APPARITIONS.
THE number of stories on record, which seem to support the views I have
suggested in my last chapter, is, I fancy, little suspected by people in
general; and still less is it imagined that similar occurrences are yet
frequently taking place. I had, indeed, myself no idea of either one
circumstance or the other, till my attention being accidentally turned
in this direction, I was led into inquiries, the result of which has
extremely surprised me. I do not mean to imply that all my acquaintance
are ghost-seers, or that these things happen every day; but the amount
of what I do mean, is this: first, that besides the numerous instances
of such phenomena alluded to in history, which have been treated as
fables by those who profess to believe the rest of the narratives,
though the whole rests upon the same foundation, that is, tradition and
hearsay; besides these, there exists in one form or another, hundreds
and hundreds of recorded cases, in all countries, and in all languages,
exhibiting that degree of similarity which mark them as belonging to a
class of facts, many of these being of a nature which seems to preclude
the possibility of bringing them under the theory of spectral illusions;
and, secondly, that I scarcely meet any one man or woman, who, if I can
induce them to believe I will not publish their names, and am not going
to laugh at them, is not prepared to tell me of some occurrence of the
sort, as having happened to themselves, their family, or their friends.
I admit that in many instances they terminate their narration, by
saying, that they think it must have been an illusion, _because_ they
can not bring themselves to believe in ghosts; not unfrequently adding,
that they _wish_ to think so; since to think otherwise would make them
uncomfortable. I confess, however, that this seems to me a very unwise,
as well as a very unsafe way of treating the matter. Believing the
appearance to be an illusion, _because_ they can not bring themselves to
believe in ghosts, simply amounts to saying, “I don’t believe, because I
don’t believe;” and is an argument of no effect, except to invalidate
their capacity for judging the question, at all; but the second reason
for not believing, namely, that they do not wish to do so, has not only
the same disadvantage, but is liable to much more serious objections;
for it is our duty to ascertain the truth in an affair that concerns
every soul of us so deeply; and to shrink from looking at it, lest it
should disclose something we do not like, is an expedient as childish as
it is desperate.
In reviewing my late novel of “Lilly Dawson,” where I announce the
present work, I observe that while some of the reviewers scout the very
idea of anybody’s believing in ghosts, others, less rash, while they
admit that it is a subject we know nothing about, object to further
investigation, on account of the terrors and uncomfortable feelings that
will be engendered. Now, certainly, if it were a matter in which we had
no personal concern, and which belonged merely to the region of
speculative curiosity, everybody would be perfectly justified in
following their inclinations with regard to it; there would be no reason
for frightening themselves, if they did not like it; but, since it is
perfectly certain that the fate of these poor ghosts, be what it may,
will be ours some day—perhaps before another year or another week has
passed over our heads—to shut our eyes to the truth, because it may
perchance occasion us some uncomfortable feelings, is surely a strange
mixture of contemptible cowardice and daring temerity. If it be true
that, by some law of nature, departed souls occasionally revisit the
earth, we may be quite certain that it was intended we should know it,
and that the law is to some good end; for no law of God can be
purposeless or mischievous; and is it conceivable that we should say we
will not know it, because it is disagreeable to us? Is not this very
like saying, “Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die!”
and yet refusing to inquire what is to become of us when we do die?
refusing to avail ourselves of that demonstrative proof which God has
mercifully placed within our reach? And, with all this obstinacy, people
do not get rid of the apprehension; they go on struggling against it and
keeping it down by argument and reason; but there are very few persons
indeed, men or women, who, when placed in a situation calculated to
suggest the idea, do not feel the intuitive conviction striving within
them. In the ordinary circumstances of life, nobody suffers from this
terror; in the extraordinary ones, I find the professed disbelievers not
much better off than the believers. Not long ago, I heard a lady
expressing the great alarm she should have felt, had she been exposed to
spend a whole night on Ben Lomond, as Margaret Fuller, the American
authoress, did lately; “for,” said she, “though I don’t believe in
ghosts, I should have been dreadfully afraid of seeing one then!”
Moreover, though I do not suppose that man, in his normal state, could
ever encounter an incorporeal spirit without considerable awe, I am
inclined to think that the extreme terror the idea inspires arises from
bad training. The ignorant frighten children with ghosts, and the better
educated assure them there is no such thing. Our understanding may
believe the latter, but our instincts believe the former; so that, out
of this education, we retain the terror, and just belief enough to make
it very troublesome whenever we are placed in circumstances that awaken
it. Now, perhaps, if the thing were differently managed, the result
might be different. Suppose the subject were duly investigated, and it
were ascertained that the views which I and many others are disposed to
entertain with regard to it are correct,—and suppose, then, children
were calmly told that it is not impossible but that, on some occasion,
they may see a departed friend again—that the laws of nature,
established by an allwise Providence, admit of the dead sometimes
revisiting the earth, doubtless for the benevolent purpose of keeping
alive in us our faith in a future state—that death is merely a
transition to another life, which it depends on ourselves to make happy
or otherwise—and that while those spirits which appear bright and
blessed may well be objects of our envy, the others should excite only
our intense compassion: I am persuaded that a child so educated would
feel no terror at the sight of an apparition, more especially as there
very rarely appears to be anything terrific in the aspect of these
forms; they generally come in their “habits as they lived,” and appear
so much like the living person in the flesh, that where they are not
known to be already dead, they are frequently mistaken for them. There
are exceptions to this rule,—but the forms in themselves rarely exhibit
anything to create alarm.
As a proof that a child would not naturally be terrified at the sight of
an apparition, I will adduce the following instance, the authenticity of
which I can vouch for:—
A lady with her child embarked on board a vessel at Jamaica, for the
purpose of visiting her friends in England, leaving her husband behind
her quite well. It was a sailing packet; and they had been some time at
sea, when one evening, while the child was kneeling before her saying
his prayers previous to going to rest, he suddenly said: “Mamma, papa!”
“Nonsense, my dear!” the mother answered, “you know your papa is not
here!”—“He is indeed, mamma,” returned the child, “he is looking at us
now.” Nor could she convince him to the contrary. When she went on deck,
she mentioned the circumstance to the captain, who thought it so
strange, that he said he would note down the date of the occurrence. The
lady begged him not to do so, saying it was attaching a significance to
it which would make her miserable. He did it, however; and, shortly
after her arrival in England, she learned that her husband had died
exactly at that period.
I have met with other instances in which children have seen apparitions
without exhibiting any alarm; and in the case of Fredericka Hauffe, the
infant in her arms was frequently observed to point smilingly to those
which she herself said she saw. In the above related case, we find a
valuable example of an apparition which we can not believe to have been
a mere subjective phenomenon, being seen by one person and not by
another. The receptivity of the child may have been greater, or the
rapport between it and its father stronger; but this occurrence
inevitably leads us to suggest, how often our departed friends may be
near us, and we not see them!
A Mr. B——, with whom I am acquainted, informed me that, some years
ago, he lost two children. There was an interval of two years between
their deaths; and about as long a period had elapsed since the decease
of the second, when the circumstance I am about to relate took place. It
may be conceived that at that distance of time, however vivid the
impression had been at first, it had considerably faded from the mind of
a man engaged in business; and he assures me that, on the night this
event occurred, he was not thinking of the children at all; he was,
moreover, perfectly well, and had neither eaten nor drank anything
unusual, nor abstained from eating or drinking anything to which he was
accustomed. He was therefore in his normal state; when shortly after he
had lain down in bed, and before he had fallen asleep, he heard the
voice of one of the children say: “Papa—papa!”
