a silent and gloomy reverie.

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