-----
It is foreign from the intention of this work to dilate on theoretical
subjects of any kind: suffice it to say, that the following are simply
my own sentiments, which I must be permitted to retain, and which indeed
nothing on this side the grave can shake.
The omnipotence of the Deity in our creation and destruction—in the
union and separation of our bodies and souls—and in rendering the latter
responsible for the acts of the former,—no Christian denies: and if the
Deity be thus omnipotent in forming, destroying, uniting, separating,
and judging, he must be equally omnipotent in _reproducing_ that spirit
and that form which he originally created, and which remain subject to
his will, and always in his power.
It follows, therefore, that the Omnipotent Creator may at will reproduce
that spirit which he reserves for future judgment, or the semblance of
that body which he created, and which once contained the undecaying
soul. The smallest atom which floats in the sunbeam cannot (as every
body knows), from the nature of matter, be actually _annihilated_: death
consequently only decomposes the materials whereof our bodies are
formed, and the indestructible atoms remain susceptible of
recombination. The Christian tenets maintain that the soul and body must
appear _for_ judgment, and why not _before_ judgment,—if so willed by
the Almighty? The main argument which I have heard against such
appearances tends nearly as much to mislead, as a general disbelief or
denial of Omnipotence—namely, that though this power _may_ exist in the
Deity, he never _would permit_ such spectacles on the earth, to terrify
the timorous, and give occasion to paltering with the credulity of his
creatures.
It is truly surprising how rational and pious men can resort to the
reasoning of infidels. When we admit the Omnipotence, we are bound
likewise to admit the Omniscience of the Deity; and presumptuous indeed
must that man be who overlooks the contractedness of his own
intellectual vision, or asserts that, because he cannot see a reason for
a supernatural interference, _none_ therefore can exist in the eye of
the Supreme.
The objects of God are inscrutable: an appearance of the departed upon
earth may have consequences which none—_not even those who are affected
by it_,—can either discover or suppose.[25] Can any human wisdom presume
to divine—why man was originally created at all? why one man is cut
short in high-blooming health and youth, and another lingers long in age
and decrepitude? why the best of men are frequently the most
unfortunate, and the greatest villains the most prosperous? why the
heinous criminal escapes in triumph, and the innocent being is destroyed
by torture? And is the production of a supernatural appearance, for the
inscrutable purposes of God, more extraordinary, or less credible, than
these other ordinations of the Deity, or than all those unaccountable
phenomena of _nature_, which are only, as the rising and setting sun,
disregarded by common minds from the frequency of their occurrence?
-----
Footnote 25:
Nothing in print places my theory in so distinct, clear, and pleasing
a point of view as Parnell’s Hermit,—a strong, moral, and impressive
tale,—beautiful in poetry, and abounding in instruction. There the
Omniscience of God is exemplified by human incidents, and the
mysterious causes of his actions brought home to the commonest
capacity. The moral of that short and simple tale says more than a
hundred volumes of dogmatic controversies!—The following couplets
appear to me extremely impressive:—
The Maker justly claims that world he made:
In this the right of Providence is laid:
Its sacred majesty, through all, depends
On using second means to work its ends.
What strange events can strike with more surprise
Than those which lately struck thy wondering eyes?
Yet, taught by these, confess the Almighty just;
And where you can’t _unriddle_, learn to _trust_.
-----
This is a subject whereon I feel, and always have felt, strongly and
seriously; and hence it is that I have been led into so long an
exordium. I regard the belief in supernatural apparitions as inseparable
from my Christian faith and my view of Divine Omnipotence; and however
good and learned individuals may impugn my reasoning, I have the
consolation of knowing that the bench of bishops, the Pope, the very
best and wisest Doctors in Divinity and Masters of Arts; in fact, all
the collegians and scholars in the universe, can possibly have no better
or _truer_ information upon the subject than myself; that I am as much
in my senses as any of them; and that the Deity has made no sort of
distinction between the intellectual capacity of a bishop and a judge;
the secrets of Heaven being divulged to neither. The judge does justice
to other people, and the bishop does justice to _himself_; but both are
equally ignorant of the mysteries of futurity, and must alike wait until
they pass the dim boundary of this world before they can gain any
_practical_ information as to the next. When a military captain is
ordained a clergyman, (as is somewhat the fashion during the peace
establishment,) does he become one atom wiser or more knowing as to
futurity than when he was in the army?—probably, on the other hand, he
thinks much less about the matter than when standing upon the field of
battle.
I would not have the reader imagine that I should be found ready to
receive any idle ghost story which might be told me.—So far contrary, I
have always been of opinion that no incident or appearance, (and I have
expressed as much before in this work,) however strange, should be
considered as supernatural which could in any way be otherwise accounted
for, or referred to natural or human agency.