“Do you hear that?” he said to his wife, who lay beside him—“I hear
Archy calling me, as plain as ever I heard him in my life!”
“Nonsense!” returned the lady; “you are fancying it.”
But presently he again heard “Papa, papa!” and now both voices spoke.
Upon which—exclaiming, “I can stand this no longer”—he started up,
and, drawing back the curtains, saw both children in their
night-dresses, standing near the bed. He immediately jumped out;
whereupon they retreated slowly, and with their faces toward him, to the
window, where they disappeared. He says that the circumstance made a
great impression upon him at the time; and, indeed, that it was one that
could never be effaced; but he did not know what to think of it, not
believing in ghosts, and therefore concluded it must have been some
extraordinary spectral illusion, especially as his wife heard nothing.
It may have been so; but that circumstance by no means proves it.
From these varying degrees of susceptibility, or affinity, there seems
to arise another consequence, namely, that more than one person may see
the same object, and yet see it differently, and I mention this
particularly, because it is one of the objections that unreflecting
persons make to phenomena of this kind, second sight especially. In the
remarkable instance which is recorded to have occurred at Ripley, in the
year 1812, to which I shall allude more particularly in a future
chapter, much stress was laid on the fact, that the first seer said,
“Look at those beasts!” While the second answered, they were “not
beasts, but men.” In a former chapter, I mentioned the case of a lady,
on board a ship, seeing and feeling a sort of blue cloud hanging over
her, which afterward, as it retired, assumed a human form, though still
appearing a vapory substance. Now, possibly, had her receptivity, or the
rapport, been greater, she might have seen the distinct image of her
dying friend. I have met with several instances of these cloudy figures
being seen, as if the spirit had built itself up a form of atmospheric
air; and it is remarkable, that when other persons perceived the
apparitions that frequented the Seeress of Prevorst, some saw those as
cloudy forms, which she saw distinctly attired in the costume they wore
when alive; and thus, on some occasions, apparitions are represented as
being transparent, while on others they have not been distinguishable
from the real corporeal body. All these discrepancies, and others, to be
hereafter alluded to, are doubtless only absurd to our ignorance; they
are the results of physical laws, as absolute, though not so easily
ascertained, as those by which the most ordinary phenomena around us are
found explicable.
With respect to these cloudy forms, I have met with four instances
lately, two occurring to ladies, and two to gentlemen; the one a
minister, and the other a man engaged in business; and although I am
quite aware that these cases are not easily to be distinguished from
those of spectral illusion, yet I do not think them so myself; and as
they occurred to persons in their normal state of health, who never
before or since experienced anything of the kind, and who could find
nothing in their own circumstances to account for its happening then, I
shall mention them. In the instances of the gentlemen and one of the
ladies, they were suddenly awakened, they could not tell by what, and
perceived bending over them a cloudy form, which immediately retreated
slowly to the other end of the room, and disappeared. In the fourth
case, which occurred to an intimate friend of my own, she had not been
asleep; but having been the last person up in the house, had just
stepped into the bed, where her sister had already been some time
asleep. She was perfectly awake, when her attention was attracted by
hearing the clink of glass, and, on looking up, she saw a figure
standing on the hearth, which was exactly opposite her side of the bed,
and as there was water and a tumbler there, she concluded that her
sister had stepped out at the bottom, unperceived by her, and was
drinking. While she was carelessly observing the figure, it moved toward
the bed, and laid a heavy hand upon her, pressing her arm in a manner
that gave her pain. “Oh, Maria, don’t!” she exclaimed; but as the form
retreated, and she lost sight of it, a strange feeling crept over her,
and she stretched out her hand to ascertain if her sister was beside
her. She was, and asleep; but this movement awoke her, and she found the
other now in considerable agitation. She, of course, tried to persuade
her that it was a dream, or night-mare, as did the family the next day;
but she was quite clear in her mind at the time, as she then assured me,
that it was neither one nor the other; though now, at the distance of a
year from the occurrence, she is very desirous of putting that
construction upon it. As somebody will be ready to suggest that this was
a freak played by one of the family, I can only answer that that is an
explanation that no one who is acquainted with all the circumstances,
could admit; added to which, the figure did not disappear in the
direction of the door, but in quite an opposite one.
A very singular thing happened to the accomplished authoress of “Letters
from the Baltic,” on which my readers may put what interpretation they
please, but I give it here as a pendant to the last story. The night
before she left Petersburgh she passed in the house of a friend. The
room appropriated to her use was a large dining-room, in which a
temporary bed was placed, and a folding screen was so arranged as to
give an air of comfort to the nook where the bed stood. She went to bed,
and to sleep, and no one who knows her can suspect her of seeing
spectral illusions, or being incapable of distinguishing her own
condition when she saw anything whatever. As she was to commence her
journey on the following day, she had given orders to be called at an
early hour, and, accordingly, she found herself awakened toward morning
by an old woman in a complete Russian costume, who looked at her,
nodding and smiling, and intimating, as she supposed, that it was time
to rise. Feeling, however, very sleepy, and very unwilling to do so, she
took her watch from behind her pillow, and, looking at it, perceived
that it was only four o’clock. As, from the costume of the old woman,
she knew her to be a Russian, and therefore not likely to understand any
language she could speak, she shook her head, and pointed to the watch,
giving her to understand that it was too early. The woman looked at her,
and nodded, and then retreated, while the traveller lay down again and
soon fell asleep. By-and-by, she was awakened by a knock at the door and
the voice of the maid whom she had desired to call her. She bade her
come in, but, the door being locked on the inside, she had to get out of
bed to admit her. It now occurred to her to wonder how the old woman had
entered, but, taking it for granted that there was some other mode of
ingress she did not trouble herself about it, but dressed, and descended
to breakfast. Of course, the inquiry usually addressed to a stranger was
made—they hoped she had slept well! “Perfectly,” she said, “only that
one of their good people had been somewhat over anxious to get her up in
the morning;” and she then mentioned the old woman’s visit, but to her
surprise, they declared they had no such person in the family. “It must
have been some old nurse, or laundress, or something of that sort,” she
suggested. “Impossible!” they answered; “you must have dreamed the whole
thing; we have no old woman in the house; nobody wearing that costume;
and nobody could have got in, since the door must have been fastened
long after that!” And these assertions the servants fully confirmed;
added to which, I should observe, that the house, like foreign houses in
general, consisted of a flat, or floor, shut in by a door, which
separated it entirely from the rest of the building, and, being high up
from the street, nobody could even have gained access by a window. The
lady now beginning to get somewhat puzzled, inquired if there were any
second entrance into the room; but, to her surprise, she heard there was
not; and she then mentioned that she had locked the door on going to
bed, and had found it locked in the morning. The thing has ever remained
utterly inexplicable, and the family, who were much more amazed by it
than she was, would willingly believe it to have been a dream; but,
whatever the interpretation of it may be, she feels quite certain that
that is not the true one.
