agree with Dr. Johnson, that in some nook
of everybody's mind something like a fear
of spectres is to be discovered. Let those
who like believe in astrology, palmistry,
fortune-telling by cards, and so on. But
let creeds of this kind be kept fast shut
up in the bosom of the believer. They
involve articles of faith that are not to
be professed, but studiously concealed.
Once inform the world that you believe in
fortune-telling, and you will be surprised
by the number of minor prophets who will
start into visible existence, and eloquently
appeal to your imagination and your
pocket.

Here was the mistake of good Duke
Christian. Had he shut himself up in his
laboratory, with no other company than his
furnaces, his retorts, and his crucibles, and
perhaps a boy to blow his bellows, he might
have died with a balance not exactly on
the right side of his account, but still not
very appalling. This simple plan,
however, would not do. Duke Christian was
not content with being a tentative alchemist
himself, but he caused his belief in alchemy
to be known beyond the precincts of his
castle. Thus, the trumpet was sounded
for the gathering of an army of impostors,
and, of course, an army of impostors
cheerfully obeyed the summons.

They did not confine themselves to the
transmutation of metals, but in some sort
they anticipated the movements of our
modern "spiritualists," and persuaded the
duke that, by means of alchemy, he could
hold immediate communication with an
invisible world. Soon he began to be so
familiar with his spirits, that he could even
specify them according to their dignities.
They were no mere ghosts, representing
dead mortals of the ordinary stamp, and
made to rap tables against their will, but
persons of high rank. Chief of them was
the King of Waldeck, who took his title
from a ruined convent in the neighbourhood;
then came a dignitary called Poppo
of the Vale, then another with the regal
names Frederick William, then a party of
ladies, simply designated the abbess and
the nuns—all of them the choicest of choice
spirits, and with these did the duke keep
up a written correspondence, in which he
signed himself Theophilus, Abbot of Our
Lady of Lausnitz. The epistles written by
the spirits to the duke were in the German
language, but the characters were Greek,
and they were always to be found in one
particular spot. These letters abounded
with very magnificent promises, the most
liberal being those of that high potentate
the King of Waldeck, who advised the
duke to keep his most private apartments
in readiness, and, above all, to provide one
hundred empty sacks, that the numerous
treasures, which certain priests were to
bring by order of the king, might be duly
stored. The poor duke had already paid
away a world of money to his visible
advisers, and so delighted was he with the
kindness of his invisible friend, that he not
only had the sacks made, but caused a
medal to be struck in honour of the coming
treasure. Soon, however, he received a
disappointing letter from the King of
Waldeck, stating that he had been obliged to
go to Jerusalem in order to fetch the treasure,
and requesting him to send three
hundred sacks to the Holy City.

By disappointment after disappointment,
by loss after loss, poor Christian, the first
and only Duke of Eisenberg, was at last
fairly worn out. His ultimate act was to
write an indignant letter to the spirits,
asking them whether there was any truth
in them or not, and declaring his weariness
of them and their promises. On the 28th
of April, 1707, before the impostors had
time to prepare an answer, he was dead.
His subjects followed him weeping to the
grave; for with all his folly, he had never
lost his character for benevolence. While
he was in the plenitude of his hope of
obtaining wealth from his spiritual friends, he
had actually remitted the taxes for three
years, and liberally raised the salaries of
his officers, on the strength of the coming
treasure.

A pretty ghost-story is told in connexion
with this Duke Christian. It appears that
once while he was lying on his bed at
midnight, reflecting on the wretched state of
his affairs, he heard a low tap at his
chamber-door, which greatly surprised him,
as he had ordered his guards not to admit
any one whatever. On his saying, "Come
in!" the door slowly opened, a stately
female form, clad in a long rustling dress
of very remote fashion, made its appearance,
and told him not to be alarmed.

"I am Anna, the unhappy wife of Duke
Casimir of Coburg, a princess of thy family,
with whose sad history thou art doubtless
acquainted."

The duke nodded assent, for he knew the
history well. Charged with infidelity, Anna
had been parted from her husband towards
the end of the sixteenth century, and had
died in prison after a captivity of twenty
years.