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Many years ago a man of sad aspect, of more than
owlish solemnity, and of ponderous gravity, made
his appearance in the village of — I will not give its
name — in the old and honored State of New Jersey.

Many men have, at divers times, made their appearance
in that same village, albeit it is remote
from railroads, but never a man like this one.

He was a tall, spare man, with a pale, thoughtful
face, a full beard as white as the driven snow, long
white hair descending in great masses to his very
shoulders, keen, piercing black eyes, which had the
peculiar faculty of taking in everything in range,
thin lips drawn tightly over white and shining teeth,
and a sallow, hollow face that gave one the impression
that the flesh that should be there had been
wasted by days of denial and nights of study.

Peculiar as was the physique of this man, his outward
garb was more so. He did not wear the garments
of the ordinary New Jersey man; in fact, his
attire was of a style totally unknown in that region.
On his head he wore a voluminous turban of white,

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and his only other outward garment was a flowing
robe of a black material that dropped to his slippered
feet, confined at the waist by a plain leathern
belt.

The appearance of such a figure, so clad, did, as
was natural, create a positive sensation in an interior
village of New Jersey. Only in moral circuses or
instructive menageries had a mortal so garbed ever
been seen in that vicinity.

But if his appearance was an astonishment to the
people, the announcement he made concerning himself
was still more so. When Jabez Pettingill, the
landlord of the Eagle Hotel (at which the mysterious
stranger took his abode), asked his name, he replied, —

“Abou ben Adhem.”

“Aboo ben what?” was the reply of the astounded
Boniface.

“Abou ben Adhem, I say. I am a Persian, a
philosopher and magician. I am the possessor of
secrets unknown to common men. I possess the
power of prolongation of life, the secret of eternal
youth, and of the transmutation of metals. I was
born before Noah. I have seen the empires of the
ancient world rise, fall, and decay; I have — ”

Mr. Pettingill at this point uttered a howl of
consternation, and rushed to the room of his wife,
who, having seen the stranger enter, was on the very
crown and summit of expectant curiosity.

“Who is he?” she demanded.

“I ain't certin,” replied the puzzled landlord,

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“whether it 's Melchisedek or Abimelech; but — well
he sez he wuz born afore Noer, and kin transmute
metals.”

“Jabez,” returned Mrs. Pettingill, “see to it that
he transmutes metal, and good metal too, afore he
gits a thing to eat in this house. Sich men pay in
advance, they do.”

Alas for genius! Plodding dullards go on quietly
on credit: only aspiring genius is required to pay
in advance. Why is this? Is it because genius
never stoops to matters of money? Is it because
plodding has in it the elements of money-making?
I do not know. There are several things that I do
not know. Pay in advance! What crushing words
to him who has not the wherewithal to pay. How
much of genius those cruel, cruel words have mashed!
Homer begged his bread, Goldsmith often suffered
for food, and I — but I will not complain. This is
a cold world.

The speech of the stranger had its effect, as did
his subsequent action. He purchased a tract of land
in a lonely locality outside the village, and erected
thereon a house. This was, he said, in deference
to the horrible climate; and he dwelt in it in the
winter, though in the summer he lived mostly in a
tent which he erected on the lawn in front.

From the beginning his movements were closely
observed, and excited great surprise. The man himself,
his surroundings and his methods, were all of a
nature to provoke remark and comment. The curious
villagers would lurk about his lonely dwelling in the

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night, and watch him as closely as though they had
been paid for the service. Paid! Curiosity will do
more than pay. Men hovered about that house rainy
nights, for nothing, who could not have been induced
to do anything useful at such a time for any money.

They reported that they had seen him gazing at
the heavens all night, through a telescope; that he
had been seen all the night long watching with great
interest “a pot b'ilin' on a furnis,” with other equally
mysterious and startling occupations.

One man, more daring than his fellows, actually
forced his way into the house, and was horrified at
the array of grinning skulls and ghastly skeletons
that confronted him; and in a laboratory he saw a
furance, with metal that had been melted scattered
about it, and on the walls a vast variety of stuffed
birds, lizards, alligators, and everything else that
was horrible.