I make no comments on the above case, though a very inexplicable one;
and I scarcely know whether to mention any of those well-established
tales, which appear to be certainly as satisfactorily attested as any
circumstance which is usually taken simply on report. I allude
particularly to the stories of General Wynyard; Lord Tyrone and Lady
Beresford; the case which took place at Havant, in Hampshire, and which
is related in a letter from Mr. Caswell the mathematician to Dr.
Bentley; that which occurred in Cornwall, as narrated by the Rev. Mr.
Ruddle, one of the prebendaries of Exeter, whose assistance and advice
were asked, and who himself had two interviews with the spirit; and many
others, which are already published in different works; especially in a
little book entitled “Accredited Ghost-Stories.” I may, however, mention
that, with respect to those of Lady Beresford and General Wynyard, the
families of the parties have always maintained their entire belief in
the circumstances; as do the family of Lady Betty Cobb, who took the
riband from Lady Beresford’s arm, after she was dead—she having always
worn it since her interview with the apparition, in order to conceal the
mark he had left by touching her.
There have been many attempts to explain away the story of Lord
Littleton’s warning, although the evidence for it certainly satisfied
the family, as we learn from Dr. Johnson, who said, in regard to it,
that it was the most extraordinary thing that had happened in his day,
and that he heard it from the lips of Lord Westcote, the uncle of Lord
Littleton.
There is a sequel, however, to this story, which is extremely well
authenticated, though much less generally known. It appears that Mr.
Miles Peter Andrews, the intimate friend of Lord Littleton, was at his
house, at Dartford, when Lord L. died at Pitt-place, Epsom, thirty miles
off. Mr. Andrews’ house was full of company, and he expected Lord
Littleton, whom he had left in his usual state of health, to join him
the next day, which was Sunday.
Mr. Andrews himself feeling rather indisposed on the Saturday evening,
retired early to bed, and requested Mrs. Pigou, one of his guests, to do
the honors of his supper-table. He admitted (for he is himself the
authority for the story) that he fell into a feverish sleep on going to
bed, but was awakened between eleven and twelve by somebody opening his
curtains, which proved to be Lord Littleton, in a night-gown and cap,
which Mr. Andrews recognised. Lord Littleton spoke, saying that he was
come to tell him _all was over_. It appears that Lord Littleton was fond
of practical joking, and as Mr. Andrews entertained no doubt whatever of
his visiter being Lord Littleton himself, in the body, he supposed that
this was one of his tricks; and, stretching his arm out of bed, he took
hold of his slippers, the nearest thing he could get at, and threw them
at him, whereupon the figure retreated to a dressing-room, which had no
ingress or egress except through the bed-chamber. Upon this, Mr. Andrews
jumped out of bed to follow him, intending to chastise him further, but
he could find nobody in either of the rooms, although the door was
locked on the inside; so he rang his bell, and inquired who had seen
Lord Littleton. Nobody had seen him; but, though how he had got in or
out of the room remained an enigma, Mr. Andrews asserted that he was
certainly there; and, angry at the supposed trick, he ordered that they
should give him no bed, but let him go and sleep at the inn. Lord
Littleton, however, appeared no more, and Mr. Andrews went to sleep, not
entertaining the slightest suspicion that he had seen an apparition.
It happened that, on the following morning, Mrs. Pigou had occasion to
go at an early hour to London, and great was her astonishment to learn
that Lord Littleton had died on the preceding night. She immediately
despatched an express to Dartford with the news, upon the receipt of
which, Mr. Andrews, then quite well, and remembering perfectly all that
had happened, swooned away. He could not understand it, but it had a
most serious effect upon him, and, to use his own expression, he was not
his own man again for three years.
There are various authorities for this story, the correctness of which
is vouched for by some members of Mrs. Pigou’s family, with whom I am
acquainted, who have frequently heard the circumstances detailed by
herself, and who assure me it was always believed by the family. I
really, therefore, do not see what grounds we have for doubting either
of these facts. Lord Westcote, on whose word Dr. Johnson founded his
belief of Lord Littleton’s warning, was a man of strong sense; and that
the story was not looked upon lightly by the family, is proved by the
fact that the dowager Lady Littleton had a picture—which was seen by
Sir Nathaniel Wraxhall in her house in Portugal street, as mentioned in
his memoirs—wherein the event was commemorated. His lordship is in bed;
the dove appears at the window; and a female figure stands at the foot
of the couch, announcing to the unhappy profligate his approaching
dissolution. That he mentioned the warning to his valet, and some other
persons, and that he talked of _jockeying_ the ghost by surviving the
time named, is certain; as also that he died with his watch in his hand,
precisely at the appointed period! Mr. Andrews says that he was subject
to fits of strangulation, from a swelling in the throat, which might
have killed him at any moment; but his decease having proceeded from a
natural and obvious cause, does not interfere one way or the other with
the validity of the prediction, which simply foretold his death at a
particular period, not that there was to be anything preternatural in
the manner of it.
As I find so many people willing to believe in wraiths, who can not
believe in ghosts—that is, they are overpowered by the numerous
examples, and the weight of evidence for the first—it would be
desirable if we could ascertain whether these wraiths are seen before
the death occurs or after it; but, though the day is recorded, and seems
always to be the one on which the death took place, and the hour about
the same, minutes are not sufficiently observed to enable us to answer
that question. It would be an interesting one, because the argument
advanced by those who believe that the dead never are seen, is, that it
is the strong will and desire of the expiring person which enables him
so to act on the nervous system of his distant friend, that the
imagination of the latter projects the form, and sees it as if
objectively. By _imagination_ I do not simply mean to convey the common
notion implied by that much-abused word, which is only _fancy_, but the
_constructive_ imagination, which is a much higher function, and which,
inasmuch as man is made in the likeness of God, bears a distant relation
to that sublime power by which the Creator projects, creates, and
upholds, his universe; while the far-working of the departing spirit
seems to consist in the strong will to do, reinforced by the strong
faith that it can be done. We have rarely the strong will, and still
more rarely the strong faith, without which the will remains
ineffective. In the following case, which is perfectly authentic, the
apparition of Major R—— was seen several hours after his death had
occurred.
In the year 1785, some cadets were ordered to proceed from Madras to
join their regiments up the country. A considerable part of the journey
was to be made in a barge, and they were under the conduct of a senior
officer, Major R——. In order to relieve the monotony of the voyage,
this gentleman proposed, one day, that they should make a shooting
excursion inland, and walk round to meet the boat at a point agreed on,
which, owing to the windings of the river, it would not reach till
evening. They accordingly took their guns, and as they had to cross a
swamp, Major R——, who was well acquainted with the country, put on a
heavy pair of top-boots, which, together with an odd limp he had in his
gait, rendered him distinguishable from the rest of the party at a
considerable distance. When they reached the jungle, they found there
was a wide ditch to leap, which all succeeded in doing except the major,
who being less young active, jumped short of the requisite distance; and
although he scrambled up unhurt, he found his gun so crammed full of wet
sand that it would be useless till thoroughly cleansed. He therefore
bade them walk on, saying he would follow; and taking off his hat, he
sat down in the shade, where they left him. When they had been beating
about for game some time, they began to wonder why the major did not
come on, and they shouted to let him know whereabouts they were; but
there was no answer, and hour after hour passed without his appearance,
till at length they began to feel somewhat uneasy.
