TRUE GHOSTS.—The apparitions themselves always sensorial
illusions—The truth of their communications accounted for—Zschokke’s
Seer-gift described, to show the possibility of direct mental
communication—Second-sight—The true relation of the mind to the living
body.
The worst of a true ghost is, that, to be sure of his genuineness—that
is, of his veracity—one must wait the event. He is distinguished by no
sensible and positive characteristics from the commoner herd. There is
nothing in his outward appearance to raise him in your opinion above
a fetch. But even this fact is not barren. His dress,—it is in the
ordinary mode of the time, in nothing overdone. To be dressed thus
does credit to his taste, as to be dressed at all evinces his sense
of propriety; but alas! the same elements convict him of objective
unreality. Whence come that aerial coat and waistcoat, whence those
visionary trousers?—alas! they can only have issued from the wardrobe
in the seer’s fancy. And, like his dress, the wearer is imaginary, a
mere sensorial illusion, without a shadow of externality; he is not
more substantial than a dream.
But dreams have differences of quality no less than ghosts. All do not
come through the ivory gate. Some are true and significant enough. See,
there glides one skulking assassin-like into the shade,—he not long
since killed his man; “Hilloa, ill-favoured Dream! come hither and give
an account of yourself.” (Enter Dream.)
A Scottish gentleman and his wife were travelling four or five years
ago in Switzerland. There travelled with them a third party, an
intimate friend, a lady, who some time before had been the object of
a deep attachment on the part of a foreigner, a Frenchman. Well, she
would have nothing to say to him on the topic uppermost in his mind,
but she gave him a good deal of serious advice, which she probably
thought he wanted; and she ultimately promoted, or was a cognizant
party to, his union with a lady whom she likewise knew. The so-married
couple were now in America; and the lady occasionally heard from them,
and had every reason to believe they were both in perfect health.
One morning, on their meeting at breakfast, she told her companions
that she had had a very impressive dream the night before, which had
recurred twice. The scene was a room in which lay a coffin; near to it
stood her ex-lover in a luminous transfigured resplendent state; his
wife was by, looking much as usual. The dream had caused the lady some
misgivings, but her companions exhorted her to view it as a trick of
her fancy, and she was half persuaded so to do. The dream, however, was
right, notwithstanding. In process of time, letters arrived announcing
the death, after a short illness, of the French gentleman, within the
twenty-four hours in which the vision appeared. (Sensation—applause,
followed by cries of Shame; the Dream, hurrying away, is hurt by the
horn of the gate.)
It would be difficult to persuade the lady who dreamed this dream that
there was no connexion between it and the event it foreshadowed in
her mind beyond the accidental coincidence of time. Nevertheless, to
this conclusion an indifferent auditor would probably come; and upon
the following reasoning: We sometimes dream of the death of an absent
friend when he is alive and in health, just as we sometimes dream that
long-lost friends are alive. And it is quite possible—nay, likely to
occur in the chapter of accidents—nay, certain to turn up now and then
among the dreams of millions during centuries—that a fortuitous dream,
seemingly referring to the fact, should be coincident in point of time
with the death of a distant friend. To explain one such case, we need
look no further than to the operation of chance. Why, then, ever seek
another principle?
Let us examine a parallel ghost-story. A gentleman has a relative in
India, healthy, of good constitution, in the civil service, prosperous:
he has no cause for anxiety, and entertains none, respecting his
relative. But one day he sees his ghost. In due course letters arrive
mentioning the occurrence of his relative’s death on that day. The
case is more remarkable than the last; for the ghost-seer never in
his life _but that once_ experienced a sensorial illusion. Still, it
is evidently possible that the two events were, through chance alone,
coincident in time. And if in this case, why not in another?
Then let me adduce a more remarkable instance: A late General Wynyard,
and the late General Sir John Sherbroke, when young men, were serving
in Canada. One day—it was daylight—Mr. Wynyard and Mr. Sherbroke both
saw pass through the room where they sat a figure, which Mr. Wynyard
recognised as a brother then far away. One of the two walked to the
door, and looked out upon the landing-place, but the stranger was not
there; and a servant who was on the stairs had seen nobody pass out. In
time news arrived that Mr. Wynyard’s brother had died about the time of
the visit of the apparition.
I have had opportunities of inquiring of two near relations of this
General Wynyard upon what evidence the above story rests. They told me
they had each heard it from his own mouth. More recently, a gentleman,
whose accuracy of recollection exceeds that of most people, has told me
that he had heard the late Sir John Sherbroke, the other party in the
ghost-story, tell it much in the same way at a dinner-table.
