I have read some theories, or rather hypotheses, of apparitions, in
which the authors attempt to account for the appearance of those
unsubstantial shadows, resembling the forms of living men, by
circumstances connected with the physical laws of matter. But I am
rather inclined to hold, with another class of inquirers, that the
origin of such marvels must be looked for in the mind of the seers;
although I do not go the length of their scepticism, and deny the actual
existence of the ghostly show, as a real and visible spectacle, before
the eyes.
These observations will derive some illustration at least, if not entire
confirmation, from the following narrative, which is deemed to be
authentic in the neighbourhood in which the scene is laid; and the
application of which the judicious reader will, no doubt, be able to
make for himself.
About the middle of the last war, the _Polly_, tender, commanded by
lieutenant Watts, came swooping up one evening to the small town of
Auchinbreck, in Scotland, and, resolving to pounce, without warning,
upon her prey, as soon as she had anchored in the roads, sent ashore the
press-gang to pick up as many of the stout boat-builder lads as they
could catch. The towns-people, however, were not so unprepared as the
captain of the tender imagined; some of those, indeed, who were fit for
sea, ran up into the hills, but by far the greater number collected
about the corner of a building-shed as you go on to the main street,
and, when the signal of hostility was given, by the capture of a man by
the press-gang, they rushed down upon them in a body, every one with his
axe on his shoulder like a troop of Indians with their tomahawks. It had
now become so dark that the sailors had much to do to keep their footing
upon the loose stones of the beach, which was just at this time rendered
a still more troublesome passage by the scattered materials of a pier,
then beginning to be built; and, besides, their number was so small
compared to the townspeople, that, after a few strokes of the cutlas,
and as many oaths as would have got a line-of-battle ship into action
and out again, they were fain to retreat to their boat, pursued by the
boat-builders, young and old, like furies. A midshipman, sitting in the
stern, whose name was William Morrison, a fine lad of fifteen, observed
the fate of the action with feelings in which local and professional
spirit struggled for the mastery. One moment he would rub his hands with
glee, and the next unsheath his dagger in anger, as he saw the axe of a
fellow-townsman descend on the half-guarded head of a brother sailor;
but, when the combatants came within oar's length of the boat, and the
retreat began to resemble a flight, the _esprit de corps_ got the upper
hand in the Auchinbrecken midshipman's feelings, and, unsheathing his
dagger, he jumped nimbly ashore and joined in the fray. At last the
sailors got fairly into their boat without a single man being either
missing or killed, although the list of the wounded included the whole
party; and the landsmen, apparently pretty much in the same
circumstances, although unable, from their number and the darkness, to
reckon as instantaneously the amount of the loss or damage, after giving
three cheers of triumph, retired in good order.
William Morrison, after discharging his duty so manfully, was permitted
to go on shore the same evening, to visit his friends; and, indeed, the
captain could not have known before that he belonged to the place, as he
surely would not have confided to the lad so unpopular a task as that of
kidnapping his own relations and acquaintances. He was landed at the
point of Scarlough, to prevent the necessity of going through the
streets, which might have been dangerous in the excited state of the
people's minds; and, stretching across the fields, and along the side of
the hill, he steered steadily on in the direction of his paternal home,
which was about a mile and a half from the Point, but only one mile from
the town. The moon had now risen, but was only visible in short glimpses
through the clouds that were hurrying across the sky; and the tall,
strange shadows of the willows and yews that skirted the churchyard,
appearing and disappearing as he passed, probably by recalling the
associations of his earlier years, made William shrink, and almost
tremble. His own shadow, however, was a more pleasing thing to look at.
The dress, which, grown familiar by usage, he would not have noticed
elsewhere, was here brilliantly contrasted in his recollection with the
more clownish and common garb of his boyhood--for he already reckoned
himself a man; and the dagger, projecting smartly from his belted side,
gave, in his opinion, a finish quite melodramatic to his air. He drew
out the tiny blade from its sheath, and its sparkle in the moonlight
seemed to be reflected in his eyes as he gazed on it from hilt to point;
but the expression of those eyes was changed as they discovered that its
polish in one place was dimmed by blood. This could easily be accounted
for by the affray on the beach--and at any other time and place it would
have been thought nothing of;--but at this moment, and on this spot, he
was as much startled by the sight, as if his conscience had accused him
of a deliberate murder. The impressions his mind had received while
passing the churchyard, now returned upon him with added gloom; a kind
of misgiving came over him; and a thousand boding thoughts haunted him
like spirits, and hanging, as it were, on his heart, dragged it down
farther and farther at every step. He bitterly regretted that he had not
remained in the boat, as he had at first resolved, a neutral spectator
of the strife. How did he know that his hand had not been raised against
the life of his own brother? As far as he could see or learn, indeed, no
fatal accident had occurred; but there have been instances of people
walking cheerily off the field of battle, and dying of their wounds
after all. And yet it was not likely--it was hardly possible--that John
could have been in the affray, his indentures protecting him from the
impress. These cogitations were speedily followed by others of as gloomy
a character; for the thoughts breed faster than we can perceive them,
and each multiplies after his kind. It was a year since he had heard
from his friends, and five years since he had seen them. Who could tell
what changes had taken place in that time? Who could tell whether poor
John had even lived to be killed by the pressgang? His father, his
mother, and his sisters--were they dead, were they living, were they
sick, or in health? His sister had been always a delicate girl, one of
those gentle and fragile flowers of mortality that are sure not to live
till the summer; perhaps consumption, with the deceitful beauty of his
smile, had already led his fair partner down the short dance of life.
