'Obstupui! steteruntque comÆ, et vox faucibus hÆsit.'

There is a certain portion of mankind ever on the alert to see or hear some wonderful thing; whose minds are attuned to a marvellous key, and vibrate with extreme sensitiveness to the slightest touch; whose vital fluid is the air of romance, and whose algebraic symbol is a mark of exclamation! This sentiment, existing in some persons to a greater degree than in others, is often fostered by education and association, so as to become the all-engrossing passion. Children, of course, begin to wonder as soon as their eyes are opened upon the strange scenes of their future operations. The first thing usually done to develop their dawning intellect, is to display before them such objects as are best calculated to arrest their attention, and keep them in a continual state of excitement. This course is succeeded by a supply of all sorts of toys, to gratify the passion of novelty. These are followed by wonderful stories, and books of every variety of absurd impossibilities;—which system of development is, it would seem, entirely based upon the presumption, that the faculty of admiration must be expanded, in order that the young idea may best learn how to shoot. It is therefore quite natural, that—the predisposition granted—a faculty of the mind so auspiciously nurtured under the influence of exaggeration should mature in a corresponding degree.

Thus we have in our midst a class, into whose mental economy the faculty of wonder is so thoroughly infused, that it has inoculated the entire system, and forms an inherent, inexplicable, and almost elementary part of it. These persons sail about in their pleasure yachts, on roving expeditions, under a pretended 'right of search,' armed to the teeth, and boarding all sorts of crafts to obtain plunder for their favorite gratification. They are most uneasy and uncomfortable companions, having no ear for commonplace subjects of conversation, and no eye for ordinary objects of sight.

When such persons approach each other, they are mutually attracted, like two bodies charged with different kinds of electricity—an interchange of commodities takes place, repulsion follows, and thus reËnforced, they separate to diffuse the supply of wonders collected.

By this centripetal and centrifugal process, the social atmosphere is subjected to a continual state of agitation. Language is altogether too tame to give full effect to their meaning, and all the varieties of dumb show, of gesticulation, shrugs, and wise shakes of the head, are called into requisition, to effectually and unmistakably express their ideas. The usages of good society are regarded by them as a great restraint upon their besetting propensity to expatiate in phrases of grandiloquence, and to magnify objects of trivial importance. They are always sure to initiate topics which will afford scope for admiration; they delight to enlarge upon the unprecedented growth of cities, villages, and towns; upon the comparative prices of 'corner lots' at different periods; and to calculate how rich they might have been, had they only known as much then as now.

They experience a gratification when a rich man dies, that the wonder will now be solved as to the amount of his property; and when a man fails in business, that it is now made clear—what has so long perplexed them—'how he managed to live so extravagantly!' See them at an agricultural fair, and they will be found examining the 'mammoth squashes' and various products of prodigious growth—or they will install themselves as self-appointed exhibiter of the 'Fat Baby,' to inform the incredulous how much it weighs! See them at a conflagration, and they wonder what was the cause of the fire, and how far it will extend?

They long to travel, that they may visit 'mammoth caves' and 'Giant's Causeways.' We talk of the 'Seven Wonders of the World,' while to them there is a successive series for every day in the year—putting to the blush our meagre stock of monstrosities—making 'Ossa like a wart.' Nothing gratifies them more than the issuing from the press of an anonymous work, that they may exert their ingenuity in endeavoring to discover the author; and, when called on for information on the subject, prove conclusively to every one but themselves, that they know nothing whatever about the matter.

The ocean is to them only wonderful as the abode of 'Leviathans,' and 'Sea Serpents,' 'Krakens,' and 'Mermaids'—abounding in 'MÄelstroms' and sunken islands, and traversed by 'Phantom Ships' and 'Flying Dutchmen' in perpetual search for some 'lost Atlantis;'—all well-attested incredibilities, certified to by the 'affidavits of respectable eye-witnesses,' and, we might add, by 'intelligent contrabands,'—and all in strict conformity with the convenient aphorism 'Credo quia impossibile est.' They are ever ready to bestow their amazement upon a fresh miracle as soon as the present has had its day—like the man who, being landed at some distance by the explosion of a juggler's pyrotechnics, rubbed his eyes open, and exclaimed, 'I wonder what the fellow will do next!'

If a steamboat explodes her boiler, or the walls of a factory fall, burying hundreds in the ruins, their hearts—rendered callous by the constant stream of cold air pouring in through their ever-open mouths—are not shocked at the calamity, but they wonder if it was insured!

The increase of population in this country affords a most prolific and inexhaustible fund for statistical astonishment, as an interlude to the entertainment, while something more appalling is being prepared.

