Professor Lowe's Balloon
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OCTOBER 26, 1861] HARPER'S WEEKLY. 687 I had conceived a strong desire to conciliate the good opinion of a man who had treated me with so singular and so familiar a kindness, and it was sincerely that I expressed my regret at the acerbity with which I had assailed Dr. Lloyd ; but of his theories and pretensions I could not disguise my contempt. I enlarged on the extravagant fallacies involved in a fabulous "clairvoyance," which always failed when put to plain test by sober-minded examiners. I did not deny the effects of imagination on certain nervous constitutions. " Mesmerism could cure nobody ; credulity could cure many. There was the well-known story of the old woman tried as a witch ; she cured agues by a charm; she owned the impeachment, and was ready to endure gibbet or stake for the truth of her talisman—more than a mesmerist would for the truth of his passes! And the charm was a scroll of gibberish sewn in an old bag and given to the woman in a freak by the judge himself when a young scamp on the circuit. But the charm cured ? Certainly ; just as mesmerism cures. Fools believed in it. Faith, that moves mountains, may well cure agues." Thus I ran on, supporting my views with anecdotes and facts, to which Sir Philip listened with placid gravity. When I had come to an end, he said, " Of mesmerism, as practiced in Europe, I know nothing, except by report. I can well understand that medical men may hesitate to admit it among the legitimate resources of orthodox pathology; because, as I gather from what you and others say of its practice, it must, at the best, be far too uncertain in its application to satisfy the requirements of science. Yet an examination of its pretensions may enable you to perceive the truth that lies hid in the powers ascribed to witchcraft; benevolence is but a weak agency compared to malignity ; magnetism perverted to evil may solve half the riddles of sorcery. On this, however, I say no more at present. But as to that which you appear to reject as the most preposterous and incredible pretension of the mesmerists, and which you designate by the word ' clairvoyance,' it is clear to me that you have never yourself witnessed even those very imperfect exhibitions which you decide at once to be imposture. I say imperfect, because it is only a limited number of persons whom the eye or the passes of the mesmerist can affect, and by such means, unaided by other means, it is rarely indeed that the magnetic sleep advances beyond the first vague, shadowy twilight dawn of that condition to which only in its fuller developments I would apply the name of ' trance.' But still trance is as essential a condition of being as sleep or as waking, having privileges peculiar to itself. By means within the range of the science that explores its nature and its laws, trance, unlike the clairvoyance you describe, is producible in every human being, however unimpressible to mere mesmerism." " Producible in every human being ! Pardon me if I say that I will give any enchanter his own terms who will produce that effect upon me." "Will you ? You consent to have the experiment tried on yourself?" " Consent most readily." "I will remember that promise. But to return to the subject. By the word trance I do not mean exclusively the spiritual trance of the Alexandrian Platonists. There is one kind of trance—that to which all human beings are susceptible—in which the soul has no share ; for of this kind of trance, and it was of this I spoke, some of the inferior animals are susceptible ; and, therefore, trance is no more a proof of soul than is the clairvoyance of the mesmerists, or the dream of our ordinary sleep, which last has been called a proof of soul, though any man who has kept a dog must have observed that dogs dream as vividly as we do. But in this trance there is an extraordinary cerebral activity—a projectile force given to the mind—distinct from the soul—by which it sends forth its own emanations to a distance in spite of material obstacles, just as a flower, in an altered condition of atmosphere, sends forth the particles of its aroma. This should not surprise you. Your thought travels over land and sea in your waking state ; thought, too, can travel in trance, and in trance may acquire an intensified force. There is, however, another kind of trance which is truly called spiritual, a trance much more rare, and in which the soul entirely supersedes the mere action of the mind." " Stay," said I, " you speak of the soul as something distinct from the mind. What the soul may be I can not pretend to conjecture. But I can not separate it from the intelligence !" " Can you not ! A blow on the brain can destroy the intelligence; do you think it can destroy the soul ? It is recorded of Newton, that, in the decline of his life, his mind had so worn out its functions that his own theorems had become to him unintelligible. Can you suppose that Newton's soul was as worn out as his mind ? If you can not distinguish mind from soul, I know not by what rational inductions you arrive at the conclusion that the soul is imperishable." I remained silent. Sir Philip fixed on me his dark eyes quietly and searchingly, and after a short pause said : " Almost every known body in nature is susceptible of three several states of existence—the solid, the liquid, the aeriform. These conditions depend on the quantity of heat they contain. The same object at one moment may be liquid, at the next moment solid, at the next aeriform. The water that flows before your gaze may stop consolidated into ice, or ascend into air as vapor. Thus is man susceptible of three states of existence—the animal, the mental, the spiritual—and according as he is brought Into relation or affinity with that occult agency of the whole natural world, which we familiarly call HEAT, and which no science has yet explained ; which no scale can weigh, and no eye discern ; one or the other of these three states of being prevails or is subjected." I still continued silent, for I was unwilling discourteously to say to a stranger, so much older than myself, that he seemed to me to reverse all the maxims of the philosophy to which he made pretense, in founding speculations audacious and abstruse upon metaphorical comparisons that would have been fantastic even in a poet. And Sir Philip, after another pause, resumed with a half smile : " After what I have said, it will perhaps not very much surprise you when I add that but for my belief in the powers I ascribe to trance, we should not be known to each other at this moment." " How ?