At present I shall avail myself of the first broad fact alone,
remarking, however, of the conditions observed in it, that they clearly
indicate the existence of a law on which the phenomenon depended. And
I shall assume it to be proved by the above crucial instance, that the
mind, or soul, of one human being can be brought, in the natural course
of things, and under physiological laws hereafter to be determined,
into immediate relation with the mind of another living person.
If this principle be admitted, it is adequate to explain all the
puzzling phenomena of real ghosts and of true dreams. For example, the
ghostly and intersomnial communications, with which we have as yet
dealt, have been announcements of the deaths of absent parties. Suppose
our new principle brought into play; the soul of the dying person is
to be supposed to have come into direct communication with the mind of
his friend, with the effect of suggesting his present condition. If the
seer be dreaming, the suggestion shapes a corresponding dream; if he
be awake, it originates a sensorial illusion. To speak figuratively,
_merely figuratively_, in reference to the circulation of this partial
mental obituary, I will suppose that the death of a human being
throws a sort of gleam through the spiritual world, which may now
and then touch with light some fittingly disposed object; or even two
simultaneously, if chance have placed them in the right relation;—as
the twin-spires of a cathedral may be momentarily illuminated by some
far-off flash, which does not break the gloom upon the roofs below.
The same principle is applicable to the explanation of the vampyr
visit. The soul of the buried man is to be supposed to be brought into
communication with his friend’s mind. Thence follows, as a sensorial
illusion, the apparition of the buried man. Perhaps the visit may
have been an instinctive effort to draw the attention of his friend
to his living grave. I beg to suggest that it would not be an act of
superstition _now_, but of ordinary humane precaution, if one dreamed
pertinaciously of a recently buried acquaintance, or saw his ghost, to
take immediate steps to have the state of the body ascertained.
It is not my intention, in the present letter, to push the application
of this principle further. With slight modifications it might be
brought to explain several other wonderful stories, which we usually
neglect just from not seeing how to explain them. One class of these
instances is what was termed second-sight. The belief in it formerly
prevailed in Scotland, and in the whole of the north of Europe. But the
faculty, if it ever existed, seems to be disappearing now. However,
it is difficult, one has heard so many examples of the correctness of
its warnings and anticipations, not to believe that it once really
manifested itself.
A much respected Scottish lady, not unknown in literature, told me very
recently how a friend of her mother, whom she perfectly remembered,
had been compelled to believe in second-sight through its occurrence
in one of her servants. She had a cook, who was a continual annoyance
to her through her possession of this gift. On one occasion, when
the lady expected some friends, she learned, a short time before
they were to arrive, that the culinary preparations she had ordered
to honour them had not been made. Upon her remonstrating with the
offending cook, the latter simply but doggedly assured her that come
they would not; that she knew it to a certainty; and, true enough,
they did not come. Some accident had occurred to prevent their visit.
The same person frequently knew beforehand what her mistress’s plans
were, and was as inconvenient in her kitchen as a calculating prodigy
in a counting-house. Things went perfectly right, but the manner was
irregular and provoking; so her mistress turned her away. Supposing
this story true, the phenomena look just a modification of Zschokke’s
seer-gift.
