Life passed under the influence of such dispositions naturally leads to
a happy end. It is not enough to say, faith and piety joined with active
virtue constitute the requisite preperation for heaven. They in truth
begin the enjoyment of heaven. In every state of our existence they form
the chief ingredients of felicity.
* * * * *
* * * *
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 219.)
“What a triumph would it have proved to me, if I had succeeded in my
attempt to subdue this man through my magical operations, and to catch
in _one_ snare two persons of so great an importance to our cause. The
idea of ensnaring the Count by means of miracles and ghosts, was indeed,
a very bold one, but not so inconsiderate as it may appear at first
sight. Antonio has spent the earlier years of his youth in a monastery
at Rome. It was not unknown to me, that experience and meditation have
enabled him afterwards to divest himself of the prejudices which there
have been instilled in his mind; I was, however, at the same time, well
aware that the impressions we receive in our juvenile days, are
re-produced with vivacity on certain occasions. I also knew that his
philosophy does not deny the existence of spirits, and the hope of
futurity which he defended with enthusiasm, renders the human mind but
too prone to give credit to the apparitions of spirits, if they have the
appearance of reality. Even his propensity to speculation, his fondness
of solitude, the interest he took in supersensitive objects, his
melancholy temper, prompted me to expect that my artifices would find
access to his heart; and if the heart is but interested for something,
then the understanding too is generally _half_ gained. However, he who
intends to gain it _entirely_, must take care not to expose his blind
side to a keen-sighted and pert genius, and for that reason I was
obliged to endeavour to carry the illusion to the highest degree of
probability; I was under the necessity of attempting to make it
impossible to Count Galvez to penetrate my delusions. This will convince
your Grace that my plan, how bold soever it might have been, has not
been formed without _probability of success_. However, when Count
Clairval began to cultivate a more intimate connexion with Antonio,
I was made sensible that my expectations have been too sanguine.
“He entreated me to give up a design that never could succeed. Prudence
commanded me to follow his advice, though it mortified my ambition
extremely. No other expedient was now left than to remove Count Galvez
from his pupil, because I apprehended that he would ruin my design on
Miguel. Your Grace knows how successfully this was executed.
“Perhaps you will ask, whether it would not have been possible to gain
Count Galvez for our cause by some other means? I must reply in the
negative. Miguel could indeed have been ensnared by other meant, but not
more _expeditiously_; (and every thing depended upon dispatch) but his
tutor never. The latter is attached to the King of Sp**n with unshaken
loyalty, because he thinks it his _duty_ to be loyal; and a man of fifty
years, of so firm and rooted principles, cannot be enticed from what he
thinks to be his duty, before it ceases to be duty to him. But what
power upon earth could absolve from _a duty such_ a man? Here
supernatural powers must interfere and absolve him, beings from another
world must appear as bails.
“I can scarcely think that the failure of this plan has originated from
a fault of mine, for I have tried every means of exhibiting my miracles
and ghosts in a shape of probability. Yet this has entangled me on the
other side in a very disagreeable dilemma. Miguel, to whom his tutor has
rendered suspected even my most consummate artifices, must be kept
steady in the course he once has taken. I shall, perhaps, be
necessitated to perform something quite extraordinary in order to fix
the mind of this wavering young man who is constantly pressing forwards.
Thus I think to have given a satisfactory answer to the question why I
have introduced so expensive, complicated and artificial machines.
“If your Grace should ask why I have kept my design on Miguel’s tutor so
secret, then I must tell you, that I concealed it so carefully because I
intended to surprise the confederates unexpectedly by my valuable
acquisition, if I should have succeeded; and if not to spare myself the
mortification of having it said that I had undertaken a task to which my
powers were not equal. I hope your Grace will reward my frank and plain
confession by burying it in eternal secrecy.”
I returned the letter to the Duke, and a long silence ensued. He broke
it first.
