WARNINGS.
THIS comparison between the power of presentiment in a human being and
the instincts of an animal, may be offensive to some people; but it must
be admitted, that, as far as we can see, the manifestation is the same,
whatever be the cause. Now, the body of an animal must be informed by an
immaterial principle—let us call it soul or spirit, or anything else;
for it is evident that their actions are not the mere result of
organization; and all I mean to imply is, that this faculty of
foreseeing must be inherent in intelligent spirit, let it be lodged in
what form of flesh it may; while, with regard to what instinct is, we
are, in the meanwhile, in extreme ignorance, _Instinct_ being a word
which, like _Imagination_, everybody uses, and nobody understands.
Ennemoser and Schubert believe, that the instinct by which animals seek
their food, consists in polarity, but I have met with only two modern
theories which pretend to explain the phenomena of presentiment; the one
is, that the person is in a temporarily magnetic state, and that the
presentiment is a kind of clairvoyance. That the faculty, like that of
prophetic dreaming, is constitutional, and chiefly manifested in certain
families, is well established; and the very unimportant events, such as
visits, and so forth, on which it frequently exercises itself, forbid us
to seek an explanation in a higher source. It seems, also, to be quite
independent of the will of the subject, as it was in the case of
Zschokke, who found himself thus let into the secrets of persons in whom
he felt no manner of interest, while, where the knowledge might have
been of use to him, he could not command it. The theory of one half of
the brain in a negative state, serving as a mirror to the other half, if
admitted at all, may answer as well, or better, for these waking
presentiments, than for clear-seeing in dreams. But, for my own part, I
incline very much to the views of that school of philosophers who adopt
the first and more spiritual theory, which seems to me to offer fewer
difficulties, while, as regards our present nature, and future hopes, it
is certainly more satisfactory. Once admitted that the body is but the
temporary dwelling of an immaterial spirit, the machine through which,
and by which, in its normal states, the spirit alone can manifest
itself, I can not see any great difficulty in conceiving that, in
certain conditions of that body, their relations may be modified, and
that the spirit may perceive, by its own inherent quality, without the
aid of its material vehicle; and, as this condition of the body may
arise from causes purely physical, we see at once why the revelations
frequently regard such unimportant events.
Plutarch, in his dialogue between Lamprius and Ammonius, observes, that
if the demons, or protecting spirits, that watch over mankind, are
disembodied souls, we ought not to doubt that those spirits, even when
in the flesh, possessed the faculties they now enjoy, since we have no
reason to suppose that any new ones are conferred at the period of
dissolution; for these faculties must be inherent, although temporarily
obscured, and weak and ineffective in their manifestations. As it is not
when the sun breaks from behind the clouds that he first begins to
shine, so it is not when the soul issues from the body, as from a cloud
that envelops it, that it first attains the power of looking into the
future.
But the events foreseen are not always unimportant, nor is the mode of
the communication always of the same nature. I have mentioned above some
instances wherein danger was avoided, and there are many of the same
kind recorded in various works; and it is the number of instances of
this description, corroborated by the universal agreement of all
somnambulists of a higher order, which has induced a considerable
section of the German psychologists to adopt the doctrine of guardian
spirits—a doctrine which has prevailed, more or less, in all ages, and
has been considered by many theologians to be supported by the Bible.
There is in this country, and I believe in France, also, though with
more exceptions, such an extreme aversion to admit the possibility of
anything like what is called supernatural agency, that the mere avowal
of such a persuasion is enough to discredit one’s understanding with a
considerable part of the world, not excepting those who profess to
believe in the Scriptures. Yet, even apart from this latter authority, I
can not see anything repugnant to reason in such a belief. As far as we
see of nature, there is a continued series from the lowest to the
highest; and what right have we to conclude that we are the last link of
the chain? Why may there not be a gamut of beings? That such should be
the case, is certainly in accordance with all that we see; and that we
do not see them, affords, as I have said above, not a shadow of argument
against their existence; man, immersed in business and pleasure, living
only his sensuous life, is too apt to forget how limited those senses
are, how merely designed for a temporary purpose, and how much may exist
of which they can take no cognizance.
The _possibility_ admitted, the chief arguments against the
_probability_ of such a guardianship, are the interference it implies
with the free-will of man, on the one hand, and the rarity of this
interference, on the other. With respect to the first matter of
free-will, it is a subject of acknowledged difficulty, and beyond the
scope of my work. Nobody can honestly look back upon his past life
without feeling perplexed by the question, of how far he was, or was
not, able at the moment to resist certain impulsions, which caused him
to commit wrong or imprudent actions; and it must, I fear, ever remain a
_quæstio vexata_, how far our virtues and vices depend upon our
organization—an organization whose constitution is beyond our own
power, in the first instance, although we may certainly improve or
deteriorate it; but which we must admit, at the same time, to be, in its
present deteriorated form, the ill result of the world’s corruption, and
the inherited penalty of the vices of our predecessors, whereby the sins
of the fathers are visited upon the children unto the third and fourth
generation.
There is, as the Scriptures say, but one way to salvation, though there
are many to perdition—that is, though there are many wrongs, there is
only one right; for truth is one, and our true liberty consists in being
free to follow it; for we can not imagine that anybody seeks his own
perdition, and nobody, I conceive, loves vice for its own sake, as
others love virtue, that is, because it _is_ vice: so that, when they
follow its dictates, we must conclude that they are not free, but in
bondage, whose ever bond-slave they be, whether of an evil spirit, or of
their own organization; and I think every human being, who looks into
himself, will feel that he is in effect then only _free_ when he is
obeying the dictates of virtue; and that the language of Scripture,
which speaks of sin as a bondage, is not only metaphorically but
literally true.
The warning a person of an impending danger or error implies no
constraint; the subject of the warning is free to take the hint or not,
as he pleases; we receive many cautions, both from other people and from
our own consciences, which we refuse to benefit by.
