In answer to the reveries and speculations which I sent to him
respecting this subject, Ludloe informed me, that they had led his mind
into a new sphere of meditation. He had long and deeply considered in
what way he might essentially promote my happiness. He had entertained a
faint hope that I would one day be qualified for a station like that to
which he himself had been advanced. This post required an elevation and
stability of views which human beings seldom reach, and which could be
attained by me only by a long series of heroic labours. Hitherto every
new stage in my intellectual progress had added vigour to his hopes,
and he cherished a stronger belief than formerly that my career would
terminate auspiciously. This, however, was necessarily distant. Many
preliminaries must first be settled; many arduous accomplishments be
first obtained; and my virtue be subjected to severe trials. At present
it was not in his power to be more explicit; but if my reflections
suggested no better plan, he advised me to settle my affairs in Spain,
and return to him immediately. My knowledge of this country would be
of the highest use, on the supposition of my ultimately arriving at the
honours to which he had alluded; and some of these preparatory measures
could be taken only with his assistance, and in his company.
This intimation was eagerly obeyed, and, in a short time, I arrived at
Dublin. Meanwhile my mind had copious occupation in commenting on my
friend's letter. This scheme, whatever it was, seemed to be suggested by
my mention of a plan of colonization, and my preference of that mode of
producing extensive and permanent effects on the condition of mankind.
It was easy therefore to conjecture that this mode had been pursued
under some mysterious modifications and conditions.
It had always excited my wonder that so obvious an expedient had been
overlooked. The globe which we inhabit was very imperfectly known. The
regions and nations unexplored, it was reasonable to believe, surpassed
in extent, and perhaps in populousness, those with which we were
familiar. The order of Jesuits had furnished an example of all the
errors and excellencies of such a scheme. Their plan was founded on
erroneous notions of religion and policy, and they had absurdly chosen a
scene [*] within reach of the injustice and ambition of an European tyrant.
It was wise and easy to profit by their example. Resting on the two
props of fidelity and zeal, an association might exist for ages in the
heart of Europe, whose influence might be felt, and might be boundless,
in some region of the southern hemisphere; and by whom a moral and
political structure might be raised, the growth of pure wisdom, and
totally unlike those fragments of Roman and Gothic barbarism, which
cover the face of what are called the civilized nations. The belief now
rose in my mind that some such scheme had actually been prosecuted, and
that Ludloe was a coadjutor. On this supposition, the caution with which
he approached to his point, the arduous probation which a candidate for
a part on this stage must undergo, and the rigours of that test by which
his fortitude and virtue must be tried, were easily explained. I was too
deeply imbued with veneration for the effects of such schemes, and
too sanguine in my confidence in the rectitude of Ludloe, to refuse my
concurrence in any scheme by which my qualifications might at length be
raised to a due point.
Our interview was frank and affectionate. I found him situated just as
formerly. His aspect, manners, and deportment were the same. I entered
once more on my former mode of life, but our intercourse became more
frequent. We constantly breakfasted together, and our conversation was
usually prolonged through half the morning.
For a time our topics were general. I thought proper to leave to him the
introduction of more interesting themes: this, however, he betrayed no
inclination to do. His reserve excited some surprise, and I began to
suspect that whatever design he had formed with regard to me, had been
laid aside. To ascertain this question, I ventured, at length, to recall
his attention to the subject of his last letter, and to enquire whether
subsequent reflection had made any change in his views.
He said that his views were too momentous to be hastily taken up, or
hastily dismissed; the station, my attainment of which depended wholly
on myself, was high above vulgar heads, and was to be gained by years
of solicitude and labour. This, at least, was true with regard to
minds ordinarily constituted; I, perhaps, deserved to be regarded as
an exception, and might be able to accomplish in a few months that for
which others were obliged to toil during half their lives.
Man, continued he, is the slave of habit. Convince him to-day that his
duty leads straight forward: he shall advance, but at every step his
belief shall fade; habit will resume its empire, and tomorrow he shall
turn back, or betake himself to oblique paths.
We know not our strength till it be tried. Virtue, till confirmed by
habit, is a dream. You are a man imbued by errors, and vincible by
slight temptations. Deep enquiries must bestow light on your opinions,
and the habit of encountering and vanquishing temptation must inspire
you with fortitude. Till this be done, you are unqualified for that
post, in which you will be invested with divine attributes, and
prescribe the condition of a large portion of mankind.
Confide not in the firmness of your principles, or the stedfastness of
your integrity. Be always vigilant and fearful. Never think you have
enough of knowledge, and let not your caution slumber for a moment, for
you know not when danger is near.
