The spirit-rapper; an autobiography
enlarging the boundaries of human knowledge, laying open to view the
invisible world, and proving that, under the old doctrine of the
communion of saints, there is a great and glorious truth, cheering and
consoling to us in this life of labor and sorrow. I am freeing the world
from the monster, superstition, and delivering the people from their
gloomy fears and terrible apprehensions. They shall no longer start and
tremble at ghosts and hobgoblins, or be obliged, with the Papists, to
cross themselves, or with our New England youth, to whistle Yankee
Doodle to keep their courage up, when, after dark, they go by a
graveyard. What torture did not my superstitious fears cause me in my
childhood! I never have known what it was to fear any living thing. I
have been tried, and have always found my courage and self-possession
equal to the occasion, and I could alone face an armed host without
trembling; but even now I cannot open the door into a dark room without
trepidation, without starting back till reason comes to my aid. I never
sit alone in my room reading till twelve o’clock at night, without
having a mysterious awe creep over me. I am oppressed by the presence of
the invisible, and my very lamp seems to burn blue. All is the sad
effect of the frights I received in my childhood, occasioned by the
ghost and witch stories which old people would meet together and tell of
a long winter’s evening. I, a lad, listened with ears erect, and hair
standing on end. My blood seemed to freeze in my veins, and I dared not
look around me lest I should see the invisible. I was ready to shriek
with agony when sent to bed in the dark, and unless watched would throw
myself into bed without taking off my clothes, and cover up my head and
face in the bed blanket. How terrible was the dark! The impression wears
not out with time, and will remain till death. Now I would free the mind
from all these idle fears, and save the people, especially children,
from these terrible sufferings. It is a good work, and none but white
spirits will aid me in it.”
“Alas! you seem not to have reflected that the devil, when he would
seduce, can disguise himself as an angel of light. Human nature is
terribly corrupt, and yet the great mass of mankind ordinarily are
incapable of choosing evil, for the reason that it is evil. Evil must be
presented to them in the guise of good, or they will not choose it The
devil knows this, and knows the weak side of every one, and he adapts
his temptations accordingly. The weak side of our age is a morbid
sentimentality, a sickly philanthropy, and the devil tempts us now by
appealing to our dominant weakness. He comes to us as a philanthropist,
and his mouth full of fine sentiments, and he proposes only what we are
already prepared to approve. Were he to come as the devil _in propria
persona_, and tell us precisely who and what he is, there are very few
who would not say, ‘Get behind me, Satan.’ Nothing better serves his
purpose than to have us deny his existence; to ascribe his influence to
imagination, hallucination, to natural causes or influences, or in fine,
to good spirits, for then he throws us off our guard, and can operate
without being easily detected. Never was an age more under his influence
than our own, and yet they who pass for its lights and chiefs have
reached that last infirmity of unbelief, the denial of the existence of
the devil. Possessed persons are insane, epileptic, or lunatic persons,
and the wonderful phenomena they exhibit are produced by an electric,
magnetic, or odic fluid, and are to be explained on natural principles,
and such as cannot be so explained, are boldly denied, however well
attested, or ascribed to jugglery, knavery, or collusion. The marvellous
answers of the ancient oracles are ascribed to knavery, as if the whole
world had lost their senses, and could not detect a cheat practised
before their very eyes, and so bunglingly, that we who live two thousand
or three thousand years after, ignorant of all the circumstances of the
case, can detect it, and explain how it was done, without the slightest
difficulty. The devil laughs at this. He would have it so. Your natural
explanations will hereafter create a suspicion that you are little
better than natural fools. But go your way. I see by your incredulous
smile that the devil has you fast in his grip. I have done my duty. My
garments are clean of your blood; and hereafter, when you are feeling
the gnawings of that worm which never dies, and the burning of that fire
which is never quenched, say not, that no one had forewarned you.”
So saying, he took up his hat and cane, and, slightly bowing, left my
room without hearing a word in reply, or giving me a parting greeting.
When he was gone, I laughed to myself at his solemn admonition, and
renewed my resolution that he should suffer for the manner in which he
alluded to my dear Priscilla. He should know whether she was a Moabitish
woman or not. Warn me! Pray what had I done? Where was the harm? Was it
wrong to investigate the principles of nature, to learn what nature
really is, and to call her forces into play, providing they were not
applied to a bad end? Could it be a good spirit that would debar us from
acquiring science, or a bad spirit that would bid us inquire, to learn
our strength, and to use it? Would it be no slight service to relieve
the more mysterious parts of science from the reproaches cast upon them?
