The Swiss, who shot himself because he was tired of dressing and
undressing, would have done so long before, had he not had so much
employment. Our Creator, knowing what sort of particles he composed us
of, obliged us to labour, not only for the support of ‘life,’ but of
existence itself. Were we cloathed by nature like the other animals, and
subsisted on the spontaneous herbage of the field, we should lose our
patience before fifty, and hang or drown ourselves in dread of three
score.
Maids should be seen and not heard, they say. This is comparing them to
peacocks.
* * * * *
_REMARKS._
Some prejudices seem to be to the mind what the atmosphere is to the
body; we cannot feel without the one, as we cannot breathe without the
other.
Many persons complain against fortune merely to conceal their indolence.
If you will be content to do nothing, how can you expect the rewards of
diligence.
* * * * *
* * * *
THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION.
_OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A._
Unfolding Many Curious Unknown Historical Facts.
_Translated from the German of Tschink._
(Continued from page 86.)
“You have made me behold myself in a view to which I was an utter
stranger, and which terrifies me. Hiermanfor, tell it me frankly, if you
have to add any thing farther; the more unreserved you shall be, the
more my gratitude will increase.”
“Yes, my Lord, you deserve a better fate than what you are preparing for
yourself. You possess a noble quality which is but rarely the property
of princes, the courage of listening to disagreeable truths; a noble
heart is panting in your bosom; you possess more desire for knowledge
than you ought; your intention is good, however, you will be ruined in
spite of all these noble qualities. You are destitute of firmness of
mind; you fluctuate like a wave of the sea, which is driven and tossed
to and fro with the wind. You are doomed to be constantly the sport of
others, and never to steer your own course. That unshaken firmness of
resolution which is the effect of well founded conviction, is not in the
catalogue of your virtues. Your reason prevails too little on your
sensuality and imagination, which are hurrying you rapidly along through
bye ways. Nay, I even maintain that your rage for occult knowledge has
had as yet no other source but sensual pleasure; it gratified your
ambition to know more than other people; it flattered your self-love to
have the powers of nature at your command; it was a pleasing sight to
your eyes to witness extraordinary events, as children delight to hear
tales of giants and enchanted castles. And could you, in that
disposition of mind, think yourself worthy to be introduced to a
sanctuary, which even serious disinterested love of truth dares not
enter without being first purified. You have experienced what _you_ did
deserve, you merited to be put off with mystic words, with juggling
tricks and slights of hand; and you were satisfied with these gewgaws.
First after the veil had been removed from your eyes by other people,
you were highly displeased at my having taken the liberty to sell you
delusions for truth--for truth! as if ever _pure love for truth_ had
guided you, and what you mistook for it had been any thing else but
_vain curiosity_. Notwithstanding this, I have given you a specimen of
my superior power, and shown you the ghost of your living friend, who is
many hundred miles distant from hence, and you prove instantly how
little you deserve this condescension. You find not the least difference
between this vision and the former juggling tricks, mistaking it for a
dream, for a new delusion. Young man, learn first to discern truth from
illusion, and acquire a proper knowledge of the preparatory sciences,
before you attempt at occult wisdom; get first a proper knowledge of
yourself, before you strive for knowledge of occult things; endeavour to
bridle your imagination by cool reflection, and your sensuality by
self-denial, before you dare to grasp at the sway over the powers of
nature.”
“How insignificant do I appear to myself, Hiermanfor! don’t spare me,
and let me feel my whole nothingness.”
“Man has gained a great advantage, if he has learned to be sensible of
his weakness, however he ought also to remain no stranger to his
strength. My Lord, we are endowed with a heavenly gift, which is called
_reason_; but how widely does it differ from what one commonly thinks it
to be; reason ought first to be purified, and divested of every thing
that is not herself, before she can become to us an infallible guide.
