not been
for the fact that Dr. Johnson mentions Morohof as the author to whom he
was specially indebted.--more, I think, than to any other. It is a grand
old encyclopaedic summary of all the author knew about pretty nearly
everything, full of curious interest, but so strangely mediaeval, so
utterly antiquated in most departments of knowledge, that it is hard to
believe the volume came from the press at a time when persons whom I well
remember were living. Is it possible that the books which have been for
me what Morhof was for Dr. Johnson can look like that to the student of
the year 1990?

Morhof was a believer in magic and the transmutation of metals. There was
always something fascinating to me in the old books of alchemy. I have
felt that the poetry of science lost its wings when the last powder of
projection had been cast into the crucible, and the fire of the last
transmutation furnace went out. Perhaps I am wrong in implying that
alchemy is an extinct folly. It existed in New England's early days, as
we learn from the Winthrop papers, and I see no reason why gold-making
should not have its votaries as well as other popular delusions.

Among the essays of Morhof is one on the "Paradoxes of the Senses." That
title brought to mind the recollection of another work I have been
meaning to say something about, at some time when you were in the
listening mood. The book I refer to is "A Budget of Paradoxes," by
Augustus De Morgan. De Morgan is well remembered as a very distinguished
mathematician, whose works have kept his name in high honor to the
present time. The book I am speaking of was published by his widow, and
is largely made up of letters received by him and his comments upon them.
Few persons ever read it through. Few intelligent readers ever took it
up and laid it down without taking a long draught of its singular and
interesting contents. The letters are mostly from that class of persons
whom we call "cranks," in our familiar language.

At this point Number Seven interrupted me by calling out, "Give us some
of those cranks' letters. A crank is a man who does his own thinking. I
had a relation who was called a crank. I believe I have been spoken of
as one myself. That is what you have to expect if you invent anything
that puts an old machine out of fashion, or solve a problem that has
puzzled all the world up to your time. There never was a religion
founded but its Messiah was called a crank. There never was