she had been near Clazomenæ, by the reverence which her husband
inspired. Their dwelling was isolated, and in the nearest village were
many scoffers and skeptics. She had formed an intimacy with a wealthy
dame, named Eucoline; and from her she learned that people said
Hermotimus neglected to provide for his family, because he was too
indolent to work; that he injured his health by frequent fasts, and made
himself crazy with thinking, merely for the sake of being stared at by
the common people; and as for his pretended visions and prophecies, they
were undoubtedly impositions. Praxinoë, who habitually looked outward
for her standard of thought and action, was much influenced by these
remarks. She had sometimes wept in secret over her cheerless destiny;
but discontent had been restrained by a reverent sense of being
connected with some solemn mystery, which others respected. Now, she
began to doubt whether the eccentricities she daily witnessed might not
be assumed, from the motives imputed by their neighbours. This tendency
was increased by the influence of Eratus, the gay, luxurious husband of
Eucoline. He professed to be a disciple of Epicurus, but he was one of
those who had perverted the original doctrines of that teacher; for
while he thought happiness was the only good, he believed there was no
enjoyment higher than that of the senses. To his volatile mind all
things in life afforded subjects for jest and laughter. If he met
Praxinoë, on her way to his wife’s apartments, he would say, “How is the
good Hermotimus, to-day? Has he gone to talk with the gods, and thrown
his body on the couch till he returns?” These sneers were not pleasant;
and the habit of comparing her situation with that of Eucoline increased
her discontent. The handsome and healthy Eratus was growing richer every
day by his own energy and enterprise. “Such robes as he buys for _his_
wife!” said she to herself, “I can make better wine than she can; I can
weave handsomer cloth; and I think the gods have endowed me with more
beauty; but I can never hope to wear such robes. Ah, if my good
Hermotimus were only more alive!”
This involuntary comparison did no great harm, until her friend Eucoline
chanced to die suddenly. Then the idea came into her head, “If I could
marry Eratus, what a noble span we should make! We might ride in our own
chariot, inlaid with ivory and gold. Perhaps it _may_ happen some day,
Who knows? Didn’t the Greeks get into Troy?” She tried to drive away the
pleasing vision, but it _would_ intrude itself; and worse still, the
handsome Eratus often came in person to bring choice grapes and figs, in
the prettiest of all imaginable vases and baskets. He was always
friendly with Hermotimus; and if his body had wandered away, carried by
the soul, which was so generally absent from this material world, the
Epicurean would inquire, in this jocular way, “Where is the good
Hermotimus, pretty one? Has he gone off to converse with the gods? If
Venus had given _me_ such a beautiful companion at home, all Olympus
wouldn’t tempt me away from her.” The gay, graceful, flattering man! He
was a dangerous contrast to her pale silent husband, hiding himself in
groves and grottoes, thinking only of obtaining wings for his soul.
Eratus was conscious of his power, and betrayed it by expressive glances
from his large dark eyes. Sparks fell from them into the heart of the
neglected wife, and kindled a fire there which glowed through her
cheeks. Her eyelids drooped under his ardent gaze, and she avoided
looking at him when he spoke; but she could not shut out the melting
tenderness of his tones. It was a hard trial to poor Praxinoë. Her
nature had such tropical exuberance! She was born with such love of
splendour, such capacity for joy! and the cruel Fates had cast her
destiny in such cold and shady places! Her pride had sometimes been an
evil companion, but it now proved a friend in need. If she could not be
the wife of Eratus, she resolved not to give Cupid any more
opportunities to shoot arrows from his eyes, or play amorous tunes with
his musical voice. When she saw the flatterer approaching, she retreated
hastily and left an old servant to receive him, and thank him for the
grapes he had brought for Hermotimus. Eratus smiled at the veil she thus
endeavoured to throw over his attentions; and to deprive her of the
subterfuge, he sent her a golden bracelet and ear-rings, for which she
could not thank him in the name of her husband. She returned the costly
gift, though affection, vanity, and love of elegance strongly tempted
her to retain it. She was a brave woman. The prudes in the
neighbourhood, who were accustomed to shake their heads and say she
laughed and talked more than was consistent with decorum, never knew
half how brave she was.