With regard to the second objection, it seems to have greater weight;
for although the instances of presentiment are very numerous, taken
apart, they are certainly, as far as we know, still but exceptional
cases. But here we must remember that an influence of this sort might be
very continuously, though somewhat remotely, exercised in favor of an
individual, without the occurrence of any instance of so striking a
nature as to render the interference manifest; and certain it is that
some people—I have met with several, and very sensible persons
too—have all their lives an intuitive persuasion of such a guardianship
existing in relation to themselves. That in our normal states it was not
intended we should hold sensible communion with the invisible world,
seems evident; but nature abounds in exceptions; and there may be
conditions regarding both parties, the incorporated and the
unincorporated spirit, which may at times bring them into a more
intimate relation. No one who believes that consciousness is to survive
the death of the body, can doubt that the released spirit will then hold
communion with its congeners; it being the fleshly tabernacles we
inhabit which alone disables us from doing so at present. But since the
constitutions of bodies vary exceedingly, not only in different
individuals, but in the same individuals at different times, may we not
conceive the possibility of there existing conditions which, by
diminishing the obstructions, render this communion practicable within
certain limits? For there certainly are recorded and authentic instances
of presentiments and warnings, that with difficulty admit of any other
explanation; and that these admonitions are more frequently received in
the state of sleep than of vigilance, rather furnishes an additional
argument in favor of the last hypothesis; for if there be any foundation
for the theories above suggested, it is then that, the sensuous
functions being in abeyance and the external life thereby shut out from
us, the spirit would be most susceptible to the operations of spirit,
whether of our deceased friends or of appointed ministers, if such there
be. Jung Stelling is of opinion that we must decide from the aim and
object of the revelation, whether it be a mere development of the
faculty of presentiment, or a case of spiritual intervention; but this
would surely be a very erroneous mode of judging, since the presentiment
that foresees a visit may foresee a danger, and show us how to avoid it,
as in the following instance:—
A few years ago, Dr. W——, now residing at Glasgow, dreamed that he
received a summons to attend a patient at a place some miles from where
he was living; that he started on horseback; and that, as he was
crossing a moor, he saw a bull making furiously at him, whose horns he
only escaped by taking refuge on a spot inaccessible to the animal,
where he waited a long time, till some people, observing his situation,
came to his assistance and released him. While at breakfast on the
following morning, the summons came; and, smiling at the odd
_coincidence_, he started on horseback. He was quite ignorant of the
road he had to go; but by-and-by he arrived at the moor, which he
recognised, and presently the bull appeared, coming full tilt toward
him. But his dream had shown him the place of refuge, for which he
instantly made; and there he spent three or four hours, besieged by the
animal, till the country people set him free. Dr. W—— declares that,
but for the dream, he should not have known in what direction to run for
safety.
A butcher named Bone, residing at Holytown, dreamed a few years since
that he was stopped at a particular spot on his way to market, whither
he was going on the following day to purchase cattle, by two men in blue
clothes, who cut his throat. He told the dream to his wife, who laughed
at him; but, as it was repeated two or three times and she saw he was
really alarmed, she advised him to join somebody who was going the same
road. He accordingly listened till he heard a cart passing his door, and
then went out and joined the man, telling him the reason for so doing.
When they came to the spot, there actually stood the two men in blue
clothes, who, seeing he was not alone, took to their heels and ran.
Now, although the dream was here probably the means of saving Bone’s
life, there is no reason to suppose that this is a case of what is
called _supernatural intervention_. The phenomenon would be sufficiently
accounted for by the admission of the hypothesis I have suggested,
namely, that he was aware of the impending danger in his sleep, and had
been able, from some cause unknown to us, to convey the recollection
into his waking state.
I know instances in which, for several mornings previous to the
occurrence of a calamity, persons have awakened with a painful sense of
misfortune, for which they could not account, and which was dispersed as
soon as they had time to reflect that they had no cause for uneasiness.
This is the only kind of presentiment I ever experienced myself; but it
has occurred to me twice, in a very marked and unmistakable manner. As
soon as the intellectual life, the life of the brain, and the external
world, broke in, the instinctive life receded, and the intuitive
knowledge was obscured. Or, according to Dr. Ennemoser’s theory, the
polar relations changed, and the nerves were busied with conveying
sensuous impressions to the brain, their sensibility or positive state
now being transferred from the internal to the external periphery. It is
by the contrary change that Dr. Ennemoser seeks to explain the
insensibility to pain of mesmerized patients.
A circumstance of a similar kind to the above occurred in a well-known
family in Scotland, the Rutherfords of E——. A lady dreamed that her
aunt, who resided at some distance, was murdered by a black servant.
Impressed with the liveliness of the vision, she could not resist going
to the house of her relation, where the man she had dreamed of (whom I
think she had never before seen) opened the door to her. Upon this, she
induced a gentleman to watch in the adjoining room during the night; and
toward morning, hearing a foot upon the stairs, he opened the door and
discovered the black servant carrying up a coal-scuttle full of coals,
for the purpose, as he said, of lighting his mistress’s fire. As this
motive did not seem very probable, the coals were examined, and a knife
found hidden among them, with which, he afterward confessed, he intended
to have murdered his mistress, provided she made any resistance to a
design he had formed of robbing her of a large sum of money which he was
aware she had that day received.
The following case has been quoted in several medical works, at least in
works written by learned doctors, and on that account I should not
mention it here, but for the purpose of remarking on the extraordinary
facility with which, while they do not question the fact, they dispose
of the mystery:—
Mr. D——, of Cumberland, when a youth, came to Edinburgh, for the
purpose of attending college, and was placed under the care of his uncle
and aunt, Major and Mrs. Griffiths, who then resided in the castle. When
the fine weather came, the young man was in the habit of making frequent
excursions with others of his own age and pursuits; and one afternoon he
mentioned that they had formed a fishing-party, and had bespoken a boat
for the ensuing day. No objections were made to this plan; but in the
middle of the night, Mrs. Griffiths screamed out, “The boat is
sinking!—oh, save them!” Her husband said he supposed she had been
thinking of the fishing-party, but she declared she had never thought
about it at all, and soon fell asleep again. But, ere long, she awoke a
second time, crying out that she “saw the boat sinking!”—“It must have
been the remains of the impression made by the other dream,” she
suggested to her husband, “for I have no uneasiness whatever about the
fishing-party.” But on going to sleep once more, her husband was again
disturbed by her cries: “They are gone!” she said, “the boat has sunk!”
She now really became alarmed, and, without waiting for morning, she
threw on her dressing-gown, and went to Mr. D——, who was still in bed,
and whom with much difficulty she persuaded to relinquish his proposed
excursion. He consequently sent his servant to Leith with an excuse, and
the party embarked without him. The day was extremely fine when they put
to sea, but some hours afterward a storm arose, in which the boat
foundered—nor did any one of the number survive to tell the tale!
“This dream is easily accounted for,” say the learned gentlemen above
alluded to, “from the dread all women have of the water, and the danger
that attends boating on the firth of Forth!” Now, I deny that all women
have a dread of the water, and there is not the slightest reason for
concluding that Mrs. Griffiths had. At all events, she affirms that she
felt no uneasiness at all about the party, and one might take leave to
think that her testimony upon that subject is of more value than that of
persons who never had any acquaintance with her, and who were not so
much as born at the time the circumstance occurred, which was in the
year 1731. Besides, if Mrs. Griffiths’s dread arose simply from “the
dread all women have of the water,” and that its subsequent verification
was a mere coincidence, since women constantly risk their persons for
voyages and boating excursions, such dreams should be extremely
frequent—the fact of there being any accident impending or not, having,
according to this theory, no relation whatever to the phenomenon. And as
for the danger that attends boating on the firth of Forth, we must
naturally suppose that, had it been considered so imminent, Major
Griffiths would have at least endeavored to dissuade a youth that was
placed under his protection from risking his life so imprudently. It
would be equally reasonable to explain away Dr. W——’s dream, by saying
that all gentlemen who have to ride across commons are in great dread of
encountering a bull—commons in general being infested by that animal!