“My friend, you know my adventures with this Irishman, what do you think
of him?”
“How can you ask that question after all the discoveries we have already
made?”
“I wish to have it answered by you.”
“I think,” said I in a pathetic accent, “that Irishman must be a
supernatural being.”
“Ridicule me as long as you please--I cannot but confess that he is,
nevertheless, incomprehensible to me.”
“My dear Duke, I know what I am to think of the Irishman, but I scarcely
know what to think of you.”
“You disapprove of my connection with that man.”
“Very much.”
“Tell me your sentiments without reserve; I know you have had a strong
desire for some time to come to an explanation with me.”
“You have been ill, and I wish to spare you.”
“I don’t want your forbearance. Speak.”
“At another time, my friend, at another time.”
“No delay. Alumbrado is no stranger to my history, and consequently may
hear your observation on it.”
“If you insist upon if, then I must tell you that I am extremely vexed
at the idea that the fellow, who dared to sport with your understanding
has enjoyed the triumph of guiding you in leading-strings whithersoever
he chose. I am glad that you have rendered his magical labours so
toilsome; I am rejoiced at the resistance which you have opposed to his
attacks; but it grieves me that he has conquered you so dishonestly and
artfully. I cannot but confess that the artifice to which your
penetration yielded, has been enormous; however, I am angry with you
because the man whom you really had discovered to be a cheat, succeeded
a second time in gaining your confidence.”
“Do you then imagine that the Irishman has imposed on me in the latter
period of our connection as well as in the beginning of it?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“That this occult science consists merely in juggling tricks?”
“In _natural_ arts of all kind.”
“By what natural means could he have affected the apparition of Antonio
at the church-yard?”
“I cannot tell; however, we should probably have learned it from the
Count if he had not been suffered to escape.”
“I am glad you remind me of the Count. Why did he refuse so obstinately
to explain that incident in spite of my prayers and menaces, declaring
solemnly that it had been effected by supernatural means, although he
has candidly discovered the rest of the delusions of the Irishman. What
benefit could he expect from deceiving me any longer, the revolution
being established, and consequently his end attained?”
“Has he not confessed that he is in the service of the Irishman? Can you
know what orders he has received from his employer? Was not the veil of
mystery which the Count has thrown over that incident, the only
remaining mean of supporting the authority of his lord and master? Who
knows what he would have confessed if you had shown a firm resolution to
enforce your menaces?”
“I confess I acted very weakly and rashly, in suffering him to escape so
soon.”
“At bottom it matters very little. What confidence could you have
reposed in the confession of a man, who on a former occasion has imposed
on you in so shameless and daring a manner? And what will you say if
I prove to you that he has belied you the last time too?”
“You astonish me.”
“Don’t you recollect that he pretended the note through which Amelia has
been absolved from her vow by her late Lord, to have been the effect of
Hiermanfor’s supernatural power?”
“Not only the Count, Hiermanfor too has made me believe it.”
“Both of them has told you a barefaced lie.”
“Friend, how will you be able to make good your charge?”
“By proving that pretended miracle to be a juggling trick.”
“You have raised my expectation to the highest pitch.”
“I have learned that trick of a juggler, and I am sure that which the
Irishman has made use of is the same. He gave Amelia a blank slip of
paper, and directed her to write the question on the upper part of it.
Here you must regard three points; first of all, that he _himself_ gave
the paper, to Amelia; secondly, that he desired the question to be
written on the upper part of it; and thirdly, that he dictated the
question to her; he then put the paper on the table, fumigated the
apartment with an incense of his own composition, and requested the
Countess to look at the paper in the morning. It was very natural that
the answer to the question was seen beneath it, having been previously
written with sympathetic ink the preceding evening, but first rendered
visible in the night by the fumigation. Very likely it had been written
by the Count, who could imitate the hand-writing of his brother.”