I acknowledged the justice of his admonitions, and professed myself
willing to undergo any ordeal which reason should prescribe. What,
I asked, were the conditions, on the fulfilment of which depended my
advancement to the station he alluded to? Was it necessary to conceal
from me the nature and obligations of this rank?
These enquiries sunk him more profoundly into meditation than I had ever
before witnessed. After a pause, in which some perplexity was visible,
he answered:
I scarcely know what to say. As to promises, I claim them not from you.
We are now arrived at a point, in which it is necessary to look around
with caution, and that consequences should be fully known. A number of
persons are leagued together for an end of some moment. To make yourself
one of these is submitted to your choice. Among the conditions of their
alliance are mutual fidelity and secrecy.
Their existence depends upon this: their existence is known only to
themselves. This secrecy must be obtained by all the means which are
possible. When I have said thus much, I have informed you, in some
degree, of their existence, but you are still ignorant of the purpose
contemplated by this association, and of all the members, except
myself. So far no dangerous disclosure is yet made: but this degree of
concealment is not sufficient. Thus much is made known to you, because
it is unavoidable. The individuals which compose this fraternity are not
immortal, and the vacancies occasioned by death must be supplied from
among the living. The candidate must be instructed and prepared, and
they are always at liberty to recede. Their reason must approve the
obligations and duties of their station, or they are unfit for it. If
they recede, one duty is still incumbent upon them: they must observe an
inviolable silence. To this they are not held by any promise. They must
weigh consequences, and freely decide; but they must not fail to number
among these consequences their own death.
Their death will not be prompted by vengeance. The executioner will say,
he that has once revealed the tale is likely to reveal it a second
time; and, to prevent this, the betrayer must die. Nor is this the only
consequence: to prevent the further revelation, he, to whom the secret
was imparted, must likewise perish. He must not console himself with the
belief that his trespass will be unknown. The knowledge cannot, by human
means, be withheld from this fraternity. Rare, indeed, will it be that
his purpose to disclose is not discovered before it can be effected, and
the disclosure prevented by his death.
Be well aware of your condition. What I now, or may hereafter mention,
mention not again. Admit not even a doubt as to the propriety of hiding
it from all the world. There are eyes who will discern this doubt
amidst the closest folds of your heart, and your life will instantly be
sacrificed.
At present be the subject dismissed. Reflect deeply on the duty which
you have already incurred. Think upon your strength of mind, and be
careful not to lay yourself under impracticable obligations. It will
always be in your power to recede. Even after you are solemnly enrolled
a member, you may consult the dictates of your own understanding, and
relinquish your post; but while you live, the obligation to be silent
will perpetually attend you.
We seek not the misery or death of any one, but we are swayed by an
immutable calculation. Death is to be abhorred, but the life of
the betrayer is productive of more evil than his death: his death,
therefore, we chuse, and our means are instantaneous and unerring.
I love you. The first impulse of my love is to dissuade you from seeking
to know more. Your mind will be full of ideas; your hands will be
perpetually busy to a purpose into which no human creature, beyond
the verge of your brotherhood, must pry. Believe me, who have made
the experiment, that compared with this task, the task of inviolable
secrecy, all others are easy. To be dumb will not suffice; never to know
any remission in your zeal or your watchfulness will not suffice. If the
sagacity of others detect your occupations, however strenuously you may
labour for concealment, your doom is ratified, as well as that of the
wretch whose evil destiny led him to pursue you.
Yet if your fidelity fail not, great will be your recompence. For all
your toils and self-devotion, ample will be the retribution. Hitherto
you have been wrapt in darkness and storm; then will you be exalted to
a pure and unruffled element. It is only for a time that temptation will
environ you, and your path will be toilsome. In a few years you will be
permitted to withdraw to a land of sages, and the remainder of your life
will glide away in the enjoyments of beneficence and wisdom.
Think deeply on what I have said. Investigate your own motives and
opinions, and prepare to submit them to the test of numerous hazards and
experiments.
Here my friend passed to a new topic. I was desirous of reverting to
this subject, and obtaining further information concerning it, but he
assiduously repelled all my attempts, and insisted on my bestowing deep
and impartial attention on what had already been disclosed. I was not
slow to comply with his directions. My mind refused to admit any other
theme of contemplation than this.
As yet I had no glimpse of the nature of this fraternity. I was
permitted to form conjectures, and previous incidents bestowed but one
form upon my thoughts. In reviewing the sentiments and deportment of
Ludloe, my belief continually acquired new strength. I even recollected
hints and ambiguous allusions in his discourse, which were easily
solved, on the supposition of the existence of a new model of society,
in some unsuspected corner of the world.
