University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
SPIRITUAL AND OTHER RAPPINGS.

Had the invitation to a spiritual séance been given by any
one but Mrs. Waldo, Woodbury would probably have felt little
inclination to attend. The Merryfields alone, with their
ambitious sentiment and negative intellect, were beginning to
be tiresome acquaintances, now that the revival of old memories
was exhausted; but the warm heart and sound brain of
that one woman made any society tolerable. His thoughts reverted
to Hannah Thurston: would she be there? Of course:
was his mental reply—yet she certainly could not share in the
abominable delusion. Why not, after all? Her quick, eager
intelligence, too proud and self-reliant to be restrained by traditional
theories,—too unbalanced, from the want of contact
with equal minds,—too easily moved by the mere utterance
of attractive sentiment,—was it not, rather, the soil in which
these delusions grew strong and dangerous? He would go
and see.

Nevertheless, he was conscious of a feeling of reluctance, almost
of shame at his own curiosity, as he left Lakeside. The
night was overcast, with a raw, moaning wind in the tree-tops,
and Bute was forced to drive slowly, feeling rather than seeing
the beaten tracks. This employment, with the necessary remarks
to the old horse Dick, fully occupied his attention.
Finally, however, he broke silence with:

“I s'pose they'll have Absalom up to-night?”

“What! Do they go so far as that? Can they really believe
it?” Woodbury asked.

“They jest do. They want to b'lieve it, and it comes easy.

If brains was to be ground, between you and me, neither of
'em would bring much grist to the mill. I don't wonder at
her so much, for she set a good deal of store by Absalom, and
't seems natural, you know, for women to have notions o' that
kind.”

“Are there many persons in Ptolemy who believe in such
things?”

“Well—I don't hardly think there be. Leastways, they
don't let on. There's Seth Wattles, o' course: he's fool enough
for any thing; and I guess Lawyer Tanner. Ever sence Mr.
Styles preached ag'in 'em, it a'n't considered jist respectable.
Infidel-like, you know.”

Woodbury laughed. “Well, Bute,” said he, “we shall
hardly find Mr. Waldo there to-night, if that is the case.”

“He'll be there, Mr. Max, if she is. She'll bring him clear,
no matter what folks says. Miss Waldo's a wife worth havin'—not
but what he's got considerable grit, too. He's not
strong at revivals, but he's a good hand at holdin' together all
he gits.”

As they drove up the lane to Merryfield's farm-house, all was
dark and silent. The shutters were closed, and there was no
appearance of other visitors having arrived. At the noise of
the bells, however, the door opened, and the owner, after summoning
his hired man from the kitchen, to assist Bute in taking
charge of the horse, waited until Woodbury approached,
in order to help him off with his overcoat. “They are all
here that are likely to come,” he announced in a whisper.

James Merryfield was a man of fifty, or a little more, in
whom the desire to be a reformer had been excited long after
he had reached his maturity as a simple, unpretending farmer.
The fictitious character but imperfectly overlaid the natural
one, giving him an uncertain, hesitating air. Indeed, with all
his assertion and self-gratulation, he never could overcome a
secret doubt of his ability to play the new part. But he was
honest and sincerely conscientious, and a more prominent position
than he would have assumed, of his own choice, was

forced upon him by his friends. He possessed a comfortable
property, and they were well aware of the advantage of being
represented by men with bases.

His frame had been soundly developed, not over-worn, by
labor in his own fields, yet he was awkward, almost shambling,
in his movements. His head was usually held on the left side,
and a straight line dropped from the centre of his brow would
not nearly have coincided with the axis of his nose. The large,
irregular mouth expressed both the honesty and the weakness
of the man. His voice, always nasal, rose into a shrill, declamatory
monotone when he became excited—a key which he
continually let drop, and again resumed, in disagreeable fluctuations.
Thus Woodbury, while heartily respecting his character,
found much of his society tiresome.

