University of Virginia Library

1. RACHEL-BAKERISM.

I SHALL always believe, that people may be in the body,
and out of the body, during the same moment of time. I am
firmly persuaded, that the soul frequently quits the tenement
to which it is assigned, and goes a-visiting other souls. Yes,
and some times, it does not return. Under this theory, I account
for the different characters and qualities of what are
called strength of mind, genius, idiocy, and lunacy. When
half a dozen good souls unite, and take up their lodging in
one cropus, provided only the family regulations are discreet
and are wisely administered, the union is strength, and the
external man is esteemed a casket of intellect. If, however,
too many, or too boisterous, or discordant spirits should hive
upon one cranium, or if the domestic duties are not strictly
enforced—Heaven pity the man—he is incurably mad.

I need not add, that when the soul totally vacates the premises,
Perditus is esteemed a fool, and the devil institutes
proceedings against him forthwith, under the absent and absconding
debtor act. Short excursions, such as amorous
exaltations, poetic flights, and all the variety of ruralizations,
are the mere walks that the soul takes for exercise. These
are the ordinary occupation, the daily going forth and incoming
of the divine afflatus upon its peculiar and proper business.

But what a glorious exercise of divinity, what a blending
of reality and imagination, of existence and annihilation, is

that power of the soul, which mingles the past, the present,
and the future! which makes even the gross body live back
in the young merriment of childhood, and taste by anticipation
the happiness of the far future! which makes the miserable
happy, the dumb eloquent, the sinner a saint! and is the
power controlled by circumstances? What have facts and
things to do with it? Rachel Baker had no education, but
when her body was asleep, her soul and her soul's friends
discoursed sacred music. What is a dream? a frolic, say
you of young Fancy, after old Judgment has gone to bed.
The substitute of imagination for fact—what is fact? How
do you determine any thing to be a fact? Do you not sometimes
doubt whether you are not dreaming? Are you always
certain, when you dream? Have you not sometimes dreamed
you were dreaming? Metaphysicians and learned doctors
have discussed these matters with profound and ingenious
ability. But I must confess that I am not much enlightened
upon the subject, after all; the many freaks of Alma have led
them all up and down and through the bogs and quagmires
of their art, just as did Trinculo the magic tabor of Ariel. I
have had myself a little experience in flights and absences,
and my irregular Jack-a-lanthorn spirit has beguiled me
more than once into a scrape. Of all these, hear one instance,
ye wise ones, ye custom house officers of reason,—ye measurers
and inspectors of the soul's exports and imports, and if
there be a philosophical explanation for it, pronounce, expound.

In the year 18— on the fourth of July, I left the burning
patriotism of my fellow citizens, and went a fishing upon the
classic waters of Communipaw. We watched in the distance
the “tall spire and glittering roof and battlement, and
banners floating in the sunny air, and heard until nightfall,

