CHAPTER LVII.
SUPERSTITION.--ITS WONDERFUL EFFECTS.
It was perfectly true that there had appeared in London a person of the
female sex who, during the last few years, had been much noted on the
Continent for the singular boldness with which she had promulgated the
wildest doctrines, and the supposed felicity which had attended her
vaticinations. She professed belief in all the dogmas that preceded the
dawn of modern philosophy; and a strange, vivid, yet gloomy eloquence that
pervaded her language gave effect to theories which, while
incomprehensible to the many, were alluring to the few. None knew her
native country, although she was believed to come from the North of
Europe. Her way of life was lonely, her habits eccentric; she sought no
companionship; she was beautiful, but not of this earth's beauty; men
admired, but courted not; she, at least, lived apart from the reach of
human passions. In fact, the strange Liehbur, for such was the name the
prophetness was known by (and she assumed before it the French title of
Madame), was not an impostor, but a fanatic: the chords of the brain were
touched, and the sound they gave back was erring and imperfect. She was
mad, but with a certain method in her madness; a cold, and preternatural,
and fearful spirit abode within her, and spoke from her lips--its voice
froze herself, and she was more awed by her own oracles than her listeners
themselves.
In Vienna and in Paris her renown was great, and even terrible: the
greatest men in those capitals had consulted her, and spoke of her decrees
with a certain reverence; her insanity thrilled there, and they mistook
the cause. Besides, in the main, she was right in the principle she
addressed: she worked on the imagination, and the imagination afterwards
fulfilled what she predicted. Every one knows what dark things may be
done by our own fantastic persuasions; belief insures the miracles it
credits. Men dream they shall die within a certain hour; the hour comes,
and the dream is realised. The most potent wizardries are less potent
than fancy itself. Macbeth was a murderer, not because the witches
predicted, but because their prediction aroused the thoughts of murder.
And this principle of action the prophetess knew well: she appealed to
that attribute common to us all, the foolish and the wise, and on that
fruitful ground she sowed her soothsayings.
In London there are always persons to run after anything new, and Madame
Liehbur became at once the rage.--I myself have seen a minister hurrying
from her door with his cloak about his face; and one of the coldest of
living sages confesses that she told him what he believes, by mere human
means, she could not have discovered. Delusion all! But what age is free
from it?
The race of the nineteenth century boast their lights, but run as madly
after any folly as their fathers in the eighth. What are the prophecies
of St. Simon but a species of sorcery? Why believe the external more than
the inner miracle?
* * * * *
There were but a few persons present at Lady Erpingham's, and when
Radclyffe entered, Madame Liehbur was the theme of the general
conversation. So many anecdotes were told, so much that was false was
mingled with so much that seemed true, that Lady Erpingham's curiosity was
excited, and she resolved to seek the modern Cassandra with the first
opportunity. Godolphin sat apart from the talkers playing a quiet game at
ecarte. Constance's eyes stole ever and anon to his countenance; and when
she turned at length away with a sigh, she saw that Radclyffe's deep and
inscrutable gaze was bent upon her, and the proud countess blushed,
although she scarce knew why.