Miss D——, a friend of mine, was some time since invited to join a
pic-nic excursion into the country. Two nights before the day fixed for
the expedition, she dreamed that the carriage she was to go in was
overturned down a precipice. Impressed with her dream, she declined the
excursion, confessing her reason, and advising the rest of the party to
relinquish their project. They laughed at her, and persisted in their
scheme. When, subsequently, she went to inquire how they had spent the
day, she found the ladies confined to their beds from injuries received,
the carriage having been overturned down a precipice. Still, this was
only a coincidence!
Another specimen of the haste with which people are willing to dispose
of what they do not understand, is afforded by a case that occurred not
many years since in the north of Scotland, where a murder having been
committed, a man came forward, saying that he had dreamed that the pack
of the murdered pedlar was hidden in a certain spot; where, on a search
being made, it was actually found. They at first concluded he was
himself the assassin, but the real criminal was afterward discovered;
and it being asserted (though I have been told erroneously) that the two
men had passed some time together, since the murder, in a state of
intoxication, it was decided that the crime and the place of concealment
had been communicated to the pretended dreamer—and all who thought
otherwise were laughed at; “for why,” say the rationalists, “should not
Providence have so ordered the dream as to have prevented the murder
altogether?”
Who can answer that question, and whither would such a discussion lead
us? Moreover, if this faculty of presentiment be a natural one, though
only imperfectly and capriciously developed, there may have been no
design in the matter: it is an accident, just in the same sense as an
illness is an accident; that is, not without cause, but without a cause
that we can penetrate. If, on the other hand, we have recourse to the
intervention of spiritual beings, it may be answered that we are
entirely ignorant of the conditions under which any such communication
is possible; and that we can not therefore come to any conclusions as to
why so much is done, and no more.
But there is another circumstance to be observed in considering the
case, which is, that the dreamer is said to have passed some days in a
state of intoxication. Now, even supposing this had been true, it is
well known that the excitement of the brain caused by intoxication has
occasionally produced a very remarkable exaltation of certain faculties.
It is by means of either intoxicating draughts or vapors that the
soothsayers of Lapland and Siberia place themselves in a condition to
vaticinate; and we have every reason to believe that drugs, producing
similar effects, were resorted to by the thaumaturgists of old, and by
the witches of later days, of which I shall have more to say hereafter.
But, as a case in point, I may here allude to the phenomena exhibited in
a late instance of the application of ether, by Professor Simpson, of
Edinburgh, to a lady who was at the moment under circumstances not
usually found very agreeable. She said that she was amusing herself
delightfully by playing over a set of quadrilles which she had known in
her youth, but had long forgotten them; but she now perfectly remembered
them, and had played them over several times. Here was an instance of
the exaltation of a faculty from intoxication, similar to that of the
woman who, in her delirium, spoke a language which she had only heard in
her childhood, and of which, in her normal state, she had no
recollection.
That the inefficiency of the communication, or presentiment, or whatever
it may be, is no argument against the fact of such dreams occurring, I
can safely assert, from cases which have come under my own knowledge. A
professional gentleman, whose name would be a warrant for the truth of
whatever he relates, told me the following circumstance regarding
himself. He was, not very long since, at the seaside with his family,
and, among the rest, he had with him one of his sons, a boy about twelve
years of age, who was in the habit of bathing daily, his father
accompanying him to the water-side. This had continued during the whole
of their visit, and no idea of danger or accident had ever occurred to
anybody. On the day preceding the one appointed for their departure, Mr.
H——, the gentleman in question, felt himself after breakfast surprised
by an unusual drowsiness, which, having vainly struggled to overcome, he
at length fell asleep in his chair, and dreamed that he was attending
his son to the bath as usual, when he suddenly saw the boy drowning, and
that he himself had rushed into the water, dressed as he was, and
brought him ashore. Though he was quite conscious of the dream when he
awoke, he attached no importance to it; he considered it merely a
dream—no more; and when, some hours afterward, the boy came into the
room, and said, “Now, papa, it’s time to go—this will be my last
bath”—his morning’s vision did not even recur to him. They walked down
to the sea, as usual, and the boy went into the water, while the father
stood composedly watching him from the beach, when suddenly the child
lost his footing, a wave had caught him, and the danger of his being
carried away was so imminent, that, without even waiting to take off his
greatcoat, boots, or hat, Mr. H—— rushed into the water, and was only
just in time to save him.
Here is a case of undoubted authenticity, which I take to be an instance
of clear-seeing, or second-sight, in sleep. The spirit, with its
intuitive faculty, saw what was impending; the sleeper remembered his
dream, but the intellect did not accept the warning; and, whether that
warning was merely a subjective process—the clear-seeing of the
spirit—or whether it was effected by any external agency, the free-will
of the person concerned was not interfered with.
I quote the ensuing similar case from the “Frankfort Journal,” June 25,
1837: “A singular circumstance is said to be connected with the late
attempt on the life of the archbishop of Autun. The two nights preceding
the attack, the prelate dreamed that he saw a man who was making
repeated efforts to take away his life, and he awoke in extreme terror
and agitation from the exertions he had made to escape the danger. The
features and appearance of the man were so clearly imprinted on his
memory, that he recognised him the moment his eye fell upon him, which
happened as he was coming out of church. The bishop hid his face, and
called his attendants, but the man had fired before he could make known
his apprehensions. Facts of this description are far from uncommon. It
appears that the assassin had entertained designs against the lives of
the bishops of Dijon, Burgos, and Nevers.”
The following case, which occurred a few years since in the north of
England, and which I have from the best authority, is remarkable from
the inexorable fatality which brought about the fulfilment of the dream:
Mrs. K——, a lady of family and fortune in Yorkshire, said to her son,
one morning on descending to breakfast: “Henry, what are you going to do
to-day?”
“I am going to hunt,” replied the young man.
“I am very glad of it,” she answered. “I should not like you to go
shooting, for I dreamed last night that you did so, and were shot.” The
son answered, gayly, that he would take care not to be shot, and the
hunting party rode away; but, in the middle of the day, they returned,
not having found any sport. Mr. B——, a visiter in the house, then
proposed that they should go out with their guns and try to find some
woodcocks. “I will go with you,” returned the young man, “but I must not
shoot, to-day, myself; for my mother dreamed last night I was shot; and,
although it is but a dream, she would be uneasy.”
They went, Mr. B—— with his gun, and Mr. K—— without. But shortly
afterward the beloved son was brought home dead: a charge from the gun
of his companion had struck him in the eye, entered his brain, and
killed him on the spot. Mr. B——, the unfortunate cause of this
accident and also the narrator of it, died but a few weeks since.
It is well known that the murder of Mr. Percival, by Bellingham, was
seen in sleep by a gentleman at York, who actually went to London in
consequence of his dream, which was several times repeated. He arrived
too late to prevent the calamity; neither would he have been believed,
had he arrived earlier.
