no man. Throw overboard that Jonah, Time, and the
winds of fortune shall cease to buffet us. And more to the same effect.
And yet it is not so. The past, if more real than the future, is no less so
than the present; the pain of a broken heart or head is never annihilated,
but becomes part and parcel of eternity. This uneasy snorer here, for
instance: his earthly troubles have been over years ago, yet, as our
fancy sees him, he is none the calmer or the happier for that. Observe
him, how he mumbles inarticulately, and makes strengthless clutchings
at the blanket with his long, slender fingers.
But we delay too long over the external man, seeing that our avowed
business is with the internal. A sleeping man is truly a helpless creature.
They say that, if you take his hand in yours and ask him questions, he
has no other choice than to answer--or to awake. The Doctor--as we
know by virtue of the prophetic advantages just remarked upon--will
stay asleep for some hours yet. Or, if you are clairvoyant, you have but
to fall in a trance, and lay a hand on his forehead, and you may read off
his thoughts,--provided he does his thinking in his head. But the world
is growing too wise, nowadays, to put faith in old woman's nonsense
like this. Again, there is--or used to be--an odd theory that all matter is
a sort of photographic plate, whereon is registered, had we but eyes to
read it, the complete history of itself. What an invaluable pair of eyes
were that! In vain, arraigned before them, would the criminal deny his
guilt, the lover the soft impeachment. The whole scene would stand
forth, photographed in fatal minuteness and indelibility upon face,
hands, coat-sleeve, shirt-bosom. Mankind would be its own book of life,
written in the primal hieroglyphic character,--the language understood
by all. Vocal conversation would become obsolete, unless among a few
superior persons able to discuss abstract ideas.
We speak of these things only to smile at them; far be it from us to

insult the reader's understanding by asking him to regard them seriously.
But story-tellers labor under one disadvantage which is peculiar to their
profession,--the necessity of omniscience. This tends to make them top
arbitrary, leads them to disregard the modesty of nature and the
harmonies of reason in their methods. They will pretend to know things
which they never could have seen or heard of, and for the truth of
which they bring forward no evidence; thus forcing the reader to reject,
as lacking proper confirmation, what he would else, from its inherent
grace or sprightliness, be happy to accept.
That we shall be free from this reproach is rather our good fortune than
our merit. It is by favor of our stars, not by virtue of our own, that we
turn not aside from the plain path of truth to the by-ways of
supernaturalism and improbability. Yet we refrain with difficulty from
a breath of self-praise; there is a proud and solid satisfaction in holding
an unassailable position could we but catch the world's eye, we would
meet it calmly!
Let us hasten to introduce our talisman. You may see it at this very
moment, encircling the third finger of Doctor Glyphic's left hand; in
fact, it is neither more nor less than a quaint diamond ring. The stone,
though not surprisingly large, is surpassingly pure and brilliant; as its
keen, delicate ray sparkles on the eye, one marvels whence, in the dead
of night, it got together so much celestial fire. Observe the setting; the
design is unique. Two fairy serpents--one golden, the other fashioned
from black meteoric iron--are intertwined along their entire length,
forming the hoop of the ring. Their heads approach the diamond from
opposite sides, and each makes a mighty bite at it with his tiny jaws,
studded with sharp little teeth. Thus their contest holds the