University of Virginia Library

A SHORT PROEM;

THAT CONCERNETH THE INDITER
WHEREIN IS CONTAINED
AN EXTRAORDINARY VISION
THAT BECAME MANIFEST UNTO HIM:
AND ALSO,
HOW THEREBY HE BECAME POSSESSED OF THE
WORK THAT ADJOINS.

—Friar Bacon.

“To use no circumstance at all before one comes to the matter,
is blunt,” says the great Baron of Verulam, and in setting forth in
this work, I mean, gentle reader, to avail myself of this advice; not
but what we have heretofore had acquaintance, nor that I intend
to make a long and lame excuse for errors in the composition of
these pages—for those, as will be perceived from the incident
detailed in this proem, I am not accountable; but that sufficient
precaution may be given to the peruser that he allow
not his imagination too much latitude. I am aware that many
pages will be construed into direct satire, and with their usual
forwardness and conscientious readiness of opinion, the extant
knaves and blockheads of the day will be for taking the application
to themselves, thereby making me the avowed enemy of all of their
class. Now as I am but young, and have therefore not a right to
make foes, it would be impolitic in me, who have much to look forward
for, to turn against me the most respected, influential, and
envied portion of the community;—for although an author is lauded
as ingenious when he slanders the defenceless, the inoffensive,
and the nobodies of society—or when he confines his pen to base
calumnies on the poor, the modest, and the retiring citizen, he is
supported with the venomous spirit of party; and the higher order,
in unison with the multitude, lavish applause, and heartily shake

their sides in pleasure at the most contemptible and villanous scandal:—yet
if he be indiscreet,—and the satirist too often warmed by
his subject, and a just indignation against vice, hath a wonderous
propensity to rashness, and oversteps the bounds of policy and caution
by taking what hath been styled impertinent and libellous freedoms
with men of consequence, or at least the temporary wielders
of power, no matter how corrupt, base, venal and deserving of reproach,
he soon finds to his cost that he hath unawares ventured on
dangerous ground, where neither the justice of his cause, the purity
of his intent, or the criminality of his opponents avail him against
the machinations of his enemies: he is truly condemned without
hearing—dragged to punishment without a trial, or at least a mere
mockery of one—in short, like the great English martyr of liberty,
Algernon Sidney, who perished for writings found in his cabinet,
he is led to the block, with no chance of life from the infamous malignity
of the most abandoned and profligate; for however these
latter may enjoy the tortures of others, and sneer at the defamed
victim of political or private persecution, they soon discover in the
altered case a thousand monstrous enormities, and that to be exposed
and laughed at themselves, is a direct breach of the peace,
and they adopt every means, no matter how foul, to chastise and
silence the traducer; for it is beyond doubt that the station, the
wealth, and disposition of the vicious characters he assails, more
than the truth of his accusations, test the event of the successful reception
of the person who aims at the destruction of public immorality.
Convinced of this in every instance, and having likewise
learnt by a close observation of passing events, that the truth of the
position I have set forth is more peculiarly apparent in unstable
governments, which are swayed by fickle and alternate factions,
whereby the power and authority is to-day delegated in one hand,
and to-morrow in another; for it is in such jarring and conflicting
struggles for empire that arise from such a state of things, that the
knave and the rogue have the best opportunity to flourish, as they
will boil up like scum upon the surface of affairs—for should they
luckily adopt the strongest side, which by a careful change of opinion
at the right period they always can steer to in time, and for
which such men are ever on the watch—no matter of how deep a
die the crimes they may have committed—no matter whether they
be the barefaced and abandoned swindlers who have stripped the
orphan and the widow of their scanty pittance—no matter whether
their names have heretofore been an infamy and blot on society which
hath allowed them to walk abroad in the day, they are ushered triumphantly
into power, and it is a crime to mention their villanies;
unfortunate indeed hath it become, and dangerous to every right of
man, where there is no firm head or fount of sovereignty to which
those who are trampled on and oppressed for their weakness may
appeal for mercy and redress from the bitter persecutions of petty
and subordinate tyrants—where the stream of justice is always contaminated
and divided, and instead of pouring forth broad, rapid, and
powerful, like the rushing cataract of the mountains, it trickles away
into a thousand ruts and gullies until it is clogged, choaked, and finally
lost amid the mud, sand, and pebbles with which it hath been
mingled—where neither a strict impartiality or even a common rectitude
of feeling hath influence on the mind of constituted authority—
where he that mounts the seat of judgment hath no will of his own,
but like the sere and russet-coloured leaf of autumn, the last of its
race, that dangles on the topmost branch, is moved by every breeze
that breathes upon him.—In such states, (and the like we have seen)
it is reduced beyond the possibility of doubt, that the feeble hath not
the shadow of chance against might, and the maxim of the politician
in all cases prevails—the judgment must not be made according
to the law, but to the man:—and how can it be otherwise, when
that time which should be given to high and important duties, is
spent in forming selfish and personal plans of future aggrandizement—when
the brief and precarious enjoyment of office must for
its own safety be wasted in rewarding hungry partisans, without
regard to qualifications or character—when the prerogatives of station
are merely used for intrigue, personal motives, or to crush an
adversary? It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that while such
laxity of principles and virtue are freely countenanced and fostered
—that when the very administration of justice hath become tainted
and rotten to the source—when the judge will sit cheek by jowl
with the very parties whose case he is to decide upon, and in secret
and apart listen to their separate arguments, that I should seek,
and with reason, that no motive of mine should be misconstrued,
and that no man may take up this book with an idea that as he
looks in a mirror he will behold his own visage in particular.
I hasten to assure all that from the extraordinary manner in
which the manuscript came into my possession, there can be no
hesitation in saying that however strongly marked some passages
may appear, yet the intention hath been to expose the general
vices and follies of the time, and particularly to avoid virulence;
but if any ass should be peculiarly obstinate in applying certain
remarks to himself, I am very willing he shall enjoy his innocent
pleasure.