The Duke gazed at me along while, seized with dumb astonishment. At
length he clapped his hands joyfully, exclaiming, “O! my friend, what a
light have you cast upon that dark mysterious affair.”
“A light,” my reply was, “that will assist you to see clearly how
dishonestly the Irishman and the Count have dealt with you to the last.
They endeavoured to persuade you that you had been deceived at first,
merely for the sake of probation, and that you had been paid with
sterling truth after Paleski’s discovery. Poor deceived man; you have
always been beset with lies and delusions; the sole point in which they
differed from each other, consisting merely in the superior art which
the latter impositions were contrived with.”
“Then you believe that the apparition at the church-yard has also been a
deception, like the incident with the miraculous note.”
“Yes, I have every reason to think so. When I have once caught a person
in the act of committing a fraud, I then have the greatest right to
suppose that he has repeatedly imposed upon me; and when I am convinced
that he has frequently deceived me, I then have the greatest reason to
conclude that he has cheated me the last time also.”
“Then you think a real apparition of a ghost to be impossible.”
“Why do you ask that question? All that we have to decide at present,
is, whether the Irishman or any man living can effect such an
apparition.”
“You want to evade my question.”
“Indeed not!”
“Then tell me, do you think apparitions of ghosts to be possible?”
“Tell me, does not this question imply, that, are men capable of seeing
ghosts?”
“Certainly.”
“That I deny.”
“You think that no man living has that capacity.”
“And not without reason. We can see only those objects which throw an
image on the retina of the eye, and consequently only expanded things;
a spirit has no expansion, and therefore cannot be seen by us.”
“You cut it very short.”
“My argument is valid.”
(To be continued.)
* * * * *
* * * *
[[For sources, see the end of the e-text.]]
+The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.+
[By Herself.]
I shall not regret tracing the sorrows which marked the morning of my
life. If I can inspire suffering virtue with confidence in heaven, and a
gentle hope that when chastened in the school of adversity, the hand of
happiness will amply recompense those who have patiently sustained its
rough discipline.
At the tender age of sixteen I was deprived of a mother, whose loss I
had every reason to deplore, as her precepts instilled into my
inexperienced heart wisdom, and her example taught me to persevere in
the path of virtue; though crossed with sorrows and perplexed with
difficulties, she was prepared for that hour which so unexpectedly
arrived, and launched her spotless into eternity. My father, Sir George
Blandford, ah! how different from her in every respect, nobly descended,
and possessed of an affluent fortune, he thought himself superior to the
world; his soul was filled with pride, and he looked down with
haughtiness on the rest of mankind. He had a son five years older than
me; gentle, generous, and like his departed mother, susceptible of every
soft impression; he was abroad at her death, which happened in London,
and from which place Sir George determined immediately to bring me to
his seat in the country. With melancholy hearts, we commenced our
journey, the second day crossing a little stream, we found ourselves in
imminent danger, owing to a violent fall of rain, which had rendered the
current so rapid, the horses vainly struggled against it--in a few
moments we should inevitably have perished, but for the interposition of
a young man, who standing on the opposite bank, perceived our situation,
and with wonderful presence of mind rushed into the water and assisted
the men in bringing the carriage to shore. I had fainted from terror,
a small cottage stood at a little distance to which they conveyed me,
after a few remedies I revived. My apprehensions being over, I had an
opportunity of contemplating the figure of my generous deliverer, whose
resolution excited my warmest gratitude. He was just at that period of
life when youth loses itself in manhood; his person strikingly elegant,
his face expressive of the greatest sensibility, and his fine eyes
beaming with a soft melancholy which seemed to announce him the son of
sorrow. My father thanked him with as much warmth as he could assume,
but a nobler gratitude rose in my soul, for from that hour I loved. With
pain I heard the carriage announced, and entered it, I durst not talk of
him, the rigidity of Sir George’s disposition, prevented me.