the roar of the glad cannon. When the parade and bustle
of the celebration were gone by, we headed our little row-boat
towards Whitehall. It was a long and tedious pull, and my
friend and I were juvenile in the exercise. At last our
prow struck the wharf, and terra firma received us. I was
worn out with heat and fatigue, and the excitement of our
piscatory abductions. It was a long walk home, and I willingly
accepted Horatio's invitation to stop at his domicil and
rest. Scarcely had I set me down, when I found myself in
the kingdom of Morpheus. I made myself happy there, until
about eleven o'clock, when Horatio called me back, and advised
me to go home, and to bed.—My father exacted of me
good hours.—He awakened me, of this I am certain.—I rose,
and directed my steps homeward. On my way, I had to pass
the old family mansion, from which we had removed, some
three years before. The street door was now open. The
house—the wide hall—the entry lamp seemed all as usual.
Without hesitation, and as a matter of course, and in honest
joy, I entered, and closed the street door, wondering all the
while why it should have been left open. I was wide awake,
but I was living back in the third year previous. I was at
my own home, as truly, as ever I had been in my whole life,
and I was ready to give a good account of myself, for being
out so late. On I passed—but nobody did I encounter. My
foot was soon upon the stairs, and my hand upon the balustrade.
Up I mounted into the third story, entered into my
old room, shut the door, pulled of my coat, and turned to the
bed, when, what was my surprise, to see in the dim moonlight
sweetly sleeping there, a young lady! She was beautiful—women
sleeping in the moonbeams always are. My
first impression was that there was some trick to be played
off upon me, by my cousin Harry, who had come from Scio to
spend the holidays with us. I looked closer to see if it was not
a rag baby—when no! Heavens! she breathed—she moved
—Flesh and blood was in my bed! I dare not tell all the
rapid thoughts that burned their traces across my brain.—But
I do remember that among my better imaginings, I fancied it
possible that some visitors might have unexpectedly arrived, and
that my room had been appropriated for the accommodation of
one of them. I looked around, and seeing a considerable
change in the arrangement of the furniture, my fancy became
almost conviction. At all events, though I, I must retreat.
With this intent, I took up my coat, and turned toward the door,
when horror! the lady awaked, and screamed! In ten seconds,
a half drest, trembling boy burst through the door and
blubbered out “who are you?” I cannot tell which of us
was then the most frightened. For my own part, I did not
know what to make of it.—“What do you want?”—“who
are you?”—“Mother?”—came in quick succession upon my
doubting ears. Rip Van Winkle was not worse off, when he
saw his own soul beating beneath the thorax of his progeny,
and stood the empty case of an absent spirit. I was satisfied,
however, that there was a mistake somewhere, and
I hurried to the door.

Down the stair way I rushed, but hardly had I reached the
landing in the second story, before I was surrounded by a
troup of old women. That I was where I ought not to be,
was now evident; and escape was impossible—and whether
I was in heaven, earth, or hell, I knew not.—“Who are
you?”—“What are you doing here?”—“What do you want?”
screamed half a dozen shrill voices at once.—In that moment
I died.—I lived again.—“Go for a watchman, James,” said

an old lady, in a low tone—aside. It did not escape me.—
Watchman!—thought I—thank God! then I am still in a civilized
country! Happy institution of a watch district! “Ladies,”—I
at last struggled out—“I have been committing
some egregious blunder—but what it is, I know not—I am a
respectable young man, I assure you—I had no sinister intentions
in going up stairs—ask the young woman—nor am I
a thief—perhaps some of you may know my family, by repute.
My name is Cypress—Jeremiah Cypress.—But I”—
here I was interrupted by the old landlady, who came forward
and exclaimed, “La! Mr. Cypress, is it you?—Why, to be
sure, I know you.—Why, I'm so sorry—but gracious—I was
so frightened—and here she told me her name, and I for the
first time found that she was the keeper of the aforesaid
boarding-house. It all flashed upon me at once—or rather,
I was back again into the year as numbered on the vulgar
calendar. “Dear madam,” said I, “I have not the pleasure
of your acquaintance, though I well know your name. I am
sure I can never sufficiently apologize for my rudeness. I
cannot tell how to account for it. But I have been out a-fishing
all day, and am returned very tired, and from not taking
particular notice, or from some distress or absence of mind, I
have followed a dream of former days, and”—“O” cried
the old lady, “you're very excusable, Mr. Cypress, it's fourth
of July, you know, and we all know, that”—“Pardon me,
madam—I assure you—I hope you don't think I've been
drinking—I have drank nothing to-day—that is, nothing of
any consequence”—“Certainly, Mr. C. I see you are not in
liquor, but”—“but my dear madam, I am not in the least affected—do
not let me detain you, however, any longer—I
will bid you good evening, and do myself the honor of calling
and making a further apology to-morrow.”—“Good night,
Mr. C. don't be distressed—it's fourth of July, you know—I
shan't say nothing.”

Thus terminated this Rachel-bakerism excursion of my soul.
I was very tired, but not asleep nor drunk—on my honor—and
I do protest that the scream of that maiden banished every
particle of fatigue, too, and well it might—for I hear it yet.