—pray explain. " Certain circumstances, which I trust to relate to you in detail hereafter, have imposed on me the duty to discover, and to bring human laws to bear upon, a creature armed with terrible powers of evil. This monster—for, without metaphor, monster it is, not man like ourselves—has, by arts superior to those of ordinary fugitives, however dextrous in concealment, hitherto for years eluded my research. Through the trance of an Arab child, who in her waking state never heard of his existence, I have learned that this being is in England—is in L-. I am here to encounter him. I expect to do so this very night, and under this very roof." " Sir Philip!" "And if you wonder, as you well may, why I have been talking to you with this startling unreserve, know that the same Arab child, on whom I thus implicitly rely, informs me that it is ultimately through reliance on your agency or aid that the fearful course of the existence I seek to unmask and to terminate will be brought to a close." " By my agency or aid—your Arab child named me, Allen Fenwick?" " My Arab child told me that the person thus instrumental to my object was he who had saved the life of the man whom I then meant for my heir, if I died unmarried and childless. She told me that I should not be many hours in this town, which she described minutely, before you would be made known to me. She described this house, with yonder lights and yon dancers. In her trance she saw us sitting together, as now we sit. I accepted the invitation of our host when he suddenly accosted me on entering the town, confident that I should meet you here, without even asking whether a person of your name were a resident in the place ; and now you know why I have so freely unbosomed myself of much that might well make you, a physician, doubt the soundness of my understanding. The same infant, whose vision has been realized up to this moment, has warned me also that I am here at great peril. What that peril may be I have declined to learn, as I have ever declined to ask from the future what affects only my own life on this earth. That life I regard with supreme indifference, conscious that I have only to discharge, while it lasts, the duties for which it is imposed on me to the best of my imperfect power ; and aware that minds the strongest and souls the purest may fall into the sloth habitual to predestinarians if they suffer the actions due to the present hour to be awed and paralyzed by some grim shadow on the future ! It is only where, irrespectively of aught that can menace myself, a light not struck out of my own reason can guide me to disarm evil or minister to good, that I feel privileged to avail myself of those mirrors on which things, near and far, reflect themselves calm and distinct as the banks and the mountain peaks are reflected in the glass of a lake. Here, then, under this roof, and by your side, I shall behold him who— Lo ! the moment has come—I behold him now !" As he spoke these last words Sir Philip had risen, and, startled by his action and voice, I involuntarily rose too. Resting one hand on my shoulder, he pointed with the other toward the threshold of the ballroom. There, the prominent figure of a gay group—the sole male amidst a fluttering circle of silks and lawn, of flowery wreaths, of female loveliness, and female frippery—stood the radiant image of Margrave. His eyes were not turned toward us. He was looking down, and his light laugh came soft, yet ringing, through the general murmur. I turned my astonished gaze back to Sir Philip—yes, unmistakably it was on Margrave that his look was fixed. Impossible to associate crime with the image of that fair youth ! Eccentric notions—fantastic speculations — vivacious egotism — defective benevolence—yes. But crime ! No—impossible. "Impossible !" I said, aloud. As I spoke the group had moved on. Margrave was no longer in sight. At the same moment some other guests came from the ball-room and seated themselves near us. Sir Philip looked round, and observing the deserted museum at the end of the corridor, drew me into it. When we were alone he said in a voice quick and low, but decided : " It is of importance that I should convince you at once of the nature of that prodigy which is more hostile to mankind than the wolf is to the sheepfold. No words of mine could at present suffice to clear your sight from the deception which cheats it. I must enable you to judge for yourself. It must be now, and here. He will learn this night, if he has not learned already, that I am in the town. Dim and confused though his memories of myself may be, they are memories still ; and he well knows what cause he has to dread me. I must put another in possession of his secret ; and who but yourself, through whom his career is to be ended ? Another, and at once. For all his arts will be brought to bear against me, and I can not foretell their issue. Go, then; enter that giddy crowd—select that seeming young man—bring him hither. Take care only not to mention my name ; and when here, turn the key in the door, so as to prevent interruption—five minutes will suffice." " Am I sure that I guess whom you mean? The young light-hearted man, known in this place under the name of Margrave ? The young man with the radiant eyes, and the curls of a Grecian statue ?" " The same ; him whom I pointed out ; quick, bring him hither." My curiosity was too much roused to disobey. Had I conceived that Margrave, in the heat of youth, had committed some offense which placed him in danger of the law and in the power of Sir Philip Derval, I possessed enough of the old borderers' black-mail loyalty to have given to the man whose hand I had familiarly clasped a hint and a help to escape. But all Sir Philip's talk had been so out of the reach of common sense, that I rather expected to see him confounded by some egregious illusion than Margrave exposed to any well-grounded accusation. All, then, that I felt as I walked into the ball-room and approached Margrave, was that curiosity which, I think, any one of my readers will acknowledge that, in my position, he himself would have felt. Margrave was standing near the dancers, not joining them, but talking with a young couple in the ring. I drew him aside. "Come with me for a few minutes into the museum ; I wish to talk to you." "What about ? an experiment ?" " Yes, an experiment." " Then I am at your service." In a minute more he had followed me into the desolate, dead museum. I looked round but did not see Sir Philip.
COLONEL WILSON'S CAMP ON
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