“Where on earth should a house go, if it is not to stand always where
it is built? Who would want to move such a structure as this?”
“I do not know,” said Athelstane, humbly. “I do not profess to
understand the mystery of it: only I see that the master carpenter who
built it must have been a very great carpenter indeed; and I cannot
believe that he has made all these things in vain, or for no important
purpose. If he wanted only a house, why did he not simply build a house
standing flat on the ground, and with no shafts piercing the air, and
no vast guiding beam at the back? Trust me, friend Wolfgang, this is
something more than the common abode of which alone you seem able to
think.”
While the two simple-minded men yet talked together, the sun had risen,
and there was a sound of many waters and of rising waves; and through
an opening in the rocks, which the travellers had not perceived in the
twilight, the great ocean became revealed to their eyes. Higher and
higher rose the tide, till it almost reached where the strange wooden
building still lay motionless; and the travellers retreated a little up
the shore, and stood, awe-struck and breathless, watching what might
happen. Then down from the cliff above ran a band of mariners, and
leaped on board the vessel, and hauled in the anchor; and presently the
waves lifted up the ship, and she floated bravely on the waters. Very
soon, the mariners set the sails, which had lain idly on the deck, the
pilot placed his hand on the rudder and guided the noble barque, and
she was borne by the winds of heaven far off beyond the uttermost ken
of the two poor travellers upon the shore.
Then, after a time, Wolfgang turned to his companion, and said:
“Athelstane, you spoke truth. Yon House-of-the-Sea was made, as you
foresaw, for other use than to stand upon the ground. It was planned
for a different element,--the free world of waters. And now we see
what was the purport of so many things which before seemed to us
useless,--the keel, the masts, the sails, the marvellous and mysterious
rudder. How wonderful it is! How wise and far-seeing the great
carpenter who made the ship!”
As Wolfgang spoke, Athelstane lifted his head, which had drooped in
heavy thought, and he saw the wide ocean leaping in the morning light
stretched out before him, and the new-risen sun smote his face with
glory. And Athelstane laid his hand on Wolfgang’s arm, and spoke as his
friend had never heard him speak before, for it was as a man in whose
soul a great new thought had sprung to life: “Aye, Wolfgang, aye,” he
said; “but if that marvellous work of human hands was not made only for
earth, do you think _we_ were made for nothing better than the life
which now we lead,--to eat and drink, and marry, and toil, and sleep,
and die, and be forgotten? Are not _we_ too, O Wolfgang, made for other
things than these? Are we not fitted for some other element than that
in which now we have our being, some other existence than that which
yet we lead? If we were intended only to live our few years of animal
life on earth and then perish, why were we given minds to plough the
seas of thought, and aspirations to point to heaven, and love to swell
beneath the breath of affection, and conscience to guide us on our way
as the pilot lays on it his mighty hand? O Wolfgang! we could perceive
that the ship was intended to float on the great ocean which we had
never beheld. Can we not see that we and all our race are made to live
in a world yet unseen, wider, freer, grander a thousand times than
earth,--a world which we shall enter whensoever the tide of death shall
lift us up and bear us away?”
THE PEAK IN DARIEN: THE RIDDLE OF DEATH.