I, the editor of these pages, was the only one to
whom the mysterious stranger extended anything
like confidence. A lucky accident brought us together,
and having been of signal service to him, he
tolerated me to a certain extent. He was reticent
and guarded, but I had opportunities of studying
him which others had not. He invited me to his
house, and in his living-room would converse with
me for hours; but into his laboratory I was never
permitted to go.

To my shame be it said, I once permitted my curiosity
to get the better of me, and taking advantage
of his absence, I did, one day, make my way into

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the forbidden rooms. I did not find a telescope, but
I did find a pasteboard imitation of one, which to
the goggle-eyed villagers answered as well. I found
the skulls and skeletons to be precisely such as itinerant
lecturers on phrenology and physiology use
for illustration, and the “pot b'ilin'” was a crucible
which bore evidence of having been frequently used.
I picked up a piece of metal which looked marvellously
like an imitation of the nickel five-cent piece
now in circulation, from which I inferred that my
Oriental friend did have some knowledge of the
transmutation of metals, but that he confined his
efforts to the baser and more common kinds.

Then I found packages of letters in the room that
read queerly to one who was asked to believe in the
Orientalism of the stranger. Many of these letters
were addressed to “Zephania Scudder,” and were
postmarked at a village in Maine, and were signed,
“Yoor distrest wife, Mariar.”

Others were from various other parties, and related
to lecturing on a vast range of subjects, extending
from Millerism to horse-taming; there were letters
that indicated that the party to whom they were
addressed had sailed under various aliases, and had
been in turn a teacher of dancing, of singing, had
been a dentist, a speculator in almost everything, had
edited a newspaper, had been a preacher, and, I am
sorry to say, had gone from wild-cat banking to the
twin business of counterfeiting.

Possibly I should have investigated to the point of
concluding that his present garb and professions had

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been put on to conceal some pursuit not altogether
lawful, had not his return put an end to my examinations,
if not to my conjectures.

Another reason why I doubted his Oriental origin
was his rather queer use of names. In relating his
histories I observed that the names he used were only
such as are found in that marvellous book, “The
Arabian Nights' Tales,” which book I noticed in his
library. When he spoke of money, I was astonished
that I had never read of such coins in my encyclopedias,
and his geographical information was of a
most perplexing kind.

But if he was an impostor, his imposture was a
very safe one, for his auditors knew as little of Persia
as he did.

But no matter who or what he was, he impressed
the people with awe for a distance of twenty miles
around, which is rather a wide-spread reputation. I
had my opinion of him, but the people had quite
another. They believed in him, and regarded him
with wonder. An empty barrel looks just as full as
a full one, and may pass for a full one if you keep far
enough away from the bung. I had got close to the
bung; they had not. The world is full of empty
barrels.

But, believing in him, the villagers came to him
for advice and counsel on all conceivable subjects,
and he always gave it freely.

They believed all that he said of himself, because,
I suppose, he said it. They admitted his claim, because
he claimed it, which is the most common thing

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in life. Plain John Smith has no credit as plain
John Smith; but let John Smith buy a safe, and rent
an office to put it in, and put up a sign, the legend
whereof shall be “John Smith, Banker,” and people
make haste to deposit with him. They know nothing
as to his responsibility or his integrity: a banker
should be a man of integrity and responsibility,
and as John Smith adds “Banker” to his name,
they take it for granted that he has both these requisites;
and the fact that he promptly breaks up
and goes to Europe with their money does not prevent
Thomas Brown from doing the same thing next
year. So as this singular being claimed to be Abou
ben Adhem, a Persian, and a philosopher and magician
as well, and by his telescope, skulls, and peculiar
dress put up a sign to that effect, the people of the
locality accepted it all in childlike trust.

The discourses which follow this introduction I
heard with my own ears, and put upon paper afterward.
The stranger preferred to have me sitting
by him when he received calls of this nature.

There will be found much that is good in them, —
indeed, I have myself been benefited largely by them.
I found his advice, as a rule, sound, and with all that
relates to the virtues and graces I have lived in strict
accordance, as my neighbors will testify. And I
have discovered by actual experience that real happiness
can only be found in the exercise of the
strictest virtue.