The portentous omens so often relied on by the credulous believers in signs, have so frequently proved 'dead failures,' that one would suppose these votaries would at length become disheartened. But this seems not to be the case—like a quack doctor when his patient dies, their audacity is equal to any emergency, and, with the elasticity of india rubber, they come out of a 'tight squeeze' with undiminished rotundity. With stupid amazement, hair all erect, and ears likewise, they pass through life as through a museum, ready to exclaim with Dominie Sampson at all they cannot understand, 'Pro—di—gi—ous!'

It matters little, perhaps, in what form this principle is exhibited, while it exists and flourishes in undiminished exuberance. Thus says Glendower:

'At my nativity
The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes,
Of burning cressets; and, at my birth,
The frame and huge foundation of the earth
Shak'd like a coward.
Hotspur. Why so it would have done
At the same season, if your mother's cat had
But kittened, though yourself had ne'er been born.'

Glendower naturally enough flouts this rather impertinent comment, and 'repeats the story of his birth' with still greater improvements, till Hotspur gives him a piece of advice which will do for his whole race of the present day, viz., 'tell the truth, and shame the devil.'

The English people of this generation are rather more phlegmatic than their explosive neighbors across the channel, and neither the injustice of black slavery abroad, nor the starvation of white slaves at home, can shake them from their lop-sided neutrality, so long as money goes into their pocket. The excitable French, on the contrary, require an occasional coup d'État to arouse their conjectures as to the next imperial experiment in the art of international diplomacy.

The press of the day teems with all sorts of provisions to satisfy the cravings of a depraved imagination, and even the most sedate of our daily papers are not above employing 'double-leaded Sensations,' and 'display Heads' as a part of their ordinary stock in trade; while from the hebdomadals, 'Thrilling Tales,' 'Awful Disclosures,' and 'Startling Discoveries,' succeed each other with truly fearful rapidity. Thus he who wastes the midnight kerosene, and spoils his weary eyes in poring over the pages of trashy productions, so well designed to murder sleep, may truly say with Macbeth, 'I have supp'd full with horrors.'

It is certainly remarkable (as an indication of the pleasure the multitude take in voluntarily perplexing themselves), how eagerly they enter into all sorts of contrivances which conduce to bewilderment and doubt. In 'Hampton Court' there is a famous enclosure called the 'Maze,' so arranged with hedged alleys as to form a perfect labyrinth. To this place throngs of persons are constantly repairing, to enjoy the luxury of losing themselves, and of seeing others in the same predicament.

Some persons become so impatient of the constant demand upon their admiration, that they resist whatever seems to lead in that direction. Washington Irving said he 'never liked to walk with his host over the latter's ground'—a feeling which many will at once acknowledge having experienced. A celebrated English traveller was so annoyed by the urgent invitations of the Philadelphians to visit the Fairmount Water Works, that he resolved not to visit them, so that he might have the characteristic satisfaction of recording the ill-natured fact.

'Swift mentions a gentleman who made it a rule in reading, to skip over all sentences where he spied a note of admiration at the end.'

The instances here quoted are, to be sure, carrying out the 'Nil admirari' principle rather to extremes, and are not recommended for general observance. The most remarkable and prominent wonders in the natural world seldom meet the expectation of the beholder, because he looks to experience a new sensation, and is disappointed; and so with works of art, as St. Peter's at Rome—

——'its grandeur overwhelms thee not,
And why? it is not lessen'd; but thy mind,
Expanded by the genius of the spot,
Has grown colossal.'

Wonder is defined as 'the effect of novelty upon ignorance.' Most objects which excite wonder are magnified by the distance or the point of view, and their proportions diminish and shrink as we approach them. It is a saying as old as Horace, 'ignotum pro magnifico est': we cease to wonder at what we understand. Seneca says that those whose habits are temperate are satisfied with fountain water, which is cold enough for them; while those who have lived high and luxuriously, require the use of ice. Thus a well-disciplined mind adjusts itself to whatever events may occur, and not being likely to lose its equanimity upon ordinary occasions, is equally well prepared for more serious results.

'Let us never wonder,' again saith Seneca, 'at anything we are born to; for no man has reason to complain where we are all in the same condition.' But notwithstanding all the precepts of philosophers, the advice of all men of sense, and the best examples for our guides, we go on, with eyes dilated and minds wide open, to see, hear, and receive impressions through distorted mediums, leading to wrong conclusions and endless mistakes.

'Wonders will never cease!' Of course they will not, so long as there are so many persons engaged in providing the aliment for their sustenance; so long as the demand exceeds the supply; so long as mankind are more disposed to listen to exaggeration rather than to simple truths, and so long as they shall tolerate the race of wonder-mongers, giving them 'aid and comfort,' regardless of their being enemies of our peace, and the pests of our social community.