This prudent reserve of course rendered her more interesting to the
enamored widower. The more he thought of her, the more he was vexed that
such a vivacious creature, with mantling complexion, laughing eyes, and
springing step, should be appropriated by a pale devotee, who took no
notice of her charms, and who in fact despised even the most beautiful
body, regarding it merely as a prison for the soul. At last, he plainly
expressed a wish to marry her; and he proposed to ask Hermotimus to
divorce her for that purpose, which the laws of the country enabled him
to do. Praxinoë, with bashful frankness, confessed her willingness, and
said she did not think Hermotimus would observe whether she were present
or absent. “If he understands my proposition,” replied Eratus, laughing,
“he will give me a grave lecture, and tell me how the wings of his soul
are growing, by with drawing from all the pleasures of this world. Let
them grow!”
The sudden and alarming illness of Hermotimus arrested the progress of
affairs; for the kindness of Praxinoë overcame all other feelings, and
she said she would not leave him to the care of hirelings. He recovered
slowly, and again wandered forth into the groves, with feeble steps.
Eratus watched him impatiently; and when at last he seemed sufficiently
recovered to enter into conversation, he sought an interview. He found
him lying on the ground, in one of his favourite groves, cold and rigid
as a corpse. He called servants to convey him to the house. Praxinoë
manifested no surprise. She said she had not seen him in such a state
for two years, but that in former times he would often lie senseless for
a long time, and then wake up to tell of wonderful countries he had
visited. Day passed after day, and he did not wake. The disciples of
skeptical philosophers came and looked at him, and went away laughing
with each other about the stories they had heard of his former visions,
prophecies, and miraculous cures. They concluded their remarks by
saying, “It can do no harm to burn his body, whether he is dead or not.
The soul he had so much faith in was always longing to get out of
prison. It would be conferring a favour upon him to give him a chance to
try his wings.”
The parents of Hermotimus were dead. Eratus summoned priests of
Æsculapius, who decidedly pronounced his slumber the sleep of death; and
the relatives of Praxinoë sympathized with his impatience for the
funeral. But she continued to doubt, and insisted upon first sending for
the Pythagorean philosopher, whom Hermotimus had always answered, when
he was in those strange trances. The messenger returned with tidings
that he had gone to Athens. The funeral-pile was erected, and the
good-hearted widow wept to find that the certainty of his death was such
a relief to her mind. This consciousness was the more unpleasant to her,
because she said to herself, “If he _is_ in one of those trances, he
knows all I am thinking.” When they lifted him from the couch where he
had lain so still, she shuddered violently, and exclaimed, “Surely he is
not quite so pale as he was!” But they reasoned with her, and said, “He
looks just as he has for the last three days.” She saw his body placed
on the funeral-pile, and when the flames began to curl round it, she
listened to hear if there were any audible signs of life. But all was
still, save the crackling of the wood; and in a short time, a heap of
ashes was all that remained.
That night, she dreamed that she held a crystal globe in her hands, and
threw it from her into the flames. The globe cracked, and a radiant
Spirit, with white wings, rose from it and soared high into the air. He
smiled as he passed her, and said, “I foretold this.” The countenance
looked as that of Hermotimus had sometimes looked in his trances, when
he told his friend Prytanes that he was listening to white-robed
maidens, who played on golden harps; but though similar in expression,
it was far more glorious. Did memory cause that dream? Or was it
imparted from some other source, beyond herself? She woke trembling and
afraid, and with a strong impression that she had seen Hermotimus. This
belief excited uneasy thoughts, which she dared not mention, for fear of
slanderous tongues. But she secretly confessed to Eratus that she feared
her husband was not dead when they burned his body. He replied, “It is
foolish to trouble yourself about a dream, my lovely one. It is enough
that all who saw him thought he was dead. You know it often puzzled
wiser folks than you or I to tell whether he was alive or not. Whatever
phantom it was that sailed through the ivory gate of dreams, he smiled
and seemed happy. Then why be disturbed about it? Life was given for
enjoyment, dearest.” He laughed and began to sing, “I’ll crown my love
with myrtle;” and his looks and tones drove all phantoms from her
thoughts.
She soon became his wife, and her ambitious hopes were more than
realized. Eratus placed a high value on worldly possessions, and knew
very well how to obtain them. She never had occasion to remind _him_
that the Greeks entered Troy.