The estate to which we were going I had never been at, but its castle
was held in wonderful estimation by my father. He confirmed it as an
honourable memorial of the antiquity of his ancestors. At our arrival I
was struck with horror; the ravages of all-conquering time were in
several places displayed; a dark wood surrounded it, impenetrable to the
chearing rays of the resplendant luminary; thro’ vistas cut amidst the
thick boughs of old oaks, a cataract was espied foaming with impetuous
fury down the side of a stupenduous mountain, from which a muddy stream
took its course in hoarse murmurings through the wood. What an
habitation for a mind already depressed, it filled mine with gloomy
sadness, which I durst not manifest, for to dislike my father’s
favourite mansion would have incurred his severest displeasure.
A fortnight after my arrival, I obtained with difficulty, permission to
spend some time with a young lady whom I had known from my infancy, and
loved with the tenderest affection. We spent our days delightfully;
happy in each other’s society, they glided insensibly away. Riding early
one morning with her, my horse, alarmed by the shouting of some
thoughtless boys going to school, notwithstanding all my efforts, flew
off at a rate that terrified me with the idea of every moment being
dashed off.
From those fears I was relieved by a man springing from behind a hedge,
who catching the bridle, stopt my rapid career--but what were my
emotions on perceiving he was the generous deliverer who had before
saved me? More overcome by my sensations than fright, I sunk half
fainting in his arms, he appeared equally affected. “Great Heaven!”
cried he, “what transport! twice to have saved this precious life!” My
friend here arrived--she congratulated me on my escape---our horses were
given to the servants; she asked the charming stranger to accompany us
to her house. I would have prest him to accept her invitation, but shame
withheld my faultering accents. My conversation now wholly ran on this
adventure. Miss Rivers, (the name of my friend) frequently rallied me
upon it; I would blush, perhaps be silent, but quickly again begin the
pleasing topic. A mandate now arrived from Sir George for me to return
home. I obeyed, though with pain. As usual he received me with haughty
coldness.---At night, my maid whom I had left at home, began to relate
the occurrences which happened during my absence, and at length ended
her narrative by saying the old gardener was discharged, and a new one
hired in his place, the sweetest prettiest fellow she ever beheld.
Indeed he was a little melancholy, but certainly it was owing to his
situation which he appeared not designed for. I laughed and said I
fancied he had made a conquest of her, she foolishly tittered, as if the
idea was very pleasant. The next morning, as was my usual custom, I rose
early and entered the garden. I directed my steps to a little walk
shaded by poplars. At a distance I discerned a man busily employed, whom
I conjectured to be the new accomplished gardener. As I approached
nearer I perceived him start, and with precipitation hurry from the spot
in his eagerness to avoid me. His foot stumbled and he fell. I was just
beginning an involuntary exclamation of are you hurt? when raising his
head, I perceived my preserver. Amazement seized me, I had not power to
move, the deepest confusion tinged his cheek, he could not raise his
eyes, he attempted to speak, but his tremulous voice was unintelligible.
I could not stir till the appearance of my father roused me; I started
and hurried from the spot.
(To be continued.)
* * * * *
* * * *
An Essay
ON PITY AND BENEVOLENCE.
Pity has been generally considered as the passion of gentle, benevolent,
and virtuous minds; although it is acknowledged to produce only such a
participation of the calamity of others, as upon the whole is pleasing
to ourselves.
As a tender participation of foreign distress, it has been urged to
prove, that man is endowed with social affections, which, however
forcible, are wholly disinterested: and as a pleasing sensation, it has
been deemed an example of unmixed selfishness and malignity. It has been
resolved into that power of imagination by which we apply the
misfortunes of others to ourselves: we have been said to pity, no longer
than we fancy ourselves to suffer; and to be pleased, only by reflecting
that our sufferings are not real; thus indulging a dream of distress
from which we can awake whenever we please, to exult in our security,
and enjoy the comparison of the fiction with truth.