It is somewhat singular that the natural longing to penetrate the great
secret of mortality should not have suggested to some of the inquirers
into so-called “Spiritual” manifestations that, before attempting
to obtain communication with the _dead_ through such poor methods
as raps and alphabets, they might more properly, and with better
hope of gaining a glimpse through the “gates ajar,” watch closely
the _dying_, and study the psychological phenomena which accompany
the act of dissolution. Thus, it might be possible to ascertain, by
comparison of numerous instances, whether among these phenomena are any
which seem to indicate that the mind, soul, or self of the expiring
person, is not undergoing a process of extinction, but exhibiting such
tokens as might be anticipated, were it entering upon a new phase of
existence and coming into possession of fresh faculties. It is at
least conceivable that some such indications might be observed, were
we to look for them with care and caution, under the rare conditions
wherein they could at any time be afforded; and, if this should prove
to be the fact, it is needless to dilate on the intense interest of
even such semblance of confirmation of our hopes. I must earnestly
protest, however, at starting, that, in my opinion, to regard anything
which could be so noticed as being _more_ than such a confirmation,
or, as if it could constitute an argument for belief in a future life,
would be foolish in the extreme, seeing the great obscurity and the
evanescent nature of all such phenomena. Our faith in immortality
must be built on altogether different ground, if it is to be of any
value as a part of our religion or of our philosophy. But, assuming
that we are, individually, already convinced that the quasi-universal
creed of the human race is not erroneous, and that “the soul of a man
never dies,”[36] we may not unreasonably turn to the solemn scene of
dissolution, and ask whether there does not sometimes occur, under one
or two perhaps of its hundred forms, some incidents which point in the
direction of the great fact which we believe to be actually in process
of realization? According to our common conviction, there is a moment
of time when the man whom we have known in his garb of flesh casts it
aside, actually, so to speak, before our eyes, and “this mortal puts on
immortality.” As in Blanco White’s beautiful sonnet, he is, like Adam,
watching his first sunset, and trembling to lose sight of the world,
and the question to be solved is whether darkness has enshrouded him,
or whether
“Hesperus with the hosts of heaven came,
And, lo! Creation widened in his view”;
and he may have asked himself,--
“Who would have thought such darkness lay concealed
Within thy beams, O Sun? or deemed,
While flower and leaf and insect stood revealed,
That to such countless orbs thou mad’st us blind?”
and life, like light, had been only a deception and a veil.
We have walked in company with our brother, perchance for years,
through the “wilderness of this world,” over its arid plains of toil
and through its sweet valleys of love and pleasure; and then we have
begun to climb the awful Andes which have always loomed before us at
our journey’s end,--their summits against the sky,--and beyond them the
undiscovered land. Onward, a little before us, as chance may decide,
our companion perhaps mounts the last acclivity; and we see him slowly
approach the mountain’s crown, while our lagging steps yet linger on
the slopes below. Sometimes, ere he reach the hill-top, he is enveloped
in cloud, and then we see him no more; but again, sometimes, he remains
in the full sunlight, and though distant from us, and beyond the reach
of our voice, it is yet possible for us to watch his attitude and
motions. Now, we see him nearing the summit. A few steps more, and
there must break on his vision whatever there may be of the unknown
world beyond,--a howling wilderness or a great Pacific of joy. Does he
seem, as that view bursts on him, whatsoever it may be,--does he seem
to be inspired with hope or cast down with despair? Do his arms drop
in consternation, or does he lift them aloft with one glad gesture of
rapture, ere he descend the farther slope, and is lost to our sight
forever?
It appears to me that we may, though with much diffidence, answer this
question as regards some of our comrades in life’s journey, who have
gone before us, and of whom the last glimpse has been one full of
strange, mysterious, but most joyful promise. Let us inquire into the
matter calmly, making due allowance both for natural exaggeration of
mourning friends, who recall the most affecting scenes, and also for
the probable presence of cerebral disturbance and hallucination at the
moment of physical dissolution.
Of course, it is quite possible that the natural law of death may
be that the departed always sink into a state of unconsciousness,
and rather dip beneath a Lethe than leap a Rubicon. It is likewise
possible that the faculties of a disembodied soul, whatever that may
be, may need time and use, like those of an infant, before they can be
practically employed. But there is also at least a _possibility_ that
consciousness is not always lost, but is continuous through the passage
from one life to another, and that it expands rather than closes at
the moment when the bonds of the flesh are broken, and the man enters
into possession of his higher powers and vaster faculties, symbolled
by the beautiful old emblem of Psyche’s emancipated butterfly quitting
the shell of the chrysalis.[37] In this latter case there is a certain
_prima facie_ presumption that close observation ought to permit us
occasionally to obtain some brief glimpse, some glance, though but
of lightning swiftness and evanescence, revealing partially this
transcendent change.