One does not feel as comfortably satisfied that the complicated
coincidences in this tale admit of being referred to chance. The
odds are enormous against two persons—young men in perfect health,
neither of whom before or after this event experienced a sensorial
illusion—being the subjects at the same moment of one, their common
and only one, which concurred in point of time with an event that
it foreshadowed, unless there were some real connexion between the
event and the double apparition. And we feel a nascent inclination to
inquire whether—in case such instances as the present occasionally
recur, and instances like the two before narrated become, when looked
for, startlingly multiplied—there exists any known mental or physical
principle, by the help of which they may be explained into natural
phenomena.
The more we look after facts of the above nature, the more urgent
becomes the want of such a means of explanation. In every family
circle, in every party of men accidentally brought together, you will
be sure to hear, if the conversation fall on ghosts and dreams, one or
more instances—which the narrators represent as well authenticated—of
intimations of the deaths of absent persons conveyed to friends either
through an apparition or a dream, or an equivalent unaccountable
presentiment. A gentleman—himself of distinguished ability—told me that
when he was an undergraduate at Cambridge, he was secretary to a ghost
society formed in sportive earnest by some of the cleverest young men
of one of the best modern periods of the university. One of the results
of their labours was the collection of about a dozen stories of the
above description resting upon good evidence.
Then there transpire occasionally cases with more curious features
still. Not only is the general intimation of an event given, but minute
particulars attending it are figured in the dream, or communicated by
the ghost. Such tales have sometimes been authenticated in courts of
justice. Here is one out of last week’s newspaper:—
“In a Durham paper of last week, there was an account of the
disappearance of Mr. Smith, gardener to Sir Clifford Constable, who, it
was supposed, had fallen into the river Tees, his hat and stick having
been found near the water-side. From that time up to Friday last the
river had been dragged every day; but every effort so made to find the
body proved ineffectual. On the night of Thursday, however, a person
named Awde, residing at little Newsham, a small village about four
miles from Wycliff, dreamt that Smith was laid under the ledge of a
certain rock, about three hundred yards below Whorlton Bridge, and that
_his right arm was broken_. Awde got up early on Friday, and his dream
had such an effect upon him that he determined to go and search the
river. He accordingly started off for that purpose, without mentioning
the matter, being afraid that he would be laughed at by his neighbours.
Nevertheless, on his arriving at the boat-house, he disclosed his
object on the man asking him for what purpose he required the boat.
He rowed to the spot he had seen in his dream; and there, strange to
say, upon the very first trial that he made with his boat-hook, he
pulled up the body of the unfortunate man, with his right arm actually
broken.”—(_Herald_, December, 1848.)
Reviewing all that I have advanced, it appears to me that there are two
desiderata which pressingly require to be now supplied. First, some
one should take the pains of authenticating at the time, and putting
on permanent record, stories like the above, to be at the service
of future speculators. But, secondly, so numerous and well attested
are those already current, that the bringing forward into light of
some principle by which they may be shown to be natural events is now
peremptorily called for.
To lead to the supply of the second desideratum, I proceed to mention
a physical phenomenon, which from time to time occurred to the late
historian and novelist, Heinrich Zschokke. It is described by him in
a sort of autobiography, entitled _Selbstschau_, which he published
a few years ago. It was only last year that Zschokke died, having
attained a good old age. Early brought into public life in the troubles
of Switzerland, and afterwards maintaining his place in public
consideration by his numerous writings, he was personally widely known:
he was universally esteemed a man of strict veracity and integrity. He
writes thus of himself:—
“If the reception of so many visiters was sometimes troublesome,
it repaid itself occasionally either by making me acquainted with
remarkable personages, or by bringing out a wonderful sort of
seer-gift, which I called my inward vision, and which has always
remained an enigma to me. I am almost afraid to say a word upon this
subject; not for fear of the imputation of being superstitious, but
lest I should encourage that disposition in others; and yet it forms a
contribution to psychology. So to confess.
“It is acknowledged that the judgment which we form of strangers, on
first meeting them, is frequently more correct than that which we
adopt upon a longer acquaintance with them. The first impression which,
through an instinct of the soul, attracts one towards, or repels one
from, another, becomes, after a time, more dim, and is weakened, either
through his appearing other than at first, or through our becoming
accustomed to him. People speak, too, in reference to such cases of
involuntary sympathies and aversions, and attach a special certainty
to such manifestations in children, in whom knowledge of mankind by
experience is wanting. Others, again, are incredulous, and attribute
all to physiognomical skill. But of myself.