His wife, Sarah, who was six or seven years younger, was
one of those women, who, without the power of thinking for
themselves, have, nevertheless, a singular faculty for accepting
the thoughts and conclusions of others. She was entirely dependent
on two or three chosen leaders in the various “Reforms,”
without the slightest suspicion of her mental serfdom.
Every new phase of their opinions she appropriated, and
reproduced as triumphantly as if it had been an original discovery.
She had, in fact, no intellectual quality except a tolerable
fluency of speech. This, alone, gave her some consideration
in her special circle, and kept her hesitating husband in
the background. Both had been touched by the Hand of Progress,
rather too late for their equilibrium. They had reached
the transition state, it is true, but were doomed never to pass
through it, and attain that repose which is as possible to shallow
as to deep waters.

In person she was thin, but not tall, with a face expressive
of passive amiability, slightly relieved by dyspepsia. The pale,
unhealthy color of her skin, the dulness of her eyes, and the
lustreless hue of her thin, reddish-brown hair, hinted at a system
hopelessly disordered by dietetic experiments. Her children
had all died young, with the exception of Absalom, who

had barely reached manhood, when the care of his health, as
Bute said, proved too great a burden to him.

Woodbury was ushered, not into the parlor, but into the
room ordinarily occupied by the family. A single candle was
burning on the table, dimly lighting the apartment. Mrs.
Merryfield came forward to receive her guest, followed by Mrs.
Waldo, who said, with unusual gravity: “You are in time—
we were just about to commence.”

Seated around the table were Hannah Thurston, Mr. Waldo,
Seth Wattles, Tanner, the lawyer, and a cadaverous stranger,
who could be no other than Mr. Dyce. A motion of his hand
dissuaded the company from rising, and they gravely bowed
to Woodbury without speaking. Mr. Dyce, after a rapid
glance at the new-comer, fixed his eyes upon the table. He
was a middle-aged man, broad-shouldered but spare, with long,
dark hair, sunken cheeks, and eyes in which smouldered some
powerful, uncanny magnetic force.

After Woodbury had taken his seat at the table, and Mr.
Merryfield had closed the door, the medium spoke, in a low
but strong voice:

“Take away the candle.”

It was placed upon a small stand, in a corner of the room.
“Shall I put it out?” asked the host.

Mr. Dyce shook his head.

Presently a succession of sharp, crackling raps was heard, as
if made on the under surface of the table. They wandered
about, now fainter, now stronger, for a few moments, and then
approached Mrs. Merryfield.

“It's Absalom!” she cried, the yearning of a mother's heart
overleaping the course of experiment. “What has he to say
to-night?”

“Will the spirit communicate through the alphabet?” asked
the medium.

Three raps—“Yes.”

Lettered cards were laid upon the table, and the medium,
commencing at A, touched them in succession until a rap announced

the correct letter. This was written, and the process
repeated until the entire communication was obtained.

“I have been teaching my sisters. They are waiting for
me on the steps of the temple. Good-night, mother!”—was
Absalom's message.

“How beautiful!” exclaimed Seth Wattles. “The temple
must mean the future life, and the steps are the successive
spheres. Will any spirit communicate with me?”

The raps ceased. Mr. Dyce raised his head, looked around
with his glow-worm eyes, and asked: “Does any one desire
to speak with a relative or friend? Does any one feel impressed
with the presence of a spirit?” His glance rested on
Hannah Thurston.

“I would like to ask,” said she, as the others remained silent,
“whether the person whose name is in my mind, has any
message for me.”

After a pause, the medium shuddered, stretched out his
hands upon the table, with the fingers rigidly crooked, lifted
his head, and fixed his eyes on vacancy. His lips scarcely
seemed to move, but a faint, feminine voice came from his
throat.

“I am in a distant sphere,” it said, “engaged in the labors
I began while on earth. I bear a new name, for the promise
of that which I once had is fulfilled.”

Hannah Thurston said nothing. She seemed to be pondering
the meaning of what she had heard. Mrs. Waldo turned
to Woodbury, with a face which so distinctly said to him,
without words: “It's awful!” that he answered her, in a
similar way: “Don't be afraid!”

“Will you ask a question, Mr. Woodbury?” said the
host.

“I have no objection,” he said, in a serious tone, “to select
a name, as Miss Thurston has done, and let the answer test
from what spirit it comes.”

After a rapid glance at the speaker, the medium pushed
pencil and paper across the table, saying: “Write the name,

fold the paper so that no one can see it, and hold it in your
hand.” He then placed one elbow on the table, and covered
his face with his hand, the fingers slightly separated.

