1828.) The Durrenstein. 265 
yet within reality, a so subtle entwining of things that perplexed belief 
with facts easily comprehensible, and of no unusual occurrence, that 
we all listened with an interest which we probably should not have been 
ashamed to acknowledge in our most composed hours. But now, with 
the thunder rattling over the roof, St. Michael’s night, the “bell then 
beating one,” and the very palace of the she-sorcerer showing from our 
windows its wild battlements edged with perpetual lightnings, and, it must 
not be forgotten, with a dozen of excellent claret already discussed, we 
gave the homage of our ears to the man of legend, as if he were Simon 
Magus himself. 
“ Yet, after all,” said he, with a smile round the listening circle, as 
he closed a story whose strange mixture of oddity and horror had fixed 
us in silent attention ; “ what is this passion for being vexed and made 
hypochondriac by fancy, but an additional proof of the original foolery 
of man? the only fool, by the by, that creation exhibits. Every other 
animal has the due quantum of understanding. The bustard that betrays 
itself by its booming, the ostrich that leaves its eggs in the sand; all 
that we are in the habit of charging with want of brains, have a sufficient 
object in their contrivances: even the ass is libelled. He knows what he 
is about infinitely better than hundreds of his riders, and if his natural 
taste be for thistles, and his back be made for blows and burthens, he 
has a much better claim to respect than many a showy personage, who 
for the glories of a ribbon or a place, is content to swallow the thistle and 
bear the blow and the burthen, without the excuse of nature.” 
This was plain speaking among so many chevaliers, with so many 
stars and crosses. But boldness, when it is seconded by truth, goes 
far ; and we were too much in good-humour with ourselves to think of 
examining the point for the present. ‘“ But do you actually believe in 
those preternatural influences?” said the Frenchman, turning to some 
remark of mine. 
“I feel like Plato,” was my reply; “ the more I think on such sub- 
jects, the less I am able to come to a decision.” 
« For my part,” said the German, palpably a student of the Helvetius 
school, “ what I cannot see, I cannot believe.” 
“ Strange,” interrupted the Italian. ‘“ How then can you answer the 
innumerable evidences of interposition among us; you, who have seen 
the winkings of the Madonna’s eyes, the tears running down St. Cathe- 
rine’s cheeks, and the moving of the Magdalen’s bosom ?” 
“ Those affairs make an exception to my maxim,” replied the German, 
« for those I have seen, and cannot believe.” 
“ But now for your opinion,” said I to the stranger. ; 
« Why, then, if you will have it out, I side with the gentleman who 
has made the eye the judge. We have not got those faculties for the 
purpose of being led into absurdity by them. I do not believe that 
there is a word of truth in any legend of witchery, red, blue, or green, 
from Bohemia to Lapland.—But, ha! look there.’”— 
+ A broad blue stripe of flame darted through the crevice of the shutter, 
and rested on the opposite wall, throwing our candles into eclipse by its 
strong brilliancy, and what struck us as more singular still, giving a 
kind of motion to the figures of the fair dames and gallant knights that 
had, hitherto, lurked in the general dinginess of the court of the Empe- 
ror Charlemagne, on black paper, apparently as old as its theme.’ 
The stranger was delighted with the sight, which he protested was 
M.M. New Serics.—Vou. VI. No. 33. 2M 