In a majority of deaths, the accompanying physical conditions hide from
the spectators whatever psychological phenomena may be taking place.
The sun of our poor human life mostly sets behind an impenetrable
cloud. Of all forms of death, the commonest appears to be the awful
“agony” with its unconscious groans and stertorous breath. The dying
person seems to sink lower and lower, as if beneath the waters of an
unfathomable sea; a word, a motion, a glance, rising up at longer
and longer intervals, till the last slow and distant sighs terminate
the woful strife, and the victory of Death is complete. When this is
the mode of dissolution, it is of course hopeless to look for any
indication of the fate of the soul at its exodus; and the same holds
good as regards death in extreme old age, or after exhausting disease,
when the sufferer very literally “falls asleep.” Again, there are
deaths which are accompanied by great pain or delirium, or which are
caused by sudden accidents, altogether hiding from our observation the
mental condition of the patient. Only in a small residue of cases, the
bodily conditions are such as to cause neither interference with nor
yet concealment of the process of calm and peaceful dissolution in the
full light of mental sanity; and it is to these only we can look with
any hope of fruitful observation. I ask whether in such cases instances
have ever been known of occurrences having any significance taken in
connection with the solemn event wherewith they are associated. Does
our forerunner on the hill-top show by his looks and actions, since
he is too far off to speak to us, that he beholds from his “Peak in
Darien” an Ocean yet hidden from our view?
I should hesitate altogether to affirm positively that such is the
case; but, after many inquiries on the subject, I am still more
disinclined to assert the contrary. The truth seems to be that, in
almost every family or circle, a question will elicit recollections of
death-bed scenes, wherein, with singular recurrence, appears one very
significant incident,--namely, that the dying person, precisely at the
moment of death, and when the power of speech was lost, or nearly lost,
seemed _to see something_; or rather, to speak more exactly, to become
conscious of something present (for actual sight is out of question)
of a very striking kind, which remained invisible to and unperceived
by the assistants. Again and again, this incident is repeated. It is
described almost in the same words by persons who have never heard of
similar occurrences, and who suppose their own experience to be unique,
and have raised no theory upon it, but merely consider it to be
“strange,” “curious,” “affecting,” and nothing more. It is invariably
explained that the dying person is lying quietly, when suddenly,
in the very act of expiring, he looks up,--sometimes starts up in
bed,--and gazes on (what appears to be) vacancy with an expression of
astonishment, sometimes developing instantly into joy, and sometimes
cut short in the first emotion of solemn wonder and awe. If the dying
man were to see some utterly unexpected but instantly recognized
vision, causing him a great surprise or rapturous joy, his face could
not better reveal the fact. The very instant this phenomenon occurs,
death is actually taking place, and the eyes glaze even while they gaze
at the unknown sight. If a breath or two still heave the chest, it is
obvious that the soul has already departed.
A few narrations of such observations, chosen from a great number
which have been communicated to the writer, will serve to show more
exactly the point which it is desired should be established by a larger
concurrence of testimony. The following are given in the words of a
friend on whose accuracy every reliance may be placed:--
“I have heard numberless instances of dying persons showing
unmistakably by their gestures, and sometimes by their words, that
they saw in the moment of dissolution what could not be seen by
those around them. On three occasions, facts of this nature came
distinctly within my own knowledge; and I will therefore limit myself
to a detail of that which I can give on my own authority, although the
circumstances were not so striking as many others known to me, which I
believe to be equally true.
“I was watching one night beside a poor man dying of consumption. His
case was hopeless, but there was no appearance of the end being very
near. He was in full possession of his senses, able to talk with a
strong voice, and not in the least drowsy. He had slept through the
day, and was so wakeful that I had been conversing with him on ordinary
subjects to while away the long hours. Suddenly, while we were thus
talking quietly together, he became silent, and fixed his eyes on
one particular spot in the room, which was entirely vacant, even of
furniture. At the same time, a look of the greatest delight changed the
whole expression of his face, and, after a moment of what seemed to be
intense scrutiny of some object invisible to me, he said to me in a
joyous tone, ‘There is Jim.’ Jim was a little son whom he had lost the
year before, and whom I had known well; but the dying man had a son
still living, named John, for whom we had sent, and I concluded it was
of John he was speaking, and that he thought he heard him arriving. So
I answered,--
“‘No. John has not been able to come.’