I was seated one beautiful and radiant afternoon, in thought at
my window, which looked out on a cluster of those lovely little
spots of cultivation, that in the centre of the squares, like Edens,
surrounded by lofty walls, refresh and delight the sight, tired with
the noise, bustle, and dust of the crowded and busy streets. In such
a seclusion one seems retired from the world, whose afar off hurricane
scarce disturbs the solitary quietude of meditation. The sun
was near his setting, and the whole wide west was lighted up with
a thousand gorgeous colours, which seemed like banners floating
amid the drapery of a conqueror's pavilion to which he was in triumph
retiring; lovely rays of crimson and scarlet fell on the
neighbouring windows, over which often hung a gay cloud of blushing
vines, the fragrant jessamine, and purple honeysuckle, from
whose velvet blossoms a living sweetness floated to the sense; the
summer birds swam by in a stream of melody, and the breath of a
hundred shrubs filled the air with odours far more pleasant than the
soft wind of the Indian isles that fans the lips of the mariner, rich
and loaded with spicy and citron perfumes. But the subject that
employed my mind did not harmonise with the delicious repose of
nature that lay before me. I was amid the very music of the flowers,
whose silken cups waved redolent with life before the faint
whisper of some straggling zephyr; yet I marked not their beauty.
Busied and agitated in reflection, my eye turned with vacant gaze
upon the glories of the sun, yet heeded little their splendours:—
“How strange is man,” I exclaimed in the course of my reverie;
“he seems truly formed to be his own bane; with sorrow in his
bosom he will make a desert of the brightest paradise, scattering
the bitter feelings of his soul, like frost upon the earth at night—a
chilling, destroying, blighting, and untimely frost; and yet inconsistent
with its horrors, like an angel to the sick, joy, yea happiness
will come, and he will feel its influence in the wide and desolate
wilds of Asia, or on the cold and rugged floor of the dank prison-house.
Yet it is apparent that evil doth almost eternally spread a
shadow over the populous events of life, and that however fair our
prospect of pleasure, we are deceived;—though our cup may be
filled as with honey, poison, deadly and venomous rankles on the

brim;—thorns sharp and piercing as the poisoned darts of the Saracen
enthusiast, mingle with the flowers which we grasp; all
which hath the semblance of beauty is as the apple of gold with
the heart of ashes:—man is truly born to adverse fortune—to be
the very curse of his own life—a mote, a creation fashioned for the
amusement of some greater being, who gathers enjoyment from the
troubles and adversity which he has caused—the groans and misery
which his dwarfs and puppets draw from each other: For man is
the enemy of man; his hatred to his brothers of clay is sucked in,
as it were, from the snowy fountains of his mother's breast, the
milk he imbibes is gall that circulates in the very air he breathes,
and like a curse doth the foulest passions cling to his existence;—
nor like the venomous garment of Hercules, will they leave him
with life. Look around! are not our fellow-creatures tormented
one by another in endless, countless varieties of pain? If pestilence
is in the city, will the rich man open his overstocked stores to the
starving populace? If the most sacred treaty can be violated with
personal safety, will the bondsman keep it? If gain will arise, will
not those of the same blood compass the death of each other? For
a rood of land are not cities sacked and levelled to the ground, so
that the ploughshare might pass above? Are not the fields of the
husbandman watered with his own blood? and the reaper gathers
his grain, which hath been manured by the gore of armies. Extirpation,
from plague, famine, murder, leprosy, and a thousand torments
and diseases, are our doom; nor will there one step aside in
his path, though by such he might succour and save from these his
own kindred: What myriads of bones whiten and bleach in the
sun of Palestine and Italy! the Infidel, the Pagan, the Moslem, the
Nazarene and the Jew—who whilst living made it the business of
life to destroy each other, and though mingled in one common dust,
that their fiendish lot may be sustained, they have sowed the earth
with dragons' teeth in their descendants. Who will contend that life
is not an evil gift—a foul image with a veil of loveliness—a diadem
of adders and of nettles hid by vine leaves—an iceberg of death,
glowing beneath the variegated hues of sky, beautiful as a palace
of spirits to the sight, but destroying if approached;—Or if otherwise,
why are we from infancy filled and agitated with desires, to
dream of the bare possibility of which were madness?—Why
doth the fulfilment of our wishes lead us oftentimes headlong into
ruin?—why are our days wearied out in strife, revenge, and cruelty?—why
doth the wing of ingratitude take away the light of
heaven from us?—the hands of those who have fattened on our bounties
thrust us to night, piercing our hearts with the barbed tongues
of serpents—formless as the undistinguishable air, yet deadly as the
spear broken in the heart, blow on every gale the slanderous
whispers of calumny:—and doth not the eye of envy glare out upon
our every action, like the fierce glance of the sun from beneath a
thunder cloud, seeming the ireful and death-boding gaze of a warrior
on his advancing foeman?—What do we not suffer from thirst,
hunger, and want?—Every movement we make, we are tempted to
our destruction, as though standing on the brink of some mighty
precipice;—for what a receptacle, a store-house of horrible desires,
and desolating, mighty, and overwhelming passions is this high prized
lump of clay—this human body—this superior brute of earth; ambition,
pride, lust, remorse and grief,—all are concentrated in one
little mass, one circle of mortality; and yet withal what a frail,
weak casket is it that holds all these—a thing fragile as the fallen
leaf or the icicle on a garden wall—as soon, as sudden as the
flashing of a summer light it will perish—a very particle of dust
will end the workings of the wonderful mechanism—and the restless,
motionless frame will lie still and powerless at a moment—
hope, despair, joy and might at once are at an end,—though in the
midst of wo—though bright visions illuminate the airy future—all
is dissipated as by a word;—the statesman's busy brain—the lover's
anguish—the poor man's tortures—the lazar's pain—the losel's
sloth, are finished—the white death, the spectre king, the insatiable
rioter of the grave hath been with them, and the farce is over.
What avail the riches of the much vaunted mind, the pomp of
pride, the plenitude of wealth, and the solitary luxuries of genius?
Look at yon sorry elf; behold him toil, and by the dim and languid
taper pass the night; see he hath worn the day in his unwearied
labour, even until like an adder disease hath crept into his bones:
what is his reward? he has gathered the gold of science, but it is as
dirt; he has climbed the rugged and precipitous hill of fame, but
his travail hath been like the punishment of the son of Æolus,[1] to
see his work was in vain. And mark you purse proud follower of
traffic; what comes of his dishonesty—his overreaching, or his
selfish cunning—his ingots of gold—his silken bales—his rich cargoes
and galliots? they are but a mere mockery, a dream; with all
his accumulations he is made a bankrupt in a moment. Of what
use hath been those heaped up volumes of knowledge—those mountains
of inestimable thoughts, which days, years, an existence hath
been wasted in collecting? have they bettered the condition of man
one jot? is not life a child's play, a pantomime of smiles and weeping,
a harlequinade of folly and unhappiness still? for what hath been the
learning of a Bacon, the cringing and slavish couplets of a Waller,
the fire of a Spenser, the philosophy of a Locke, the wild theories of
a Newton and a Fontenelle, the wit of a Boileau, or the sweet fancy
of a Sidney? What have they taught us? are we not the same miserable,
wretched atoms that we were before they were heard of?—and
with all their qualifications, what were they, and what are they now?
—the wretches and the nothings that all men are and must become.”

As my lips embodied these ideas, I felt that the curse of life was
far beyond the lines of description; it was only to be felt—a biting,
withering gift—the aceldama[2] of the Hebrew—an inheritance of
blood and crime: and as my thoughts that had burst into voice
were hushed; wild, scattered, yet vivid imagery seemed trooping
through my brain, like the sickly and terrible phantoms that rattle
past through the midnight and distempered dreams of a dying man.
My lips moved, but there came but broken sounds—while with a
fixed attention, my very eye-balls distended as it were to suck in the
boundless phantasy which floated by like the eaglet on the wings of
the storm:—first I could mark the scaffolds that were dripping with
gore as though in wine—the pure blood of the innocent was as a
fountain, but that of guilt was scarce seen; then came those mockeries
of solemnity, the vain judgment seats of mortality, where the
criminal sits to judge the criminal—where the only difference between
the thief and the sentencer is his garb—where the homicide
hath often less to account for than he who rules the trial!—then
came the elder brother, his limbs blasted by the potions of his ambitious
younger—but there were whole armies of the lame, the
blind, the diseased and the mutilated, the offals of the dungeon,
the lazaret, and the brothel; victims of religion, bigotry, cruelty,
and madness, their misery the infliction of daily sport! There
was the stranded wreck of a brutal and momentary enjoyment—
her form lean, thin, and wan—her features haggard and care worn,
nauseous and distorted with sickness—her love formed lips withered
—and her arms, once so round and fair, wrinkled and faded that

you might have counted every sunken vein—while her eye shot
forth the red wild glare of insanity:—hard by the palace porch of
her proud betrayer who revels in wealth, she hath sat her down for
shelter from the night dew—she hath wrapped her tattered cloak
about the feverish body of her fatherless, her disowned and famine
stricken babe—its hollow cheek, its lustreless sight, its heavy sighs,
its houseless state, exposed foodless to the pitiless blast, have conquered
her last pride—she hath begged at the gate of her destroyer
for a bit of bread, but his liveried lacquies and his scoffing serfs with
bitter gibes have thrust her from the threshold:—yet she hath
made a double grave upon its lowest step, her infant's and her own.
Now came a blast as if the summoner was nigh—the braggart
flourish of the trump and clarion waken with their war cry yon
mighty mass—it is a city fast bound in sleep and night, defenceless
and open to the ruthless foe—the alarm bell tolls its dreadful peal
—from out their doors the half-garbed citizens rush like the sheeted
dead from their startled graves—the wild shout—the wailing and
weeping cry of woman—the falling of burning rafters and cinders
—the shrieks of the dying—all mingle in one horrid medley; the
blood of childhood is not spared in the slaughter, the lintels and the
doorways serve to dash out the brains of the screaming and helpless
babe—will not the sacred nuptial couch save you youthful bride from
ravishment? will not the white arms of the maiden shield the bosom
of her betrothed? will not the grey hairs of the patriarch serve to
protect him from the sword? No! the aged father of threescore, the
new-born infant, the wedded wife, the warrior and his promised love,
who blushes as she names the hour of marriage, lie unregarded in a
heap of bloody and putrid corruption; while the vulture feeds amid
the ruins, and the wolf, fattened and tired of his banquet, couches to
rest in the carrion-strewed streets—Yet yon traitor, decked in the
spoils of triumph, snatched from the mouldering ashes of the place
of his birth which he had betrayed, is pampered with honours in the
gorgeous pageant of the conqueror.

I sickened, and closed my sight, straining to shut out the visionary
horrors. I leaned my head on my hand and looked forth—all
things were bright, blithe, and blooming—the spirits of youth, joy,
and enjoyment were abroad, enriching earth with their most pleasant
smiles—the butterflies fanning the air with their gold dropped
wings, like brilliant and lovely eyes of the summer, sporting in
gladness, sailed from bud to bud—the soft and beautiful blossoms

of the lily, waving in maiden loveliness, looked like floating cups of
down; in troth, dame Nature had donned her holiday kirtle, and
seemed like some sweet girl smiling amid her fears, as she waited
the wished for one on her bridal morn and in her bridal drapery—
the very air that wantoned as it stirred the glittering trees, was genial
as the breath of life, and the timorous leaves of the aspen lapped
the warm kiss of the sunshine with a long unquenching thirst,
like the lips of some fresh and happy seraph first drinking in the
breath of paradise and delighting in its food. Yet even amid all
this, I could not banish from my thought the wild autumn and the
sterner winter—when this beauty should become an outcast, and
like some shunned and naked leper, or one upon whom the cherem[3]
hath been thrown, she would sit mourning, lonely and forlorn upon
the icy and barren hills, a monument of wo and despondency, her
crown a diadem of gloomy clouds, as she sorrowed over the work of
desolation that had been within her pleasant places. “Ill,” said I,
“endeth the race of all created, for the wicked triumph, and plant
the thistle and the tare throughout the earth; and it hath come to
this, that their power hath given them a right in which they flourish;
oh, that I could take the trackless course of a star, that I
might seek for peace.” As I said this, my eye rested unconsciously
upon the fitful and playful light of a sunbeam that darting through
the window before me, died the glittering glass with many fantastic
hues and shapes, like those stained in the lights of some ancient
chapel, or traced on Indian ivory by the delicate fingers of the
Hindoo, when, to my admiration and wonderment, in the very centre
of this radiance, surrounded as it were by dazzling rays of brilliancy,
there appeared to my sight a form so passing strange yet so
transcendently beautiful, as to far outparagon the loveliness of
mortality; it seemed a being of a purer essence and a brighter sphere
—some fairy creature of the sky, born of the smiling elements and
blooming flowers that spring about the gates of paradise. As I
gazed upon it at first, I felt as though inclined to doubt the reality of
my sense; but the figure, which when it attracted my sight looked indistinct,
faint, and pale, like some unfinished outline of beauty, or the
evanishing forms that float in the moonlight clouds, grew plain and
vivid on my vision; yet still it had a look so fragile and evanescent,
that it appeared as though fading in the air of which it seemed a
part. There it stood, still and stirless, a creature beyond earth,
while myriads of happy things, motes as it were in the sunlight,
swam in the opal waves around it, and shook their tiny wings in delight.
A soft expressive beam fell from its face, which surpassed
the human countenance, and was bright like polished silver—from
its brows there floated down in one glittering mass, silken locks of
hair—threads of amber spun by mermaids, so gauzy and effulgent,
that the very light in which they glittered shone through them as
they brightened in its rays—its arms were as snow transparent in
its own whiteness, while from either shoulder dropped two filmy
pinions studded with starry eyes, delicate as the web of the gossamer,
impearled and shivering in the morning dew. At length it
spoke, though in an unknown tongue; yet each sound seemed familiar
and understood, and my ravished ear drank in the voice of melody
sweet as the song of summer birds, and as clear as the blast of
a forest horn; thus, methought, ran the tenor of its words:—“Descendant
of animated dust, frail and weak formation of earth, in
whom are mixed at once the fiery and self-destroying attributes of
the fallen angel, but whose composition is mocked by the want of
power attendant on mortal birth, cower not at my approach, start
not at my visitation, nor plume thee therefrom above thy fellow compounds
of clay, those stirring atoms—those busy insects that crawl
upon the broad face of creation, swelled and pampered with a conceit
of mightiness that scarce belongs to spirits, and is ridiculous from
the insignificance of its wearer—creatures who vainly believe the
vastitude of world they behold moulded but for their use,—
while the very serpent that with his slimy bosom sucks the ground,
a thing shunned and trod upon alike by man and beast, coiled in
the narrow shadow of his den, holds as fair a capacity of ownership
as he that sits within his guarded palace, upon a throne of purple
and of pride. Mortal! not to the bidding of the breath of human
lip I come, but to that of the heart—for know thy inmost and hidden
fancies, and thy secret thoughts, are read by me as palpable as thy
most open actions that are written in the volume wherein the doings
of creation are recorded: nor think that I am here to gratify
the sinful madness of thy wishes—to quench thy thirst for forbidden
knowledge—though to me are known all the past events and the future
of time—though without form, shape, lineament, or character to
the sight, I might have mingled my lessons as it might be from the
whisperings of thine own soul, yet I have chosen thus to expose the
proud presumption and bold unblushing ignorance of the daring and
discontented mind—Children of folly, ye blindly curse the fate
whereby you exist, nor seek for the origin of the evil you complain
against;—'tis not the fortune that hath made him a being of life—
nor the vileness of his fellow that is man's curse—but the lashing and
never sleeping scorpions that he bears about in his own restless and
aspiring breast: nor is it the gift of his birth—but as from the moment
of his existence, his movements are free and uncontrolled, so
doth he imbibe the baneful influence of temper and misanthropy,
which become in his own hands weapons of destruction against his
peace. There are good and bad elements in man, commingled
not for war, but for the use of life, and in their direction he hath
their entire control; and it is his own rash wilfulness that gives
evil the conquest. Like the matin bird, when he first delighted
feels the warm sunlight on his downy wing, and springs from his
nest in song, doth the child of earth set forward in his pilgrimage
of existence; basking in measureless enjoyment, he cares not, even
though warned, where he steers his bark, if the sea looks smooth
and the sand sparkling; but when the skies lower and the storm
launches out from among the gloominess of clouds, he counts not the
days of pleasure that he hath passed in careless youth, but reckons
them in his despair a nothing to his sorrow—mere rainbow glimpses
seen in a stormy heaven,—and yet often it is his own rash temperament
that destroys him; he seeks out the vexations of life—
when the arrow wounds him he calls not the leech, but madly
hastes to tear it forth himself, and skilless leaves the barb within
the flesh, and the gash more angered:—is he offended, plots he not
revenge double to the injury—is his most senseless plan baffled, are
the wildest speculations of his fancy shrunk to the naked and bodiless
air of which they were formed—curses he not his creation—looks
he not with an eye of hate and a heart of gall upon the prosperous—
cries he not out against the unequal decrees of fate?—when he
alone hath brought down the wo upon his head—when his own
weakness, and not an ungrateful world, hath kindled the fire of
misanthropy, that consumes slow but sure, and is his living hell.
There have been among ye, men—creatures superior of the species
—though the heathen and the infidel,—who have scorned the vain
observances, and smiled as one would at the tears of childhood on
the cares of mortality, and rose resplendent above the infirmities of
earth. But hath there come aught of such examples? have they
been studied by the complainer, the bitter sorrower of his birth?—
surely it speaks but little of the proud faculties—the godlike inheritance
of which men boast and pride themselves, that when they
have fed in the luxury of summer, they should not have the fortitude
to bear the winter storm.”

Not a breath was lost to me, for I was enchained and bound down
in tranced emotion, and stirred not; but like one who hears the sudden
melody of angels on their night watches, every feeling was rapt,
and my very soul seemed to dwell in intense and eager attention
upon the words of the shadowy speaker; each moment, as in suspense,
I feared lest all should be silent, and the beautiful being, that
now was so palpably visible, should disappear and melt away like
the dark clouds that float about the white brow of morning; but
now there was a pause in the music of its voice, like when the wind
god hath passed the Æolian Lyre, and its silken cords have
hushed their tremulous notes to silence; and the figure moved not,
but stirless as it was, it might have vied with the statue of the
Greek, that gave eternity to beauty—my power of speech seemed
loosened, and mastering awe, with a doubtful mind, I ventured
ed to address this delicate and fairy creation of the sky—

“Beautiful Spirit,” I cried, “sweeter than the balm that drops
from Arabian trees hath thy sayings come upon me, healing and
softening; and once more about my heart have vibrated strings of

tenderness, and that which was a barren, scathed, and blighted soil,
feels the dew, and fresh green vines spring forth: yet these last are
but like girdles round a granite pillar, whose cold and rugged sides
mock the softness of their embraces, or I would not, slow of convincement
on that which hath formed my food of thoughts for years,
inquire at thee—Since man is the cause of his own sorrows, and
life might, if rightly used, be made a blessing instead of bale, why
is temptation like some enticing courtezan, whose white arms cling
about our necks, nor will be loosened until destruction share the
embrace, cast in our way at every turn? Why with the witching
song of the Syren, are our frail and weakened barks lured from the
moonless ocean to the surf-bound rock? Why, in every step we
venture, do we run the chance of the pit and the snare? Surely you
will not say that we have wisdom and strength enough in ourselves
to shun and avoid these dangers—or that it is just that a son should
suffer for a father's crime—or that poverty and misery are the consequences
of our own imprudence at all times—and further I would
ask, why doth the honest man fail, when the knave, by the vilest of
means, prospers? What is the use of talent or learning, or honour,
when it is given but as a jest for the fool, who, born to wealth and
power, delights but in crushing that flower of whose fragrance he is
insensible, and whose loveliness he cannot perceive? Why are the
feet of the innocent pierced with the sharpest thorns, when the
guilty wretch walks the path of pomp and glory?”

“Unreflecting mortal!” returned the bright apparition, “would
you imply that answers were not easy to be had to these questions,
or that the ills which you inveigh against, are wedded to life even as
death is inseparable to its close—and these are woes not of your own
formation? Have you thought on it, how little are the real wants of
human existence? when ye have hungered, hath not the earth an
equal heritage to all?—Doth not rich and clustering grapes, like rubies
amid the green leaves of the clambering vine, hang free to the
hand? Doth not every golden fruit that starts into ripeness from
the bosom of earth and blushes in the sun, belong alike to man?
When ye have thirsted, doth not water burst from the hill side
clearer than crystal, and brighter than the jewelled diamond in a
monarch's crest? What should ye seek then?—happiness! and had
ye bound your desires no farther than this mere sufferance of nature,
ye would have found it; but early ye cast aside the reins
of reason—ye grasped ambition by the hand with the love of a

bridegroom—from the womb ye were stiff-necked and uncurbed
from all authority; and, like the half-tamed steed that hath broken
his bridle, and who is stopped by no impediment in his fiery course,
but continues his flight with unabated speed, until borne down
with fatigue he drops upon the ground and dies,—ye have rushed
forth madly into the wide world, acting for yourselves; and ever
restless, have rose in rebellion causelessly against heaven, and decried
the just decrees of fate itself;—ye have sought, proud in your
ideal mightiness, a new temple and a new god; a molten image,
wrought from the mine by human labour, have ye worshipped;
and what consequence comes of this? what gain hath your folly? ye
toil till the veins swell and the sweat pours from your brows like
rain drops, and when ye have clasped your idol, ye die!—ye build
mighty ships, and plough the unmeasured waters, your souls filled
with nought but desires for gold; and ye have your punishment.—For
the tempest comes, and the false element ye have trusted, secure in
your own strength, buries in its briny masses of waves your weltering
corses—ye walk the earth, heaping crime on crime, trespass
upon trespass, till there is no end unto your iniquities; what
comes of it? plagues are among ye;—ye cannot fly the shafts of the
avenger; pestilence walks in the darkness of the night, and ye are
swept like dust away; Seek ye for wealth? Murder,—fratricide, becomes
in your laws no crime—the sanctity of the grave may be
violated, and its buried ashes exposed to the winds; and yet the
deed is good;—then were do you seek pleasure? in the arms of harlotry—in
the midst of debauchery and dissipation—and so the example
of the parent descends to the child; but judgment, that of
a just judge, goes down likewise to their posterity—the face that
was formed the very model of beauty, is distorted and haggard;
that cheek which should have been lovelier than that of spring,
blushing beneath the warm gaze of summer, is sallow and wan with
disease, seeming a frightful effigy of death, rather than the visage of
living man—and are there not legions of the crippled, the blind,
and the blighted, from these sources, their own folly and crimes?
The fulness of richness begets poverty; should he who hath scattered
his gold upon every idle and worthless project, who hath cast
his money away on wild carouse and wassail with the gambler and
the losel—should he shrink from the suffering that he deserves, and
hath brought upon himself? and does he dare call the gift of life a
curse, when he alone hath made it such: How the situation of circumstance
alters feelings: the poor man supposes that had he wealth
he would know how to use it better to the advantage of his creatures
than all men who are flourishing in fortune; while the rich
believe poverty a thing gentle, and easy to be encountered;—let
them have their wish; how soon hath the first forgot that which he
intended, and how much harder than dying doth the latter find the
wound to which he hath often preached patience and hope; deny
not then, that all is well ordered: the fool is born to fortune,—for
were it otherwise he would perish for lack of bread and sustenance;
and talent is granted, that, in spite of the lowliness of its birth or
prospects, it may battle through every storm, and may be equal to
bear either the disasters or glories, that are alike the portion of
mortality,—yet the human desires have never a sufficiency; no matter
what the situation, the same dissatisfaction will exist—they are
ever grasping at impossibilities, and there is no portion within the
boundary of the far-stretched universe that holds a relief to their
insatiable wants.”

“But why,” I ventured to seek of the phantom, “hath not virtue,
which is so seldom found, the protection it deserves against the persecution
of the bad? Why is triumph showered on every offence that
is committed against justice or honour? Why hath it even become
dangerous to denounce the guilty, and to tear from their blackened
visages the mask of hypocrisy, under whose shade they have acted?
Doth it merit the prison-house, with cruelty that an age of barbarism
would have scorned, the thong, or the public outcry, to disclose
the knaveries of the peculator, the vileness and the vicious effeminacy
of the debauchee, the criminal intrigues of the selfish politician,
the corruptness of the partial judge, the presumption and assurance
of the thriftless knave and adventurer, the shallowness of the
vain fool and empty coxcomb, who, with unparalleled hardihood,
thrust themselves in the place of better men, and with the barefaced
impudence, which such as these have always in readiness, busy
themselves in every affair, trampling down worth and capability?”

“The culpable,” I was answered, “conscious of their own weakness
when in comparison to honesty, have flocked together for a
mutual support; they have leagued one with another to destroy
that which they were unequal to in brightness—as the clouds upon
the mountain head are gloomier for the whiteness of the snow which
they enshadow, so doth the criminal feel the superior beauty of vir

tue, and that which he envies it is natural for him to strive against for
ruin; nor is it of moment what ends are used for his object: the cunning
of the fox and the quenchless thirst of the ferocious tiger, that
hath once  lapped human gore ,[4] alike assist and urge him on his hateful
course; the good have seldom worldly guards, and are ever unsuspecting,
and soon fall an easy prey to dark intrigue and persecuting
guile—but which is to be envied, the conquered or the conqueror?
the first is not abandoned in his fall, for in the howling wilderness,
on the stormy ocean, on the bed of death, and in the stony walls
of the dank dungeon, doth the pure heart beat free and light, and far
happier than the stern victor under the silken canopy; the breath of
heaven is ever about the virtuous; health, nursed by ruddy labour,
with a colour like the moss rose bud, e'er the sun and dew hath
kissed away its delicate and rosy smile, visits the cheek of the lowly,
and is wooed by the rich in vain—tenfold are the blessings that
wait on the good, even amidst persecution and sorrow, and though
surrounded by grandeur and prosperity, the wicked feel the curse:
If you believe that vengeance and punishment are not dealt out to
the offending, ask at the lone traveller, if o'er the Syrian waste he
passed, why the stagnant and dead pool lies in bitter flood above the
ancient cities, or why the dire hyena and the jackal's scream heard
from among the grass grown halls of the luxurious Persian? and
what is now the towering temple of Chaldean Bel? where are
the city's hundred brazen gates? her airy gardens—the harnessed
chariots of her haughty nobles; yes, the music of the cymbal, lute,
and glittering dulcimer, and all the pomp of her unholy worship to
her carved gods have passed away—all is a shapeless ruin—desolation's
sacred place! the vials of long stored wrath have burst upon
the abode of empire, and the pride and terror of the world is now a
plain of ashes. Not wrongly do you assert, that it is rash to tear
away the cloak beneath which the hideous and secret designs of
vice are fostered, for is it safe to pluck up the rushes that overshadow
the couch of the venomous snake?—it is not in the hope nor in
the power of one single being to prostrate the evil of his species, and
he is unworthy of his task if he cannot bear without suffering (when
knowing the reason and the source,) the wretched revilings of his
enemies; when the hunter pursues the desert leopard, knows he
not that every barb that pierces the wild animal's spotted hide, renders
him more savage; and when the villanies of man are exposed, does it not
render him the more revengeful? He that cries out against crime, places
his hand in the nest of the adder—for wealth feels that he is its foe—for
the many find that the hidden deeds of their own hearts are brought to
day, and all are conscious of their deformities. Is it not natural then that
the wounded should hate him who struck the blow? and is it not to be
supposed that every means would be employed to trample down to dust
the presumptuous unmasker of iniquity. And what is to be sought for or
to be expected from the dastard and despicable spirit—the low, mean,
and grovelling souls of the coward, the convicted slanderer, the timeserving
sycophant, the conceited fool, the selfish hypocrite, and the venal
tool of every paymaster—if fate, aided by corrupted justice, for
awhile should place their foe in thraldom, where he is open to their attack
and is unable to defend himself:—nothing but such pitiful revenge,
as contemptible minds alone can dictate, and with which the souls of the
most despised wretches are familiar. Look at this allegory, and mark
the lesson you behold, and bethink thee how much more noble and worthy,
and deserving of praise, (which it will receive in spite of malice) is
virtue persecuted, than vice that attempts to triumph over it.”

As the last words were uttered, the slender and lithe figure before me
waved in motion like the light cypress, when the breeze awakens music
in its boughs, while the waves of the sunlight parted with the movement
of its white arms, and I beheld in its hands something that approached
to the likeness of a clear and transparent mirror. I gazed therein as
commanded, and there lay, stretched out before me, an extensive landscape
of a wild, trackless, and wooded country: the sky would have
been clear above, but some light clouds wandered on its surface, like the
fears e'en happy love must know. But in the foreground of this pictured
resemblance of nature, was the object that soon attracted my attention:
it was a gallant and noble lion caught in the wily snare of the forester,
and bound in every limb tight as by cords of iron, in a mesh more closely
woven than the nest of the spider. In vain did he strive to tear his hateful
bonds asunder; his matchless strength was of no avail in his agony,
and his fierce endeavours served but to rob him of his remaining vigour;
heavy moans burst from his bosom in sorrow, and black despair had
made an entrance into his heart. At this moment, there sprang briskly
from an adjoining thicket an ass,[5] whose hide bore such deep and recent
marks of the lion's fangs, that had it not been for the overweening length
of his ears, it might have been a difficult thing to distinguish of what

class of animals he belonged; no sooner, however, did he behold the
king of quadrupeds than planting his hoofs upon the ground, he shook in
very terror, until the sweat poured down his sides, but after awhile, perceiving
the object of his fears lay prostrate and stirred not, as though
dead, his horror began slowly to disperse, and mustering courage, he
slowly approached, though cautiously, at every step glancing his eye
back, like a sensible ass, to secure a retreat in case of danger. After
having, however, perceived the forlorn situation of his foe, all dread in
an instant fled his heretofore doubtful mind, and prancing about he brayed
loudly and lustily for joy; and taking courage, from the advantageous
state of circumstances, he at first boldly struck up the dust against the
enthralled beast, and then most valiantly ventured to strike the prisoner
with his hoof; then indeed did the generous beast feel the coward indignity,
and roared aloud in scorn upon his pusillanimous tormentor, whose
timorous heart died within him at the sound, and braying with affright,
he fled with speed in the deepest of the forest. But the sound of his voice
had roused the tenants of the woods, of whom many had felt the power
of the lion, and when they learnt his bondage, they all rushed, many
whom he never injured, to enjoy the dastard pleasure of adding to his
misery. First came an ourang-outang, an animal who walked strait upright
like a man, and imitated a great number of his actions more than
any other brute, but of a bald and unsavoury look; but believing itself
an animal of greater pretensions than others, it stood apart, and with hideous
chatterings, and owlish grimaces, kept urging its companions forward
to their sport. Next came, with all the gravity of an alderman, a
churlish and savage looking ape, who, having picked a stone out of a mud
puddle, cast it against the side of the chained monarch of the woods; but
it being of a soft and dirty substance, ere it struck the lion it divided, and
fell into pieces of its original composition. But it were wasting time to
describe minutely the herd of creatures that followed, suffice it, they
were all of the lowest species, and tortured by the meanest tricks. And
there were not wanting birds of the air to fill the train: there was the
musical owl, with all the appearance of wisdom; and there was the goose
with its kingly stride; and lastly the dunghill cock, that sought the shelter
of the barn door at every notice of battle; the spotted and venomous
toad leaped forward in the crowd, while the gouty and bloated blue-bottle,
the very image of some black-robed hypocrite, was droning about
with its teasing and tiresome hum.

“Such,” continued the Spirit, as I withdrew my eyes from the
representation of the objects presented by the glass, “even as actuate
these that I have shown, are the spiteful and gall-overflowing
feelings of the hearts of those who are wanting in mind, honour, and
every ennobling quality, and he that can feel ought but scorn and contempt
for such beings as are possessed of feelings of this kind, is fit
alone to herd with them; while that man, who, armed in defence of

virtue, though for a time he may be overborne by mean intrigue
and dastard subtlety, will flourish in respect, and daily feel and behold
the success of his labours in spite of persecution.”****

Suddenly, the voice of the shadowy being with whom I held converse,
ceased, and I perceived its figure grew fainter and fainter
on my sight, though retaining its beauty to the end, as the pale stars
that linger last in the train of departing night, until the whole vision
totally disappeared, leaving not a trace behind, like the fading
of a white translucent cloud that hangs in the trackless path of the
summer moon. I gazed with intense interest until not a lineament
of form was visible, and strained to catch a last glimpse of the departing
vision, but it was in vain, the sunbeam itself, in whose dazzling
light it seemed to live, was gone, for the orb, of which it was
a ray, had folded its wings of golden fire, after its long and weary
travel, and sought to enter the cloud pavilion of its rest like a
crowned bridegroom, glowing with rich and purple gleams, while
hundreds of shapes seemed gathering in its train, of bright domes
and groves, of golden spires and armed and gigantic warriors, about
whose way as around the destroying angel, rose clouds of dust
along the silent, thronged, and living sky; but soon all passed away,
even like the pageant of a dream, and dark low mists began to creep
in lazy folds along the house-tops, while afar off from out the eastern
gates, like to the blossoms of the almond tree, that branch out
in knots of silver, came forth the glittering stars, the harbingers of
night.

I had gratified the first and favourite longing of my soul; that
for which for years I had thirsted, with a deep unquenchable desire.
I had discoursed with a creature of a different element from
that to which I was condemned to toil in, and yet I felt disturbed
and disappointed, there were a thousand things I should have sought
—a thousand inquiries I had neglected, a thousand doubts that I
would have solved. I had my wish, but still I felt irresolute and
hesitating, and as I looked upon the closing heaven, I felt as though
I scarce believed that which had past a reality—`Is it not possible,'
I thought, `that I have deceived myself with a creation of my
own brain; can this have happened, or hath my imagination, lost to
reason, built up this wild fancy, this airy fabric;—for it is not within
the bounds prescribed to the knowledge of mortality, that the secrets
of another world should be thus idly disclosed, that bright

beings, whose dwellings and substance are beyond mortal divination,
should thus reveal themselves to human sight, or hold words
of intercourse with living man, yet I have not slept, nor hath there
been a lethargy upon me, my blood rushes free in its currents
through my veins; still e'er now I have had wakening thoughts,
mad, wild, and singular as this, on which I now am misled, and even
as now I have remembered the words and circumstances as palpably
as though acted in life, of visionary characters that had no
existence, except in the strange phantasies of my own o'er-wrought
brain.'

The melodious song of the bird of night that loves the rose, and
if eastern tales speak true, lives almost on its perfume, rose to my
ear from a tender bough beneath my window; it stole upon my busied
mind, and roused me from reflection—I started impatiently from
my seat, and was about to pace the apartment, when by accident,
or induced by the tenor of my late reverie, I cast my eye towards
the spot where the phantom had stood, when, to my astonishment,
on the very place, where, with its silver brilliance, the sunlight
had kissed the floor, I beheld something white and motionless;
with eager step I rushed to grasp the object of my wonder, almost
believing as I approached it, a deception of my vision; I snatched it
in my hand—it was a roll of paper, huge, and folded carefully; I
burst the strings that bound it, in haste, and with hand that trembled
in unison with my doubting heart, and straining my sight, I
traced the letters of the direction: gentle reader, to my astonishment,
I discovered the manuscript of the following pages; here was
new matter for speculation and surprise, and whether it was a confirmation
that I had indeed felt the presence of a Spirit, or whether
the hand of mortal man had conveyed the writings to my
chamber, is what I am even now unable to solve.

The text in which the papers were written, seemed aged and
antiquated, the ink yellowed, dried, and pallid, so as in many places
to be scarcely legible; the mouth of time appeared to have decayed
many pages, which were shrivelled with damp, and fell to dust
when touched, and which I have been forced to supply to continue
the thread of the narrative, and I have also altered many passages
and sentiments which were expressed in obsolete and ancient
phrases, into a modern form, and as I found some parts were likely
to involve historical discussions, and feeling my own small informa

tion on the time of the action to be very slight and deficient, I have
undertaken to call to my assistance the pen of a philosopher and
scholar already well known to the public,[6] and I trust his judicious
remarks and learned illustrations interspersed through the
work, will meet that favour with all that they so justly deserve.
With this explanation, for the present, I beg the indulgence of the
peruser.