I did not fully perceive the necessity of secrecy; but this necessity
perhaps would be rendered apparent, when I should come to know the
connection that subsisted between Europe and this imaginary colony.
But what was to be done? I was willing to abide by these conditions.
My understanding might not approve of all the ends proposed by this
fraternity, and I had liberty to withdraw from it, or to refuse to ally
myself with them. That the obligation of secrecy should still remain,
was unquestionably reasonable.
It appeared to be the plan of Ludloe rather to damp than to stimulate my
zeal. He discouraged all attempts to renew the subject in conversation.
He dwelt upon the arduousness of the office to which I aspired, the
temptations to violate my duty with which I should be continually beset,
the inevitable death with which the slightest breach of my engagements
would be followed, and the long apprenticeship which it would be
necessary for me to serve, before I should be fitted to enter into this
conclave.
Sometimes my courage was depressed by these representations. ..... My
zeal, however, was sure to revive; and at length Ludloe declared himself
willing to assist me in the accomplishment of my wishes. For this
end, it was necessary, he said, that I should be informed of a second
obligation, which every candidate must assume. Before any one could be
deemed qualified, he must be thoroughly known to his associates. For
this end, he must determine to disclose every fact in his history, and
every secret of his heart. I must begin with making these confessions
with regard to my past life, to Ludloe, and must continue to
communicate, at stated seasons, every new thought, and every new
occurrence, to him. This confidence was to be absolutely limitless: no
exceptions were to be admitted, and no reserves to be practised; and
the same penalty attended the infraction of this rule as of the former.
Means would be employed, by which the slightest deviation, in either
case, would be detected, and the deathful consequence would follow
with instant and inevitable expedition. If secrecy were difficult to
practise, sincerity, in that degree in which it was here demanded, was
a task infinitely more arduous, and a period of new deliberation was
necessary before I should decide. I was at liberty to pause: nay, the
longer was the period of deliberation which I took, the better; but,
when I had once entered this path, it was not in my power to recede.
After having solemnly avowed my resolution to be thus sincere in my
confession, any particle of reserve or duplicity would cost me my life.
This indeed was a subject to be deeply thought upon. Hitherto I had been
guilty of concealment with regard to my friend. I had entered into no
formal compact, but had been conscious to a kind of tacit obligation to
hide no important transaction of my life from him. This consciousness
was the source of continual anxiety. I had exerted, on numerous
occasions, my bivocal faculty, but, in my intercourse with Ludloe, had
suffered not the slightest intimation to escape me with regard to it.
This reserve was not easily explained. It was, in a great degree, the
product of habit; but I likewise considered that the efficacy of this
instrument depended upon its existence being unknown. To confide
the secret to one, was to put an end to my privilege: how widely the
knowledge would thenceforth be diffused, I had no power to foresee.
Each day multiplied the impediments to confidence. Shame hindered me
from acknowledging my past reserves. Ludloe, from the nature of our
intercourse, would certainly account my reserve, in this respect,
unjustifiable, and to excite his indignation or contempt was an
unpleasing undertaking. Now, if I should resolve to persist in my new
path, this reserve must be dismissed: I must make him master of a secret
which was precious to me beyond all others; by acquainting him with past
concealments, I must risk incurring his suspicion and his anger. These
reflections were productive of considerable embarrassment.
There was, indeed, an avenue by which to escape these difficulties, if
it did not, at the same time, plunge me into greater. My confessions
might, in other respects, be unbounded, but my reserves, in this
particular, might be continued. Yet should I not expose myself
to formidable perils? Would my secret be for ever unsuspected and
undiscovered?
When I considered the nature of this faculty, the impossibility of going
farther than suspicion, since the agent could be known only by his
own confession, and even this confession would not be believed by the
greater part of mankind, I was tempted to conceal it.
In most cases, if I had asserted the possession of this power, I should
be treated as a liar; it would be considered as an absurd and audacious
expedient to free myself from the suspicion of having entered into
compact with a daemon, or of being myself an emissary of the grand foe.
Here, however, there was no reason to dread a similar imputation, since
Ludloe had denied the preternatural pretensions of these airy sounds.
My conduct on this occasion was nowise influenced by the belief of any
inherent sanctity in truth. Ludloe had taught me to model myself in this
respect entirely with a view to immediate consequences. If my genuine
interest, on the whole, was promoted by veracity, it was proper to
adhere to it; but, if the result of my investigation were opposite,
truth was to be sacrificed without scruple.
* Paraguay.