In the year 1461, a merchant was travelling toward Rome by Sienna, when
he dreamed that his throat was cut. He communicated his dream to the
innkeeper, who did not like it, and advised him to pray and confess. He
did so, and then rode forth, and was presently attacked by the priest he
had confessed to, who had thus learned his apprehensions. He killed the
merchant, but was betrayed, and disappointed of his gains, by the horse
taking fright and running back to the inn with the money-bags.
I have related this story, though not a new one, on account of its
singular resemblance to the following, which I take from a newspaper
paragraph, but which I find mentioned as a fact in a continental
publication:—
“SINGULAR VERIFICATION OF A DREAM.—A letter from Hamburgh contains the
following curious story relative to the verification of a dream. It
appears that a locksmith’s apprentice, one morning lately, informed his
master (Claude Soller) that on the previous night he dreamed that he had
been assassinated on the road to Bergsdorff, a little town at about two
hours’ distance from Hamburgh. The master laughed at the young man’s
credulity, and, to prove that he himself had little faith in dreams,
insisted upon sending him to Bergsdorff with one hundred and forty rix
dollars, which he owed to his brother-in-law, who resided in the town.
The apprentice, after in vain imploring his master to change his
intention, was compelled to set out at about 11 o’clock. On arriving at
the village of Billwaerder, about half-way between Hamburgh and
Bergsdorff, he recollected his dream with terror; but perceiving the
baillie of the village at a little distance, talking to some of his
workmen, he accosted him, and acquainted him with his singular dream, at
the same time requesting that, as he had money about his person, one of
his workmen might be allowed to accompany him for protection across a
small wood which lay in his way. The baillie smiled, and, in obedience
to his orders, one of his men set out with the young apprentice. The
next day, the corpse of the latter was conveyed by some peasants to the
baillie, along with a reaping-hook which had been found by his side, and
with which the throat of the murdered youth had been cut. The baillie
immediately recognised the instrument as one which he had on the
previous day given to the workman who had served as the apprentice’s
guide, for the purpose of pruning some willows. The workman was
apprehended, and, on being confronted with the body of his victim, made
a full confession of his crime, adding that the recital of the dream had
alone prompted him to commit the horrible act. The assassin, who is
thirty-five years of age, is a native of Billwaerder, and, previously to
the perpetration of the murder, had always borne an irreproachable
character.”
The life of the great Harvey was saved by the governor of Dover refusing
to allow him to embark for the continent with his friends. The vessel
was lost, with all on board; and the governor confessed to him, that he
had detained him in consequence of an injunction he had received in a
dream to do so.
There is a very curious circumstance related by Mr. Ward, in his
“Illustrations of Human Life,” regarding the late Sir Evan Nepean, which
I believe is perfectly authentic. I have at least been assured, by
persons well acquainted with him, that he himself testified to its
truth.
Being, at the time, secretary to the admiralty, he found himself one
night unable to sleep, and urged by an undefinable feeling that he must
rise, though it was then only two o’clock. He accordingly did so, and
went into the park, and from that to the home office, which he entered
by a private door, of which he had the key. He had no object in doing
this; and, to pass the time, he took up a newspaper that was lying on
the table, and there read a paragraph to the effect that a reprieve had
been despatched to York, for the men condemned for coining.
The question occurred to him, was it indeed despatched? He examined the
books and found it was not; and it was only by the most energetic
proceedings that the thing was carried through, and reached York in time
to save the men.
Is not this like the agency of a protecting spirit, urging Sir Evan to
this discovery, in order that these men might be spared, or that those
concerned might escape the remorse they would have suffered for their
criminal neglect?
It is a remarkable fact, that somnambules of the highest order believe
themselves attended by a protecting spirit. To those who do not believe,
because they have never witnessed, the phenomena of somnambulism, or who
look upon the disclosures of persons in that state as the mere raving of
hallucination, this authority will necessarily have no weight; but even
to such persons the universal coincidence must be considered worthy of
observation, though it be regarded only as a symptom of disease. I
believe I have remarked elsewhere, that many persons, who have not the
least tendency to somnambulism or any proximate malady, have all their
lives an intuitive feeling of such a guardianship; and, not to mention
Socrates and the ancients, there are, besides, numerous recorded cases
in modern times, in which persons, not somnambulic, have declared
themselves to have seen and held communication with their spiritual
protector.
The case of the girl called Ludwiger, who, in her infancy, had lost her
speech and the use of her limbs, and who was earnestly committed by her
mother, when dying, to the care of her elder sisters, is known to many.
These young women piously fulfilled their engagement till the
wedding-day of one of them caused them to forget their charge. On
recollecting it, at length, they hastened home, and found the girl, to
their amazement, sitting up in her bed, and she told them that her
mother had been there and given her food. She never spoke again, and
soon after died. This circumstance occurred at Dessau, not many years
since, and is, according to Schubert, a perfectly-established fact in
that neighborhood. The girl at no other period of her life exhibited any
similar phenomena, nor had she ever displayed any tendency to spectral
illusions.
The wife of a respectable citizen, named Arnold, at Heilbronn, held
constant communications with her protecting spirit, who warned her of
impending dangers, approaching visiters, and so forth. He was only once
visible to her, and it was in the form of an old man; but his presence
was felt by others as well as herself, and they were sensible that the
air was stirred, as by a breath.
Jung Stilling publishes a similar account, which was bequeathed to him
by a very worthy and pious minister of the church. The subject of the
guardianship was his own wife, and the spirit first appeared to her
after her marriage, in the year 1799, as a child, attired in a white
robe, while she was busy in her bed-chamber. She stretched out her hand
to take hold of the figure, but it disappeared. It frequently visited
her afterward, and in answer to her inquiries it said, “I died in my
childhood!” It came to her at all hours, whether alone or in company,
and not only at home, but elsewhere, and even when travelling, assisting
her when in danger; it sometimes floated in the air, spake to her in its
own language, which somehow, she says, she understood, and could speak,
too; and it was once seen by another person. He bade her call him
_Immanuel_. She earnestly begged him to show himself to her husband, but
he alleged that it would make him ill, and cause his death. On asking
him _wherefore_, he answered, “Few persons are able to see such things.”
Her two children, one six years old, and the other younger, saw this
figure as well as herself.
