Mr. Harris is
the medium of deceased poets, Milton and Lord Byron among the rest; and
Dr. ------ said that Lady Byron--who is a devoted admirer of her husband,
in spite of their conjugal troubles--pronounced some of these posthumous
strains to be worthy of his living genius. Then the Doctor spoke of
various strange experiences which he himself has had in these spiritual
matters; for he has witnessed the miraculous performances of Home, the
American medium, and he has seen with his own eyes, and felt with his own
touch, those ghostly hands and arms the reality of which has been
certified to me by other beholders. Dr. ------ tells me that they are
cold, and that it is a somewhat awful matter to see and feel them. I
should think so, indeed. Do I believe in these wonders? Of course; for
how is it possible to doubt either the solemn word or the sober
observation of a learned and sensible man like Dr. ------? But again, do
I really believe it? Of course not; for I cannot consent to have heaven
and earth, this world and the next, beaten up together like the white and
yolk of an egg, merely out of respect to Dr. ------'s sanity and
integrity. I would not believe my own sight, nor touch of the spiritual
hands; and it would take deeper and higher strains than those of Mr.
Harris to convince me. I think I might yield to higher poetry or
heavenlier wisdom than mortals in the flesh have ever sung or uttered.
Meanwhile, this matter of spiritualism is surely the strangest that ever
was heard of; and yet I feel unaccountably little interest in it,--a
sluggish disgust, and repugnance to meddle with it,--insomuch that I
hardly feel as if it were worth this page or two in my not very eventful
journal.
Pages:
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862