Pity is generally understood to be that passion, which is excited by the
sufferings of persons with whom we have no tender connection, and with
whose welfare the stronger passions have not united our felicity; for no
man would call the anguish of a mother, whose infant was torn from her
breast and left to be devoured in a desart, by the name of pity;
although the sentiments of a stranger, who should drop a silent tear at
the relation, which yet might the next hour be forgotten, could not
otherwise be justly denominated.
If pity, therefore, is absorbed in another passion, when our love of
those that suffer is strong; pity is rather an evidence of the weakness
than the strength of that general philanthropy for which some have so
eagerly contended, with which they have flattered the pride and veiled
the vices of mankind, and which they have affirmed to be alone
sufficient to recommend them to the favour of Heaven, to atone for the
indulgence of every appetite, and the neglect of every duty.
If human benevolence was absolutely pure and social, it would not be
necessary to relate the ravages of a pestilence or a famine with minute
and discriminating circumstances to rouse our sensibility: we should
certainly deplore irremediable calamity, and participate temporary
distress, without any mixture of delight. That deceitful sorrow, in
which pleasure is so well known to be predominant, that invention has
been busied for ages in contriving tales of fictitious sufferings for no
other end than to excite it, would be changed into honest commiseration
in which pain would be unmixed, and which, therefore, we should wish to
lose.
Soon after the fatal battle of Fontenoy, a young gentleman, who came
over with the officer that brought the express, being expected at the
house of a friend, a numerous company of gentlemen and ladies were
assembled to hear an account of the action from an eye-witness.
The gentleman, as every man is flattered by commanding attention, was
easily prevailed upon to gratify the company, as soon as they were
seated, and the first ceremonies past. He described the march of many
thousands of their countrymen into the field, where batteries had been
concealed on each side, which in a moment strewed the ground with
mangled limbs and carcasses that almost floated in blood, and obstructed
the path of those who followed to the slaughter. He related, how often
the decreasing multitude returned to the cannon; how suddenly they were
rallied, and how suddenly broken; he repeated the list of officers who
had fallen undistinguished in the carnage, men whose eminence rendered
their names universally known, their influence extensive, and their
attachments numerous; and he hinted the fatal effects which this defeat
might produce to the nation, by turning the success of the war against
us. But the company, however amused by the relation, appeared not to be
affected by the event: they were still attentive to every trifling
punctilio of ceremony, usual among well bred persons; they bowed with a
graceful simper to a lady who sneezed, mutually presented each other
with snuff, shook their heads and changed their posture at proper
intervals, asked some questions which tended to produce a more minute
detail of such circumstances of horror as had been lightly touched, and
having at last remarked that the Roman patriot regretted the brave could
die but once, the conversation soon became general, and a motion was
made to divide into parties at whist. But just as they were about to
comply, the gentleman again engaged their attention. I forgot (said he)
to relate one particular; which, however, deserves to be remembered. The
captain of a company, whose name I cannot now recollect, had, just
before his corps was ordered to embark, married a young lady to whom he
had been long tenderly attached, and who, contrary to the advice of
friends, and the expostulations, persuasion and entreaty of her husband,
insisted to go abroad with him, and share his fortune at all events. If
he should be wounded, she said, that she might hasten his recovery, and
alleviate his pain, by such attendance as strangers cannot be hired to
pay; if he should be taken prisoner, she might, perhaps, be permitted to
shorten the tedious hours of captivity, which solitude would protract;
and if he should die, that it would be better for her to know it with
certainty and speed, than to wait at a distance in anxiety and suspense,
tormented by doubtful and contradictory reports, and at last believing
it possible, that if she had been present, her assiduity and tenderness
might have preserved his life. The captain, though he was not convinced
by her reasoning, was yet overcome by the importunate eloquence of her
love: he consented to her request, and they embarked together.