Has it not been computed that more than a million of persons alone
suffered as sorcerers and sorceresses, or for dealing with the devil, in
the sixteenth century and seventeenth alone? What injury has not been
done to genuine science by the absurd legislation against magic,
sorcery, and the so called black arts generally. No man could rise above
the vulgar herd, and produce some ingenious piece of mechanism, but the
rabble accused him of magic, and it was lucky if he escaped a criminal
prosecution and conviction before the courts of justice. Was not that
noble heroine, Joan of Arc, who saved France from becoming an English
province, burnt as a witch? Was not Friar Bacon, the father of modern
science, and the forerunner of his namesake of Verulam, accused of
magic, imprisoned, and thus scientific discoveries and useful inventions
postponed for centuries? Had not hundreds of old women, who had nothing
of sorcery about them but their poverty, weakness, and imbecility, been
dragged before the courts, and hung or burnt as witches? What more
lamentable page in our own American history than that of Salem
witchcraft? Is it nothing to disabuse the world, to save so many
innocent victims, remove so great a hinderance to science and heroic
deeds, by bringing the class of facts, superstitiously interpreted,
within the bounds of nature and legitimate science? Then, again, what
may not be finally obtained for the human race? Are the resources of
nature exhausted? They sought once the philosopher’s stone, the elixir
of life, the fountain of youth; who knows but these may one day, and
that not far distant, be found, if not in the shape sought, in others,
more simple and convenient?
Thus I resisted the admonitions of the good old man, and confirmed
myself in my resolution. I meditated a long time as to my future
procedure, and how I could bring my new science, which I trusted soon to
complete, to bear on the great revolutionary movement which the active
spirits of the day had concerted, and which must soon break out. I could
discern my way only dimly, but I trusted the mist would soon clear away,
and my method be no longer obscure or uncertain. Monarchy must be
overthrown because it upholds religion, and religion because it upholds
monarchy, and imposes vexatious restraints. So much was clear, and
determined on. Time and events would reveal the rest.
Late in the evening I called at Priscilla’s, saw her a moment, whispered
a word in her ear, gave her one or two directions, pressed her hand,
only as my accomplice, and henceforth my slave. The next morning I left
Philadelphia, and returned home a much altered man. My body was light
and buoyant, and I felt as if I was all spirit. I simply greeted my
mother, but felt that the strong tie which bound me to her was broken;
my sister, whom I had tenderly loved, was indifferent to me, and I
hardly deigned to notice her. I went into my laboratory, saw that all
was right there; from that I passed into my library to resume my
experiments.
CHAPTER X.
MR. COTTON IS PUZZLED.
I proceeded to magnetize my table. It responded as usual. I put my
former questions, but could get no answer to them, except that the time
for the revelation I solicited was not yet come. I asked, if there was
not a more direct mode of communication possible, and was told there
was. By speech? Not yet. By writing? Yes. I took a slate and pencil, and
placed my hand in the attitude to write. Immediately my hand was moved
by an invisible force, and a communication was made in the handwriting
and signed with the name of my father, who had been dead some eight or
nine years. The purport of it was not much. I did not know but I
unconsciously moved the pencil myself. I wished a better test. I placed
the slate on the table, laid the pencil on it, and called up the power,
whoever or what it might be, to write without my assistance. Very soon
the pencil rose fully up, then fell back, then rose again, and after
vacillating awhile, it became firm in its position and was moved
regularly backwards and forwards, as if directed by the hand of a
scribe. At length it flew up to the ceiling, whirled round there for a
few seconds, and then placed itself quietly on the slate. I examined the
slate, found a communication on it in the handwriting and signed with
the name of Benjamin Franklin. The communication consisted of one or two
proverbs from Poor Richard, and a commonplace remark about electricity.
All this was marvellous enough, but very little to my purpose. It was
not worth while taking so much trouble to get what was of no use when
got.
I sat down in my great arm-chair a few feet from my table, and fell into
a brown study. How long I remained so I do not know, when I was aroused
by a great racket in my room. My table was cutting up capers, rising now
to the ceiling and now frisking round the room, anon balancing itself on
one leg, and then going off into a whirl, that would have broken the
heart of the best waltzer, all to a tune which some invisible hand was
playing upon my guitar,—tune I say, but it was rather a capriccio, and a
medley of a dozen different melodies, thrown together in the wildest
disorder. Very soon this stopped, and then came thundering raps all
about my room, making every thing in it jar. I bid them be quiet, and
not all speak at once, like a lot of old women at a tea-party. They
partially obeyed me. One rapper however continued, but in a more gentle
and polite manner. I was willing to have some conversation with him. I
asked him who he was? He would not answer. What did he want? To
communicate. Very well, I would listen; and he told me that I was not a
good medium myself, for I held the spirits in awe. Ah, spirits, are you?
said I. “Yes.” Very well; I shall be very happy to make your
acquaintance. “But you must find us other mediums; we cannot speak
freely with you.”
Close by me lived the Fox family. There were three sisters; one was
married, and the other two were simple, honest-minded young girls, one
fifteen, the other thirteen. As I passed by their house, I saw them in
the yard. I greeted them, and offered them some flowers which I held in
my hand. The youngest took them, thanked me with a smile, and I pursued
my walk. These were the since world-renowned Misses Fox. In a short time