Thus the day wore away, and they found themselves approaching the
rendezvous. The boat was in sight, and they were walking down to it,
wondering how their friend could have missed them, when suddenly, to
their great joy, they saw him before them, making toward the barge. He
was without his hat or gun, limping hastily along in his top-boots, and
did not appear to observe them. They shouted after him, but as he did
not look round, they began to run, in order to overtake him; and,
indeed, fast as he went, they did gain considerably upon him. Still he
reached the boat first, crossing the plank which the boatmen had placed
ready for the gentlemen they saw approaching. He ran down the
companion-stairs, and they after him; but inexpressible was their
surprise when they could not find him below! They ascended again, and
inquired of the boatmen what had become of him; but they declared he had
not come on board, and that nobody had crossed the plank till the young
men themselves had done so.
Confounded and amazed at what appeared so inexplicable, and doubly
anxious about their friend, they immediately resolved to retrace their
steps in search of him; and, accompanied by some Indians who knew the
jungle, they made their way back to the spot where they had left him.
Thence some footmarks enabled them to trace him, till, at a very short
distance from the ditch, they found his hat and his gun. Just then the
Indians called out to them to beware, for that there was a sunken well
thereabouts, into which they might fall. An apprehension naturally
seized them that this might have been the fate of their friend; and on
examining the edge, they saw a mark as of a heel slipping up. Upon this,
one of the Indians consented to go down, having a rope with which they
had provided themselves tied round his waist; for, aware of the
existence of the wells, the natives suspected what had actually
occurred, namely, that the unfortunate gentleman had slipped into one of
these traps, which, being overgrown with brambles, were not discernible
by the eye. With the assistance of the Indian, the body was brought up
and carried back to the boat, amid the deep regrets of the party, with
whom he had been a great favorite. They proceeded with it to the next
station, where an inquiry was instituted as to the manner of his death,
but of course there was nothing more to be elicited.
I give this story as related by one of the parties present, and there is
no doubt of its perfect authenticity. He says he can in no way account
for the mystery—he can only relate the fact; and not one, but the whole
_five_ cadets, saw him as distinctly as they saw each other. It was
evident, from the spot where the body was found, which was not many
hundred yards from the well, that the accident must have occurred very
shortly after they left him. When the young men reached the boat, Major
R—— must have been, for some seven or eight hours, a denizen of the
other world, yet he kept the rendezvous!
There was a similar occurrence in Devonshire, some years back, which
happened to the well-known Dr. Hawker, who, one night in the street,
observed an old woman pass him, to whom he was in the habit of giving a
weekly charity. Immediately after she had passed, he felt somebody pull
his coat, and on looking round saw it was her, whereupon he put his hand
in his pocket to seek for a sixpence, but on turning to give it to her
she was gone. He thought nothing about it; but when he got home, he
inquired if she had had her money that week,—when, to his amazement, he
heard she was dead, but his family had forgotten to mention the
circumstance. I have met with two curious cases, occurring in Edinburgh,
of late years; in one, a young man and his sister were in their kitchen,
warming themselves over the fire before they retired to bed, when, on
raising their eyes, they both saw a female figure, dressed in white,
standing in the door-way and looking at them; she was leaning against
one of the door-posts. Miss E——, the young lady, screamed; whereupon
the figure advanced, crossed the kitchen toward a closet, and
disappeared. There was no egress at the closet: and as they lived in a
flat, and the door was closed for the night, a stranger could neither
have entered the house nor got out of it. In the other instance, there
were two houses on one flat, the doors opposite each other. In one of
the houses there resided a person with her two daughters, grown-up
women: in the other lived a shoemaker and his wife. The latter died, and
it was said her husband had ill-treated her and worried her out of the
world. He was a drunken, dissipated man, and used to be out till a late
hour most nights, while this poor woman sat up for him, and when she
heard a voice on the stairs, or a bell, she used often to come out and
look over to see if it were her husband returned. One night, when she
had been dead some weeks, the two young women were ascending the stairs
to their own door, when, to their amazement, they both saw her standing
at the top, looking over as she used to do in her lifetime. At the same
moment their mother opened the door and saw the figure also; the girls
rushed past, overcome with terror, and one if not both fainted as soon
as they got into the door. The youngest fell on her face in the passage.
Another case, which occurred in this town, I mention—although I know it
is liable to be called a spectral illusion—because it bears a
remarkable similarity to one which took place in America. A respectable
woman lost her father, for whom she had a great affection; she was of a
serious turn, and much attached to the tenets of her church, in which
particulars she thought her father had been deficient. She was therefore
very unhappy about him, fearing that he had not died in a proper state
of mind. A considerable time had elapsed since his death, but her
distrust of his condition was still causing her uneasiness; when one
day, while she was sitting at her work, she felt something touch her
shoulder, and on looking round she perceived her father, who bade her
cease to grieve about him, as he was not unhappy. From that moment she
became perfectly resigned and cheerful. The American case—I have
omitted to write down the name of the place, and forget it—was that of
a mother and son. She was also a highly respectable person, and was
described to me as perfectly trustworthy by one who knew her. She was a
widow, and had one son, to whom she was extremely attached. He however
disappeared one day, and she never could learn what had become of him;
she always said that if she did but know his fate she should be happier.
At length, when he had been dead a considerable time, her attention was
one day, while reading, attracted by a slight noise, which induced her
to look round, and she saw her son, dripping with water, and with a sad
expression of countenance. The features, however, presently relaxed, and
they assumed a more pleasing aspect before he disappeared. From that
time she ceased to grieve, and it was subsequently ascertained that the
young man had run away to sea; but no more was known of him. Certain it
was, however, that she attributed her recovered tranquillity to having
seen her son as above narrated.
A lady with whom I am acquainted was one day, when a girl, standing at
the top of the stairs, with two others, discussing their games, when
they each suddenly exclaimed: “Who’s that?” There was a fourth among
them—a girl in a checked pinafore; but she was gone again. They had all
seen her. One day a younger brother, in the same house, was playing with
a whip, when he suddenly laughed at something, and cried “Take that;”
and described having seen the same girl. This led to some inquiry, and
it was said that such a girl as they described had lived in that house,
and had died from the bite of a mad dog; or, rather, had been smothered
between two feather-beds: but whether that was actually done, or was
only a report, I can not say. Supposing this to have been no illusion,
and I really can not see how it could be one, the memory of past sports
and pleasures seems to have so survived as to have attracted the young
soul, prematurely cut off, to the spot where the same sports and
pleasures were being enjoyed by the living.
A maid-servant in one of the midland counties of England, being up early
one morning, heard her name called in a voice that seemed to be her
brother’s, a sailor then at sea; and running up, she found him standing
in the hall; he said he was come from afar, and was going again, and
mentioned some other things; when her mistress, hearing voices, called
to know who she was talking to: she said it was her brother from sea.
After speaking to her for some time, she suddenly lost sight of him, and
found herself alone. Amazed and puzzled, she told her mistress what had
happened, who being led thus to suspect the kind of visiter it was,
looked out of the window to ascertain if there were any marks of
footsteps, the ground being covered with snow. There were, however,
none,—and it was therefore clear that nobody could have entered the
house. Intelligence afterward arrived of the young man’s death.