Schubert, in his “Geschichte der Seele,” relates that the ecclesiastical
councillor Schwartz, of Heidelberg, when about twelve years of age, and
at a time that he was learning the Greek language, but knew very little
about it, dreamed that his grandmother, a very pious woman, to whom he
had been much attached, appeared to him, and unfolded a parchment
inscribed with Greek characters which foretold the fortunes of his
future life. He read it off with as much facility as if it had been in
German, but being dissatisfied with some particulars of the prediction,
he begged they might be changed. His grandmother answered him in Greek,
whereupon he awoke, remembering the dream, but, in spite of all the
efforts to arrest them, he was unable to recall the particulars the
parchment had contained. The answer of his grandmother, however, he was
able to grasp before it had fled his memory, and he wrote down the
words; but the meaning of them he could not discover without the
assistance of his grammar and lexicon. Being interpreted, they proved to
be these: “As it is prophesied to me, so I prophesy to thee!” He had
written the words in a volume of Gessner’s works, being the first thing
he laid his hand on; and he often philosophized on them in later days,
when they chanced to meet his eye. How, he says, should he have been
able to read and produce that in his sleep, which, in his waking state,
he would have been quite incapable of? “Even long after, when I left
school,” he adds, “I could scarcely have put together such a sentence;
and it is extremely remarkable that the feminine form was observed in
conformity with the sex of the speaker.” The words were these: αῦτα
Χρησμ῾ωδηθεισα Χρησμωδὲω σοι.
Grotius relates, that when Mr. de Saumaise was councillor of the
parliament at Dijon, a person, who knew not a word of Greek, brought him
a paper on which was written some words in that language, but not in the
character. He said that a voice had uttered them to him in the night,
and that he had written them down, imitating the sound as well as he
could. Mons de Saumaise made out that the signification of the words
was, “Begone! do you not see that death impends?” Without comprehending
what danger was predicted, the person obeyed the mandate and departed.
On that night the house that he had been lodging in fell to the ground.
The difficulty in these two cases is equally great, apply to it whatever
explanation we may; for even if the admonitions proceeded from some
friendly guardian, as we might be inclined to conclude, it is not easy
to conceive why they should have been communicated in a language the
persons did not understand.
After the death of Dante, it was discovered that the thirteenth canto of
the “Paradiso” was missing; great search was made for it, but in vain;
and to the regret of everybody concerned, it was at length concluded
that it had either never been written, or had been destroyed. The quest
was therefore given up, and some months had elapsed, when Pietro
Allighieri, his son, dreamed that his father had appeared to him and
told him that if he removed a certain panel near the window of the room
in which he had been accustomed to write, the thirteenth canto would be
found. Pietro told his dream, and was laughed at, of course; however, as
the canto did not turn up, it was thought as well to examine the spot
indicated in the dream. The panel was removed, and there lay the missing
canto behind it; much mildewed, but, fortunately, still legible.
If it be true that the dead do return sometimes to solve our
perplexities, here was not an unworthy occasion for the exercise of such
a power. We can imagine the spirit of the great poet still clinging to
the memory of his august work, immortal as himself—the record of those
high thoughts which can never die.
There are numerous curious accounts extant of persons being awakened by
the calling of a voice which announced some impending danger to them.
Three boys are sleeping in the wing of a castle, and the eldest is
awakened by what appears to him to be the voice of his father calling
him by name. He rises and hastens to his parent’s chamber, situated in
another part of the building, where he finds his father asleep, who, on
being awakened, assures him that he had not called him, and the boy
returns to bed. But he is scarcely asleep, before the circumstance
recurs, and he goes again to his father with the same result. A third
time he falls asleep, and a third time he is aroused by the voice, too
distinctly heard for him to doubt his senses; and now, alarmed at he
knows not what, he rises and takes his brothers with him to his father’s
chamber; and while they are discussing the singularity of the
circumstance, a crash is heard, and that wing of the castle in which the
boys slept falls to the ground. This incident excited so much attention
in Germany that it was recorded in a ballad.
It is related by Amyraldus, that Monsieur Calignan, chancellor of
Navarre, dreamed three successive times in one night, at Berne, that a
voice called to him and bade him quit the place, as the plague would
soon break out in that town; that, in consequence, he removed his
family, and the result justified his flight.
A German physician relates, that a patient of his told him, that he
dreamed repeatedly, one night, that a voice bade him go to his
hop-garden, as there were thieves there. He resisted the injunction some
time, till at length he was told that if he delayed any longer he would
lose all his produce. Thus urged, he went at last, and arrived just in
time to see the thieves, loaded with sacks, making away from the
opposite side of the hop-ground.
A Madame Von Militz found herself under the necessity of parting with a
property which had long been in her family. When the bargain was
concluded, and she was preparing to remove, she solicited permission of
the new proprietor to carry away with her some little relic as a memento
of former days—a request which he uncivilly denied. On one of the
nights that preceded her departure from the home of her ancestors, she
dreamed that a voice spoke to her, and bade her go to the cellar and
open a certain part of the wall, where she would find something that
nobody would dispute with her. Impressed with her dream, she sent for a
bricklayer, who, after long seeking, discovered a place which appeared
less solid than the rest. A hole was made, and in a niche was found a
goblet, which contained something that looked like a pot pourri. On
shaking out the contents, there lay at the bottom a small ring, on which
was engraven the name _Anna Von Militz_.
A friend of mine, Mr. Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, has some coins that
were found exactly in the same manner. The child of a Mr. Christison, in
whose house his father was lodging, in the year 1781, dreamed that there
was a treasure hid in the cellar. Her father had no faith in the dream;
but Mr. Sharpe had the curiosity to have the place dug up, and a copper
pot was found, full of coins.
A very singular circumstance was related to me by Mr. J——, as having
occurred not long since to himself. A tonic had been prescribed to him
by his physician, for some slight derangement of the system, and as
there was no good chemist in the village he inhabited, he was in the
habit of walking to a town about five miles off, to get the bottle
filled as occasion required. One night, that he had been to M—— for
this purpose, and had obtained his last supply, for he was now
recovered, and about to discontinue the medicine, a voice seemed to warn
him that some great danger was impending, his life was in jeopardy; then
he heard, but not with his outward ear, a beautiful prayer. “It was not
myself that prayed,” he said, “the prayer was far beyond anything I am
capable of composing—it spoke of me in the third person, always as
_he_; and supplicated that for the sake of my widowed mother this
calamity might be averted. My father had been dead some months. I was
sensible of all this, yet I can not say whether I was asleep or awake.
When I rose in the morning, the whole was present to my mind, although I
had slept soundly in the interval; I felt, however, as if there was some
mitigation of the calamity, though what the danger was with which I was
threatened, I had no notion. When I was dressed, I prepared to take my
medicine, but on lifting the bottle, I fancied that the color was not
the same as usual. I looked again, and hesitated, and finally, instead
of taking two tablespoonfuls, which was my accustomed dose, I took but
one. Fortunate it was that I did so; the apothecary had made a mistake;
the drug was poison; I was seized with a violent vomiting, and other
alarming symptoms, from which I was with difficulty recovered. Had I
taken the two spoonfuls, I should, probably, not have survived to tell
the tale.”
The manner in which I happened to obtain these particulars is not
uninteresting. I was spending the evening with Mr. Wordsworth, at Ridal,
when he mentioned to me that a stranger, who had called on him that
morning, had quoted two lines from his poem of “Laodamia,” which, he
said, to him had a peculiar interest. They were these:—
“The invisible world with thee hath sympathized;
Be thy affections raised and solemnized.”