Assisted by her, we subdue our sensuality, and soar above visible
nature. Sensuality is the only thing terrestrial in us: reason raises us
to the communication with superior spirits. The more we learn to subdue
the former, the more sway do we obtain over the powers of nature; the
more we purify the latter, the more intimately are we connected with
superior beings. Man is an intermediate being between an angel and an
animal; is the sole creature that, by means of his senses, is connected
with the physical world, and through his reason with higher spirits, and
consequently can act upon both. Do you divine nothing, my Lord? These
words imply an important truth; however it would lead me too far, if I
should attempt to unfold it at large.”
“O let me taste only a few drops from that sacred fountain!”
“At some other time, my Lord! important affairs bid me at present to
leave you. Will you accompany me to town?”
“With pleasure.”
His coach had been waiting for us at some distance from the
burying-place.--The Irishman ordered his coachman to make haste, and
told me on the road that I must depart for Ma***t in two days. At the
same time he promised to meet me the following night at eleven o’clock,
and to continue the subject on which he had been speaking. He set me
down at my house and took leave.
The time which Lady Delier had fixed for our interview was past. This
would have been extremely painful to me in any other situation of mind,
but now my thoughts were employed by objects of greater importance. What
I had seen and heard at the burial-place had made a deep impression upon
me. The more I reflected on the vision, the more did it surpass my power
of conception. Deception is afraid of the light, seeking the dusk of
evening, or the darkness of night, in order to blind the eyes of the
deluded person; deception plays off its machineries in places which are
shut up, and previously have been fitted for the purpose; at the same
time it endeavours to harrow the mind, by solemn preparations, in a
disposition answerable to the deception; but here I could not perceive
any thing of that kind. The vision appeared at noon, and in an open
place, and when the Irishman called me away to the burial-place, I was
going to inform myself of a love affair, and of course, in a disposition
very unpropitious for apparitions or ghosts; deception takes care to
prevent the beholder from coming near its works, and I was near enough
to touch the phantom; deception never exposes its secret machines to the
danger of being discovered, and the Irishman invited me to make the
strictest investigation. And the vision itself, as it appeared, a living
human figure, and yet so incorporeal, that my arms penetrated it without
leaving a vestige behind----the resemblance to Antonio so great, that it
seemed to be the living original; and this figure spoke and returned
answers so adequate to my questions;----it did not, indeed, move its
lips, and the voice differed a little from that of Antonio; however, its
speaking organs were materially different from his natural ones. At
last, the disappearing and re-appearing at my desire----did it not
denote a free will of the vision?----In short, the longer I reflected on
the matter, the less did it appear to me the work of deception.
And if it were no fiction, what _I have_ seen; what an astonishing
mystery does it imply? How is it possible for a living, absent man to
appear to his friend, as the deceased are reported to do? How can his
soul disembody herself for a short time, and inclose herself in an
imitated shape? The Irishman has, indeed, given me a hint concerning the
possibility of such miracles; but how unfit was I to comprehend that
distant hint, and how much did my soul thirst for the promised
continuation of his discourse? He is in the right, I did not, as yet,
deserve to be instructed in the mysteries of occult knowledge; I merited
to be put off with vain delusions. How little did my impetuous curiosity
agree with a disciple of occult knowledge; how insignificant must I have
appeared to him! How great did he shew himself to me! With what an
astonishing omniscience did he read my most hidden thoughts; with what a
great sagacity has he laid open my weakness, and with how much frankness
told me my defects! If it were his intention to deceive me any farther,
he would silently have taken advantage of my blind side, and carefully
avoided to open my eyes. He certainly could not have given me a more
unsuspicious and convincing proof of the goodness and purity of his
sentiments towards me.--This openness, this noble sincerity, deserves,
undoubtedly, my unbounded gratitude. Yes, _Antonio, he shall guide me in
thy room! I will confide in him as I have confided in thee._
In the evening I went to Amelia, to inform her of my impending
departure. She was just playing on the harpsicord, and received me with
a silent smile, without suffering herself to be interrupted in her play.