This last is a case of wraith, but a more complicated one, from the
circumstance of speech being superadded. But this is not by any means an
isolated particular; there are many such. The author of the book called
“Accredited Ghost Stories”—whose name I at this moment forget, and I
have not the book at hand—gives, on his own authority, the following
circumstance, professing to be acquainted with the parties. A company
were visiting York cathedral, when a gentleman and lady, who had
detached themselves from the rest, observed an officer wearing a naval
uniform approaching them; he walked quickly, saying to the lady, as he
passed, “There _is_ another world.” The gentleman, seeing her greatly
agitated, pursued the stranger, but lost sight of him, and nobody had
seen such a person but themselves. On returning to his companion, she
told him that it was her brother, who was then abroad with his ship, and
with whom she had frequently held discussions as to whether there was or
was not a future life. The news of the young man’s death shortly reached
the family. In this case the brother must have been dead; the spirit
must have passed out of this world into that other, the existence of
which he came to certify. This is one of those cases which—happening
not long ago—leads one especially to regret the want of moral courage
which prevents people giving up their names and avowing their
experience. The author of the abovementioned book, from which I borrow
this story, says that the sheet had gone to the press with the real
names of the parties attached, but that he was requested to withdraw
them, as it would be painful to the family. My view of this case is so
different, that, had it occurred to myself, I should have felt it my
imperative duty to make it known and give every satisfaction to
inquirers.
Some years ago, during the war, when Sir Robert H. E—— was in the
Netherlands, he happened to be quartered with two other officers, one of
whom was despatched into Holland on an expedition. One night, during his
absence, Sir R. H. E—— awoke, and, to his great surprise, saw this
absent friend sitting on the bed which he used to occupy, with a wound
in his breast. Sir Robert immediately awoke his companion, who saw the
spectre also. The latter then addressed them, saying that he had been
that day killed in a skirmish, and that he had died in great anxiety
about his family, wherefore he had come to communicate that there was a
deed of much consequence to them deposited in the hands of a certain
lawyer in London, whose name and address he mentioned, adding that this
man’s honesty was not to be altogether relied on. He therefore requested
that, on their return to England, they would go to his house and demand
the deed, but that, if he denied the possession of it, they were to seek
it in a certain drawer in his office, which he described to them. The
circumstance impressed them very much at the time, but a long time had
elapsed ere they reached England, during which period they had gone
through so many adventures and seen so many friends fall around them,
that this impression was considerably weakened, insomuch that each went
to his own home and his own pursuits without thinking of fulfilling the
commission they had undertaken. Some time afterward, however, it
happened that they both met in London, and they then resolved to seek
the street that had been named to them, and ascertain if such a man
lived there. They found him, requested an interview, and demanded the
deed, the possession of which he denied; but their eyes were upon the
drawer that had been described to them, where they asserted it to be,
and being there discovered, it was delivered into their hands. Here,
also, the soul had parted from the body, while the memory of the past
and an anxiety for the worldly prosperity, of those left behind,
survived; and we thus see that the condition of mind in which this
person had died, remained unchanged. He was not indifferent to the
worldly prosperity of his relatives, and he found his own state rendered
unhappy by the fear that they might suffer from the dishonesty of his
agent. It may here be naturally objected that hundreds of much-loved
widows and orphans have been ruined by dishonest trustees and agents,
where no ghost came back to instruct them in the means of obviating the
misfortune. This is, no doubt, a very legitimate objection, and one
which it is very difficult to answer. I must, however, repeat what I
said before, nature is full of exceptional cases, while we know very
little of the laws which regulate these exceptions; but we may see a
very good reason for the fact that such communications are the
exception, and not the rule; for if they were the latter, the whole
economy of this earthly life would be overturned, and its affairs must
necessarily be conducted in a totally different manner to that which
prevails at present. What the effects of such an arrangement of nature
would be, had it pleased God to make it, he alone knows; but certain it
is, that man’s freedom, as a moral agent, would be in a great degree
abrogated, were the barriers that impede our intercourse with the
spiritual world removed.
It may be answered, that this is an argument which may be directed
against the fact of such appearances being permitted at all; but that is
a fallacious objection. Earthquakes and hurricanes are occasionally
permitted, which overthrow the work of man’s hands for centuries; but if
these convulsions of nature were of every-day occurrence, nobody would
think it worth their while to build a house or cultivate the earth, and
the world would be a wreck and a wilderness. The apparitions that do
appear, are not without their use to those who believe in them; while
there is too great an uncertainty attending the subject, generally to
allow of its ever being taken into consideration in mundane affairs.
The old, so-called, superstition of the people, that a person’s “dying
with something on his mind” is one of the frequent causes of these
revisitings, seems, like most other of their superstitions, to be
founded on experience. I meet with many cases in which some apparently
trivial anxiety, or some frustrated communication, prevents the uneasy
spirit flinging off the bonds that bind it to the earth. I could quote
many examples characterized by this feature, but will confine myself to
two or three.
Jung Stilling gives a very curious one, which occurred in the year 1746,
and for the authenticity of which he vouches. A gentleman of the name of
Dorrien, of most excellent character and amiable disposition, who was
tutor in the Carolina Colleges, at Brunswick, died there in that year;
and immediately previous to his death he sent to request an interview
with another tutor, of the name of Hofer, with whom he had lived on
terms of friendship. Hofer obeyed the summons, but came too late, the
dying man was already in the last agonies. After a short time, rumors
began to circulate that Herr Dorrien had been seen by different persons
about the college; but as it was with the pupils that these rumors
originated, they were supposed to be mere fancies, and no attention
whatever was paid to them. At length, however, in the month of October,
three months after the decease of Herr Dorrien, a circumstance occurred
that excited considerable amazement among the professors. It formed part
of the duty of Hofer to go through the college every night, between the
hours of eleven and twelve, for the purpose of ascertaining that all the
scholars were in bed, and that nothing irregular was going on among
them. On the night in question, on entering one of the ante-rooms in the
execution of this duty, he saw, to his great amazement, Herr Dorrien,
seated, in the dressing-gown and white cap he was accustomed to wear,
and holding the latter with his right hand, in such a manner as to
conceal the upper part of the face; from the eyes to the chin, however,
it was distinctly visible. This unexpected sight naturally startled
Hofer, but, summoning resolution, he advanced into the young men’s
chamber, and, having ascertained that all was in order, closed the door;
he then turned his eyes again toward the spectre, and there it sat as
before, whereupon he went up to it, and stretched out his arm toward it;
but he was now seized with such a feeling of indescribable horror, that
he could scarcely withdraw his hand, which became swollen to a degree
that for some months he had no use of it. On the following day he
related this circumstance to the professor of mathematics, Oeder, who of
course treated the thing as a spectral illusion. He, however, consented
to accompany Hofer on his rounds the ensuing night, satisfied that he
should be able either to convince him it was a mere phantasm, or else a
spectre of flesh and blood that was playing him a trick. They
accordingly went at the usual hour, but no sooner had the professor set
his foot in that same room, than he exclaimed, “By Heavens! it is
Dorrien himself!” Hofer, in the meantime, proceeded into the chamber as
before, in the pursuance of his duties, and, on his return, they both
contemplated the figure for some time; neither of them had, however, the
courage to address or approach it, and finally quitted the room, very
much impressed, and perfectly convinced that they had seen Dorrien.
This incident soon got spread abroad, and many people came in hopes of
satisfying their own eyes of the fact, but their pains were fruitless;
and even Professor Oeder, who had made up his mind to speak to the
apparition, sought it repeatedly in the same place in vain. At length,
he gave it up, and ceased to think of it, saying, “I have sought the
ghost long enough; if he has anything to say, he must now seek me.”
