Enthusiasm, from its derivation, might in strictness be called a fixity of idea in divinity; but Locke has given a better definition of this morbid state of our intellectual faculties in considering it as a heated state of the imagination, “founded neither on reason nor divine revelation, but arising from the conceits of a warmed or overweening brain.” I shall not venture to take the field of controversy to support this doctrine against that of some metaphysicians, who most probably would consider this mental aberration as an original and natural judgment inspired by the Almighty, founded not on reason or reflection, but an instinctive impulse of the powers of the mind.

The Hebrews named this impulse Nabi ????, (plural Nebiim,) “to approach or enter,” on the surmise that the spirit pervaded the prophets, who were called Roeh ?????, or Seeing, hence Seers.

Plato divided enthusiasm into four classes. I. The Poetical, inspired by the Muses. II. The Mystic, under the influence of Bacchus. III. The Prophetic, a gift of Apollo; and IV. The Enthusiasm of love, a blessing from Venus Urania. This immortal philosopher was not the visionary speculatist which some writers have represented him; his logic did not consist of frivolous investigations, but embraced the more useful subject of correct definition and division, as he sought to reconcile practical doctrines of morality with the mysticism of theology by the study of Divine attributes. Whatever some of the Eclectic philosophers might have asserted, Plato considered that our ideas were derived from external objects, and never contemplated the extravagant doctrine of imbodying metaphysical abstractions, or personifying intellectual ideas.

To this day, the attentive observer will find Plato’s classification of enthusiasm to be correct. The ecstatic exaltation of religion and of love are not dissimilar; only the latter can be cured, the former seldom or never admits of mitigation: the fantastic visions of the lover may be dispelled by infidelity in the object of his misplaced affection; the phantasies of fanaticism can only yield to an improbable state of infidelity. Shaftesbury has justly observed, “There is a melancholy which accompanies all enthusiasm, be it of love or religion; nothing can put a stop to the growing mischief of either, till the melancholy be removed, and the mind be at liberty to hear what can be said against the ridiculousness of an extreme in either way.”

Our poet Rowe has beautifully pointed out the facility with which a noble and martial soul can free itself from love’s ignoble trammels.

Rouse to the combat,
And thou art sure to conquer; war shall restore thee:
The sound of arms shall wake thy martial ardour,
And cure this amorous sickness of thy soul,
Begot by sloth, and nurs’d by too much ease.
The idle God of Love supinely dreams
Amidst inglorious shades and purling streams;
In rosy fetters and fantastic chains
He binds deluded maids and simple swains;
With soft enjoyment woos them to forget
The hardy toils and labours of the great:
But if the warlike trumpet’s loud alarms
To virtuous acts excite, and manly arms,
The coward Boy avows his abject fear,
On silken wings sublime he cuts the air,
Scar’d at the noble horse and thunder of the war.

The only trumpet that can arouse the religious enthusiast from his ascetic meditations is the war-whoop that calls him to destroy all those who impugn his doctrines in a battle-field, where each champion seeks pre-eminence in cruelty, and rancorous persecution.

When we contemplate the miseries that have arisen from fanaticism, or fervid enthusiasm, although it is but a sad consolation, yet it affords some gratification in our charitable view of mankind, to think, nay to know, that this fearful state of mind is a disease, a variety of madness, which may in many instances be referred to a primary physical predisposition, and a natural idiosyncrasy. It is as much a malady as melancholy and hypochondriacism. In peculiar constitutions it grows imperceptibly. Lord Shaftesbury has made the following true observation: “Men are wonderfully happy in a faculty of deceiving themselves whenever they set heartily about it. A very small foundation of any passion will serve us not only to act it well, but even to work ourselves in it beyond our own reach; a man of tolerable goodnature, who happens to be a little piqued, may, by improving his resentment, become a very fury for revenge.”

