mine; but a particular course of study and reading had led me to pursue that part of science which relates to the mutability of metals—the possibility of resolving those bodies which we at present call elements. I was no visionary. It did not appear to me that I was following an unhallowed or unlawful employment: on the contrary, every supposition on which I acted was confirmed and supported by the leading men of science of our own day.
I do not wish to justify or palliate what I am about to relate in these pages. My old delight in the study of chemistry is long since vanished, and not a vestige of my laboratory nor its contents now remains. All I wish to impress is, that I commenced my researches in a true spirit of love for science. It appeared to me that the study of chemistry began with a cloudy, poetical dream of a menstruum universale, that was to give endless youth and ceaseless health. Wild hope! Vain dream! Civilisation pulled down the airy edifice, and left only the little foundation-work of utility. Yet to me, looking around in this unfanciful and iron age, it appeared inconsistently strange that we were once more tending back to that cloudy, poetical dream of the alchemists. Faraday and Murchison in England, and Dumas in France, seemed to point out clearly to my mind that the so-called elementary bodies are reciprocally resolvable. By degrees I became more and more absorbed in the subject: my laboratory and my study became my home. Gradually I separated myself from all my friends, and gave up every energy and faculty to the pursuit of my investigations.
My library contained a strange and valuable collection of books obtained at great expense and trouble. There were dingy papyrus leaves covered with mysterious characters, and bearing the name of Hermes Trismegistus; parchment rolls and palimpsests of Greece and Rome; rare manuscripts from the time of Caligula, and others that had been saved from the fire of Diocletian. Arabian and Egyptian works filled one part of the shelves, and in another those of Raymond Lully, Paracelsus, and Basilius Valentinus. I was not, however, content, and still added to the collection whenever an opportunity offered itself.
I had heard that some very scarce books and manuscripts were to be sold in Paris. I immediately set out for the Continent, as I believed that several of the works for sale would assist me in the discoveries which I had now determined to make.
It was at the sale of these literary treasures that I first met with Antonio Maffi, who had been, I believe, an Italian monk, but whose previous history I never learned. My attention was called to him by observing that he seemed anxious to buy the very books and documents in which I took an interest. My purse was longer than his, and the consequence was, that they nearly all fell to my lot.
As I was glancing over one of the purchases that I had just made, I suddenly became conscious that this man was looking at me intently. From the place where I stood I could see his reflection in a mirror which was placed against the wall. He perceived this, and turning round, looked into the mirror also, and thus our eyes met. He smiled—a thin, faint, forbidding smile—bowed slightly, and then came up to me. He apologised for his intrusion, as he called it, on the ground that he fancied that our tastes and studies led us both in the same direction.
He spoke in English, and remarkably well and fluently; I had observed that before this he had spoken both in Italian and French. I must confess that, although his face and expression were not pleasing, still there was something about his address and manners that prevented me from refusing his proffered acquaintance.
Let me describe him as he then appeared. He was tall and slender, with a slight stoop, and he appeared to have numbered about forty years. He was dressed entirely in black, with a loose black cloak over his shoulders. A dark sombrero or wideawake threw his face into the shade; but it was so striking in its character, that I remarked it well, and remember it well. Ay! and I shall remember it as long as memory lasts. It was long and pale—deadly pale. His eyebrows, which were small and very dark, almost met at the top of his straight, delicate nose, the nostrils of which seemed always dilated. A very black moustache entirely hid the expression of his mouth, except when smiling. His face, otherwise, was cleanly shaved, and his hair was cropped closely over his head. His brow was low, but square, and projected slightly over his bright, black, bead-like eyes.
After conversing with him for a short while, I was extremely struck with the intelligence of his remarks and the acuteness of his observation. Even in the short period during which I was with him in the sale-room I perceived that he was a man who had read profoundly, and in whose memory was stored up all that he had read. The charm of manner to which I have before alluded almost took away the sinister effect which his countenance had at first produced. I longed to see and know more of him, and we interchanged cards. From the card he handed to me I observed that he lived in furnished apartments, in a part of Paris that led me to suppose that his means were limited. At any rate it furnished me with a plea for asking him to dine with me at my hotel that evening. After some slight hesitation, he consented.
We parted, and met again at dinner. I spent an evening in entire accordance with my own tastes, chemistry and speculative philosophy being the standard themes of our discourse.
During the course of the evening I could not help asking Signor Maffi of his intentions and prospects in life. At first he seemed reserved; but observing that I was not asking through idle curiosity, but more for the purpose of assisting him, if it lay in my power, he told me in a very few words his position. He had heard of the probable sale of these books and manuscripts in Palermo, his native town. Poor as he was, he had intended to offer everything in his power for them. Fortunately he had found an occasion for going to England, he might call it a business object, since he was paid for it. Availing himself of the opportunity, he had determined to make Paris a station