About a fortnight after this, he was suddenly awakened, between three
and four o’clock in the morning, by something moving in his chamber, and
on opening his eyes, he beheld a shadowy form, having the same
appearance as the spectre, standing in front of a press which was not
more than two steps from his bed. He raised himself, and contemplated
the figure, the features of which he saw distinctly for some minutes,
till it disappeared. On the following night he was awakened in the same
manner, and saw the figure as before, with the addition that there was a
sound proceeded from the door of the press, as if somebody was leaning
against it. The spectre also stayed longer this time, and Professor
Oeder, no doubt frightened and angry, addressing it as an evil spirit,
bade it begone, whereon it made gestures with its head and hands that
alarmed him so much, that he adjured it in the name of God to leave him,
which it did. Eight days now elapsed without any further disturbance,
but, after that period, the visits of the spirit were resumed, and he
was awakened by it repeatedly about three in the morning, when it would
advance from the press to the bed, and hang its head over him in a
manner so annoying, that he started up and struck at it, whereupon it
would retire, but presently advance again. Perceiving now, that the
countenance was rather placid and friendly than otherwise, the professor
at length addressed it, and, having reason to believe that Dorrien had
left some debts unpaid, he asked him if that were the case, upon which
the spectre retreated some steps, and seemed to place itself in an
attitude of attention. Oeder reiterated the inquiry, whereupon the
figure drew its hand across its mouth, in which the professor now
observed a short pipe. “Is it to the barber you are in debt?” he
inquired. The spectre slowly shook its head. “Is it to the tobacconist,
then?” asked he, the question being suggested by the pipe. Hereupon the
form retreated, and disappeared. On the following day, Oeder narrated
what had occurred to Councillor Erath, one of the curators of the
college, and also to the sister of the deceased, and arrangements were
made for discharging the debt. Professor Seidler, of the same college,
now proposed to pass the night with Oeder, for the purpose of observing
if the ghost came again, which it did about five o’clock, and awoke
Oeder as usual, who awoke his companion, but just then the form
disappeared, and Seidler said he only saw something white. They then
both disposed themselves to sleep, but presently Seidler was aroused by
Oeder’s starting up and striking out, while he cried, with a voice
expressive of rage and horror, “Begone! You have tormented me long
enough! If you want anything of me, say what it is, or give me an
intelligible sign, and come here no more!”
Seidler heard all this, though he saw nothing; but as soon as Oeder was
somewhat appeased, he told him that the figure had returned, and not
only approached the bed, but stretched itself upon it. After this, Oeder
burned a light, and had some one in the room every night. He gained this
advantage by the light, that he saw nothing; but about four o’clock, he
was generally awakened by noises in his room, and other symptoms that
satisfied him the ghost was there. At length, however, this annoyance
ceased also; and trusting that his unwelcome guest had taken his leave,
he dismissed his bedfellow, and dispensed with his light. Two nights
passed quietly over; on the third, however, the spectre returned; but
very perceptibly darker. It now presented another sign, or symbol, which
seemed to represent a picture, with a hole in the middle, through which
it thrust its head. Oeder was now so little alarmed, that he bade it
express its wishes more clearly, or approach nearer. To these
requisitions the apparition shook its head, and then vanished. This
strange phenomenon recurred several times, and even in the presence of
another curator of the college; but it was with considerable difficulty
they discovered what the symbol was meant to convey. They at length,
however, found that Dorrien just before his illness, had obtained, on
trial, several pictures for a magic lantern, which had never been
returned to their owner. This was now done, and from that time the
apparition was neither seen nor heard again. Professor Oeder made no
secret of these circumstances; he related them publicly in court and
college; he wrote the account to several eminent persons, and declared
himself ready to attest the facts upon his oath.
Stilling, who relates this story, has been called superstitious; he may
be so; but his piety and his honesty are above suspicion; he says the
facts are well known, and that he can vouch for their authenticity; and
as he must have been a contemporary of the parties concerned, he had,
doubtless, good opportunities of ascertaining what foundation there was
for the story. It is certainly a very extraordinary one, and the
demeanor of the spirit as little like what we should have naturally
apprehended as possible; but, as I have said before, we have no right to
pronounce any opinion on this subject, except from experience, and there
are two arguments to be advanced in favor of this narration; the one
being, that I can not imagine anybody setting about to invent a
ghost-story, would have introduced circumstances so apparently
improbable and inappropriate; and the other consisting in the fact, that
I have met with numerous relations, coming from very opposite quarters,
which seem to corroborate the one in question.
With respect to the cause of the spectre’s appearance, Jung Stilling, I
think, reasonably enough, suggests that the poor man had intended to
commission Hofer to settle these little affairs for him, but that
delaying this duty too long, his mind had been oppressed by the
recollection of them in his last moments—he had carried his care with
him, and it bound him to the earth. Wherefore, considering how many
persons die with duties unperformed, this anxiety to repair the neglect,
is not more frequently manifested, we do not know; some reasons we have
already suggested as possible; there may be others of which we can form
no idea, any more than we can solve the question, why in some cases
communication and even speech seems easy, while in this instance, the
spirit was only able to convey its wishes by gestures and symbols. Its
addressing itself to Oeder instead of Hofer, probably arose from its
finding communication with him less difficult; the swelling of Hofer’s
arm indicating that his physical nature was not adapted for this
spiritual intercourse. With respect to Oeder’s expedient of burning a
light in his room, in order to prevent his seeing this shadowy form, we
can comprehend, that the figure would be discerned more easily on the
dark ground of comparative obscurity, and that clear light would render
it invisible. Dr. Kerner mentions, on one occasion, that while sitting
in an adjoining room, with the door open, he had seen a shadowy figure,
to whom his patient was speaking, standing beside her bed; and catching
up a candle, he had rushed toward it; but as soon as he thus illuminated
the chamber, he could no longer distinguish it.
The ineffective and awkward attempts of this apparition to make itself
understood, are not easily to be reconciled to our ideas of a spirit,
while, at the same time, that which it could do, and that which it could
not—the powers it possessed and those it wanted—tend to throw some
light on its condition. As regards space, we may suppose that, in this
instance, what St. Martin said of ghosts in general, may be applicable:
“_Je ne crois pas aux revenants, mais je crois aux restants_;” that is,
he did not believe that spirits who had once quitted the earth returned
to it, but he believed that some did not quit it, and thus, as the
somnambule mentioned in a former chapter said to me, “Some are waiting
and some are gone on before.”