“I do not know what he alludes to,” said Mr. Wordsworth; “but he gave me
to understand that these lines had a deep meaning for him, and that he
had himself been the subject of such a sympathy.”
Upon this, I sought the stranger, whose address the poet gave me, and
thus learned the above particulars from himself. His very natural
persuasion was, that the interceding spirit was his father. He described
the prayer as one of earnest anguish.
One of the most remarkable instances of warning that has come to my
knowledge, is that of Mr. M——, of Kingsborough. This gentleman, being
on a voyage to America, dreamed, one night, that a little old man came
into his cabin and said, “Get up! Your life is in danger!” Upon which,
Mr. M—— awoke; but considering it to be only a dream, he soon composed
himself to sleep again. The dream, however, if such it were, recurred,
and the old man urged him still more strongly to get up directly; but he
still persuaded himself it was only a dream; and after listening a few
minutes, and hearing nothing to alarm him, he turned round and addressed
himself once more to sleep. But now the old man appeared again, and
angrily bade him rise instantly, and take his gun and ammunition with
him, for he had not a moment to lose. The injunction was now so distinct
that Mr. M—— felt he could no longer resist it; so he hastily dressed
himself, took his gun, and ascended to the deck, where he had scarcely
arrived, when the ship struck on a rock, which he and several others
contrived to reach. The place, however, was uninhabited, and but for his
gun, they would never have been able to provide themselves with food
till a vessel arrived to their relief.
Now these can scarcely be looked upon as instances of clear-seeing, or
of second-sight in sleep, which, in Denmark, is called _first-seeing_, I
believe; for in neither case did the sleeper perceive the danger, much
less the nature of it. If, therefore, we refuse to attribute them to
some external protecting influence, they resolve themselves into cases
of vague presentiment; but it must then be admitted that the mode of the
manifestation is very extraordinary; so extraordinary, indeed, that we
fall into fully as great a difficulty as that offered by the supposition
of a guardian spirit.
An American clergyman told me that an old woman, with whom he was
acquainted, who had two sons, heard a voice say to her in the night,
“John’s dead!” This was her eldest son. Shortly afterward, the news of
his death arriving, she said to the person who communicated the
intelligence to her, “If John’s dead, then I know that David is dead,
too, for the same voice has since told me so;” and the event proved that
the information, whence ever it came, was correct.
Not many years since, Captain S—— was passing a night at the Manse of
Strachur, in Argyleshire, then occupied by a relation of his own;
shortly after he retired, the bed-curtains were opened, and somebody
looked in upon him. Supposing it to be some inmate of the house, who was
not aware that the bed was occupied, he took no notice of the
circumstance, till it being two or three times repeated, he at length
said, “What do you want? Why do you disturb me in this manner?”
“I come,” replied a voice, “to tell you, that this day twelvemonth you
will be with your father!”
After this, Captain S—— was no more disturbed. In the morning, he
related the circumstance to his host, though, being an entire
disbeliever in all such phenomena, without attaching any importance to
the warning.
In the natural course of events, and quite irrespective of this
visitation, on that day twelvemonth he was again at the Manse of
Strachur, on his way to the north, for which purpose it was necessary
that he should cross the ferry to Craigie. The day was, however, so
exceedingly stormy, that his friend begged him not to go; but he pleaded
his business, adding that he was determined not to be withheld from his
intention by the ghost, and, although the minister delayed his
departure, by engaging him in a game of backgammon, he at length started
up, declaring he could stay no longer. They, therefore, proceeded to the
water, but they found the boat moored to the side of the lake, and the
boatman assured them that it would be impossible to cross. Captain
S——, however, insisted, and, as the old man was firm in his refusal,
he became somewhat irritated, and laid his cane lightly across his
shoulders.
“It ill becomes you, sir,” said the ferryman, “to strike an old man like
me; but, since you will have your way, you must; I can not go with you,
but my son will; but you will never reach the other side; he will be
drowned, and you too.”
The boat was then set afloat, and Captain S——, together with his horse
and servant, and the ferryman’s son, embarked in it.
The distance was not great, but the storm was tremendous; and, after
having with great difficulty got half way across the lake, it was found
impossible to proceed. The danger of tacking was, of course,
considerable; but, since they could not advance, there was no
alternative but to turn back, and it was resolved to attempt it. The
manœuvre, however, failed; the boat capsized, and they were all
precipitated into the water.
“You keep hold of the horse—I can swim,” said Captain S—— to his
servant, when he saw what was about to happen.
Being an excellent swimmer, and the distance from the shore
inconsiderable, he hoped to save himself, but he had on a heavy
top-coat, with boots and spurs. The coat he contrived to take off in the
water, and then struck out with confidence; but, alas! the coat had got
entangled with one of the spurs, and, as he swam, it clung to him,
getting heavier and heavier as it became saturated with water, ever
dragging him beneath the stream. He, however, reached the shore, where
his anxious friend still stood watching the event; and, as the latter
bent over him, he was just able to make a gesture with his hand, which
seemed to say, “You see, it was to be!” and then expired.
The boatman was also drowned; but, by the aid of the horse, the servant
escaped.
As I do not wish to startle my readers, nor draw too suddenly on their
faith, I have commenced with this class of phenomena, which it must be
admitted are sufficiently strange, and, if true, must also be admitted
to be well worthy of attention. No doubt these cases, and still more
those to which I shall next proceed, give a painful shock to the
received notions of polished and educated society in general—especially
in this country, where the analytical or scientifical psychology of the
eighteenth century has almost superseded the study of synthetic or
philosophical psychology. It has become a custom to look at all the
phenomena regarding man in a purely physiological point of view; for
although it is admitted that he has a mind, and although there is such a
science as metaphysics, the existence of what we call _mind_ is never
considered but as connected with the body. We know that body can exist
without mind; for, not to speak of certain living conditions, the body
subsists without mind when the spirit has fled; albeit, without the
living principle it can subsist but for a short period, except under
particular circumstances; but we seem to have forgotten that mind,
though dependent upon body as long as the connection between them
continues, can yet subsist without it. There have indeed been
philosophers, purely materialistic, who have denied this, but they are
not many; and not only the whole Christian world, but all who believe in
a future state, must perforce admit it; for even those who hold that
most unsatisfactory doctrine that there will be neither memory nor
consciousness till a second incorporation takes place, will not deny
that the mind, however in a state of abeyance and unable to manifest
itself, must still subsist as an inherent property of man’s immortal
part. Even if, as some philosophers believe, the spirit, when freed from
the body by death, returns to the Deity and is reabsorbed in the being
of God, not to become again a separate entity until reincorporated,
still what we call mind can not be disunited from it. And when once we
have begun to conceive of mind, and consequently of perception, as
separated from and independent of bodily organs, it will not be very
difficult to apprehend that those bodily organs must circumscribe and
limit the view of the spiritual in-dweller, which must otherwise be
necessarily perceptive of spirit like itself, though perhaps
unperceptive of material objects and obstructions.