“It has happened to me occasionally, at the first meeting with a total
stranger, when I have been listening in silence to his conversation,
that his past life, up to the present moment, with many minute
circumstances belonging to one or other particular scene in it, has
come across me like a dream, but distinctly, entirely, involuntarily,
and unsought, occupying in duration a few minutes. During this period I
am usually so plunged into the representation of the stranger’s life,
that at last I neither continue to see distinctly his face, on which
I was idly speculating, nor to hear intelligently his voice, which at
first I was using as a commentary to the text of his physiognomy. For
a long time I was disposed to consider these fleeting visions as a
trick of the fancy; the more so that my dream-vision displayed to me
the dress and movements of the actors, the appearance of the room, the
furniture, and other accidents of the scene; till, on one occasion,
in a gamesome mood, I narrated to my family the secret history of a
sempstress who had just before quitted the room. I had never seen the
person before. Nevertheless the hearers were astonished, and laughed,
and would not be persuaded but that I had a previous acquaintance
with the former life of the person, inasmuch as what I had stated was
perfectly true. I was not less astonished to find that my dream-vision
agreed with reality. I then gave more attention to the subject, and, as
often as propriety allowed of it, I related to those whose lives had so
passed before me the substance of my dream-vision, to obtain from them
its contradiction or confirmation. On every occasion its confirmation
followed, not without amazement on the part of those who gave it.
“Least of all could I myself give faith to these conjuring tricks of my
mind. Every time that I described to any one my dream-vision respecting
him, I confidently expected him to answer it was not so. A secret
thrill always came over me when the listener replied, ‘It happened as
you say;’ or when, before he spoke, his astonishment betrayed that I
was not wrong. Instead of recording many instances, I will give one
which, at the time, made a strong impression upon me.
“On a fair day, I went into the town of Waldshut, accompanied by two
young foresters who are still alive. It was evening, and, tired with
our walk, we went into an inn called the Vine. We took our supper with
a numerous company at the public table; when it happened that they made
themselves merry over the peculiarities and simplicity of the Swiss,
in connexion with the belief in Mesmerism, Lavater’s physiognomical
system, and the like. One of my companions, whose national pride was
touched by their raillery, begged me to make some reply, particularly
in answer to a young man of superior appearance, who sat opposite, and
had indulged in unrestrained ridicule. It happened that the events of
this very person’s life had just previously passed before my mind.
I turned to him with the question, whether he would reply to me with
truth and candour, if I narrated to him the most secret passages of
his history, he being as little known to me as I to him? That would,
I suggested, go something beyond Lavater’s physiognomical skill. He
promised, if I told the truth, to admit it openly. Then I narrated
the events with which my dream-vision had furnished me, and the table
learnt the history of the young tradesman’s life, of his school years,
his peccadilloes, and, finally, of a little act of roguery committed by
him on the strong box of his employer. I described the uninhabited room
with its white walls, where, to the right of the brown door, there had
stood upon the table the small black money-chest, &c. A dead silence
reigned in the company during this recital, interrupted only when I
occasionally asked if I spoke the truth. The man, much struck, admitted
the correctness of each circumstance—even, which I could not expect, of
the last. Touched with his frankness, I reached my hand to him across
the table, and closed my narrative. He asked my name, which I gave him.
We sat up late in the night conversing. He may be alive yet.
“Now I can well imagine how a lively imagination could picture,
romance-fashion, from the obvious character of a person, how he would
conduct himself under given circumstances. But whence came to me the
involuntary knowledge of accessory details, which were without any sort
of interest, and respected people who for the most part were utterly
indifferent to me, with whom I neither had, nor wished to have, the
slightest association? Or was it in each case mere coincidence? Or had
the listener, to whom I described his history, each time other images
in his mind than the accessory ones of my story, but, in surprise at
the essential resemblance of my story to the truth, lost sight of the
points of difference? Yet I have, in consideration of this possible
source of error, several times taken pains to describe the most trivial
circumstances that my dream-vision has shown me.
“Not another word about this strange seer-gift, which I can aver was of
no use to me in a single instance, which manifested itself occasionally
only, and quite independently of any volition, and often in relation
to persons in whose history I took not the slightest interest. Nor
am I the only one in possession of this faculty. In a journey with
two of my sons, I fell in with an old Tyrolese who travelled about,
selling lemons and oranges, at the inn at Unterhauerstein in one of
the Jura passes. He fixed his eyes for some time upon me, joined in
our conversation, observed that though I did not know him he knew me,
and began to describe my acts and deeds, to the no little amusement of
the peasants, and astonishment of my children, whom it interested to
learn that another possessed the same gift as their father. How the
old lemon-merchant acquired his knowledge he was not able to explain
to himself nor to me. But he seemed to attach great importance to his
hidden wisdom.”[2]
[Footnote 2: Zschokke told a friend of mine at Frankfort, in 1847,
shortly before his death, which took place at an advanced age, that in
the latter years of his life his seer-gift had never manifested itself.]
In the newness of such knowledge, it is worth while to note separately
each of the particulars which attended the manifestation of this
strange mental faculty, with his account of which Zschokke has enriched
psychology.
1. Then, after the power of looking up the entire recollections
of another, through some other channel than ordinary inquiry and
observation—and as it seemed _directly_—we may note,—
2. The rapidity, minuteness, and precision, which characterized the act
of inspection.
3. The feeling attending it of becoming absent or lost to what was
going on around.