But where there is sunshine, there is always shadow. Her prosperity
excited envy; which some manifested by saying, “If every body could burn
a poor husband for the sake of marrying a rich one, other folks could
wear silk mantles, too.” Remarks of that kind reached the ears of many
who were firm believers in the inspiration of The Sleeping Prophet. They
made anxious inquiries concerning the manner of his death; to which
certain envious women answered: “Praxinoë was always a very good
neighbour. _We_ have nothing to say against her; though _some_ people
thought she was rather free, and not a little vain. The old nurse says
Eratus was always sending her presents, long before her husband died;
and _some_ people do think it was very obliging in poor Hermotimus to
die, just when he was so much wanted out of the way.” These whisperings
soon grew into a report that the rich Epicurean had bribed the priests
of Æsculapius to pronounce the slumberer a dead man. Of course, some
persons were good-natured enough to repeat these rumours to the parties
implicated. Finding their solemn assertions of innocence received with
significant silence, or annoying innuendoes, they resolved to remove
from the neighbourhood. Praxinoë had always greatly desired to see
Corinth; and to please her, Eratus chose it for their future residence.
In that gay luxurious city, her love of splendour was abundantly
gratified with pompous processions and showy equipage. Her beauty
attracted attention whenever she was seen in public, and her husband
took pride in adorning her with rich embroidery and costly jewels. In
such an atmosphere, the wings of her soul had small chance to grow; but
that subject never occupied her thoughts.
It was generally believed in Clazomenæ and its vicinity that Hermotimus
was not dead when his emaciated body was consumed on the funeral-pile.
This idea occasioned a good deal of excitement among those who had been
cured of diseases by his directions, or startled to hear their inmost
thoughts revealed. His frequent conversations with spirits of the
departed had strongly impressed them with the belief that some god spoke
through him, while his senses were wrapped in profound slumber; and no
skeptical witticisms or arguments could diminish their faith in the
prophet. They erected a temple to his memory, where they placed his
ashes in a golden urn; and because his wife had consented that his body
should be burned, while his soul was absent on one of its customary
visits to the gods, they never allowed any woman to enter within the
consecrated precincts.
SPIRIT AND MATTER.
A REVERIE.
Not in another world, as poets prate,
Dwell we apart, above the tide of things,
High floating o’er earth’s clouds on fairy wings;
But our pure love doth ever elevate
Into a holy bond of brotherhood,
All earthly things, making them pure and good.
J. R. LOWELL.
One of the most wonderful things connected with the mysterious
soul-power, with which we limited mortals are endowed, is the capacity
to rise into the infinite from the smallest earth-particle of the
finite. How often some circumstance, trifling as the motions of a
butterfly, plunges us into a profound reverie! How often, from the
smallest and lowliest germ, are thoughts evolved, which go revolving
round in ascending circles, forming a spiral ladder, ascending from
earth to heaven!
A pair of white-breasted swallows that built a nest in a little bird-box
near my chamber-window, sent my soul floating dreamily upward, till it
lost its way in wide ethereal regions. The mother-bird was a lively
little thing, making a deal of musical twittering at her work, and
often coquetting gracefully with her mate. I took an affectionate
interest in her proceedings, though I had private suspicions that she
was something of a female gossip, in her small way; for I observed that
she watched the motions of other birds with inquisitive curiosity, and
often stood at her front-door, prattling with them as they passed by.
But they seemed to take it all in good part, and it was no concern of
mine. I loved the pretty little creature, gossip or no gossip; and, for
many days, my first waking thought was to jump up and take a peep at
her. Though I rose before the sun, I always found her awake and active,
chattering with her mate, or carrying straws and feathers into her
dwelling, to make a bed for their little ones. I should have been half
ashamed to have had any very wise person overhear the things I said to
her. She had such “peert,” knowing ways, that I could not remember her
inability to understand human speech. It always seemed to me that she
_must_ be aware of my sympathy, and that she rejoiced in it.