Woodbury wrote—a long name, it seemed to be—and
folded the paper as directed. Some wandering, uncertain
raps followed. Communication by means of the alphabet
was proposed to the spirit, without a response. After a
sufficient pause to denote refusal, the raps commenced
again.

Mr. Dyce shuddered several times, but no sound proceeded
from his mouth. Suddenly turning towards Woodbury with
set eyes, and pointing his finger, he exclaimed: “He is standing
behind you!”

The others, startled, looked towards the point indicated, and
even Woodbury involuntarily turned his head.

“I see him,” continued the medium—“a dark man, not of
our race. He wears a splendid head-dress, and ornaments of
gold. His eyes are sad and his lips are closed: he is permitted
to show his presence, but not to speak to you. Now he
raises both hands to his forehead, and disappears.”

“Who was it?” asked Mrs. Waldo, eagerly.

Woodbury silently unfolded the paper, and handed it to her.
Even Mr. Dyce could not entirely conceal his curiosity to hear
the name.

“What is this!” said she. “I can scarcely read it: Bab—
Baboo Rugbutty Churn Chuckerbutty! It is certainly nobody's
name!”

“It is the actual name of an acquaintance of mine, in Calcutta,”
Woodbury answered.

“A Hindoo!” exclaimed Mr. Dyce, with a triumphant air:
“that accounts for his inability to use the alphabet.”

“I do not see why it should,” rejoined Woodbury, “unless
he has forgotten his English since I left India.”

“He did speak English, then?” several asked.

“Did, and still does, I presume. At least, he was not dead,
three months ago,” he answered, so quietly and gravely that

none of the company (except, perhaps, the medium) supposed
that a trick had been intended.

“Not dead!” some one exclaimed, in great amazement.
“Why did you summon him?”

“Because I did not wish to evoke any friend or relative
whom I have lost, and I had a curiosity to ascertain whether
the spirits of the living could be summoned, as well as those
of the dead.”

There was a blank silence for a few moments. Only Bute,
who had stolen into the room and taken a quiet seat in one
corner, with his eyes wide open, gave an audible chuckle.

Mr. Dyce, who had concealed a malignant expression under
his hand, now lifted a serene face, and said, in a solemn voice:
“The living, as we call them, cannot usurp the powers and
privileges of those who have entered on the spiritual life. The
spirit, whose name was written, has either left the earth, or
that of another, unconsciously present in the gentleman's mind,
has presented itself.”

The believers brightened up. How simple was the explanation!
The mere act of writing the name of one Hindoo had
recalled others to Mr. Woodbury's memory, and his thoughts
must have dwelt, en passant,—probably without his being in
the least aware of it, so rapid is mental action,—on some other
Hindoo friend, long since engaged in climbing the successive
spheres. In vain did he protest against having received even
a flying visit from the recollection of any such person. Seth
Wattles triumphantly asked: “Are you always aware of
every thing that passes through your mind?”

Mrs. Merryfield repeated a question she had heard the week
before: “Can you always pick up the links by which you pass
from one thought to another?”

Her husband modestly thrust in a suggestion: “Perhaps
your friend Chuckerchurn is now among the spirits, as it
were.”

Mr. Dyce, who had been leaning forward, with his arms under
the table, during these remarks, suddenly lifted his head,

exclaiming: “He has come back!”—which produced a momentary
silence. “Yes—I cannot refuse you!” he added, as if
addressing the spirit, and then started violently from his seat,
twisting his left arm as if it had received a severe blow. He
drew up his coat-sleeve, which was broad and loose, then the
sleeve of his shirt, and displayed a sallow arm, upon the skin
of which were some red marks, somewhat resembling the letters
“R. R.” In a few moments, however, the marks faded
away.

“His initials! Who can it be?” said Seth.

“Rammohun Roy!” said Hannah Thurston, betrayed, as it
almost seemed, into a temporary belief in the reality of the
visitation.

“I assure you,” Woodbury answered, “that nothing was
further from my thoughts than the name of Rammohun Roy,
a person whom I never saw. If I wished to be convinced
that these phenomena proceed from spirits, I should select some
one who could give me satisfactory evidence of his identity.”

“The skeptical will not believe, though one came from
heaven to convince them,” remarked the medium, in a hollow
tone.

There was an awkward silence.

