DETACHED THOUGHTS.
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.
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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.)