The Baroness, however, received me with cold civility; I could guess the
reason of it; however I had no opportunity to make an excuse. The
affecting pieces, which Amelia played with an unspeakable charm, began
to melt my soul, and to thrill me with a sweet melancholy. But suddenly
the recollection of the Irishman, of my resolution, and of my departure
flushed through my head: I left my dangerous post, and Amelia ceased
playing. I had placed myself at the open window----she followed me
thither.
“So immersed in meditation, my Lord?”
“I am thinking of my departure.”
“You are not going to leave us?”
“I must depart the day after to-morrow. Business of great importance
requires my personal attendance at Ma***t.”
This news produced surprise and silence. The coldness of Lady Delier
began to thaw. “I hope your business, my Lord,” said she, “is not so
very pressing.”
“Alas! it is so pressing that it suffers not the least delay.”
“Alas!” Amelia repeated, “one should think your departure was painful to
your heart!” She blushed, as if she had said something imprudent.
“Alas! it is too painful to my heart; but who cares for my heart?”
“Indeed,” Lady Delier replied, “you think very unkind of us.”
“It is a gloomy night,” said Amelia, going to the window, and the thread
of our conversation was cut off at once. I endeavoured to lead it again
to its former channel; however I perceived that the conversation grew
irksome and dull; it turned on a hundred most insignificant trifles, but
the Countess avoided carefully to touch the former string, although I
sounded it repeatedly, softer or louder. At length I took leave. Lady
Delier was so kind as to see me down stairs; I told her that an
important visit from the Irishman, whom I had endeavoured in vain to put
off, had prevented me from keeping the appointment. She took my excuse
very kindly, and made me promise to meet her the next morning at ten
o’clock at the fir grove.
Uneasiness and curiosity drove me thither at the appointed hour. The
Baroness was waiting for me. “The Countess is at church,” said she, “let
me take advantage of her short absence, and commit a little treachery;
but take heed not so betray me to my friend!”
“Certainly not,” I replied, my curiosity being harrowed up to the
highest degree by this exordium.
“All that I have to disclose to you is contained in two words: you are
beloved, my Lord!”
“My Lady!”---
“Give me leave to relate the matter in a proper manner.” The Baroness,
seemed delighted with my astonishment, continued, “recollect your first
interview with the Countess; you have not been indifferent to her
already, at the time when she accepted the ring which you offered her;
however, the good Countess did not know it then herself. She fancied her
sentiments to be merely the effects of the gratitude which she imagined
the owed you, because you have been the primary cause of the long wished
for apparition of her deceased Lord. However, that apparition which
declared you, afterwards, the son of the murderer, made thereby Amelia
think it her duty to restrain her kindness for you. The difficulty which
she had to submit to the voice of duty, told her plainly, that in her
heart something more than gratitude was panting for you. Fortunately,
the ghost himself had desired her to forgive the murderer; she imagined,
therefore, it would be but just to extend the forgiveness to the son.
She did not foresee that her tenderness for you, covered by that
pretext, would find so much the less difficulty to steal again into the
heart which it scarcely had been expelled. Not before Amelia’s
tenderness for you rose to a degree, which left no room for doubt of her
attachment for you, did she perceive that her readiness to be reconciled
to you, originated less from the request of the ghost, than from that of
her own heart. You may believe me, my Lord, that it was no easy matter
to draw these particulars from Amelia’s lips. She concealed carefully in
her bosom a passion, the existence of which she trembled to confess. She
had made a vow of eternal fidelity to her late Lord, and although she
fancied she had not violated her promise by voluntary sentiments, yet a
confession of these sentiments, though deposited only in the bosom of an
intimate friend, appeared to her a profanation of her solemn
declaration. However her speaking frequently of you with evident marks
of partiality, made me, nevertheless, suspect a part of the secret,
which the Irishman’s vision unfolded entirely to me.
(_To be continued._)
* * * * *