“My friends, do not disturb the atmosphere!” cried Mr.
Merryfield; “I hope we shall have further manifestations.”

A loud rap on the table near him seemed to be intended as a
reply.

Mr. Dyce's hand, after a few nervous jerks, seized the pencil,
and wrote rapidly on a sheet of paper. After completing
the message and appending the signature to the bottom, he
heaved a deep sigh and fell back in his chair.

Mr. Merryfield eagerly grasped the paper. “Ah!” said he,
“it is my friend!” and read the following:

In spite of certain inaccuracies in the spelling of this message,
the reader's face brightened with satisfaction. “There!”
he exclaimed—“there is a genuine test! No one but the
spirit of Lundy, as it were, could have written those words.”

“Why not?” asked Woodbury.

“Why—why—the foot of Hercules sticks out!” said Mr.
Merryfield, falling, in his confusion, from the lofty strain.
“You never knowed the sainted Lundy, the purest and most
beautiful spirit of this age. Those are his very—yes, he would
make the same expressions, as it were, if his voice could,—if
he were still in the flesh.”

Woodbury's eyes, mechanically, wandered to Mrs. Waldo
and Hannah Thurston. The former preserved a grave face,
but a smile, perceptible to him alone, lurked at the bottom of
her eyes. The latter, too earnest in all things to disguise the
expression of her most fleeting emotions, looked annoyed and
uneasy. Woodbury determined to take no further part in the
proceedings—a mental conclusion which Mr. Dyce was sufficiently
clairvoyant to feel, and which relieved while it disconcerted
him.

Various other spirits announced their presence, but their
communications became somewhat incoherent, and the semi-believers
present were not strengthened by the evening's experiments.
Mr. Waldo, in answer to a mental question, received
the following message:

“There can be no doubt of that. Are you not satisfied?”
asked Seth Wattles.

“Not quite. I had expected a different message from the
spirit I selected,” said Mr. Waldo.

“Was it not Beza Cimmer?”

“No!” was the astonished reply: “I was thinking of a
school-mate and friend, who took passage for the West Indies
in a vessel that was never heard of afterwards.”

“We must not forget,” said Mr. Dyce, “that our friends in
the spirit-world still retain their independence. You may send
for a neighbor to come and see you, and while you are waiting
for him, another may unexpectedly step in. It is just so in our
intercourse with spirits: we cannot control them. We cannot
say to one: `come!' and to another: `go!' We must abide
their pleasure, in faith and humility.”

Mr. Waldo said nothing, and made no further attempt at
conversation with his lost school-mate. Seth Wattles summoned,
in succession, the spirits of Socrates, Touissant L'Ouverture,
and Mrs. Hemans, but neither of them was inclined to
communicate with him.

After a while, some one remarked: “Will they not more
palpably manifest themselves?”

“We can try,” said Mr. Dyce.

Mr. Merryfield thereupon took the solitary candle into an adjoining
room. As the shutters were closed, the apartment was
thus left in complete darkness. The guests kept their seats
around the table, and it was specially enjoined upon them not
to move. At the end of a few minutes rustling noises were
heard, loud raps resounded on the table, which was several
times violently lifted and let down, and blows were dealt at
random by invisible hands. Those who were so fortunate as
to be struck, communicated the news in a whisper to their
neighbors. Presently, also, the little old-fashioned piano,
standing on one side of the room, began to stir its rusty
keys. After a few discordant attempts at chords, a single
hand appeared to be endeavoring to play “Days of

Absence,” the untuned keys making the melody still more
dismal.

It was enough to set one's teeth on edge, but Mrs. Merryfield
burst into tears. “Oh!” she cried, “it's Angelina herself!
She was taking lessons, and had just got that far when
she died.”

The sounds ceased, and light was restored to the room. Mr.
Dyce was leaning on the table, with his face in his hands. As
he lifted his head, a large dark stain appeared under his right
eye.

“Why, what has happened to you?” cried Merryfield.
“Your eye is quite black!”

The medium, whose glance happened to fall upon his right
hand, closed it so suddenly that the gesture would have attracted
notice, if he had not skilfully merged it into one of his
convulsive shudders. A rapid flush came to his face, and passed
away, leaving it yellower than before.