The head quarters of the duke of Cumberland were at Brussoel, from
whence they removed the evening before the battle to Monbray, a village
within musket shot of the enemy’s lines, where the captain who commanded
in the left wing, was encamped.
Their parting in the morning was short. She looked after him, till he
could no longer be distinguished from others; and as soon as the firing
began she went back pale and trembling, and sat down expecting the event
in an agony of impatience, anxiety and terror. She soon learned from
stragglers and fugitives, that the slaughter was dreadful, and the
victory hopeless. She did not, however, yet despair; she hoped that the
captain might return among the few that should remain: But soon after
the retreat, this hope was cut off, and she was informed that he fell in
the first charge, and was left among the dead. She was restrained by
those about her, from rushing in the phrenzy of desperation to the field
of battle, of which the enemy was still possessed; but the tumult of her
mind having abated, and her grief become more calm during the night, she
ordered a servant to attend her at break of day; and as leave had been
given to bury the dead, she went herself to seek the remains of her
husband, that she might honour them with the last rites, and pour the
tears of conjugal affection upon his grave. They wandered about among
the dying and the dead, gazing on every distorted countenance, and
looked round with irresolution and amazement on a scene, which those who
stripped had left tenfold more a sight of horror than those who had
slain. From this sight she was at last turning with confusion and
despair, but was stopped by the cries of a favourite spaniel, who had
followed her without being perceived. He was standing at some distance
in the field; and the moment she saw him, she conceived the strongest
assurance that he had found his master. She hasted instantly to the
place without regarding any other object; and stooping over the corps by
which he stood, she found it so disfigured with wounds and besmeared
with blood, that the features were not to be known: But, as she was
weeping in the anguish of suspence, she discovered hanging on the wrist
the remains of a ruffle, round which there was a slight border of her
own work. Thus suddenly to have discovered, and in such dreadful
circumstances, that which she had sought, quite overwhelmed her, and she
sunk down on the body. By the assistance of the servant, she was
recovered to sensibility, but not to reason; she was seized at once with
convulsions and madness; and a few hours after she was carried back to
the village she expired.
Those who had heard the fate of whole battalions without pity, and the
loss of a battle, by which their country would probably suffer
irreparable damage, without concern, listened to a tale of private
distress with uninterrupted attention. All regard to each other was for
a while suspended; tears by degrees overflowed every eye, and every
bosom became susceptible of pity: But the whole circle paused with
evident regret, when the narrative was at an end: and would have been
glad that such another could have been told, to continue their
entertainment.--Such was the benevolence of pity! But a lady who had
taken the opportunity of a very slight acquaintance to satisfy her
curiosity, was touched with much deeper distress; and fainting in the
struggle to conceal the emotions of her mind, fell back in her chair. An
accident which was not sooner discovered, because every eye had been
fixed upon the speaker, and all attention monopolized by the story.
Every one, however, was ready to afford her assistance; and it was soon
discovered, that she was mother to the lady whose distress had afforded
so much virtuous pleasure to the company. It was not possible to tell
her another story, which would revive the same sensations; and if it
had, the world could not have bribed her to have heard it. Her affection
to the sufferer was too strong to permit her, on this occasion, to enjoy
the luxury of pity, and applaud her benevolence for sensations which
shewed its defects. It would, indeed, be happy for us, if we were to
exist only in this state of imperfection, that a greater share of
sensibility is not allowed us; but if the mole, in the kindness of
unerring Wisdom, is permitted scarce to distinguish light from darkness,
the mole should not surely, be praised for the perspicuity of its sight.
Let us distinguish that malignity, which others confound with
benevolence, and applaud as virtue, let the imperfection of nature,
which is adapted to this imperfect state, teach us humility; and fix our
dependence upon Him, who has promised to “create in us a new heart and a
right spirit,” and to receive us to that place, where our love of
others, however ardent, can only increase our felicity; because, in that
place, there will be no object, but such as perfect benevolence can
contemplate with delight.
* * * * *