Dorrien’s uneasiness and worldly care chained him to the earth, and he
was a _restant_—but, being a spirit, he was inevitably inducted into
some of the inherent properties of spirit; matter to him was no
impediment, neither doors nor walls could keep him out; he had the
intuitive perception of whom he could most easily communicate with, or
he was brought into rapport with Oeder by the latter’s seeking him; and
he could either so act on Oeder’s constructive imagination as to enable
it to project his own figure, with the short pipe and the pictures, or
he could, by the magical power of his will, build up these images out of
the constituents of the atmosphere. The last seems the most probable,
because, had the rapport with Oeder, or Oeder’s receptivity, been
sufficient to enable the spirit to act potently upon him, it would have
been also able to infuse into his mind the wishes it desired to convey,
even without speech, for speech, as a means of communication between
spirits, must be quite unnecessary. Even in spite of these dense bodies
of ours, we have great difficulty in concealing our thoughts from each
other; and the somnambule reads the thoughts of not only his magnetizer,
but of others with whom he is placed in rapport. In cases where speech
appears to be used by a spirit, it is frequently not audible speech, but
only this transference of thought, which appears to be speech from the
manner in which the thought is borne in and enters the mind of the
receiver; but it is not through his ears, but through his universal
supplementary sense, that he receives it; and it is no more like what we
mean by _hearing_, than is the seeing of a _clairvoyant_, or a spirit,
like our seeing by means of our bodily organs. In those cases where the
speech is audible to other persons, we must suppose that the magical
will of the spirit can, by means of the atmosphere, simulate these
sounds as it can simulate others, of which I shall have to treat
by-and-by. It is remarkable that, in some instances, this magical power
seems to extend so far as to represent to the eye of the seer a form
apparently so real, solid, and lifelike, that it is not recognisable
from the living man; while in other cases the production of a shadowy
figure seems to be the limit of its agency, whether limited by its own
faculty or the receptivity of its subject: but we must be quite sure
that the form is, in either instance, equally ethereal or immaterial.
And it will not be out of place here to refer to the standing joke of
the skeptics, about ghosts appearing in coats and waistcoats. Bentham
thought he had settled the question for ever by that objection; and I
have heard it since frequently advanced by very acute persons; but,
properly considered, it has not the least validity.
Whether or not the soul on leaving its earthly tabernacle finds itself
at once clothed with that spiritual body which St. Paul refers to, is
what we can not know, though it seems highly probable; but if it be so,
we must be sure that this body resembles in its nature that fluent,
subtle kind of matter, called by us imponderables, which are capable of
penetrating all substances; and unless there be no visible body at all,
but only the will of a disembodied spirit acting upon one yet in the
flesh (in which case it were as easy to impress the imagination with a
clothed figure as an unclothed one), we must conclude that this ethereal
flexible form, whether permanent or temporary, may be held together and
retain its shape by the volition of the spirit, as our bodies are held
together by the principle of life that is in them; and we see in various
instances, where the spectator has been bold enough to try the
experiment, that though the shadowy body was pervious to any substance
passed through it, its integrity was only momentarily interrupted, and
it immediately recovered its previous shape.
Now, as a spirit—provided there be no especial law to the contrary,
partial or universal, absolute or otherwise, governing the spiritual
world—must be where its thoughts and wishes are, just as we should be
at the place we intently think of, or desire, if our solid bodies did
not impede us, so must a spirit appear as it is, or as it _conceives_ of
itself. Morally, it can only conceive of itself as it is, good or bad,
light or dark; but it may conceive of itself clothed as well as
unclothed; and if it can conceive of its former body, it can equally
conceive of its former habiliments, and so represent them by its power
of will to the eye, or present them to the constructive imagination of
the seer: and it will be able to do this with a degree of distinctness
proportioned to the receptivity of the latter, or to the intensity of
the rapport which exists between them. Now, considered in this way, the
appearance of a spirit “in its habit as it lived” is no more
extraordinary than the appearance of a spirit at all, and it adds no
complexity to the phenomenon. If it appears at all in a recognisable
form, it must come naked or clothed: the former, to say the least of it,
would be much more frightful and shocking; and if it be clothed, I do
not see what right we have to expect it shall be in a fancy costume,
conformable to our ideas (which are no ideas at all) of the other world;
nor why, if it be endowed with the memory of the past, it should not be
natural to suppose it would assume the external aspect it wore during
its earthly pilgrimage. Certain it is, whether consistent with our
notions or not, all tradition seems to show that this is the appearance
they assume; and the very fact that on the first view of the case, and
until the question is philosophically considered, the addition of a suit
of clothes to the phenomenon not only renders its acceptance much more
difficult, but throws an air of absurdity and improbability on the whole
subject, furnishes a very strong argument in favor of the persuasion
that this notion has been founded on experience, and is not the result
of either fancy or gratuitous invention.
The idea of spirits appearing like angels, with wings, &c., seems to be
drawn from these relations in the Bible, when messengers were sent from
God to man; but those departed spirits are not angels, though probably
destined in the course of ages to become so: in the meantime, their
moral state continues as when they quitted the body, and their memories
and affections are with the earth—and so, earthly they appear, more or
less. We meet with some instances in which bright spirits have been
seen—protecting spirits, for example, who have shaken off their earth
entirely, clinging to it yet but by some holy affection or mission of
mercy—and these appear, not with wings, which whenever seen are merely
symbolical, for we can not imagine they are necessary to the motion of a
spirit, but clothed in robes of light. Such appearances, however, seem
much more rare than the others.
It will seem to many persons very inconsistent with their ideas of the
dignity of a spirit that they should appear and act in the manner I have
described, and shall describe further; and I have heard it objected that
we can not suppose God would permit the dead to return merely to
frighten the living, and that it is showing him little reverence to
imagine he would suffer them to come on such trifling errands, or demean
themselves in so undignified a fashion. But God permits men of all
degrees of wickedness, and of every kind of absurdity, to exist, and to
harass and disturb the earth, while they expose themselves to its
obloquy or its ridicule.
Now, as I have observed in a former chapter, there is nothing more
perplexing to us in regarding man as a responsible being, than the
degree to which we have reason to believe his moral nature is influenced
by his physical organization; but leaving this difficult question to be
decided (if ever it can be decided in this world) by wiser heads than
mine, there is one thing of which we may rest perfectly assured, namely,
that let the fault of an impure, or vicious, or even merely sensuous
life, lie where it will—whether it be the wicked spirit within, or the
ill-organized body without, or a _tertium quid_ of both combined—still
the soul that has been a party to this earthly career, must be soiled
and deteriorated by its familiarity with evil; and there seems much
reason to believe that the dissolution of the connection between the
soul and body produces far less change in the former than has been
commonly supposed. People generally think—if they think on the subject
at all—that as soon as they are dead, if they have lived tolerably
virtuous lives, or indeed been free from any great crimes, they will
immediately find themselves provided with wings, and straightway fly up
to some delightful place, which they call heaven, forgetting how unfit
they are for heavenly fellowship; and although I can not help thinking
that the Almighty has mercifully permitted occasional relaxations of the
boundaries that separate the dead from the living, for the purpose of
showing us our error, we are determined not to avail ourselves of the
advantage. I do not mean that these spirits—these _revenants_ or
_restants_—are special messengers sent to warn us: I only mean that
their occasionally “revisiting the glimpses of the moon” form the
exceptional cases in a great general law of nature which divides the
spiritual from the material world; and that, in framing this law, these
exceptions may have been designed for our benefit.
There are several stories extant in the English, and a vast number in
the German records, which, supposing them to be well founded—and I
repeat, that for many of them we have just as good evidence as for
anything else we believe as hearsay or tradition—would go to confirm
the fact that the spirits of the dead are sometimes disturbed by what
appear to us very trifling cares. I give the following case from Dr.
