W It was in the autumn of 1810, that I first met in the Scottish highlands: his life afterwards drew rapidly to a close. Whether he might ever have recovered the tone of his mind, I know not, but a singular misfortune put an end to his hopes. A law process had been begun by a person wholly unknown to W, to prove that the estate which he enjoyed, and which had been in his family more than a century, was not his rightful property. Some private afflictions of my own, and my personal absence from Scotland, at this period, prevented me from having it in my power even to endeavour to protect my unfortunate friend. The cause was quickly decided against him; he repaired once more to Edinburgh, and one morning, soon after, was found lifeless in the middle of the wild and rocky vale by which Arthur's seat is separated from Salisbury Craig. I am Sir, Your obedient servant H. F. A. SIR, N° LXXIX. On Apparitions. TO THE RUMINATOR. Oct. 1812. In my letter of September 28, I had occasion to mention an apparition which appeared to my unfortunate friend W. From a circumstance which once occurred to myself of the same kind, but still more striking, I am inclined to think that most of the tales generally related of apparitions, have unquestionably a foundation in truth, and that the real cause of these appearances is somewhat different from what is commonly supposed. It appears to me, then, that there is a certain state of body and mind in which spectral appearances become actually visible, and have all the horrible strength and influence of those visitations, which have been seriously imputed to supernatural agency. The perceptions become insensible to real objects, and are, as it were, turned inwards on the fictions of imagination, which acquire the power of banishing realities entirely from our sight, and placing its own creations vivid and distinct in their stead. A narrative of what I have myself experienced, may perhaps place this in a clearer point of view. It was one morning in the month of January, when the tempest raged violently through a neighbouring forest, that I awoke, and beheld a figure standing by my side, and leaning over the bed; there could be no deception. I was at first not in the least afraid, but rather angry, and somewhat alarmed at its intrusion, believing it to be some earthly visitant. Continuing to gaze, however, I soon perceived that this could not be the case, and closed my eyes: opening them again soon after, the form still appeared. I perfectly remember the fashion and colour of its garments and expression of its features. The spectre stood alone amid the gloom, exactly like a portrait painted on a dark and opaque ground, only with all the distinctness and relievo of a real figure. Gradually the visage became so unpleasing that I shut my eyes a second time; on looking again, I only half unclosed them, so that I beheld only the hands and arms of the figure, (which were folded on its breast,) and part of its dress, on which I gazed for some minutes, till at length I heard the crowing of a cock, and to my great satisfaction the phantom disappeared. I could not be deceived in this visitation; I bad neither dreamed, nor been deceived by any machination of others; nor was there a possibility for any faint ray of light to enter that side of the apartment, so as to produce fantastic forms, which fancy might shape into a human figure. I heard not the slightest sound, save only the whistling of the blast, and the beating of a heavy shower on my casement. On looking accidentally into a very interesting work, Black's Life of Tasso, I am flattered by observing such a coincidence of opinion between myself and that soaring and gigantic genius, that I cannot refrain from quoting the passage. "Wonderful is the force of the representative faculty; and though it should seem that it would be most powerful, when (as in sleep) the soul, unoccupied with the impressions of external objects, is collected into herself; yet, it sometimes happens that, with the most amazing violence, it chains the senses, and so deceives them that they can no longer distinguish their proper objects. This I have learned from poets, to whom on a subject of this kind much credit is due, and (for example) Petrarch thus sings: Che perchè Mille cosi riguardi intento e fiso, Solo una donna veggio, e'l suo bel viso. 1 And again, Perroche spesso (or chi fia che me'l creda?) "And, before him, the prince of poets, describ ing Dido as enamoured of Eneas, had said Illum, absens, absentem auditque, videtque. Assuredly there are certain alienations of mind, which, no less than dreams, can represent falsehoods as truth; nay can effect this with still greater energy; since in sleep, only the sentiments, in madness the whole reason is chained." i The singular malady of Tasso, which at last wholly overpowered his admirable faculties, is well known, and has been dilated on with persevering industry of research, and acute penetration, by Mr. Black. By the same mode of reasoning we may account for the visions which haunted Petrarch, which are so minutely described in his letters, and for the mysterious warning of Lord Lyttelton. I never |