Thus it is with enthusiasm, a malady which in its dreadful progress has been known to become contagious, one might even say epidemic. Vain terrors have seized whole populations in cities and in provinces; when every accident that happened to a neighbour was deemed a just punishment of his sins, and every calamity that befel the fanatic was considered the hostile act of others. Jealousy and dark revenge were the natural results of such a state of mind, when the furious fire of bigotry was fanned by ambition until monomania became dÆmonomania of the most hideous nature, and every maniac bore in his pale and emaciated visage the characteristic of that temperament which predisposes to the disease. Seldom do we observe it in the sanguineous temperament, remarkable for mental tranquillity, yet determined courage when roused to action. The choleric and bilious, impetuous, violent, ambitious, ever ready to carry their point by great virtues or great crimes, may no doubt rush into a destructive career; but then they lead to the onset the atrabilious, men saturated with black bile, and constituting the melancholy temperament. Here we behold the countenance sallow and sad; the visage pale and emaciated, of an unearthly hue; gloom, suspicion, hate, depicted in every lineament; the mirror of a soul unfitted for any kind sentiment of affection, pity, or forgiveness. Detesting mankind, and detested, they seek solitude, to brood upon their wretchedness, or to derive from it the means to make others as miserable as themselves. Such do we usually find the enthusiastic monomaniac. His ideas are concentrated into a burning focus, which consumes him like an ardent mirror. His life of relation is nearly extinguished. His external senses are rendered so obtuse and callous that he becomes insensible to hunger and thirst, to heat and cold however intense; and bodily injuries, which would occasion excruciating agonies in others, he bears without any apparent feeling. On this subject of religious enthusiasm the remarks of Evagrius are worthy of notice. “Contrarieties,” he says, “are in themselves so tempered, and the grace of God maketh in them such an union of discordant things, that life and death, which are in essence so opposite to each other, seem to join hands and dwell together in them. Happy are they while they live, and happier still when they depart.” It has been known amongst these rigid ascetics that when a stranger visited them, they mortified themselves by entertaining him and partaking of the good cheer. Thus inventing a novel kind of fasting—eating and drinking against their will.

It is related of St. Macarius, that one day having killed a gnat that had stung him, he was struck with such compunction at the sight of blood, that by way of atonement, he threw off his clothes, and remained in a state of nudity for six months in a marsh exposed to the bites of every noxious insect. Sozomen in praising this mortification, assures us that this exposure to the inclemency of the weather, did so harden and tan him that his beard could not make its way through the skin.

It has been erroneously supposed that such individuals, being hostile to mankind, are prone to do evil,—this is not generally the case; they seem satisfied with their own sufferings, and only seek to inflict them upon others when roused from their concentration by fanaticism.

A late ingenious writer, in his work entitled “The Natural History of Enthusiasm,” has somewhat overdrawn the portrait of these unfortunate but dangerous beings when labouring under the disease, which he thus defines: “It will be found that the elementary idea attached to the term in its manifold applications, is that of fictitious fervour in religion, rendered turbulent, morose, or rancorous by junction with some one or more of the unsocial emotions; or, if a definition as brief as possible were demanded, we should say that fanaticism is enthusiasm inflamed by hatred. Fanaticism supposes three elements of belief: the supposition of malignity on the part of the object of our worship; a consequent detestation of mankind at large, as the subjects of malignant power; and then, a credulous conceit of the favour of Heaven shown to the few, in contempt of the rules of virtue.”

Shaftesbury had already said, that “nothing besides ill-humour, either natural or forced, can bring a man to think seriously that the world is governed by any devilish or malicious power.” Such a fearful conviction constitutes a clear case of dÆmonomania. Patients labouring under that malady are ever prone to injure themselves and others, prompted, as they constantly avow, by an evil spirit; but enthusiasts, who live in solitary mortification until a paroxysm of fanaticism draws them from their retreat, seldom or never meditate mischief to others, or indeed that hatred to mankind which our author considers a feature of their condition. Society may become irksome, and may be shunned for ever, without a sentiment of hate. The gayest of the gay may be impelled by feelings more or less morbid to seek a voluntary endurance, to expiate real or imaginary offences, without experiencing a desire of a uselessly vindictive sentiment towards the former companions of their vices or follies. Extremes of depravity and contrition do not infrequently meet; and it has been remarked in Eastern countries, where asceticism arose, that the gates of the most splendid and luxurious cities open upon desert wilds or mountainous solitudes, to which the penitent may flee from his former scenes of ambition and enjoyment.