A number of incidents there are turning up, for the most part on
trivial occasions, which we put aside for fear of being thought
superstitious, because as yet a natural solution is not at hand for
them. Sympathy in general, the spread of panic fears, the simultaneous
occurrence of the same thoughts to two persons, the intuitive knowledge
of mankind possessed by some, the magnetic fascination of others,
may eventually be found to have to do with a special and unsuspected
cause. Among anecdotes of no great conclusiveness that I have heard
narrated of this sort, I will cite two of Lord Nelson, told by the
late Sir Thomas Hardy to the late Admiral the Hon. G. Dundas, from
whom I heard them. The first was mentioned to exemplify Nelson’s
quick insight into character. Captain Hardy was present as Nelson
gave directions to the commander of a frigate to make sail with all
speed—to proceed to certain points, where he was likely to fall in with
the French fleet—having seen the French, to go to a certain harbour,
and there await Lord Nelson’s coming. After the commander had left the
cabin, Nelson said to Hardy, “He will go to the West Indies, he will
see the French; he will go to the harbour I have directed him to; but
he will not wait for me—he will sail for England.” The commander did
so. Shortly before the battle of Trafalgar an English frigate was in
advance, looking out for the enemy; her place in the offing was hardly
discernible. Of a sudden Nelson said to Hardy, who was at his side,
“The Celeste,” (or whatever the frigate’s name was,) “the Celeste
sees the French.” Hardy had nothing to say on the matter. “She sees
the French; she’ll fire a gun.” Within a little time, the boom of the
signal-gun was heard.[3]
[Footnote 3: The following anecdote has no conceivable right to be
introduced on the present occasion; but I had it on the same authority,
and it is a pity it should be lost. As our fleet was bearing down upon
the enemies’ line at Trafalgar, Nelson paced the quarter-deck of the
Victory with Sir Thomas Hardy. After a short silence, touching his left
thigh with his remaining hand, Nelson said, “I’d give that, Hardy, to
come out of this.”]
I am not sure that my new principle will be a general favourite. It
will be said that the cases, in which I suppose it manifested, are
of too trivial a nature to justify so novel a hypothesis. My answer
is, the cases are few and trivial only because the subject has not
been attended to. For how many centuries were the laws of electricity
preindicated by the single fact that a piece of amber, when rubbed,
would attract light bodies! Again, the school of physiological
materialists will of course be opposed to it. They hold that the mind
is but a function or product of the brain, and cannot therefore
consistently admit its separate action. But their fundamental tenet is
unsound, even upon considering the analogies of matter alone.
What is meant by a product?—in what does production consist? Let
us look for instances: a metal is produced from an ore; alcohol is
produced from saccharine matter; the bones and sinews of an animal are
produced from its food. Production, in the common signification of the
word, means the conversion of one substance into another, weight for
weight, agreeably with, or under, mechanical, chemical, and vital laws.
I speak, of course, of material production. But the case of thought
is parallel. The products of the poet’s brain are but recombinations
of former ideas. Production, with him, is but a rearrangement of the
elements of thought. His food may turn into or produce new brain;
but it is the mental impressions he has stored which turn into new
imagery. To say that the brain turns into thought, is to assert that
consciousness and the brain are one and the same thing, which would be
an idle abuse of language.
It is indeed true that, with the manifestation of each thought or
feeling, a corresponding decomposition of the brain takes place. But
it is equally true that, in a voltaic battery in action, each movement
of electric force developed there is attended with a waste of the
metal-plates which help to form it. But that waste is not converted
into electric fluid. The exact quantity of pure zinc which disappears
may be detected in the form of sulphate of zinc. The electricity
was _not produced, it was only set in motion_, by the chemical
decomposition. Here is the true material analogy of the relation of
the brain to the mind. Mind, like electricity, is an imponderable
force pervading the universe: and there happen to be known to us
certain material arrangements, through which each may be influenced. We
cannot, indeed, pursue the analogy beyond this step. Consciousness and
electricity have nothing further in common. Their further relations to
the dissimilar material arrangements, through which they may be excited
or disturbed, are subjects of totally distinct studies, and resolvable
into laws which have no affinity, and admit of no comparison.
It is singular how early in the history of mankind the belief in the
separate existence of the soul developed itself as an instinct of our
nature.
Timarchus, who was curious on the subject of the demon of Socrates,
went to the cave of Trophonius to consult the oracle about it. There,
having for a short time inhaled the mephitic vapour, he felt as if he
had received a sudden blow on the head, and sank down insensible. Then
his head appeared to him to open, and to give issue to his soul into
the other world; and an imaginary being seemed to inform him that “the
part of the soul engaged in the body, entrammelled in its organization,
is the soul as ordinarily understood; but that there is another part
or province of the soul which is the daimon. This has a certain
control over the bodily soul, and among other offices constitutes
conscience.”—“In three months,” the vision added, “you will know more
of this.” At the end of three months Timarchus died.