“The unfriendly spirits are unusually active to-night,” he
finally answered: “They are perhaps encouraged by the presence
of doubters or scoffers. I name no names. I received
several severe blows while the light was removed, and feel exhausted
by the struggles I have undergone. But it is nothing.
The spirit of Paracelsus will visit me to-night, and remove
the traces of this attack. Had the atmosphere been
pure, it could not have occurred. But some who are here
present are yet incapable of receiving the Truth, and their
presence clouds the divine light through which the highest
manifestations are made.”

Woodbury was too much disgusted to answer. His eye fell
upon Bute, who sat in the corner, with his large hand covering
his mouth, and his face scarlet.

“I confess,” said Mr. Waldo, turning to the medium, “that I
am not convinced of the spiritual character of these phenomena.
I do not profess to explain them, but neither can I explain
much that I see in Nature, daily; and I do not perceive the
necessity of referring them at once to supernatural causes.

By such an assumption, the spiritual world is degraded in our
eyes, without, in my opinion, any increase of positive truth,
even if the assumption were correct. A man who is really so
blind as to disbelieve in the future life, would not be converted
by any thing we have seen here to-night; while for us, who believe,
the phenomena are unnecessary.”

“What!” exclaimed Mr. Dyce. “You do not appreciate
the divine utterances from the world of spirits! You do not
recognize the new and glorious Truths, the germs of a more
perfect Creed!”

“I would prefer,” the parson mildly answered, “not to hear
the word `divine' so applied. No: to be entirely frank, I see
nothing new, or even true, in comparison with the old, Eternal
Truth.”

“But,” interrupted Merryfield, desperately, seeing the bright
assent on Hannah Thurston's face; “do you not believe in
Progress? Have we, as it were, exhausted—are we at the
end of truth?”

“Most certainly I believe in the forward march of our race.
We are still children in wisdom, and have much to learn. But
let me ask, my friend, do you not believe that the future life is
an immeasurable advance upon this?”

“Yes,” said Merryfield.

“Then,” Mr. Waldo continued, “why is it that the professed
communications from great minds, such as Socrates, Luther,
or the Apostles themselves, are below the expressions of even
average human intellect?”

The believers stared at each other in dumb amazement.
The coolness with which the parson took hold of and trampled
upon their gems of superhuman wisdom, was like that of St.
Boniface, when he laid the axe to the sacred Hessian oak.
His hearers, like the Druids on that occasion, were passive,
from the sheer impossibility of comprehending the sacrilege.
Mr. Dyce shook his head and heaved a sigh of commiseration.
Seth Wattles clasped his hands, lifted his eyes, and muttered
in a hoarse voice: “The time will come.” Mrs. Merryfield

was unable to recall any phrase that applied to the case, but
wiped her eyes for the third time since the mysterious performance
on the piano.

Mrs. Waldo, however, looked at her husband with a smile
which said to him: “I knew you could silence them whenever
you choose to show your strength.” Then, rising, she added,
aloud: “Now the atmosphere is certainly disturbed. Let us
come back to our present existence, which, after all, is very
good, when one has health, friends, and a contented spirit.”

Mr. Merryfield whispered to his wife, who disappeared in
the kitchen. “Don't go yet,” he said to his guests, who
had risen from the table; “we must warm you, before you
start.”

“Is it possible? whiskey-punch?” asked Woodbury, aside,
of Mrs. Waldo.

“Hush! The very suggestion of such a thing would ruin
you, if it were known,” she replied.

At the end of a few minutes, Mrs. Merryfield reappeared,
followed by a negro girl, who bore several steaming plates on
a japanned tray. They proved to contain slices of mince-pie,
réchauffée, and rather palatable, although heavy, in the absence
of brandy. Mrs. Merryfield, during the day, had seriously
thought of entertaining her guests with coffee; but as she was
thoroughly convinced of the deleterious nature of the beverage,
she decided that it would be no less criminal to furnish it
to others than if she drank it herself. Consequently they received,
instead, glasses of hot lemonade, which, by an association
of ideas, almost convinced Woodbury, in spite of himself,
that he was suffering under an attack of influenza.