Such enthusiasts, excepting when enjoying the beatitude of ecstatic exaltation, are more to be pitied than feared. Persecution would most probably drive them to a dangerous state of fanatic rage; and the noble philosopher whom I have already quoted, very justly observes, “They are certainly ill physicians in the body politic who would needs be tampering with these mental eruptions, and, under the specious pretence of healing the itch of superstition, and saving souls from the contagion of enthusiasm, should set all nature in an uproar, and turn a few innocent carbuncles into an inflammation and a mortal gangrene.”

Enthusiasts are supposed by their followers to be gifted with the faculty of prophecy; and it is somewhat strange that the ancients considered certain temperaments as best fitted for this inspiration. The atrabilious temperament took the lead; and this melancholy state was to be increased by abstinence, mortification, and more especially rigid continence. The latter privation, indeed, was deemed indispensable for prophets; and the Jewish Rabbins inform us that Moses abandoned his wife Zipporah the very moment that he was prophetically inspired. A physical reason has been adduced to prove the necessity of a chaste life, which I here must be allowed to pass over; but upon the same principle, emasculation was considered as rendering man totally unfit for prophetic revelation, or indeed any holy inspiration; and we find in the first of Deuteronomy that such subjects were not admissible to the service of the Temple.

Jesaias, and some other Jewish writers, have affirmed that Daniel belonged to that class of beings; but it has been shown that the name of Spado, which he bore, merely gave him the high rank that eunuchs held at the Assyrian court. Potiphar bore the same title among the Pharaohs. Baruch Spinosa maintained that temperaments should vary according to the nature of the prophecy; thus, a gay prophet would predict victory and happiness, a gloomy one misery and wars; peace and concord, if he is human; destruction and merciless events, if he were sanguinary: and, in support of his doctrine, he quotes the passage in Kings, where Elisha, when brought before Jehosophat, called for a minstrel ere he predicted that victory should crown the arms of Judah.

Various artificial means have been resorted to at all periods to prepare the intellects for inspirations, by creating a heated imagination. Pliny informs us that, in his days, the root of the Halicacabum, supposed to be a species of hyoscyamus, was chewed by soothsayers. Christopher D’Acosta relates that the Indians employ a kind of hemp called Bangue for the same purpose: and in St. Domingo their supposed prophets masticate a plant called Cohaba. The priestesses of Delphi were also in the habit of chewing laurel-leaves before they ascended the tripod, which it is stated was originally formed of a laurel-tree root with three branches. Sophocles calls the Sibyls daf??fa???, laurel-eaters; and thus Tibullus,

Vera cano, sic usque sacras innoxia lauros
Vescar, et ÆternÙm sit mihi virginitas.

Auguries were drawn from the burning of the laurel-leaf. If it crackled and sparkled during combustion, the inference was favourable; the reverse, if it was consumed in silence. Propertius alludes to this belief:

Et tacet extincto laurus adusta foco.

Yet so far from possessing exhilarating qualities, laurel-leaves were supposed to diminish the excitement produced by wine; and Martial affirms that the Roman ladies made use of them to drink large potations with impunity:

Foetere multo Myrtale solet vino;
Sed fallat ut nos, folia devorat lauri,
Merumque, caut fronde, non aqu miscet.

May it not be inferred that the leaves given to the Pythia might have been those of the Lauro-cerasus, the effects of which are similar to those of prussic acid, producing vertigo, dizziness, and various convulsive symptoms? This tree was first observed by BÉlon, who discovered it in his eastern voyages in 1546; but it might have been well known to the ancients. We may thus account for the violent convulsions in which the priestesses of Apollo were thrown on these mystic occasions, and which were said to arise from the gas over which they were seated. Although the tree from which the leaves were gathered grew near the temple, and was the common Lauros nobilis, yet the leaves of the Lauro-cerasus might have easily been substituted on the occasion; since, always green and shining, they are not very unlike each other, and the flowers of both trees are pedunculate; and, no doubt, the priests well knew to what extent they could carry the dose to serve their purposes; possibly the modern preparation of noyau might have been a Pythian dram.

The effects of enthusiasm in rendering its victims insensible to all external agents is truly surprising, and cannot be better illustrated than by a relation of the horrors which the famous Convulsionists of Paris and other parts of France underwent, not only voluntarily, but at their most earnest prayer and solicitation.

