Still hope, the constant attendant of the
alchymist, had led him on; ever on the point of reaping the reward of
his labours, and ever disappointed. With the credulity that often
attended his art, he attributed many of his disappointments to the
machination of the malignant spirits that beset the paths of the
alchymist and torment him in his solitary labours. "It is their
constant endeavour," he observed, "to close up every avenue to those
sublime truths, which would enable man to rise above the abject state
into which he has fallen, and to return to his original perfection."
To the evil offices of these demons, he attributed his late disaster.
He had been on the very verge of the glorious discovery; never were
the indications more completely auspicious; all was going on
prosperously, when, at the critical moment which should have crowned
his labours with success, and have placed him at the very summit of
human power and felicity, the bursting of a retort had reduced his
laboratory and himself to ruins.
"I must now," said he, "give up at the very threshold of success. My
books and papers are burnt; my apparatus is broken. I am too old to
bear up against these evils. The ardour that once inspired me is gone;
my poor frame is exhausted by study and watchfulness, and this last
misfortune has hurried me towards the grave.
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