“It is perfectly evident to me,” said Socrates, in his last moments,
“that, to see clearly, we must detach ourselves from the body, and
perceive by the soul alone. Not while we live, but when we die, will
that wisdom which we desire and love be first revealed to us; it must be
then, or never, that we shall attain to true understanding and
knowledge, since by means of the body we never can. But if, during life,
we would make the nearest approaches possible to its possession, it must
be by divorcing ourselves as much as in us lies from the flesh and its
nature.” In their spiritual views and apprehension of the nature of man,
how these old heathens shame us!
The Scriptures teach us that God chose to reveal himself to his people
chiefly in dreams, and we are entitled to conclude that the reason of
this was, that the spirit was then more free to the reception of
spiritual influences and impressions; and the class of dreams to which I
next proceed seem to be best explained by this hypothesis. It is also to
be remarked that the awe or fear which pervades a mortal at the mere
conception of being brought into relation with a spirit, has no place in
sleep, whether natural or magnetic. There is no fear then, no surprise;
we seem to meet on an equality—is it not that we meet spirit to spirit?
Is it not that our spirit being then released from the trammels—the
dark chamber of the flesh—it does enjoy a temporary equality? Is not
that true, that some German psychologist has said—“_The magnetic man is
a spirit!_”
There are numerous instances to be met with of persons receiving
information in their sleep, which either is, or seems to be,
communicated by their departed friends. The approach of danger, the
period of the sleeper’s death, or of that of some persons beloved, has
been frequently made known in this form of dream.
Dr. Binns quotes, from Cardanus, the case of Johannes Maria Maurosenus,
a Venetian senator, who, while governor of Dalmatia, saw in a dream one
of his brothers, to whom he was much attached: the brother embraced him
and bade him farewell, because he was going into the other world.
Maurosenus having followed him a long way weeping, awoke in tears, and
expressed much anxiety respecting this brother. Shortly afterward he
received tidings from Venice that this Domatus, of whom he had dreamed,
had died on the night and at the hour of the dream, of a pestilential
fever, which had carried him off in three days.
On the night of the 21st of June, in the year 1813, a lady, residing in
the north of England, dreamed that her brother, who was then with his
regiment in Spain, appeared to her, saying, “Mary, I die this day at
Vittoria!”
Vittoria was a town which, previous to the famous battle, was not
generally known even by name in this country, and this dreamer, among
others, had never heard of it; but, on rising, she eagerly resorted to a
gazetteer for the purpose of ascertaining if such a place existed. On
finding that it was so, she immediately ordered her horses, and drove to
the house of a sister, some eight or nine miles off, and her first words
on entering the room were, “Have you heard anything of John?”—“No,”
replied the second sister, “but I know he is dead! He appeared to me
last night, in a dream, and told me that he was killed at Vittoria. I
have been looking into the gazetteer and the atlas, and I find there is
such a place, and I am sure that he is dead!” And so it proved: the
young man died that day at Vittoria, and, I believe, on the field of
battle. If so, it is worthy of observation that the communication was
not made till the sisters slept.
A similar case to this is that of Miss D——, of G——, who one night
dreamed that she was walking about the washing-greens, when a figure
approached, which she recognised as that of a beloved brother who was at
that time with the British army in America. It gradually faded away into
a kind of anatomy, holding up its hands, through which the light could
be perceived, and asking for clothes to dress a body for the grave. The
dream recurred more than once in the same night, and, apprehending some
misfortune, Miss D—— noted down the date of the occurrence. In due
course of post, the news arrived that this brother had been killed at
the battle of Bunker’s hill. Miss D——, who died only within the last
few years, though unwilling to speak of the circumstance, never refused
to testify to it as a fact.
Here, supposing this to be a real apparition, we see an instance of that
desire for decent obsequies so constantly attributed by the ancients to
the souls of the dead.
When the German poet Collin died at Vienna, a person named Hartmann, who
was his friend, found himself very much distressed by the loss of a
hundred and twenty florins, which he had paid for the poet, under a
promise of reimbursement. As this sum formed a large portion of his
whole possessions, the circumstance was occasioning him considerable
anxiety, when he dreamed one night that his deceased friend appeared to
him, and bade him immediately set two florins on No. 11, on the first
calling of the little lottery, or loto, then about to be drawn. He was
bade to confine his venture to two florins, neither less nor more; and
to communicate this information to nobody. Hartmann availed himself of
the hint, and obtained a prize of a hundred and thirty florins.
Since we look upon lotteries, in this country, as an immoral species of
gambling, it may be raised as an objection to this dream, that such
intelligence was an unworthy mission for a spirit, supposing the
communication to have been actually made by Collin. But, in the first
place, we have only to do with facts, and not with their propriety or
impropriety, according to our notions; and, by-and-by, I shall endeavor
to show that such discrepancies possibly arise from the very erroneous
notions commonly entertained of the state of those who have disappeared
from the terrestrial life.
Simonides the poet, arriving at the seashore with the intention of
embarking on board a vessel on the ensuing day, found an unburied body,
which he immediately desired should be decently interred. On the same
night, this deceased person appeared to him, and bade him by no means go
to sea, as he had proposed. Simonides obeyed the injunction, and beheld
the vessel founder, as he stood on the shore. He raised a monument on
the spot to the memory of his preserver, which is said still to exist,
on which are engraven some lines, to the effect that it was dedicated by
Simonides, the poet of Cheos, in gratitude to the dead who had preserved
him from death.
A much-esteemed secretary died a few years since, in the house of Mr.
R—— von N——. About eight weeks afterward, Mr. R—— himself being
ill, his daughter dreamed that the house-bell rang, and that, on looking
out, she perceived the secretary at the door. Having admitted him, and
inquired what he was come for, he answered, “To fetch somebody.” Upon
which, alarmed for her father, she exclaimed, “I hope not my father!” He
shook his head solemnly, in a manner that implied it was not the old man
he had come for, and turned away toward a guest-chamber, at that time
vacant, and there disappeared at the door. The father recovered, and the
lady left home for a few days, on a visit. On her return, she found her
brother had arrived in the interval to pay a visit to his parents, and
was lying sick in that room, where he died.
I will here mention a curious circumstance regarding Mr. H——, the
gentleman alluded to in a former page, who, being at the seaside, saw,
in a dream, the danger that awaited his son when he went to bathe. This
gentleman has frequently, on waking, felt a consciousness that he had
been conversing with certain persons of his acquaintance—and, indeed,
with some of whom he knew little—and has afterward, not without a
feeling of awe, learned that these persons had died during the hours of
his sleep.
Do not such circumstances entitle us to entertain the idea that I have
suggested above, namely, that in sleep the spirit is free to see, and to
know, and to communicate with spirit, although the memory of this
knowledge is rarely carried into the waking state?
