To go on. Cheers, and the ravishment of thronging audiences can make him maudlin; render him louder in eloquence of theory; and "philanthropy," "divine science," "depth of unknown worlds," "finer feelings of the heart"—and so shall draw tears from most asses of sensibility. "The few reasoning mortals scattered here and there, that see through him, deafened in the universal hub-bub, shut their lips in sorrowful disdain, confident in the grand remedy, Time." So says our author, and can we blame him? Will the reader allow the current of this prosperity to be checked for one moment by a certain Count M.? One of the chosen few at Warsaw, who having spent the night with the "dear Master," in conversing with spirits, had returned to the country to transmute metals perhaps—perhaps to do other mighty works. Count M. seems to have been afflicted with doubts, to have supposed that by sleight-of-hand the "sweet Master" had substituted the crucible with melted ducats, for the other—carefully filled with red lead, "smelted and set to cool," "and now found broken and hidden among these bushes"—the whole golden crucible standing in its place. "Neither does the Plenagon or Elixir of Life, or whatever it was, prosper better—our sweet master enters into expostulation—swears by his great God, and his honor, that he will finish the work and make us happy." In vain—"the shreds of the broken crucible lie there before your eyes"—and the usurper has its place. That "resemblance of a sleeping child, grown visible in the magic cooking of our Elixir, proves to be an inserted rosemary leaf. The Grand Cophta cannot be gone too soon."
Already it has been said that "Charity pays," philanthropy, benevolence, all these—sometimes? if one sows his bread on the waters shall he not expect its return after many or after few days?—the sooner the better for your Cagliostros, your Barnums. Shout it daily to an envious world—"Am I not a charitable man? If I have done wrong myself (as who has not?) has not a great deal of good grown out of my wickedness? I have therefore done my share, for which if the world has paid me in 'praise and pudding,' it is no more than it has done before, and will do again!" Take courage!
Cagliostro doctors—heals—the poor, for nothing!—even gives them alms—does a great deal of good—who but he? At Strasburg in the year 1783 (year of our peace with England), he "appears in full bloom and radiance, the envy and admiration of the world. In large hired hospitals, he with open drug-box (containing 'Extract of Saturn'), and even with open purse, relieves the suffering poor; unfolds himself lamblike, angelic, to a believing few, of the rich classes. Medical miracles have at all times been common, but what miracle is this of an occidental or oriental Serene-highness that 'regardless of expense,' employs himself in curing sickness, in illuminating ignorance?" We at the present day know nothing like it; the mere giving of a few surplus hundreds or thousands to certain Slavery, Anti-Slavery, Peace, Temperance or other societies, is benevolence of the "rocking chair" species—is not to be mentioned with this, of the self-denying Cagliostro's diving into cellars, and mounting into garrets, to seek and to save—at the risk of not only life but comfort—the first of which happily was not thus sacrificed:—nor indeed on the whole was comfort lost sight of, as the "coach-and-four with liveries and sumptuosities bears witness." There is often profound wisdom in this thing called public or newspaper charity. Does it—or does it not—pay?
The favorite of the gods, he who holds high discourse with spirits, and to whom is opened the hidden secret of earth and heaven, finds ready acceptance—backed as he is by charities, by elegancies: finds acceptance with the poor, the ignorant to whom he ministers—but also "with a mixture of sorrow and indignation" it is recorded, among the great—and not only they, but among the learned, "even physicians and naturalists." It does not seem worth while to expend sorrow and indignation upon this fact, not at all new, as we now fifty years farther along have discovered; for we can show our physicians and naturalists, and also our priests and prophets, in small crowds with whom marvels find acceptance. We shall see more of them by and by.
But one among the rich and great, was the Cardinal Prince Count Rohan, Archbishop of Strasburg. "Open-handed dupe," as some term him—now out of favor with the Queen Marie Antoinette (after that beheaded and called unfortunate). Banished from his beloved Paris and the sunshine of royalty, what should he do but to regain his pedestal? necessary no doubt, for the glory of God, and his church; necessary at least for the Count Rohan. Cagliostro is all powerful—he will help the Cardinal Prince—not only by philters and charms, but by prophecies from the gods, who speaking through their earthly oracle, will of course (it paying best), promise success and not failure. The Archbishop tries all things, and at last the far-famed "diamond necklace," upon the queen, which no woman's heart can withstand, not even the queen's. Sad to tell, the miserable queen knew nothing of the necklace; and only the Md'lle De la Motte, styled countess, by superior arts had outjuggled Cagliostro himself, Cardinal Rohan, queen and all: the diamonds were gone—the queen's character blackened, cardinal, cophta, and countess, all in the Bastille, where they lay some nine months (year 1781), disastrous months, when "high science" wasted itself in eating out its own heart. Cagliostro escaped, was let go—but a plundered, banished, suspected high priest, was quite another thing from a golden cophta, with the foreign coat-of-arms, serene countess—and open purse relieving the unfortunate.
Cagliostro now flits to England, to Bale, to Brienne, to Aix, to Turin, he wanders hither and thither; we cannot follow him. The end of all, the lofty and the low, must come—that seems drawing near to Cagliostro too—but how? not in ruddy splendor as of departing day, not quiet, serene, as of nature sinking to rest—rather like the disastrous death of the bleeding shark it seems: his brethren, his friends—- sharks of his own kind, of all kinds, high and low—rush upon the wounded shark, as to a banquet to which they were bidden. He is exiled here, he is persecuted there—imprisonment, despair, degradation haunt him—the houseless, unfortunate—now vagabond, once renovator of the human race, and friend of lords and friend of gods and princes. Such is gratitude! such is popular favor! a thing to be bought and bargained for, to be given when not needed. Such, no doubt, Cagliostro decided!
He is sore bested, and begins "to confess himself to priests," for a man must do something in his extremity. It avails him not; he is at last in the gripe of the holy Inquisition at Rome, "in the year of our Lord, 1789, December 29," and must match himself with a power which this world knows something of: face to face, hand to hand, at last. Have they juggles equal to his juggles, miracles equal to his—high science equal to his—legions of angels equal to his?—enough that they have dungeons, and sbirri—and in his case, hearts harder than the nether mill-stone—not to be softened "by demands for religious books"—assertions of the divinity of the Egyptian Masonry—promises of wonderful revelations—oaths, flatteries, or any of the mystic paraphernalia of the now powerless professor and prophet: they will not let him out! but rather will introduce him to a new art, that of becoming a Christian, and get him, the toughest in a tough time, into heaven as they best can. Did they find Loyola's twenty days sufficient, and was the article then turned out of hand complete for that other state? The Inquisition biographer does not dwell upon this, it was perhaps as well. We learn at last that he died in the year 1795, and went, the writer says, "Whither no man knows!" So ended a Magician!
New Haven, Feb., 1852.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] T. Carlyle.