One bright morning, when I looked out to salute her as usual, I was
filled with dismay to see a grisly cat seated on the bird-box, peeping
into the door with eager eyes. She had descended from the roof, and was
watching for a chance to devour the inmates of that happy little
dwelling. I always had an antipathy to the stealthy and cruel habits of
the feline race; but I think I never detested any creature as I did
that cat; for a few minutes. The wish to do her harm, was, however,
easily conquered by the reflection that she was obeying a natural
instinct, as the bird was in catching insects; but I resolved that
neither my dear little Lady Swallow nor her babes should furnish a
repast for her voracious jaws. So I climbed a ladder, and took down the
box, which contained a nest, with two pretty little white eggs. I was
distressed with the idea that the hateful cat might have destroyed my
favourites before I perceived their danger; but my anxiety was soon
relieved by their approach. They circled round and round the well-known
spot, peered about in every direction, perched on the platform where
their home had stood, and chattered together with unusual volubility.
Again and again they returned, bringing other birds with them, and
repeating the same motions. They were evidently as much astonished, as
we should be to wake up in the morning and find that an earthquake had
swallowed a neighbour’s house during the night. Whether there were
scientific swallows among them, that tried to frame satisfactory
theories in explanation of the phenomenon, or whether any feathered
clericals taught them to submit to the event as a special providence, we
can never know. The natural presumption is, that they will always
wonder, to the end of their days, what mysterious agency it could have
been that so suddenly removed their nest, house and all. As for
conjecturing _why_ it was done, the mere query was probably beyond the
range of their mental powers.
I was watching them all the time, but their bird eyes could not see me,
and their bird-nerves conveyed no magnetic intimation of my close
vicinity. Their surprise and their trouble were partially revealed to me
by their motions and their utterance; but, though they were intelligent
swallows, they could form no idea of such a fact. I had removed their
dwelling to save their lives; but between their plane of existence and
my own there was such an impassable chasm, that no explanation of my
kindness and foresight could possibly be conveyed to them.
I thought of all this, and longed in vain to enlighten their ignorance,
and relieve their perplexity. The earnestness of my wish, and the
impossibility of accomplishing it, suggested a train of thought. I said
to myself, perhaps some invisible beings are now observing _me_, as I am
observing these swallows; but I cannot perceive them, because the laws
of their existence are too far removed from my own. Perhaps they take a
friendly interest in my affairs, and would gladly communicate with me,
if I were so constituted that I could understand their ideas, or their
mode of utterance. These cogitations recalled to my mind some remarks by
the old English writer, Soame Jenyns. In his “Disquisition on the Chain
of Universal Being,” he says: “The superiority of man to that of other
terrestrial animals is as inconsiderable, in proportion to the immense
plan of universal existence, as the difference of climate between the
north and south end of the paper I now write upon, with regard to the
heat and distance of the sun. There is nothing leads us into so many
errors concerning the works and designs of Providence, as the foolish
vanity that can persuade such insignificant creatures that all things
were made for their service; from whence they ridiculously set up
utility to _themselves_ as the standard of good, and conclude every
thing to be evil, which appears injurious to them or their purposes. As
well might a nest of ants imagine this globe of earth created only for
them to cast up into hillocks, and clothed with grain and herbage for
their sustenance; then accuse their Creator for permitting spades to
destroy them, and ploughs to lay waste their habitations. They feel the
inconveniences, but are utterly unable to comprehend their uses, as well
as the relations they themselves bear to superior beings.
“When philosophers have seen that the happiness of inferior creatures is
dependent on our wills, it is surprising none of them should have
concluded that the good order and well-being of the universe might
require that our happiness should be as dependent on the wills of
superior beings, who are accountable, like ourselves, to one common Lord
and Father of all things. This is the more wonderful, because the
existence and influence of such beings has been an article in the creed
of all religions that have ever appeared in the world. In the beautiful
system of the Pagan theology, their sylvan and household deities, their
nymphs, satyrs, and fawns, were of this kind. All the barbarous nations
that have ever been discovered, have been found to believe in, and
adore, intermediate spiritual beings, both good and evil. The Jewish
religion not only confirms the belief of their existence, but of their
tempting, deceiving, and tormenting mankind; and the whole system of
Christianity is erected entirely on this foundation.”