This work of miracles, as it was called, was first performed by a priest of the name of Paris, in 1724, and strange to say, the aberration continued for upwards of twelve years. Paris having departed this life in the odour of sanctity, (at least according to the conviction of the Jansenists, who had opposed with no little violence the famous bull Unigenitus), the Appellants, for such they thought proper to denominate their sect, appealed to the remains of their beatified companion to operate miracles in support of their common cause. The Appellants were absurdly persecuted, therefore miracles became manifestations easy to obtain. Having succeeded in finding credulous dupes, the next step was to work their credulity into a useful state of enthusiasm. They therefore summoned all the sick, lame, and halt of their sectarians to repair to the tomb of St. Paris for radical relief. Crowds were soon collected round his blessed sepulchre. It is now generally supposed that animal magnetism was resorted to in these curative operations, or rather religious ceremonies. Had not the means thus employed for the purpose been recorded and authenticated by the most irrefragable authorities, the sceptic might long pause before he would yield them credence.

The patient (a female) was stretched on the ground, and the stoutest men that could be found were directed to trample with all their might and main upon her body; kicking the chest and stomach, and attempting to tread down the ribs with their heels. So violent were these exertions, that it is related a hunchbacked girl was thus kicked and trampled into a goodly shape.

The next exercise was what they called the plank, and consisted in laying a deal board upon the patient while extended on the back, and then getting as many athletic men as could stand upon it, to press the body down; and in this endeavour they seldom showed sufficient energy to satisfy the supposed sufferer, who was constantly calling for more pressure.

Next came the experiment of the pebble, a diminutive name they were pleased to give to a paving-stone weighing two-and-twenty pounds, which was discharged by the operator upon the patient’s stomach and bosom, from as great a height as he could well raise the weighty body. This terrific blow was frequently inflicted upwards of a hundred times, and with such violence, that the house, and the furniture of the room, vibrated under the concussion, while the astonished bystanders were terrified by the hollow sound re-echoed by the enthusiast at every blow.

CarrÉ de Montgeron affirms that the pebble was not found sufficiently powerful, and the operator was obliged in one case to procure an iron fire-dog (chenet), weighing about thirty pounds, which was discharged as violently as possible on the pit of the patient’s stomach at least a hundred times. This instrument having for the sake of curiosity been hurled against a wall, brought part of it down at the twenty-fifth blow. The operator further states, that he had commenced according to the usual practice, by inflicting moderate blows, until he was induced by her lamentable entreaties to redouble his vigour, but all to no purpose; his strength was unavailing and he was obliged to employ a more athletic surgeon, who fell to work with such energy that he shook the whole house. The convulsionist, who was of the gentle sex, would not allow sixty blows she had received from her first doctor to be included in the calculation of the dose, but insisted upon having her whole hundred as prescribed. It further appears, that at each stroke the delighted enthusiast would exclaim in ecstacy, “Oh, how nice!” “Oh, what good it does me!” “Oh, dear brother, hit away—again—again!” For be it known, these operators were called by the affectionate name of brothers, whose claims to fraternal affection were in the ratio of the weight of their kindness towards the sisterhood.

One of these young ladies, who was not easily satisfied, wanted to try her own skill, and jumped with impunity into the fire, an exploit which obtained her the glorious epithet of Sister Salamander. The names that these amiable devotees gave to each other were somewhat curious. They all strove to imitate the whining and wheedling of spoiled children, or petted infants; one was called L’ImbÉcile, another L’Aboyeuse, a third La Nisette, and they used to beg and cry for barley-sugar and cakes; barley-sugar signified a stick big enough to fell an ox, and cakes meant paving-stones. The excesses of these maniacs were at last carried to so fearful an extent, and their religious ceremonies were so debased by obscenities that the police was obliged to interfere, and forbid these detestable practices; hence it was affirmed that the following somewhat impious notice was suspended over the church-door:

De par le Roi, dÉfense À Dieu,
De faire miracle en ce lieu.

These lunatics, for such they must be considered, were not impostors. They had been worked to this degraded state by the plastic power of superstition, and implicit reliance was placed in their assertions; for, as Pascal said, “we must believe people who are ready to have their throats cut.” Whether the Jansenist priests belonged to the same class, I leave to the reader to decide.

