Chapter IX: Apparitions (2)

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.”