For a long, long time, the story of Felix continued to be the village talk. The strange disposition of the waters that commemorated his last exploit, acquired the name of the “Magic Funnel” from the villagers, and whatever was drawn into it was engulfed forever. Its end or termination remained unknown. It was a suggestion of some of the more philosophic villagers, that the immense currents which then fed it may have entered again into the body of the river at a distance of many miles, or have had a number of outlets so small that none would have thought of tracing them to their original source. Whatever of truth or error there may have been in these and kindred surmises, it is said, as a truth which was never doubted by the villagers, that the poor and ill-fated alchemist makes a circuit every year, entering the “Magic Funnel” again, together with his antagonist. On every anniversary of his fearful encounter, the singular flame may be seen again in the air, with a renewal of the battle. Often these waters lash each other as if in great trouble, and it has passed into a traditional saying with the sturdy watermen of the Susquehanna, whenever they see them surge and foam with unusual impetuosity, that the conjuror and his powerful adversary are at each other again, interchanging their terrible frowns and hurling their fearful bolts. The humble boatman, as he cautiously moves by this mysterious place, now far less dangerous than many years ago, with his fragile skiff or light canoe, still gives a sighing thought to the memory of the conjuror, and not unfrequently sings a doleful requiem over the fate of the Village Alchemist. H. C. REMARKS, INTENDED TO PRECEDE THE FOLLOWING ESSAY. “If, in the paper herewith submitted, there may be any confusion, or supposed misapplication of terms, we claim our privilege. In old time, those who excelled in the sciences were called _Sages_, which was equivalent to our _learned_. This pedantic appellation, however, could not be tolerated by the modest Pythagoras, who, being merely an anxious searcher after knowledge, refused to arrogate to himself its actual possession, and therefore assumed the title of _Philosopher_, or _Lover of Wisdom_. He deserves immortal honor for this happy application of the word, yet we are not quite sure that he would have used it at all had he foreseen the consequences to which it has led. Ever since his day, it has become the custom to look upon all whose wild fancies are inexplicable, as “Philosophers;” and whenever a confused mass of nonsense is collected together, so heterogeneous that human ingenuity is at a loss to classify it, it is generally dubbed “Philosophy.” Whatever of incongruity, confusion, or misapplication may be detected in our essay, must, therefore, under the most approved customs of the times, be regarded as wonderfully philosophic, and being thus converted into a merit, we need add nothing in extenuation.”[2] FOOTNOTES: