"Sin vos, y sin Dios y mi."
"Sin vos, y sin Dios y mi."
The motto that with trembling hand I write,And deep is traced upon this heart of mine,In olden time a loyal Christian knightBore graven on his shield to Palestine."Sin vos," it saith, "if I am without thee,"Beloved! whose thought surrounds me every where—"Sin Dios," I am without God, "y mi,"And in myself I have no longer share.Where pealed the clash of war, the mighty din,Where trump and cymbal crashed along the sky;High o'er the "Il Allah!" of the Moslemin,"God and my lady!" rang his battle-cry.His white plume waved where fiercest raged the flight,His arm was strong the Paynim's course to stem:His foot was foremost on the sacred height,To plant the Cross above Jerusalem.False proved the lady, and thenceforth the knight,Casting aside the buckler and the brand,Lived, an austere and lonely anchorite,In a drear mountain-cave in Holy Land.There, bowed before the Crucifix in prayer,He would dash madly down his rosary,And cry "Beloved!" in tones of wild despair,"I have lost God, and self, in losing thee!"And I, if thus my life's sweet hope were o'er,An echo of the knight's despair must be;Thus I were lost, if loved by thee no more,For, ah! myself and heaven are merged in thee.
The motto that with trembling hand I write,And deep is traced upon this heart of mine,In olden time a loyal Christian knightBore graven on his shield to Palestine.
"Sin vos," it saith, "if I am without thee,"Beloved! whose thought surrounds me every where—"Sin Dios," I am without God, "y mi,"And in myself I have no longer share.
Where pealed the clash of war, the mighty din,Where trump and cymbal crashed along the sky;High o'er the "Il Allah!" of the Moslemin,"God and my lady!" rang his battle-cry.
His white plume waved where fiercest raged the flight,His arm was strong the Paynim's course to stem:His foot was foremost on the sacred height,To plant the Cross above Jerusalem.
False proved the lady, and thenceforth the knight,Casting aside the buckler and the brand,Lived, an austere and lonely anchorite,In a drear mountain-cave in Holy Land.
There, bowed before the Crucifix in prayer,He would dash madly down his rosary,And cry "Beloved!" in tones of wild despair,"I have lost God, and self, in losing thee!"
And I, if thus my life's sweet hope were o'er,An echo of the knight's despair must be;Thus I were lost, if loved by thee no more,For, ah! myself and heaven are merged in thee.
"Know, then, that in the year 1743, in the city of Palermo, the family of Signor Pietro Balsamo, a shopkeeper, were exhilarated by the birth of a boy. Such occurrences have now become so frequent, that, miraculous as they are, they occasion little astonishment;" and, it may be well to add, that, except in some curious cases, there is no longer that exhilaration now felt, but, as in Ireland, a leaden sense of future woe. We are not told by the parents that any strange or miraculous appearance attended or preceded this advent, though one cannot but believe that the future Archimagus and his followers must have had a more or less distinct opinion upon this point. Not to lose time in speculation, we learn that "we have here found in the Count Alessandro di Cagliostro (the above-named boy), pupil of the sage, Altholas—foster-child of the Scherif of Mecca—probable son of the last king of Trebizond; named also Acharat, and unfortunate child of nature; by profession, healer of diseases, abolisher of wrinkles, friend of the poor and impotent, grand-master of the Egyptian Mason lodge of High Science, spirit summoner, gold cork, grand cophta, prophet, priest, and thaurmaturgic moralist and swindler; really aliarof the first magnitude; thorough-paced in all provinces of lying, what one may call their king."
Under the common tent, the great canopy of life, it would not be fair to prejudge the mind of the reader upon so grave a thing as character, which we are now considering—it might be best to let each come to an after-thought respecting it—upon our caustic and noble author let the blame, if any, hang, while we now proceed to dip in, here and there, to his magic page.
As the boy grows, we learn, that "as he skulks about there, plundering, pilfering, playing dog's-tricks, with his finger in every mischief, he already gains character. Shrill housewives of the neighborhood, whose sausages he has filched, whose weaker sons maltreated, name him Beppo Maldetto, and indignantly prophecy that he will be hanged—a prediction which the issue has signally falsified." We also may learn, what, in the treatment of our whole subject it is extremely important to remember, that, in the "boy," a "brazen impudence developes itself, the crowning gift," &c. "To his astonishment," though, "he finds that even here he is in a conditional world, and if he will employ his capability of eating (or enjoying) must first, in some measure, work and suffer. Contention enough hereupon; but now dimly arises, or reproduces itself, the question. Whether there were not ashorterroad—that of stealing!"
But how he was entered into the convent, and under the convent apothecary proceeded to learn certain arts and mysteries of the retorts and alembics (which lucky knowledge, after that, came to use), while he was learning his other trade of monkery and mass-chanting, we will omit. It is enough to know, that he would not answer for the convent, and was again afloat on the wide sea of existence. That he floated is certain; for "he has a fair cousin living in the house with him, and she again has a lover. Beppo stations himself as go-between; delivers letters; fails not to drop hints that a lady to be won or kept must be generously treated; that such and such a pair of ear-rings, watch, or sum of money, would work wonders: which valuables, adds the wooden Roman biographer, he then appropriated furtively." Slowly but certainly he makes his way: "tries his hand at forging" theatre tickets—a will even, "for the benefit of a certain religious house;" and, further on, can tell fortunes, and show visions in a small way—all these inspirations are vouchsafed him, or, rather, these things he is permitted to do, and others not to be mentioned here.
It is well to note, that in all times, and among all peoples, there is a deep and profound conviction that thereisnot only a "short and certain" way of getting to heaven, and to know the eternal truths, but also that these earthly treasures do exist, in untold quantity, in the elements; and if one could only discover the secret by which the gases could be condensed into solid gold, or the gnomes be persuaded or compelled to give them up, ready solidified to hand, it would at least save time and be satisfactory. It is only curious, as a matter of speculation, to know what we shall eat when the lucky age arrives, and spirits will do our bidding in this matter of gold and diamonds. The "boy," as he grew, discovered this world-wide capacity; and who should have this power of setting the "spirits" to work but he?
"Walking one day in the fields with a certain ninny of a goldsmith, named Marano, Beppo begins in his oily voluble way to hint that treasures often lay hid; that a certain treasure lay hid there (as he knew by some pricking of his thumbs, divining rod, or other talismanic monition), which treasure might, by the aid of science, courage, secrecy, and a small judicious advance of money, be fortunately lifted. The gudgeon takes—advances, by degrees, to the length of 'sixty gold ounces'—sees magic circles drawn in the wane or the full of the moon, blue (phosphorous) flames arise—split twigs auspiciously quiver—and at length demands, peremptorily, that the treasure be dug!"
Alas! why is it that the "spirits" so often fail us at our sorest need? Dotheydeceive us; and, if not, who does? The treasure vanishes, or does not appear, "the conditions are imperfect," and the "ninny of a goldsmith" being roughly handled by these spiritualvisitants, threatens to stiletto the adept; who, overcome with the ingratitude of the world, concludes to quit;—at least, in the words of his Inquisition biographer, "he fled from Palermo, and overran the whole earth."
We may see how he has grown—how, as in ordinary mortals, he advances step by step—even he, the favorite son of the higher intelligences, learns as he goes. How is it, then, that we can have no full-grown inspiration; that we know of no perfection—that we only go on towards it? Can it be that prophets and priests really dolearn, and that even now, men may grow into the future? Might not a more thorough and scientific seminary for this purpose be established than any we now have—theologic, thaumaturgic, theosophic, or other variety? It is a question easier asked than answered.
"The Beppic Hegira brings us down in European history to somewhere about the period of the peace of Paris"—(a.d.——), supervening upon which is a portentous time—"the multitudinous variety of quacks that, along with Beppo, overran all Europe during that same period—the latter half of the last century. It was the very age of impostors, cut-purses, swindlers, double gaugers, enthusiasts, ambiguous persons, quacks simple, quacks compound, crack-brained or with deceit prepense, quacks and quackeries of all colors and kinds. How many mesmerists (so speaks this strange author), magicians, cabalists, Swedenborgians, illuminati, crucified nuns, and devils of Loudun! To which the Inquisition biographer adds vampyres, sylphs, rosicrucians, free-masons, and anet cetera. Consider your Schropfers, Cagliostros, Casanovas, Saint Germains, Dr. Grahams, the Chevalier d'Eon, Psalmanazar, Abbé Paris, and the Ghost of Cock-lane!—as if Bedlam had broken loose!"
The great, the inexplicable, the mysterious Beppo, being now fairly afloat, let us try to comprehend how he has begun to touch upon the edge of those trade winds, which shall drive him along toward the golden Indies, Ophir, and the land of promise, for which the men of this world do so hunger and thirst.
He married a beautiful Seraphina, afterward countess, graceful and lady-like, once the daughter of a girdle-maker, and named Lorenza Feliciani. Every one, simple or sedate, knows that it is best to hunt in couples. What one has not the other may have. So Seraphina had beauty, lightness, buoyancy, and could float up her count when the demons and harpies of a certain troublesome devil, called law or justice, seemed bent upon his swift destruction. Could she not, too, "enlist the sympathies of admiring audiences"—by her sweet smiles and "artless ways," gain belief, and "a wish to believe?" More than that, could she not turn the heads of young and old? "noble" perhaps, perhaps "ignoble"—"moneyed do-nothings" (so says this writer), whereof in this vexed earth there are many, ever lounging about such (?) places—scan and comment on the foreign coat-of-arms—ogle the fair foreign woman, who timidly recoils from their gaze, timidly responds to their reverences, as in halls and passages they obsequiously throw themselves in her way. Ere long, one moneyed do-nothing (from amid his tags, tassels, sword-belts, fop-tackle, frizzled hair, without brains beneath it) is heard speaking to another—"Seen the countess?—divine creature that!" Indeed, one cannot but wonder that any should question the unity of the race, at least, of those known as "civilized." In a small way, or in a large way, how this thing ever goes on—on church steps, on Broadways, in Metropolitan Halls, Congresses, the Palais-Royal, at home and abroad! And men do yet callthis"reverence for the sex," and holy sentiment; and indulge in hallelujahs to that hoary myth, "a gentleman of the old school;" while women—God help us—women loving it, hate those who, hating it, hate hollowness and hell. With slight imagination, then, one may see how important an element this "divine creature" must have become in any conjuration or mystic "renovation of the universe," which the high mystagogue might be impressed to set on foot. Enough, thatshehelped and learned the arts of prophecy and perfection faster than her master! But we read—alas! alas!—"As his seraphic countess gives signs of withering, and one luxuriant branch of industry will die and drop off, others must be pushed into budding." He, the indefatigable count, is not idle. "Faded dames of quality (over all Europe, all creation) have many wants: the count has not studied in the convent laboratory, or pilgrimed to the Count St. Germain, in Westphalia, to no purpose. With loftiest condescension he stoops to impart somewhat of his supernatural secrets—for aconsideration. Rowland's Kalydor is valuable; but what to the beautifying water of Count Alessandro! He that will undertake to smooth wrinkles, and make withered, green parchment into a fair carnation skin, is he not one whom faded dames of quality will delight to honor? Or, again, let the beautifying-water succeed or not, have not such dames (if calumny may in aught be believed) another want? This want, too, the indefatigable Cagliostro will supply—for a consideration. For faded gentlemen of quality the count likewise has help. Not a charming countess alone, but a "wine of Egypt" (Cantharides not being unknown to him), sold in drops, more precious than nectar; which, what faded gentlemen of quality will not purchase with any thing short of life. Consider, too, what may be done with potions, washes, charms, love-philters, among a class of mortals idle from their mother's womb," &c., &c.
It is well to know, once for all, that the count, chief-priest of his order—which yetthrives, and if not great, deserves to be called for its number, Legion—made money out of this his enterprising trade; that he was enabled to pay his way; to ride post with the ever potent "voucher of respectability, a coach-and-four," with out-riders and beef-eaters, and couriers and lackeys, and the other paraphernalia which the greedy tooth of man desires—which helps one forward so far toward happiness, provided always that "thereisno heaven above and no hell beneath," of which let each first make sure; and more than all, let such as wish to travel this road, take great courage from the contemplation of this one model.
We must hasten to the year 1776, a year rather noted in our annals, and in that of England, perhaps, independently of this the "first visit" of the famed Count Cagliostro to its shores, which happened then. Should it have so chanced that he had lived now, would he have stopped there does the reader think? Having an insight intotheirnational character, and finding "great greed and need," and but small heed, what might he not have done on this transatlantic shore, whose free people can so nobly cherish even its Barnum, its——, its——! But let names go. We make the most of what we have, and if not equal to the greatest, the fault rests not on our shoulders. We are not responsible for the past, if for the present or future.
'Twas in England that the master developed most bravely the art of prophecy; perhaps finding there a demand for his supply—such, according to some, being the only law of God or man. It is enough to know that he does a trade in foretelling the lucky lottery numbers by means of his "occult science," whereby at least he put money inhispurse, and satisfied good-natured men that as there were gulls, and necessarily a guller, he above all others deserved praise and not blame; the whole thing, this life, being really a juggle, and the smartest fellow of course the best juggler. As man goes on he developes, so many think—so did Cagliostro, and in his growth he reaches to masonry—Egyptian masonry—and in "sworn secrecy" finds a new Talisman, for which men will pay five guineas each. He resolves to "free it from all vile ingredients, and make it a new Evangile." "No religion is excluded from the Egyptian society"—for is it not certain that religionpays? Charity too, pays, as we shall see by-and-by. No religion is tabooed—none—all who admit the existence of a God, and the immortality of the soul, may, for the small sum of five guineas, be certain to gain "perfection by means of a physical and moral regeneration." He promises them by the former or physical to find theprime matteror philosopher's stone, and theacaciawhich consolidates in man the forces of the most vigorous youth, and renders him immortal; and by the latter or moral, to procure them a Pentagon which shall restore man to his primitive state of innocence, lost by his original sin. It must be understood that this masonry was founded by Enoch and Elias, had been corrupted by the Egyptian priests, but was now restored to its pristine vigor by its last and greatest Grand Cophta, and includes not only men but women, of whom the Countess Seraphina is Cophtess.
We cannot do better than to gain some insight into the forms and symbolic practices of these worshippers; and especially will those who desire to practise this or any short and easy way to perfection or happiness, be glad to learn what has been done, and thus be encouraged to begin.
In theEssai sur les Illuminés, printed in Paris in 1789, are the following details quoted by this before-mentioned known author.[1]These bear an air of truth and probability which will win for them easy admission. Many of them are not unlike what we have seen amongst us during the few past years.
"They take a young lad or a girl who is in the state of innocence: such they call thePupilorColomb: the Venerable communicates to him the power he would have had before the fall of man; which power consists mainly in commanding the pure spirits: these spirits are to the number of seven. It is said they surround the shrine, and that they govern the seven planets. Their names are Arael, Michael, Raphael, Gabriel, Uriel, Zobiachel, Anachiel." Nothing certainly can begin more favorably. We learn that "she the Colomb," can act in two ways, either behind a curtain, behind a hieroglyphically-painted screen with table and three candles, or before the Caraffe and showing face. If themiracle failit can only be because she is not "in the state of innocence."An accident must be guarded against.Surely our mystic professors, both clerical and lay, will take heed to these things. Much may be learned.
Cagliostro accordingly (it is his own story) brought a little boy into the lodge, son of a nobleman there. He placed him on his knees before a table, whereon stood a bottle of pure water, and behind this some lighted candles. He made an exorcism round the boy, put his hand on head, and both in this attitude addressed their prayers to God for the happy accomplishment of the work. Having then bid the child look into the bottle, directly the child cried that he saw a garden. Knowing hereby that Heaven assisted him [why this is so proven he does not explain], Cagliostro took courage, and bade the child ask of God the grace to see the Archangel Michael. At first the child said, "I see something white; I know not what it is." Then he began jumping and stamping like a possessed creature, and cried, "Now, I see a child like myself, which seems to have something angelical (!)"All the assembly and Cagliostro himself remained speechless with emotion....[How like this is to what we at this day haveseen.] The child being anew exorcised with the hands of the Venerable on his head, and the customary prayers addressed to Heaven, he looked into the bottle, and said he saw his sister at that moment coming down stairs, and embracing one of her brothers. That appeared impossible, the brother in question being then hundreds of miles off. However Cagliostro felt not disconcerted; said they might send to the country-house, where the sister was, and see—if they chose!
Do some still doubt? Time nor paper will allow us to allay that doubt. We must, as rapidly as we can, introduce what may yet be useful in certain cases of the like kind, either in whole or in part. It is the introduction of a novice into the holy Mysteries.
"The recipiendary is led by a darksome path into a large hall, the ceiling, the walls, the floor of which are covered by a black cloth, sprinkled over with red flames and menacing serpents; three sepulchral lamps emit from time to time a dying glimmer, and the eye half distinguishes, in this lugubrious den, certain wrecks of mortality suspended by funeral crapes; a heap of skeletons forms in the centre a sort of altar; on both sides of it are piled books; some contain menaces against the perjured; others the deadly narrative of the vengeance which the invisible spirit has exacted; of the infernal evocations for a long time pronounced in vain.
"Eight hours elapse. Then phantoms, trailing mortuary vails, slowly cross the hall and sink in caverns, without audible noise of trapdoors or of falling. You notice only that they are gone by a fetid odor exhaled from them.
"The novice remains four and twenty hours in this gloomy abode, in the midst of a freezing silence. A rigorous fast has already weakened his thinking faculties. Liquors prepared for the purpose first weary and at length wear out his senses. At his feet are placed three cups, filled with a drink of a greenish color. Necessity lifts them to his lips: involuntary fear repels them.
"At last appear two men: looked upon as the ministers of Death. These gird the pale brow of the recipiendary with an auroral-colored-ribbon dipped in blood, and full of silvered characters mixed with our lady of Loretto. He receives a copper crucifix, of two inches length: to his neck are hung a sort of amulets wrapped in violet cloth. He is stripped of his clothes; which two ministering brethren deposit on a funeral pile, erected at the other end of the hall. With blood on his naked body are traced crosses. In this state of suffering and humiliation, he sees approaching with large strides five Phantoms armed with swords, and clad in garments dropping blood. Their faces are vailed: they spread a velvet carpet on the floor; kneel there, pray; and remain with outstretched hands crossed on their breasts, and faces fixed on the ground in deep silence. An hour passes in this painful attitude. After which fatiguing trial, plaintive cries are heard; the funeral pile takes fire, yet casts only a pale light; the garments are thrown on it and burnt. A colossal and almost transparent figure rises from the very bosom of the pile. At sight of it the five prostrated men fall into convulsions insupportable to look on: the too faithful image of those foaming struggles wherein a mortal, at hand-grips with a sudden pain, ends by sinking under it.
"Then a trembling voice pierces the vault, and articulates the formula of those execrable oaths that are to be sworn: my pen falters: I think myself almost guilty to retrace them."
Strange as it may seem, we stop here with Monsieur the Author. Strange too that some deny the reality of all this—and tell of magic lanterns and science—stranger still that men are who believe all—all—'tis to them a spasmodic miracle, and he is an infidel of course who doubts. Strange too is it, that men do not see here the monstrous power of what is called Symbolism, and that they should not help nor hinder; who say, Let the world go—who cares! Men live and women too who say, "There'ssomethingin it"—there must be! and is there not? Figure now all this boundless cunningly devised agglomerate of royal arches, deaths' heads, hieroglyphically painted screens, "columns in the state of innocence, with spacious masonic halls—dark, or in the favorablest theatrical light-and-dark: Kircher's magic lantern, Belshazzar handwritings (of phosphorus), plaintive tones, gong-beatings, hoary head of a supernatural Grand Cophta emerging through the gloom—and how it all acts, not only directly through the foolish senses of men, but also indirectly connecting itself with Enoch and Elias, with philanthropy, immortality," &c. Let such aswillnow say there is nothing in it—something there is, for a thoughtful man to consider well of, asking himself what also does this of clairvoyance, and spiritual knockings, and Jenny-Lind manias, and Jerkers—truly mean? and what kind of a person amI who have hadpart and lot with these?
But the lofty science of Egyptian Masonry flourishes, lodges are established over Europe, and the Grand Master travels hither and thither, "mounts to the seat of the Venerable, and holds high discourse, hours long, on masonry, morality, universal science, divinity, and things in general," with a "sublimity, and emphasis and unction," proceeding it appears "from the special inspiration of the Holy Ghost." He is received with shouts and exultation—every where the great heart of man thrills at the coming of this mystic symbol, which contains—cunningly enfolded, as their eyes can and do see—every virtue, every greatness—is he not indeed the Incarnation of these, and therefore to be worshipped; such gift of reverence is in the heart of man, and to such things does he again and again bow down!
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 ushappy." 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 goodgrown outof 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 calledpublicor 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, withthe 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 whennot 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, "Whitherno man knows!" So ended a Magician!
New Haven, Feb., 1852.
FOOTNOTES:[1]T. Carlyle.
[1]T. Carlyle.
[1]T. Carlyle.
Bitter words are easy spoken;Not so easily forgot;Hearts it may be can be broken—Mine cannot!When thou lovest me I adore thee;Hating, I can hate thee too;But I will not bow before thee—Will not sue!Even now, without endeavor,Thou hast wounded so my pride,I could leave thee, and for ever—Though I died!
Bitter words are easy spoken;Not so easily forgot;Hearts it may be can be broken—Mine cannot!
When thou lovest me I adore thee;Hating, I can hate thee too;But I will not bow before thee—Will not sue!
Even now, without endeavor,Thou hast wounded so my pride,I could leave thee, and for ever—Though I died!
The cabinet remained in deliberation at the Ministry of War, situated at the corner of the square called the Hof. The tide of insurrection now rose to an unconquerable height. The nearest shots of the retiring cannons, the advancing shouts of the infuriated people, warned the ministers that all defence was rapidly becoming hopeless. The building itself still offered some means of resistance, and there were two cannons in the court; but at that crisis was issued a written order, signed by Latour and Wessenberg, "to cease the fire at all points," and given to officers for distribution.[3]It was in vain. The popular torrent rolled on toward the seat of government, which was destined ere long to be disgraced by atrocious crime. The minister of war, Count Latour, prepared for defence. The military on guard in front of the war office were withdrawn into the yards, with two pieces of artillery loaded with grape. The gates were closed, the military distributed to the different threatened points, and the cannons directed towards the two gates; soon the scene of battle had reached the Bogner Gasse, immediately under the windows of the war department; the ministers in consultation heard the cry, "The military retreat." The great square of the Hof was soon cleared, the soldiers retiring by the way of the Freyung. The guards and academic legion pursuing; the military commander's quarters in the Freyung are soon captured. The retiring military not being able to escape through the Schotten-Thor, as they had expected, that gate being closed and barricaded, they cut their way through the Herrn Gasse.
So intent were the respective combatants, either in retreat or pursuit, that the whole tempest of war swept over the Hof, and left that square, for a short time, deserted and silent.
But that stillness was but of short duration; a few moments only had elapsed, when a number of straggling guards, students, and people, came stealing silently from the Graben, through the Bogner, Naglus, and Glosken Gasse, on to the Hof, and removed the dead and the wounded into the neighboringdwellings, and into the deserted guard-house in the war department. These were soon followed by a fierce and noisy mob, armed with axes, pikes, and iron bars, which halted before the war office, and began to thunder at its massive doors.
The officer of ordnance in vain attempted to communicate to the crowd the order of the ministry, that all firing should cease. A member of the academic legion, from the window, over the gateway, waved with a white handkerchief to the tumultuous masses, and, exhibiting the order signed by Latour and Wessenberg, read its contents to the crowd.
But a pacification was not to be thought of; the people were too excited, their fury could only be appeased by blood; that delayed measure was not sufficient; they made negative gesticulations, and summoned the student to come down and open the portals to their admission. The tumult increased from minute to minute; the closed doors at length gave way under the axes of the mob, and the people streamed in, led by a man "in a light gray coat."
The secretary of war, having by this time abandoned the idea of defence, on the ground either that it was useless or impolitic, no shots were fired or active resistance offered; but the orderlies with their horses retired to the stables, and the grenadiers into an inner court. At first only single individuals entered, and their course was not characterized by violence; then groups, proceeding slowly, listening, and searching; and, at last the tumultuous masses thundered in the rear.
Ere long the cry rung on the broad staircase, "Where is Latour? he must die!" At this moment the ministers and their followers in the building, with the exception of Latour himself, found means to escape, or mingled with the throng. The deputies, Smolka, Borrosch, Goldmark, and Sierakowski, who had undertaken to guarantee protection to the threatened ministers, arrived in the hope of restraining the mob. The numerous corridors and cabinets of the war office (formerly a monastery of the Jesuits) were filled with the crowd; the tide of insurrection now rose to an uncontrollable height; and the danger of Latour became every moment more imminent.
The generals who were with him, perceiving the peril, entreated him to throw himself upon the Nassau regiment or the Dutch Meister grenadiers, and retreat to their barracks. He scorned the proposal, denied the danger, and even refused, for some time, to change his uniform for a civilian's dress, until the hazard becoming more evident, he put on plain clothes, and went up into a small room in the roof of the building, where he soon after signed a paper declaring that, with his majesty's consent, he was ready to resign the office of minister of war. A Tecnicker, named Ranch,[4]who, it was said, had come to relieve the secretary of war, was seized and hung in the court by his own scarf, but fortunately cut down by a National Guard before life was extinct. The mob rushed into the private apartment of the minister, but plundered it merely of the papers, which were conveyed to the university. They came with a sterner purpose. The act of resignation, exhibited to the crowd by the deputy Smolka, was scornfully received by the people, while the freshness of the writing, the sand adhering still to the ink, betrayed the proximity of the hand which had just traced it. Meanwhile, the crowd had penetrated the corridors of the fourth story, and were not long in discovering the place of Latour's concealment. Hearing their approach, and recognizing the voice of Smolka, vice-president of the assembly, who was doubtless anxious to protect him, Latour came out of his retreat.
They descended together from the fourth story by a narrow stairway, on the right-hand side of the building, and entered the yard by the pump. At each successive landing place, the tumult and the crowd increased; but the descent was slow, and rendered more and more difficult by the numbers which joined the crowd at every turn of the stairs. At length they reached the court below, and Count Latour, although he had been severely pressed, was still unhurt; but here the populace, which awaited them, broke in upon the group that still clustered around Latour, and dispersed it. In vain did the deputies, Smolka and Sierakowski, endeavor to protect the minister; in vain did the Count Leopold Gondrecourt attempt to cover him by the exposure of his own body. A workman struck the hat from his head; others pulled him by his gray locks, he defending himself with his hands, which were already bleeding. At length a ruffian, disguised as a Magyar, gave him, from behind, a mortal blow with a hammer, the man in the gray coat cleft his face with a sabre, and another plunged a bayonet into his heart. A hundred wounds followed, and, with the words, "I die innocent!" he gave up his loyal and manly spirit. A cry of exultation from the assembled crowd rent the air at this event. Every indignity was offered to his body; before he had ceased to breathe even, they hung him by a cord to the grating of a window in the court of the war office. He had been suspended there but a few minutes when, from the outrages committed on it, the body fell.
They then dragged it to the Hof, and suspended it to one of the bronze candelabras that adorn that extensive, and much frequented square, and there treated it with every indignity; it remained for fourteen hours exposed to the gaze of a mocking populace.
FOOTNOTES:[2]A chapter from Mr. Stiles's forthcoming work on Austria, which we have mentioned elsewhere in this number of the International.[3]The last order issued by the unfortunate Latour was instructed to Colonel Gustave Schindler, of the imperial engineers, an efficient officer, as well as a most amiable and accomplished gentleman, and one well and favourably known in the United States, from his kind attention to Americans who have visited the Austrian capital. The colonel was in the act of passing out of the great door of the war office, which opens on the Hof, when the mob reached that spot. Recognized by his imperial uniform, he was instantly surrounded and attacked. He received many blows on the head, inflicted by the crowd with clubs and iron bars; was most severely wounded, and would probably have been killed but for the timely interference of one of the rabble, who, riding up on horseback between the colonel and the mob, shielded him from further blow, and finally effected his escape.[4]A student of the Polytechnic school, for brevity, usually called Tecnickers.
[2]A chapter from Mr. Stiles's forthcoming work on Austria, which we have mentioned elsewhere in this number of the International.
[2]A chapter from Mr. Stiles's forthcoming work on Austria, which we have mentioned elsewhere in this number of the International.
[3]The last order issued by the unfortunate Latour was instructed to Colonel Gustave Schindler, of the imperial engineers, an efficient officer, as well as a most amiable and accomplished gentleman, and one well and favourably known in the United States, from his kind attention to Americans who have visited the Austrian capital. The colonel was in the act of passing out of the great door of the war office, which opens on the Hof, when the mob reached that spot. Recognized by his imperial uniform, he was instantly surrounded and attacked. He received many blows on the head, inflicted by the crowd with clubs and iron bars; was most severely wounded, and would probably have been killed but for the timely interference of one of the rabble, who, riding up on horseback between the colonel and the mob, shielded him from further blow, and finally effected his escape.
[3]The last order issued by the unfortunate Latour was instructed to Colonel Gustave Schindler, of the imperial engineers, an efficient officer, as well as a most amiable and accomplished gentleman, and one well and favourably known in the United States, from his kind attention to Americans who have visited the Austrian capital. The colonel was in the act of passing out of the great door of the war office, which opens on the Hof, when the mob reached that spot. Recognized by his imperial uniform, he was instantly surrounded and attacked. He received many blows on the head, inflicted by the crowd with clubs and iron bars; was most severely wounded, and would probably have been killed but for the timely interference of one of the rabble, who, riding up on horseback between the colonel and the mob, shielded him from further blow, and finally effected his escape.
[4]A student of the Polytechnic school, for brevity, usually called Tecnickers.
[4]A student of the Polytechnic school, for brevity, usually called Tecnickers.
I hung upon your breast in pain,And poured my kisses there like rain;A flood of tears, a cloud of fire,That fed and stifled wild desire,And lay like death upon my heart,To think that we must learn to path;For we must part, and live apart!Had I, that hour of dark unrest,But plunged a dagger in your breastAnd in mine own, it had been well;For now I had been spared the hellThat racks my lone and loving heart,To think that we must learn to part;—For we must part, and die apart!
I hung upon your breast in pain,And poured my kisses there like rain;A flood of tears, a cloud of fire,That fed and stifled wild desire,And lay like death upon my heart,To think that we must learn to path;For we must part, and live apart!
Had I, that hour of dark unrest,But plunged a dagger in your breastAnd in mine own, it had been well;For now I had been spared the hellThat racks my lone and loving heart,To think that we must learn to part;—For we must part, and die apart!
The shining cloud that broods above the hill,Casts down its shadows over all the lawns,The snowy swan is sailing out to sea,Leaving behind a ruffled surge of light!Lu Lu is like a cloud in memory,And shades the ancient brightness of my mind:A swan upon the ocean of my heart,Floating along a path of golden thought!The light of evening slants adown the sky,Poured from the inner folds of western cloud;But in the cast there is a spot of blue,And in that heavenly spot the evening star!The tresses of Lu Lu are like the light,Gushing from out her turban down her neck;And like that Eye of heaven, her mild blue eye,And in its deeps there hangs a starry tear!
The shining cloud that broods above the hill,Casts down its shadows over all the lawns,The snowy swan is sailing out to sea,Leaving behind a ruffled surge of light!Lu Lu is like a cloud in memory,And shades the ancient brightness of my mind:A swan upon the ocean of my heart,Floating along a path of golden thought!
The light of evening slants adown the sky,Poured from the inner folds of western cloud;But in the cast there is a spot of blue,And in that heavenly spot the evening star!The tresses of Lu Lu are like the light,Gushing from out her turban down her neck;And like that Eye of heaven, her mild blue eye,And in its deeps there hangs a starry tear!