I will proceed at once to the little narrative thus importantly
prefaced. The circumstances will, I think, be admitted as of an
extraordinary nature: they were not connected with the workings of
imagination; depended not on the fancy of a single individual: the
occurrence was, altogether, both in its character and in its possible
application, far beyond the speculations of man. But let me endeavour to
soften and prepare my mind for the strange recital by some more pleasing
recollections connected with the principal subject of it.
Immediately after the rebellion of 1798, the Countess Dowager of Mayo
discovered a man concealed under her bed, and was so terrified that she
instantly fled from her country residence in the most beautiful part of
County Wicklow: she departed for Dublin, whence she immediately sailed
for England, and never after returned. Her ladyship directed her agent,
Mr. Davis, immediately to dispose of her residence, demesne, and every
thing within the house and on the grounds, for whatever they might
bring. All property in the disturbed districts being then of small
comparative value, and there having been a battle fought at Mount
Kennedy, near her house, a short time previous, I purchased the whole
estate, as it stood, at a very moderate price, and on the ensuing day
was put into possession of my new mansion. I found a house not large,
but very neat and in good order, with a considerable quantity of
furniture, some excellent wines, &c. and the lands in full produce. The
demesne was not extensive, but delightfully situated in a district
which, I believe, for the union of rural beauties and mild uniformity of
climate, few spots can excel.
I have already disclaimed all pretensions, as a writer, to the power of
scenic description or imaginary landscape—though no person existing is
more gratified than myself with the contemplation of splendid scenery.
In saying this, however, I do not mean that savage sublimity of
landscape—that majestic assemblage of stupendous mountain and roaring
cataract—of colossal rocks and innumerable precipices—where Nature
appears to designate to the bear and the eagle, to the boar or
chamois—those trackless wilds which she originally created for their
peculiar accommodation. To the enthusiastic sketcher and the
high-wrought tourist I yield an exclusive right to those interesting
regions, which are far too sublime for my ordinary pencil. I prefer that
luxurious scenery where the art and industry of man go hand in hand with
the embellishments of Nature, where beauty is unaccompanied by
danger,—sublimity has no horrors; and Providence, smiling, combines her
_blessings_ with her _beauties_.
Were I asked to exemplify my ideas of rural, animated, cheering
landscape, I should say—“My friend, travel!—visit that narrow region
which we call the _Golden Belt of Ireland_;[26] explore every mile from
the metropolis to the ‘meeting of the waters:’ journey which side you
please, you will find the native myrtle and indigenous arbutus glowing
throughout the severest winter, and forming the cottage fences, together
with the waving cypress and the sweet acacia.”
-----
Footnote 26:
That lovely district extends about thirty miles in length, and from
four to seven in breadth: it commences near Dublin, and ends at a
short distance beyond Avondale: the soil is generally a warm gravel,
with verdant valleys, bounded by mountains arable to their summits on
one side, and by the sea upon the other. The gold mine is on a
frontier of this district; and it is perhaps the most congenial to the
growth of trees and shrubs of any spot in the British dominions.
-----
The scenery of Wicklow is doubtless on a minor scale, quite unable to
compete with the grandeur and immensity of continental landscape; even
to our own Killarney it is not comparable; but it possesses a genial
glowing luxury, a contrast and a variety, whereof more elevated
_extensive_ scenery is often destitute. It is small, but it is in the
world: its beauties seem _alive_. It blooms: it blossoms: the mellow
climate extracts from every shrub a tribute of its fragrance; and the
atmosphere, saturated with the perfumes of nature, creates that
delicious medium through which refreshing showers descend to brighten
the hue and revive the odour of the lively evergreen!
I frankly admit myself an enthusiast as to that lovely district. In
truth, I fear I should have been enthusiastic on many points, had not
_law_, the most powerful antidote to all refined enthusiasm, interposed
to check its growth.
The site of my sylvan residence, Drummon, was nearly in the centre of
the Golden Belt, about fifteen miles from the capital;—but owing to the
varied nature of the country, it appeared far more distant. Bounded by
the beautiful glen of the Downs, at the foot of the magnificent
Bellevue, and the more distant sugar-loaf mountain of the Dargle,
Tynnehinch, (where is seated that cottage celebrated for its unrivalled
scenery, and honoured by the residence of Ireland’s first patriot,) the
dark deep glen, the black lake, and mystic vale and rocks of Luggelough,
(that nursery of eagles and of falcons,) contrasted quite magically with
the highly cultivated beauties of Drummon: (the parks, and wilds, and
sublime cascade of Powerscourt, and the newly-created magnificence of
Mount Kennedy, abundantly prove that perfection itself may exist in
contrasts:) in fine, I found myself enveloped by the hundred beauties of
that enchanting district, which, though of one family, were rendered yet
more attractive by the variety of their features; and had I not been
tied to laborious duties, I should infallibly have sought refuge there
altogether from the cares of the world.
One of the greatest pleasures I enjoyed whilst resident at Drummon,
was the near abode of the late Lord Rossmore, at that time
commander-in-chief in Ireland. His lordship knew my father, and, from
my commencement in public life, had been my friend, and a sincere one.