Cabanis, in his interesting work, “Rapports du Physique et du Moral de l’Homme,” offers the following remarks on this most curious subject: “Sensibility may be considered in the light of a fluid the quality of which is determined, and which, when carried to certain channels in greater proportion than to others, must of course be diminished in the latter ones. This is evident in all violent affections, but more especially in those ecstasies where the brain and other sympathetic organs are possessed of the highest degree of energetic action, while the faculty of feeling and of motion—in short, the vital powers—seem to have fled from the other parts of the system. In this violent state, fanatics have received with impunity severe wounds, which, if inflicted in a healthy condition, would have proved fatal or most dangerous; for the danger that results from the violent action of external agents on our organs depends on their sensibility, and we daily see poisons, which would be deleterious to a healthy man, innocuous in a state of illness. It was by availing themselves of this physical disposition that impostors of every description, and of every country operated most of their miracles; and it was by these means that the Convulsionists of St. Medard amazed weak imaginations with the blows they received from swords and hatchets, and which in their ascetic language they called consolations. This was the magic wand with which Mesmer overcame habitual sufferings, by giving a fresh direction to the attention, and establishing in constitutions possessed of great mobility a sense of action to which they had been unaccustomed. It was thus also that the Illuminati of France and Germany succeeded in destroying external sensations amongst their adepts, depriving them in fact of their relative existence.”

In these phenomena we do not witness miracles or supernatural agency. Enthusiasts are simply maniacs. Like maniacs, their vital endowments are deranged; they lose the faculty of feeling, of reasoning, of comparing, of associating their ideas; their volition, their memory have fled, and all the functions of organic life are more or less disturbed. Rousseau never proved more clearly that his own intellectual faculties were occasionally impaired, than when he stated “that the state of reflection is unnatural, and that the man who meditates is a depraved animal.”

Insanity may be divided into four species:

1st, Monomania, and melancholy, in which the delirium is confined to one or few objects.2nd, Mania, where the delirium embraces a variety of impressions, and is accompanied with violence.

3rd, Dementia, or insanity in the full acceptation of the word, where the senses are totally bewildered, and the faculty of thinking destroyed.

4th, Imbecility or idiotcy, where, from imperfect organisation, ratiocination cannot be correct.

To the first of these categories enthusiasts generally belong. Delirium, or wandering, is to a certain extent applicable to all, being a want of correspondence between judgment and perception. Locke and Condillac characterize madness as a false judgment, or a disposition to associate ideas incorrectly, and to mistake them for truths. Hence it is observed by Locke that “Madmen err, as men do that argue right from wrong principles.” Dr. Beattie refers madness to false perception; and Dr. Mason Good, justly remarks, that “the perceptions in madness seem, for anything we know to the contrary, to be frequently as correct as in health, the judgment or reasoning being alone diseased or defective.”

I hope that I may not be accused of materialism when I venture to affirm that all these enthusiasts labour under a physical disease; but whether this state was originally brought on by a morbid condition of the intellectual or the empassioned faculties of the mind, or, in other words, whether a diseased state of the mind brought on a diseased state of the body, I shall not at present venture to decide, as the disquisition would be foreign to the nature of this work, and lead us into investigations of little interest to the generality of readers.

In the German Psychological Magazine we meet with a curious case of a patient who believed that he was supernaturally endowed with the power of working miracles. The man was a gend’arme of the name of Gragert, of a harmless and quiet disposition, but rather of a superstitious turn of mind. From poverty, family misfortunes, and severe military discipline, a series of sleepless nights and a mental disquietude were brought on that, according to his own report, nothing could dissipate but a perusal of pious works. In reading the Bible he was struck with the book of Daniel, and was so much pleased with it, that it became his favourite study; from that moment the idea of miracles so strongly possessed his imagination, that he began to believe that he could perform some himself. He was persuaded more especially that if he were to plant an apple-tree with the view of its becoming a cherry-tree, such was his power that it would bear cherries. He was wont to answer every question correctly, except when the subject concerned miracles, in regard to which he ever entertained his old notions; adding, however, that he would relinquish this thought if he could be convinced that the event of his trials did not correspond with his expectations.