“The man turned to me impatiently, and said: ‘I do not mean John,
I know he is not here: it is Jim, my little lame Jim. Surely, you
remember him?’
“‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I remember dear little Jim who died last year quite
well.’
“‘Don’t you see him, then? There he is,’ said the man, pointing to the
vacant space on which his eyes were fixed; and, when I did not answer,
he repeated almost fretfully, ‘Don’t you see him standing there?’
“I answered that I could not see him, though I felt perfectly convinced
that something was visible to the sick man, which I could not perceive.
When I gave him this answer, he seemed quite amazed, and turned
round to look at me with a glance almost of indignation. As his eyes
met mine, I saw that a film seemed to pass over them, the light of
intelligence died away, he gave a gentle sigh and expired. He did not
live five minutes from the time he first said, ‘There is Jim,’ although
there had been no sign of approaching death previous to that moment.
“The second case was that of a boy about fourteen years of age,
dying also of decline. He was a refined, highly educated child, who
throughout his long illness had looked forward with much hope and
longing to the unknown life to which he believed he was hastening. On a
bright summer morning, it became evident that he had reached his last
hour. He lost the power of speech, chiefly from weakness; but he was
perfectly sensible, and made his wishes known to us by his intelligent
looks. He was sitting propped up in bed, and had been looking rather
sadly at the bright sunshine playing on the trees outside his open
window for some time. He had turned away from this scene, however,
and was facing the end of the room, where there was nothing whatever
but a closed door, when all in a moment the whole expression of his
face changed to one of the most wondering rapture, which made his
half-closed eyes open to their utmost extent, while his lips parted
with a smile of perfect ecstasy. It was impossible to doubt that some
glorious sight was visible to him; and, from the movement of his eyes,
it was plain that it was not one, but many objects on which he gazed,
for his look passed slowly from end to end of what seemed to be the
vacant wall before him, going back and forward with ever-increasing
delight manifested in his whole aspect. His mother then asked him, if
what he saw was some wonderful sight beyond the confines of this world,
to give her a token that it was so by pressing her hand. He at once
took her hand, and pressed it meaningly, giving thereby an intelligent
affirmative to her question, though unable to speak. As he did so, a
change passed over his face, his eyes closed, and in a few minutes he
was gone.
“The third case, which was that of my own brother, was very similar
to this last. He was an elderly man, dying of a painful disease, but
one which never for a moment obscured his faculties. Although it was
known to be incurable, he had been told that he might live some months,
when somewhat suddenly the summons came on a dark January morning.
It had been seen in the course of the night that he was sinking; but
for some time he had been perfectly silent and motionless, apparently
in a state of stupor, his eyes closed and his breathing scarcely
perceptible. As the tardy dawn of the winter morning revealed the rigid
features of the countenance from which life and intelligence seemed to
have quite departed, those who watched him felt uncertain whether he
still lived; but suddenly, while they bent over him to ascertain the
truth, he opened his eyes wide, and gazed eagerly upward with such an
unmistakable expression of wonder and joy that a thrill of awe passed
through all who witnessed it. His whole face grew bright with a strange
gladness, while the eloquent eyes seemed literally to shine, as if
reflecting some light on which they gazed. He remained in this attitude
of delighted surprise for some minutes, then in a moment the eyelids
fell, the head drooped forward, and with one long breath the spirit
departed.”
