July
16, 1833. -- This is a memorable anniversary for me; on it I complete my three
hundred and twenty-third year!
The
Wandering Jew? -- certainly not. More than eighteen centuries have passed over
his head. In comparison with him, I am a very young Immortal.
Am
I, then, immortal? This is a question which I have asked myself, by day and
night, for now three hundred and three years, and yet cannot answer it. I
detected a grey hair amidst my brown locks this very day -- that surely
signifies decay. Yet it may have remained concealed there for three hundred
years -- for some persons have become entirely white-headed before twenty years
of age.
I
will tell my story, and my reader shall judge for me. I will tell my story, and
so contrive to pass some few hours of a long eternity, become so wearisome to
me. For ever! Can it be? to live for ever! I have heard of enchantments, in
which the victims were plunged into a deep sleep, to wake, after a hundred
years, as fresh as ever: I have heard of the Seven Sleepers -- thus to be
immortal would not be so burthensome: but, oh! the weight of never-ending time
-- the tedious passage of the still-succeeding hours! How happy was the fabled
Nourjahad! -- But to my task.
All
the world has heard of Cornelius Agrippa. His memory is as immortal as his arts
have made me. All the world has also heard of his scholar, who, unawares,
raised the foul fiend during his master's absence, and was destroyed by him.
The report, true or false, of this accident, was attended with many inconveniences
to the renowned philosopher. All his scholars at once deserted him -- his
servants disappeared. He had no one near him to put coals on his ever-burning
fires while he slept, or to attend to the changeful colours of his medicines
while he studied. Experiment after experiment failed, because one pair of hands
was insufficient to complete them: the dark spirits laughed at him for not
being able to retain a single mortal in his service.
I
was then very young -- very poor -- and very much in love. I had been for about
a year the pupil of Cornelius, though I was absent when this accident took
place. On my return, my friends implored me not to return to the alchymist's
abode. I trembled as I listened to the dire tale they told; I required no
second warning; and when Cornelius came and offered me a purse of gold if I
would remain under his roof, I felt as if Satan himself tempted me. My teeth
chattered -- my hair stood on end; -- I ran off as fast as my trembling knees
would permit.