The story of the two Arcadians, who travelled together to Megara, though
reprinted in other works, I can not omit here. One of these established
himself, on the night of their arrival, at the house of a friend, while
the other sought shelter in a public lodging-house for strangers. During
the night, the latter appeared to the former, in a dream, and besought
him to come to his assistance, as his villanous host was about to take
his life, and only the most speedy aid could save him. The dreamer
started from his sleep, and his first movement was to obey the summons,
but, reflecting that it was only a dream, he presently lay down, and
composed himself again to rest. But now his friend appeared before him a
second time, disfigured by blood and wounds, conjuring him, since he had
not listened to his first entreaties, that he would, at least, avenge
his death. His host, he said, had murdered him, and was, at that moment,
depositing his body in a dung-cart, for the purpose of conveying it out
of the town. The dreamer was thoroughly alarmed, arose, and hastened to
the gates of the city, where he found, waiting to pass out, exactly such
a vehicle as his friend had described. A search being instituted, the
body was found underneath the manure; and the host was consequently
seized, and delivered over to the chastisement of the law.
“Who shall venture to assert,” says Dr. Ennemoser, “that this communing
with the dead in sleep is merely a subjective phenomenon, and that the
presence of these apparitions is a pure illusion?”
A circumstance fully as remarkable as any recorded, occurred at Odessa,
in the year 1842. An old blind man, named Michel, had for many years
been accustomed to get his living by seating himself every morning on a
beam in one of the timber-yards, with a wooden bowl at his feet, into
which the passengers cast their alms. This long-continued practice had
made him well known to the inhabitants, and, as he was believed to have
been formerly a soldier, his blindness was attributed to the numerous
wounds he had received in battle. For his own part, he spoke little, and
never contradicted this opinion.
One night, Michel, by some accident, fell in with a little girl of ten
years old, named Powleska, who was friendless, and on the verge of
perishing with cold and hunger. The old man took her home, and adopted
her; and, from that time, instead of sitting in the timber-yards, he
went about the streets in her company, asking alms at the doors of the
houses. The child called him _father_, and they were extremely happy
together. But when they had pursued this mode of life for about five
years, a misfortune befell them. A theft having been committed in a
house which they had visited in the morning, Powleska was suspected and
arrested, and the blind man was left once more alone. But, instead of
resuming his former habits, he now disappeared altogether; and this
circumstance causing the suspicion to extend to him, the girl was
brought before the magistrate to be interrogated with regard to his
probable place of concealment.
“Do you know where Michel is?” said the magistrate.
“He is dead!” replied she, shedding a torrent of tears.
As the girl had been shut up for three days, without any means of
obtaining information from without, this answer, together with her
unfeigned distress, naturally excited considerable surprise.
“Who told you he was dead?” they inquired.
“Nobody!”
“Then how can you know it?”
“I saw him killed!”
“But you have not been out of the prison?”
“But I saw it, nevertheless!”
“But how was that possible? Explain what you mean!”
“I can not. All I can say is, that I saw him killed.”
“When was he killed, and how?”
“It was the night I was arrested.”
“That can not be: he was alive when you were seized!”
“Yes, he was; he was killed an hour after that. They stabbed him with a
knife.”
“Where were you then?”
“I can’t tell; but I saw it.”
The confidence with which the girl asserted what seemed to her hearers
impossible and absurd, disposed them to imagine that she was either
really insane, or pretending to be so. So, leaving Michel aside, they
proceeded to interrogate her about the robbery, asking her if she was
guilty.
“Oh, no!” she answered.
“Then how came the property to be found about you?”
“I don’t know: I saw nothing but the murder.”
“But there are no grounds for supposing Michel is dead: his body has not
been found.”
“It is in the aqueduct.”
“And do you know who slew him?”
“Yes—it is a woman. Michel was walking very slowly, after I was taken
from him. A woman came behind him with a large kitchen-knife; but he
heard her, and turned round: and then the woman flung a piece of gray
stuff over his head, and struck him repeatedly with the knife; the gray
stuff was much stained with the blood. Michel fell at the eighth blow,
and the woman dragged the body to the aqueduct and let it fall in
without ever lifting the stuff which stuck to his face.”
As it was easy to verify these latter assertions, they despatched people
to the spot; and there the body was found, with the piece of stuff over
his head, exactly as she described. But when they asked her how she knew
all this, she could only answer, “I don’t know.”
“But you know who killed him?”
“Not exactly: it is the same woman that put out his eyes; but, perhaps,
he will tell me her name to-night; and if he does, I will tell it to
you.”
“Whom do you mean by _he_?”
“Why, Michel, to be sure!”
During the whole of the following night, without allowing her to suspect
their intention, they watched her; and it was observed that she never
lay down, but sat upon the bed in a sort of lethargic slumber. Her body
was quite motionless, except at intervals, when this repose was
interrupted by violent nervous shocks, which pervaded her whole frame.
On the ensuing day, the moment she was brought before the judge, she
declared that she was now able to tell them the name of the assassin.
“But stay,” said the magistrate: “did Michel never tell you, when he was
alive, how he lost his sight?”
“No—but the morning before I was arrested, he promised me to do so; and
that was the cause of his death.”
“How could that be?”
“Last night, Michel came to me, and he pointed to the man hidden behind
the scaffolding on which he and I had been sitting. He showed me the man
listening to us, when he said, ‘I’ll tell you all about that to-night;’
and then the man——”
“Do you know the name of this man?”
“It is _Luck_. He went afterward to a broad street that leads down to
the harbor, and he entered the third house on the right——”
“What is the name of the street?”
“I don’t know: but the house is one story lower than the adjoining ones.
Luck told Catherine what he had heard, and she proposed to him to
assassinate Michel; but he refused, saying, ‘It was bad enough to have
burnt out his eyes fifteen years before, while he was asleep at your
door, and to have kidnapped him into the country.’ Then I went in to ask
charity, and Catherine put a piece of plate into my pocket, that I might
be arrested; then she hid herself behind the aqueduct to wait for
Michel, and she killed him.”
“But, since you say all this, why did you keep the plate—why didn’t you
give information?”
“But I didn’t see it then. Michel showed it me last night.”
“But what should induce Catherine to do this?”
“Michel was her husband, and she had forsaken him to come to Odessa and
marry again. One night, fifteen years ago, she saw Michel, who had come
to seek her. She slipped hastily into her house, and Michel, who thought
she had not seen him, lay down at her door to watch; but he fell asleep,
and then Luck burnt out his eyes, and carried him to a distance.”
“And is it Michel who has told you this?”
“Yes: he came, very pale, and covered with blood; and he took me by the
hand and showed me all this with his fingers.”
Upon this, Luck and Catherine were arrested; and it was ascertained that
she had actually been married to Michel in the year 1819, at Kherson.
They at first denied the accusation, but Powleska insisted, and they
subsequently confessed the crime. When they communicated the
circumstances of the confession to Powleska, she said, “I was told it
last night.”
This affair naturally excited great interest, and people all round the
neighborhood hastened into the city to learn the sentence.