* * * * *
A different kind of case from those above narrated by my friend was
that of a young girl known to me, who had passed through the miserable
experiences of a sinful life at Aldershot, and then had tried to drown
herself in the river Avon, near Clifton. She was in some way saved from
suicide, and placed for a time in a penitentiary; but her health was
found to be hopelessly ruined, and she was sent to die in the quaint
old workhouse of St. Peter’s at Bristol. For many months, she lay in
the infirmary, literally perishing piecemeal of disease, but exhibiting
patience and sweetness of disposition quite wonderful to witness. She
was only eighteen, poor young creature, when all her little round
of error and pain had been run; and her innocent, pretty face might
have been that of a child. She never used any sort of cant (so common
among women who have been in Refuges), but had apparently somehow got
hold of a very living and real religion, which gave her comfort and
courage, and inspired her with the beautiful spirit with which she
bore her frightful sufferings. On the wall opposite her bed, I had
hung by chance a print of the “Lost Sheep”; and Mary S., looking at
it one day, said to me, “That is just what I was and what happened to
me; but I am being brought safe home now.” For a long time before her
death, her weakness was such that she was quite incapable of lifting
herself up in bed, or of supporting herself when lifted; and she,
of course, continued to lie with her head on the pillow, while life
gradually and painfully ebbed away, and she seemingly became nearly
unconscious. In this state she had been left one Saturday night by the
nurse in attendance. Early at dawn next morning,--an Easter morning,
as it chanced,--the poor old women who occupied the other beds in the
ward were startled from their sleep by seeing Mary S. suddenly spring
up to a sitting posture in her bed, with her arms outstretched and her
face raised, as if in a perfect rapture of joy and welcome. The next
instant, the body of the poor girl fell back a corpse. Her death had
taken place in that moment of mysterious ecstasy.
A totally different case again was told me by the daughter of a man
of high intellectual distinction, well known in the world of letters.
When dying peacefully, as became the close of a profoundly religious
life, he was observed by his daughter suddenly to look up as if at
some spectacle invisible to those around, with an expression of solemn
surprise and awe, very characteristic, it is said, of his habitual
frame of mind. At that instant, and before the look had time to falter
or change, the shadow of death passed over his face, and the end had
come.
In yet another case, I am told that at the last moment so bright a
light seemed suddenly to shine from the face of a dying man that the
clergyman and another friend who were attending him actually turned
simultaneously to the window to seek for the cause.
Another incident of a very striking character was described as having
occurred in a family united very closely by affection. A dying lady,
exhibiting the aspect of joyful surprise to which we have so often
referred, spoke of seeing, one after another, three of her brothers
who had long been dead, and then, apparently, recognized last of all a
fourth brother, who was believed by the bystanders to be still living
in India. The coupling of his name with that of his dead brothers
excited such awe and horror in the mind of one of the persons present
that she rushed from the room. In due course of time, letters were
received announcing the death of the brother in India, which had
occurred some time before his dying sister seemed to recognize him.
Again, in another case, a gentleman who had lost his only son some
years previously, and who had never recovered from the afflicting
event, exclaimed suddenly when dying, with the air of a man making a
most rapturous discovery, “I see him! I see him!”
Not to multiply such anecdotes too far,--anecdotes which certainly
possess a uniformity pointing to some similar cause, whether that
cause be physiological or psychical,--I will now conclude with one
authenticated by a near relative of the persons concerned. A late
colonial bishop was commonly called by his sisters “Charlie,” and
his eldest sister bore the pet name of “Liz.” They had both been
dead for some years, when their younger sister, Mrs. W., also died,
but before her death appeared to behold them both. While lying still
and apparently unconscious, she suddenly opened her eyes and looked
earnestly across the room, as if she saw some one entering. Presently,
as if overjoyed, she exclaimed, “O Charlie!” and then, after a moment’s
pause, with a new start of delight, as if he had been joined by some
one else, she went on, “And Liz!” and then added, “How beautiful
you are!” After seeming to gaze at the two beloved forms for a few
minutes, she fell back on her pillow and died.
An instance--in many respects especially noteworthy--of a similar
_impression_ of the presence of the dead conveyed through another sense
besides sight is recorded in Caroline Fox’s charming _Journals_, Vol.
II., p. 247. She notes under date September 5, 1856, as follows:--
“M. A. Schimmelpenninck is gone. She said just before her death, ‘Oh, I
hear such beautiful voices, and the children’s are the loudest.’”