He was a Scotsman born, but had come to Ireland when very young, as
page to the lord lieutenant. He had married an heiress; had purchased
the estate of Mount Kennedy; built a noble mansion; laid out some of
the finest gardens in Ireland; and, in fact, improved the demesne, as
far as taste, skill, and money could accomplish. He was what may be
called a remarkably fine old man, quite the gentleman, and when at
Mount Kennedy quite the _country_ gentleman. He lived in a style few
people can attain to: his table, supplied by his own farms, was
adapted to the viceroy himself, yet was ever spread for his
neighbours: in a word, no man ever kept a more even hand in society
than Lord Rossmore, and no man was ever better repaid by universal
esteem. Had his connexions possessed his understanding, and practised
his habits, they would probably have found more friends when they
wanted them.
This intimacy at Mount Kennedy gave rise to an occurrence the most
extraordinary and inexplicable of my whole existence—an occurrence which
for many years occupied my thoughts, and wrought on my imagination. Lord
Rossmore was far advanced in years, but I never heard of his having had
a single day’s indisposition. He bore, in his old age, the appearance of
robust health. During the viceroyalty of Earl Hardwick Lady Barrington,
at a drawing-room at Dublin Castle, met Lord Rossmore. He had been
making up one of his weekly parties for Mount Kennedy, to commence the
next day, and had sent down orders for every preparation to be made. The
lord lieutenant was to be of the company. Every second week his house
was filled by persons of the highest circle, interspersed with
neighbours.
“My little farmer,” said he to Lady Barrington, addressing her by a pet
name, “when you go home, tell Sir Jonah that no business is to prevent
him from bringing you down to dine with me tomorrow. I will have no
_ifs_ in the matter—so tell him that come he _must_!” She promised
positively, and on her return informed me of her engagement, to which I
at once agreed. We retired to our chamber about twelve; and towards two
in the morning, I was awakened by a sound of a very extraordinary
nature. I listened: it occurred first at short intervals; it resembled
neither a voice nor an instrument; it was softer than any voice and
wilder than any music, and seemed to float in the air. I don’t know
wherefore, but my heart beat forcibly: the sound became still more
plaintive, till it almost died away in the air; when a sudden change, as
if excited by a pang, changed its tone: it seemed _descending_. I felt
every nerve tremble: it was not a _natural_ sound, nor could I make out
the point whence it came.
At length I awakened Lady Barrington: she heard it as well as myself,
and suggested that it might be an Eolian harp; but to that instrument it
bore no similitude: it was altogether a different _character of sound_.
She at first appeared less affected than myself, but was subsequently
more so.
We now went to a large window in our bedroom which looked directly upon
a small garden underneath: the sound, which first appeared descending,
seemed then obviously to _ascend_ from a grass-plot immediately below
our window. It continued: Lady Barrington requested that I would call up
her maid, which I did, and she was evidently much more affected than
either of us. The sounds lasted for more than half an hour. At last a
deep, heavy, throbbing sigh seemed to issue from the spot, and was
shortly succeeded by a sharp but low cry, and by the distinct
exclamation, thrice repeated, of “Rossmore!—Rossmore!—Rossmore!” I will
not attempt to describe my own sensations; indeed I cannot. The maid
fled in terror from the window, and it was with difficulty I prevailed
on Lady Barrington to return to bed: in about a minute after the sound
died gradually away, until all was silent.
Lady Barrington, who is not _superstitious_, as I am, attributed this
circumstance to a hundred different causes, and made me promise that I
would not mention it next day at Mount Kennedy, since we should be
thereby rendered _laughing-stocks_. At length, wearied with
speculations, we fell into a sound slumber.
About seven the ensuing morning a strong rap at my chamber-door awakened
me. The recollection of the past night’s adventure rushed instantly upon
my mind, and rendered me very unfit to be taken suddenly on any subject.
It was light: I went to the door, when my faithful servant, Lawler,
exclaimed, on the other side, “Oh Lord, Sir!”—“What is the matter?” said
I hurriedly: “Oh, Sir!” ejaculated he, “Lord Rossmore’s footman was
running past the door in great haste, and told me in passing that my
lord, after coming from the Castle, had gone to bed in perfect health,
but that about _half-after two_ this morning, his own man hearing a
noise in his master’s bed (he slept in the same room), went to him, and
found him in the agonies of death; and before he could alarm the other
servants, all was over!”
I conjecture nothing. I only relate the incident as unequivocally
_matter of fact_: Lord Rossmore _was absolutely dying at the moment I
heard his name pronounced_! Let sceptics draw their own conclusions:
perhaps natural causes _may_ be assigned; but _I_ am totally unequal to
the discovery.
Atheism may ridicule me: Orthodoxy may despise me: Bigotry may lecture
me: Fanaticism might _burn_ me: yet in my very faith I would seek
consolation. It is in my mind better to believe _too much_ than _too
little_, and that is the only theological crime I can be fairly accused
of.