Dr. Johnson wrote a satirical review of Soame Jenyns, which had great
popularity at the time. He passes without notice the fact that men of
all ages, and of all religions, have believed that malicious Spirits
cause diseases, and tempt men, in many ways, to their destruction; while
benevolent Spirits cure physical and mental evils, forewarn men in
dreams, and assist them in various emergencies. There was, therefore,
nothing very new or peculiar in the suggestion of Mr. Jenyns; but Dr.
Johnson, in his rough way, caricatures it thus: “He imagines that as we
have animals not only for food, but some for our diversion, the same
privilege may be allowed to beings above us, who may deceive, torment,
or destroy us, for the ends only of their own pleasure or utility. He
might have carried the analogy further, much to the advantage of his
argument. He might have shown that these hunters, whose game is man,
have many sports analogous to our own. As we drown whelps and kittens,
they amuse themselves now and then with sinking a ship; and they stand
round the fields of Blenheim, or the walls of Prague, as we encircle a
cock-pit. As we shoot a bird flying, they knock a man down with
apoplexy, in the midst of his business or pleasure. Perhaps some of them
are virtuosi, and delight in the operations of an asthma, as human
philosophers do in the effects of an air-pump. Many a merry bout have
these frolic beings at the vicissitudes of an ague; and good sport it is
to see a man tumble with an epilepsy, and revive and tumble again; and
all this he knows not why. Perhaps now and then a merry being may place
himself in such a situation as to enjoy at once all the varieties of an
epidemic disease, or amuse his leisure with the tossings and contortions
of every possible pain exhibited together.”
It occurred to me what bearish paws the old Doctor, in his gruff sport,
would lay upon modern Spiritualists, if he were about in these days. I
smiled to think what an inexhaustible theme for skeptical wit was
afforded by the awkward and tedious process of communication employed.
But after a little reflection, I said to myself, is not the common
action of Spirit upon Matter, while we are here in the body, quite as
inexplicable? If we were not accustomed to it, would it not seem nearly
as inconvenient and laborious? The Spirit which dwells within me, (I
know not where, or how,) wishes to communicate with a Spirit dwelling in
some other body, in another part of the world. Straightway, the
five-pronged instrument, which we call a hand, is moved by Spirit, and
promptly obeys the impulse. It dips a piece of pointed steel into a
black fluid, and traces hieroglyphic characters invented by Spirit to
express its thought. Those letters have been formed into words by slow
elaboration of the ages. They partake of the climate where they grew. In
Italy, they flow smoothly as water. In Russia, they clink and clatter
like iron hoofs upon a pavement. It appears that Spirit must needs
fashion its utterance according to the environment of Matter, in the
midst of which it is placed. By a slow and toilsome process, the child
must learn what ideas those words represent; otherwise he can scarcely
be able to communicate at all with the Spirits in other bodies near him.
If they are distant, and his Spirit wills to converse with them, it must
impel the five-pronged instrument of bone and sinew to take up the
pointed steel, and trace, on a substance elaborately prepared from
vegetable fibres, certain mystic characters, which, according to their
arrangement, express love or hatred, joy or sorrow. If Spirits _out_ of
the body do indeed tip tables and rap the alphabet, to communicate with
Spirits _in_ the body, it must be confessed that the machinery we poor
mortals are obliged to employ, in order to communicate with each other,
is nearly as tedious and imperfect as theirs.
Ancient oriental philosophers, and some of the Gnostics at a later
period, believed in a gradation of successive worlds, gradually
diminishing in the force of spiritual intelligence, and consequently in
outward beauty. They supposed that each world was an attenuated
likeness, a sort of reflected image of the world above it; that it must
necessarily be so, because, in all its parts, it was evolved from that
world. They believed that the inhabitants of each world knew of those in
the world next below them, and were attracted toward them; but that the
world below was unconscious of the higher sphere whence it emanated.
Swedenborg teaches that all the inferior grades of being in _this_ world
are representative forms of the spiritual state of mankind, and owe
their existence to the thoughts and feelings in human souls. Thus if men
had no bad passions, there would be no lions and tigers; and if they
were inwardly pure, there would be no vermin. In other words, he teaches
that the lower forms of Nature are reflected images of man, as the
orientals taught concerning successive worlds; and in this case also the
higher is attracted toward the lower, and wishes to communicate with it,
while the lower remains ignorant of the existence of the higher. I knew
something of the swallows, and wanted to talk with them, but they knew
nothing of me.