That many enthusiasts, although incurable in their peculiar aberration, have possessed some amiable qualities, is undeniable. Such rare occurrences remind one of the curious case of madness recorded by Tidemann of a lunatic of the name of Moses, who was insane on one side, and who observed his insanity with the other; his better half constantly rebuking his worse half for its absurdities. This case was certainly typical of the married state.

In vain have physicians endeavoured to break through this morbid catenation of incongruous ideas by diversions, or what the French call distractions, which in general answered to our literal translation of the word, and distracted their patients. Dramatic performances were once allowed in a mad-house near Paris; but the violence of the maniacs, the moroseness of the melancholy, and the stupidity of the idiots, rendered the exertions of the actors perilous to some, and idle to all. Mr. D’Esquirol once took one of his patients to a play, and the man swore that every performer who came on was making love to his wife; and a young lady, placed in a similar situation, exclaimed that all the people were going to fight about her. Jealousy and vanity were, no doubt, the ruling passions in both these cases. Travel has been recommended both by the ancients and the moderns. Seneca on this subject quotes Socrates, who replied to a melancholy wight who complained that his journeys had afforded him no amusement, “I am not surprised at it, since you were travelling in your own company.”

The contagion of enthusiasm is a marvellous fact. Pausanias relates that the malady of the daughters of Proetus, who ran about the country fancying that they were transformed into cows, was common amongst the women of Argos. Plutarch states that a disease reigned in Miletium, in which most of the young girls hung themselves; recent observations have confirmed this singular circumstance. Dr. Deslages, of St. Maurice, relates that a woman having hanged herself in a neighbouring village, most of her companions felt an invincible desire to follow her example. Primrose and Bonet tell us that at one period it was found difficult to prevent the young girls in Lyons from casting themselves into the river. Simon Goulard has recorded the prevalent madness amongst the nuns of the States of Saxony and Brandenburg, and which soon extended its influence to Holland, during which these religious ladies “predicted, capered, climbed up walls, spoke various languages, bleated like sheep, and amused themselves by biting each other.” History has recorded the horrible judicial murder of Urbain Grandier, at Laudun, who was sacrificed for bedevilling a nunnery. The recent gift of tongues amongst the Irvingites is still in full vigour, and the Southcotians are still on the look-out in London, as the Sebastianists are in Lisbon.

Addison has remarked that an enthusiast in religion is like an obstinate clown, and a superstitious man like an insipid courtier. On this subject he quotes the following old heathen saying recorded by Aulus Gellius—Religentem esse oportet, religiosum nefas; for, as the author tells us, Nigidius observed upon this passage, that the Latin words which terminate in osus generally imply vicious characters, or the having any quality to excess. That we should enthusiastically admire all that is holy, sublime, or endowed with uncommon superiority in religion, in poetry, in the fine arts, is not only justifiable but praiseworthy. Genius cannot exist without a certain degree of fervour; its inspiration is a gift divine, naturally associated with a religious feeling. The man thus inspired must bend in humble admiration before the wondrous harmony that surrounds him. The poet, the painter, the musician, can only seek excellence by studying primitive perfection. Nothing that is not natural can be truly sublime or beautiful. A rigid observation of nature can alone lead to superiority, and we can only be taught to create by, endeavouring to imitate the beauties of the creation. How distant are these generous feelings from the low grovelling prejudices of bigotry! We admire perfection even in our enemies; and Erasmus was not a truant to his faith when, transported with Socrates’s dying speech, he exclaimed, “O Socrates! I can scarce forbear kneeling down to thee, and praying,

Sancte Socrates, ora pro nobis.”

While considering this interesting subject, a curious question arises: is enthusiasm more frequently excited by truth than by error? I sadly fear that the latter influence will in general be found to predominate, although falsehood then assumes the deceptive garb of veracity. The noble writer whom I have already cited,[19] has justly said, “that truth is the most powerful thing in the world, since even fiction itself must be governed by it, and can only please by its resemblance.”