Kerner, who says it was related to him by a very respectable man, on
whose word he can entirely rely:—
“I was,” said Mr. St. S——, of S——, “the son of a man who had no
fortune but his business, in which he was ultimately successful. At
first, however, his means being narrow, he was perhaps too anxious and
inclined to parsimony; so that when my mother, careful housewife as she
was, asked him for money, the demand generally led to a quarrel. This
occasioned her great uneasiness, and having mentioned this
characteristic of her husband to her father, the old man advised her to
get a second key made to the money-chest, unknown to her husband,
considering this expedient allowable and even preferable to the
destruction of their conjugal felicity, and feeling satisfied that she
would make no ill use of the power possessed. My mother followed his
advice, very much to the advantage of all parties; and nobody suspected
the existence of this second key except myself, whom she had admitted
into her confidence.
“Two-and-twenty years my parents lived happily together, when I, being
at the time about eighteen hours’ journey from home, received a letter
from my father informing me that she was ill—that he hoped for her
speedy amendment—but that if she grew worse he would send a horse to
fetch me home to see her. I was extremely busy at that time, and
therefore waited for further intelligence; and as several days elapsed
without any reaching me, I trusted my mother was convalescent. One
night, feeling myself unwell, I had lain down on the bed with my clothes
on to take a little rest. It was between 11 and 12 o’clock, and I had
not been asleep, when some one knocked at the door, and my mother
entered, dressed as she usually was. She saluted me, and said: ‘We shall
see each other no more in this world: but I have an injunction to give
you. I have given that key to R—— (naming a servant we then had), and
she will remit it to you. Keep it carefully, or throw it into the water,
but never let your father see it—it would trouble him. Farewell, and
walk virtuously through life.’ And with these words she turned and
quitted the room by the door, as she had entered it. I immediately
arose, called up my people, expressed my apprehension that my mother was
dead, and, without further delay, started for home. As I approached the
house, R——, the maid, came out and informed me that my mother had
expired between the hours of 11 and 12 on the preceding night. As there
was another person present at the moment, she said nothing further to
me, but she took an early opportunity of remitting me the key, saying
that my mother had given it to her just before she expired, desiring her
to place it in my hands, with an injunction that I should keep it
carefully, or fling it into the water, so that my father might never
know anything about it. I took the key, kept it for some years, and at
length threw it into the Lahne.”
I am aware that it may be objected by those who believe in wraiths, but
in no other kind of apparition, that this phenomenon occurred before the
death of the lady, and that it was produced by her energetic anxiety
with regard to the key. It may be so, or it may not; but, at all events,
we see in this case how a comparatively trifling uneasiness may disturb
a dying person, and how, therefore—if memory remains to them—they may
carry it with them, and seek, by such means as they have, to obtain
relief from it.
A remarkable instance of anxiety for the welfare of those left behind,
is exhibited in the following story, which I received from a member of
the family concerned: Mrs. R——, a lady very well connected, lost her
husband when in the prime of life, and found herself with fourteen
children, unprovided for. The overwhelming nature of the calamity
depressed her energies to such a degree as to render her incapable of
those exertions which could alone redeem them from ruin. The flood of
misfortune seemed too strong for her, and she yielded to it without
resistance. She had thus given way to despondency some time, when one
day, as she was sitting alone, the door opened, and her mother, who had
been a considerable time dead, entered the room and addressed her,
reproving her for this weak indulgence of useless sorrow, and bidding
her exert herself for the sake of her children. From that period she
threw off the depression, set actively to work to promote the fortunes
of her family, and succeeded so well that they ultimately emerged from
all their difficulties. I asked the gentleman who related this
circumstance to me whether he believed it. He answered, that he could
only assure me that she herself affirmed the fact, and that she avowedly
attributed the sudden change in her character and conduct to this
cause;—for his own part, he did not know what to say, finding it
difficult to believe in the possibility of such a visit from the dead.
A somewhat similar instance is related by Dr. Kerner, which he says he
received from the party himself, a man of sense and probity. This
gentleman, Mr. F——, at an early age lost his mother. Two-and-twenty
years afterward he formed an attachment to a young person, whose hand he
resolved to ask in marriage. Having one evening seated himself at his
desk, for the purpose of writing his proposal, he was amazed, on
accidentally lifting his eyes from the paper, to see his mother, looking
exactly as if alive, seated opposite to him, while she, raising her
finger with a warning gesture, said: “Do not that thing!” Not the least
alarmed, Mr. F—— started up to approach her, whereupon she
disappeared. Being very much attached to the lady, however, he did not
feel disposed to follow her counsel; but having read the letter to his
father, who highly approved of the match and laughed at the ghost, he
returned to his chamber to seal it; when, while he was adding the
superscription, she again appeared as before and reiterated her
injunction. But love conquered; the letter was despatched, the marriage
ensued, and, after ten years of strife and unhappiness, was dissolved by
a judicial process.
A remarkable circumstance occurred about forty years ago, in the family
of Dr. Paulus, at Stuttgard. The wife of the head of the family having
died, they, with some of their connections, were sitting at table a few
days afterward, in the room adjoining that in which the corpse lay;
suddenly the door of the latter apartment opened, and the figure of the
mother clad in white robes entered, and, saluting them as she passed,
walked slowly and noiselessly through the room, and then disappeared
again through the door by which she had entered. The whole company saw
the apparition; but the father, who was at that time quite in health,
died eight days afterward.
Madame R—— had promised an old wood-cutter—who had a particular
horror of dying in the poor-house, because he knew his body would be
given to the surgeons—that she would take care to see him properly
interred. The old man lived some years afterward, and she had quite lost
sight of him, and indeed forgotten the circumstance, when she was one
night awakened by the sound of some one cutting wood in her bed-chamber;
and so perfect was the imitation, that she heard, every log flung aside
as separated. She started up, exclaiming, “The old man must be dead!”
and so it proved,—his last anxiety having been that Madame R—— should
remember her promise.
That our interest in whatever has much concerned us in this life
accompanies us beyond the grave, seems to be proved by many stories I
meet with, and the following is of undoubted authenticity: Some years
ago, a music-master died at Erfert at the age of seventy. He was a
miser, and had never looked with very friendly eyes on Professor Rinck,
the composer, who he knew was likely to succeed to his classes. The old
man had lived and died in an apartment adjoining the class-room; and the
first day that Rinck entered on his office, while the scholars were
singing _Aus der tiefe ruf ich dich_, which is a paraphrase of the _De
profundis_, he thought he saw, through a hole or bull’s eye in the door,
something moving about the inner chamber. As the room was void of every
kind of furniture, and nobody could possibly be in it, Rinck looked more
fixedly, when he distinctly saw a shadow, whose movements were
accompanied by a strange rustling sound. Perplexed at the circumstance,
he told his pupils that on the following day he should require them to
repeat the same choral. They did so; and while they were singing, Rinck
saw a person walking backward and forward in the next room, who
frequently approached the hole in the door. Very much struck with so
extraordinary a circumstance, Rinck had the choral repeated on the
ensuing day,—and this time his suspicions were fully confirmed; the old
man, his predecessor, approaching the door, and gazing steadfastly into
the class-room. “His face,” said Rinck—in relating the story to Dr.
Mainzer, who has obligingly furnished it to me as entered in his journal
at the time—“was of an ashy-gray. The apparition,” he added, “never
more appeared to me, although I frequently had the choral repeated.”
“I am no believer in ghost-stories,” he added, “nor in the least
superstitious; nevertheless, I can not help admitting that I have seen
this: it is impossible for me ever to doubt or to deny that which I know
I saw.”