Mr. Dyce, who adroitly managed to keep the left side of
his face towards the candle, ate his portion with great relish.
His spiritual office being ended for the day, he returned with
avidity to the things of this world, and entered into a defence
of animal food, addressed to Seth Wattles, who was inclined
to be a Vegetarian. Indeed, the medium dropped hints unfavorable
to the Temperance reform, which would have shocked

some of his hearers, if he had not based them, like the most of
his opinions, on spiritual communications.

As the guests were putting on their coats and cloaks in the
hall, Woodbury overheard Mrs. Waldo, furtively saying to her
spouse: “I am so glad you spoke your mind.”

“I must thank you, also, Mr. Waldo,” said Hannah Thurston.
“One should not too willingly accept any thing so new
and strange. For the sake of the truth we already possess,
it is right to be cautious”

“And now it is my turn to thank you, Miss Thurston,” rejoined
Woodbury, gayly, as they went out into the cool nightair.

She understood him. For one instant her habitual antagonism
asserted itself, but she conquered it by a strong effort.
The night hid her face, and her voice was even-toned and
sweet as ever, as she answered: “I am glad there is one point
on which we can agree.”

“Oh, there are a great many, I assure you,” he exclaimed,
with a lightness which, she knew not why, struck her unpleasantly:
“If we could take away from your surplus of earnestness,
to complete my lack of it, we should get on very well
together.”

“Can one be too much in earnest?” she asked.

“Decidedly. There are relative values in ethics, as in every
thing else. You would not pull a pink with the same serious
application of strength which you would use, to wind a bucket
out of a well. But Mrs. Waldo waits: good-night!”

He lifted her into the cutter, the horses started, and she was
off before she had fairly time to consider what he meant. But
the words were too singular to be forgotten.

Bute now made his appearance, and Woodbury took his seat
in the cutter beside him. Dick was another horse when his
head was pointed towards home, and the bells danced to a
lively measure as they passed up the valley in the face of the
wind. The rising moon struggled through clouds, and but two
or three stars were visible overhead. The night was weird

and sad, and in its presence the trials and the indulgencies of
daylight became indistinct dreams. Woodbury recalled, with
a feeling of intense repugnance, the occurrences of the evening.
“Better,” he said to himself, “a home for the soul within
the volcanic rings of yonder barren moon, with no more than
the privacy it may command in this life, than to be placed on
the fairest star of the universe, and be held at the beck and
call of every mean mind that dares to juggle with sanctities.”

Plunged in these meditations, he did not at first notice the
short, half-suppressed spirts of laughter into which Bute occasionally
broke. The latter, at last, unable to enjoy his fun
alone, said:

“When you looked at me, Mr. Max., I thought I'd ha'
bust. I never was so nigh givin' way in my life.”

“What was it?” asked Woodbury.

“Well, you musn't say nothin'. I done it.”

“You!”

“Yes, ha! ha! But he's no idee who it was.”

“Did you strike him in the face, Bute?”

“Lord, no! He done all the strikin' there was done to-night.
I fixed it better 'n that. You see I suspicioned they'd git Angeliny's
spirut to playin' on the pyanna, like th' other time I was
there. Thinks I, I've a notion how it's done, and if I'm right,
it's easy to show it. So, afore comin' into the settin'-room, I
jist went through the kitchen, and stood awhile on the hearth,
to warm my feet, like. I run one arm up the chimbley, when
nobody was lookin', and rubbed my hand full o' soft sut.
Then I set in the corner, and held my arm behind me over the
back o' the cheer, till the candle was took out. Now's the
time, thinks I, and quick as wink I slips up to the pyanna—I
knowed if they'd heerd me they'd think it was a spirut—and
rubbed my sutty hand very quietly over the black keys. I
didn't dare to bear on, but, thinks I, some 'll come off, and he 'll
be sure to git it on his hands. Do you see it, Mr. Max.?
When the light come back, there he was, solemn enough, with

a black eye, ha! ha! I couldn't git a sight of his hand,
though; he shet his fist and kep' it under the table.”

Woodbury at first laughed heartily, but his amusement soon
gave place to indignation at the swindle. “Why did you not
expose the fellow?” he asked Bute.

“Oh, what's the use! Them that believes wouldn't believe
any the less, if they'd seen him play the pyanna with their own
eyes. I've no notion o' runnin' my head into a hornet's nest,
and gittin' well stung, and no honey to show for my pains.”

With which sage observation Bute drove up to the door of
Lakeside.