Tormenting himself with such speculations, he arrived at his father's
house. Here he was surprised, bewildered, almost shocked, to observe a
new and handsome farm-house in place of the old one. On looking farther
on, however, he did detect the ancient habitation of his family, in its
original site; but it seemed, from the distance where he stood, to be
falling into ruins. His whole race must either be dead or banished, and
a new tribe of successors settled in their place; or else uncle William
must be deceased, and have left his father money enough to build a new
house. He walked up to the door, where he stood trembling for some
minutes, without courage to put his hand to the latch, and at last went
round to the window, and, with a desperate effort, looked in. How his
heart bounded! His father was there, still a stout healthy man of middle
life, his hair hardly beginning to be grizzled, by the meddling finger
of the old painter Time; and his mother, as handsome as ever, and her
face relieved by the smile either of habitual happiness, or of some
momentary cause of joyful excitation, from the Madonna cast which had
distinguished it in less prosperous days; and his sister, with only
enough left of her former delicacy of complexion to chasten the
luxuriant freshness of health on the ripe cheeks of nineteen. John,
indeed, was not there; but a vacant chair stood by the table ready to
receive him, and another--a second chair, beside it, only nearer the
fire--for whom?--for himself. His heart told him that it was. Some one
must have brought the tidings of his arrival; the family circle were at
that moment waiting to receive him; he could see his old letters lying
on the table before them, and recognised the identical red splash he had
dropped, as if accidentally, on the corner of one--the dispatch he had
written after his first action--although he had taken the trouble to go
to the cock-pit to procure, for the occasion, this valorous token of
danger and glory. But John--it was so late for him to be from
home!--and, as a new idea passed across his mind, he turned his eyes
upon the old house, which was distant about a hundred yards. It was
probable, he thought, nay, more than probable, that his father, when
circumstances enabled him to build a new house for himself, had given
the old one to his eldest son; and John, doubtless, was established
there as the master of the family, and perhaps at this moment was
waiting anxiously for a message to require his presence on the joyful
occasion of his brother's arrival. He did not calculate very curiously
time or ages, for his brother was only his senior by two years; he felt
that he was himself a man long ago, and thought that John by this time
must be almost an old man.
While these reflections were passing through his mind, he observed a
light in the window of the old house; but he could not well tell whether
it was merely the reflection of a moonbeam on the glass, or a candle in
the interior. He walked forward out of curiosity; but the scene, as he
approached the building, was so gloomy, and the air so chill, that he
wished to turn back; however, he walked on till he reached the door, and
there, sure enough, his brother was waiting on the threshold to receive
him. They shook hands in silence, for William's heart was too full to
speak, and he followed John into the house; and an ill-cared-for house
it was. He stumbled among heaps of rubbish in the dark passage; and, as
he groped along the wall, his hand brought down patches of old lime, and
was caught in spiders' webs almost as strong as if the spinner had meant
to go a-fowling. When they had got into the parlour, he saw that the
building was indeed a ruin; there was not a whole pane of glass in the
window, nor a plank of wood in the damp floor; and the fireplace,
without fire, or grate to hold it, looked like the entrance to a
burying-vault. John, however, walked quietly in, and sat down on a heap
of rubbish by the ingleside; and William, following his example, sat
down over-against him. His heart now began to quake, and he was afraid,
without knowing what he had to fear. He ran over in his mind the
transactions of the evening--his walk, his reflections, his
anxieties--embracing the whole, as if in one rapid and yet detailed
glance of the soul, and then turned his eyes upon his brother both in
fear and curiosity. What fearful secret could John have to communicate
in a place like this? Could he not have spoken as well in the open air,
where it was so much warmer, and in the blessed light of the moon? No
one was dead, or likely to die, that he cared for; his dearest and
almost only friends were at this moment talking and laughing round their
social table, and near a bright fire, expecting his arrival, and John
and he were--here! At length, repressing by a strong effort the
undefined and undefinable feelings that were crowding upon him, he broke
the silence, which was now beginning to seem strange and embarrassing.
"And how have you been, John?" said he, in the usual form of friendly
inquiries; "and how have you got on in the world since we parted?"
"I have been well." replied John; "and I have got on as well as mortal
man could desire."
"Yet you cannot be happy; you must have something to say--something I am
almost afraid to hear. Out with it, in God's name! and let us go home."
"Yes," said John, "I have something to say; but it will not take long to
hear, and then we shall both go home. I was apprenticed to the
boat-building four years ago." "I know it," replied William; "you wrote
to me about it yourself, John."
"I was made foreman before my time was out."
"I know that, too," said William; "Fanny gave me the whole particulars
in a letter I received at Smyrna;--surely that cannot be all."
"I have more to tell," said John, solemnly: "my apprenticeship is out."
"What, in four years!--you are mad, John! What do you mean?"
"The indenture was cancelled this evening."
"How?" cried William, with a gasp, and beginning to tremble all over,
without knowing why.
"I was wounded on the beach," said John, rising up, and walking
backwards towards the window; while the moon, entering into a dense
cloud, had scarcely sufficient power to exhibit the outlines of his
figure. "It was by the point of a dagger," continued he, his voice
sounding distant and indistinct, "_and I died of the wound!_"
William was alone in the apartment, and he felt the hair rising upon his
head, and cold drops of sweat trickling down his brow. His ghastly and
bewildered look was hardly noticed by his parents and sister during the
first moments of salutation; and, when it was, the excuse was illness
and fatigue. He could neither eat nor drink, (it seemed as if he had
lost altogether the faculty of swallowing,) but sat silent and
stupified, turning his head ever and anon to the door, till it struck
one o'clock. About this time a knocking was heard, and the sister,
jumping up, cried it was John come home, and ran to open the door. But
it was not John; it was the minister of the parish; and he had scarcely
time to break the blow to the parents with the shield of religion, when
the dead body of their eldest son was brought into the house.--_Orient.
Herald_.
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