To what then are we to attribute this power that fallacy possesses of inspiring the mind with visionary hopes and fears? Simply because we cease to reason upon matter of fact, and soar in fanciful regions in search of a flittering phantom, a creature of our own imaginative faculties. What falls every day under our personal observation ceases to amaze, and one might even become familiarized to miracles were they of frequent occurrence. Man is naturally disposed to admire what he cannot understand, and to venerate what is incomprehensible. The nature of the divinity being essentially incomprehensible, a religious character is attached to all other subjects that are equally beyond the limits of our understanding. Sir Thomas Brown has said, “Methinks there be not impossibilities enough in religion for an active faith. I love to lose myself in a mystery, to pursue my reason to an O altitudo! I can answer all the objections of Satan and my rebellious reason, with that odd resolution I learned from Tertullian, Certum est quia impossibile est.” From our earliest infancy we are delighted with fictions, which we verily fancy to be relations of true facts, and whether we believe with the ancients in the metamorphoses of heathen mythology, the absurd papal stories of the miracles of their saints, or the wondrous incidents of a fairy tale, we listen to these rhapsodies with avidity; whether Jupiter is turned into a shower of gold, St. Denis and St. Livarius travel with their heads under their arm, or Tom Thumb pulls on his seven-league boots. These absurdities are our day thoughts, our night dreams—nay, busy fancy does so dwell on these enchanting phantasies, that, in some cases, the intellectual faculties become deranged, and I have at present under my care, a female who lost her reason by constantly reading the Arabian Nights, and who in her hallucinations, describes as many marvellous voyages as could have done the sailor Sinbad.

The foundation of incredulity no doubt is ignorance, but too often we find men of refined education and feeling the most easily imposed upon by incredible assertions; we seldom experience as much enthusiasm in the possession of any object as in the pursuit, more especially if that pursuit be vain. The merchant who has realized a splendid fortune in his commercial ventures, is satiated with his business, and becomes careless in the pursuit of greater riches, but let him for one moment contemplate the possibility of discovering the philosopher’s stone, he will lose, and cheerfully too, all his past earnings in the chimerical pursuit, and the man who would doze over his ledger, will spend his sleepless nights contemplating his crucibles, and studying the black art.

What is there of an exciting nature in the common events of life and the usual course and uniformity of nature? Very little. However wondrous the works of the creation may be, habit has so accustomed us to behold them, that they are familiar to our eyes; they become matter of fact, and science has taught us to comprehend the nature of many phenomena, which might otherwise have appeared incredible: but when we seek for an unattainable object, however fallacious its attraction may be, the mind is roused to energetic action: if we strive to excel all others in the fine arts, in poetical productions, we become fired with an exalted zeal, which age and experience alone can temper. In our vain pursuit of ideal perfection, the mind may be compared to a focus in which our burning thoughts are concentrated, until we are consumed by disappointment: the love of Pygmalion was probably the most ardent passion that could fire the breast of man. Enthusiasm laughs to scorn the suggestion of the senses and common understanding, therefore all its priests and votaries are surrounded with a deceptive halo; and Plotinus maintained that a proper worship of the gods consisted in a mysterious self annihilation and a total extinction of every faculty. The same may be said of love, which, like all other enthusiastic passions, may be considered a temporary hallucination.

Moreover the language of fiction is not required to maintain the self-evident testimonies of facts.

As true as truth’s simplicity,
And simpler than the infancy of truth.

Whereas false doctrines and fallacious opinions need all the aid of imagination’s vivid colours to disguise their real form with a goodly outside. We may in general conclude that enthusiasts are at first deceived themselves to become in turn deceivers. Seldom does man display sufficient humility to admit that he has erred in his favourite doctrines, and how much less will he be disposed to confess his deviation from rectitude, when imposture becomes the source of wealth and power, and hypocrisy a trade: to the ghostly speculator we may well apply the lines of Massinger:

Oh, now your hearts make ladders of your eyes,
In show to climb to heaven, where your devotion
Walks upon crutches.

It is, however, fortunate that errors generally assist the development of truth. The progress of the Christian faith was materially forwarded by the absurdities and fallacies of all other religions; and Helvetius has truly observed that if we could for a moment doubt the truth of Christianity, its divine origin would be proved by its having survived the horrors of popery. False theories led Columbus to correct geographic conclusions, and Galileo’s discoveries overthrew his own former theories.