Originally published in Harper's New Monthly Magazine (Harper and Brothers) vol.15 #87 (Aug 1857).
I am not a "Spiritualist." My bells are never rung or my tables moved by unseen hands. I believe that the "mediums" are humbugs and impostors; and I have no more desire to inquire into the way in which they get up their "manifestations" than I have to investigate the manner in which Signor Blitz or Professor Anderson perform their sleight-of-hand tricks. Of the two, I think these much the cleverer and more respectable performers. Nor have I any faith in ghosts, omens, presentiments, and supernatural warnings. I believe them to be the product of weak nerves or over-excited imaginations. Any occasional coincidence between the omen and the event I hold to be purely accidental.
Such is my theory. In general it is perfectly satisfactory to me. But I own that I can not reconcile with it certain incidents with which I was closely connected. I have propounded my theory. I will now narrate the incidents.
Many years ago—five-and-twenty or thereabouts—two lads, Harry Burton and George Walters, entered my counting-room on the same day. They were sons of old friends of mine, though they had never seen or heard of each other till they found themselves seated at the same desk in my office. There was a strange likeness between these lads; not close enough, certainly, to make it difficult to distinguish them; but none the less perplexing on that account. The complexion, the color of the hair and eyes, were altogether different, and there was no very striking similarity in the general cast of the features. The likeness lay rather in the absolute identity of expression. The glance of the eye and the turn of the mouth were the same in both. The tone of the voice was exactly alike. To the last I could never, by the ear, distinguish which was speaking. Their movements and gestures were similar. In a word, their resemblance was spiritual rather than material. It was as though one soul animated two bodies.
It was not a little singular also—since one came to us from Massachusetts and the other from Virginia—that they were dressed precisely alike. This continued to be the case ever afterward. I do not believe that there was any direct understanding to this effect, or that either of them was fairly conscious of it. Another coincidence was that they were born on the same day, and, as nearly as could be ascertained, at the very same moment.
From the first, these lads conceived a great fondness for each other. We read of love at first sight—theirs was friendship at first sight. They became almost inseparable.
In my counting-room George and Harry grew up to be two as fine young fellows as one would wish to see, and gave promise of becoming capital men of business. Partly on their own account, and partly from old friendship to their fathers, I had them much at my house, and was by no means sorry to perceive a strong affection springing up between them and Agnes and Mary Clay, the pretty twin-nieces of my wife.
For a long time I was puzzled to guess how the couples were to pair off. Each of the young men seemed to be equally attentive to each of the sisters. I could perceive no division of affection. I used sometimes to wonder if each of the young men did not love both of the girls, and vice versa. However, I suppose there was a difference perceptible to their hearts. In due time I learned that it was to be George and Mary, and Harry and Agnes.
But God willed that the two-fold marriage was not to take place. Agnes was called to pass the portals of the Silent Land. This bereavement seemed to draw still closer, if possible, the bonds between the survivors; and when at length George and Mary married, there was no thought that Harry should leave them.
In due time the young men left my counting-room and established themselves in business, with flattering prospects. Then came the great crash of 1837, in which so many of our mercantile houses went down. Among those which were swept away was the house of Burton and Walters. I would gladly have assisted them, but it was beyond my power. My own house, which had stood unmoved for a quarter of a century, was sorely shaken, and barely weathered the storm.
George and Harry clung together in adversity as closely as they had done in prosperity. Together they had failed, and together they would re-establish their fortunes. They went to New Orleans and recommenced business under the old name. Success crowned their efforts, and before many years the house of Burton and Walters had gained a firm position in the Crescent City. From New Orleans up the Mississippi and Ohio, and across the lakes, they were known, personally and by reputation, at every point for business.
During all these years their friendship remained unbroken. They had but one home, and a stranger could never have told which was the head of the family. Mary was equally dear to both. She was seen with one as often as with the other, and with both oftener than with either. Her friends used jestingly to call her Mrs. "Burton-and-Walters," and would ask her how her "husbands" were.
In their frequent visits to New York my house was invariably their home. They had passed the summer and early autumn of 1852 with us, and were ready to return to New Orleans. Harry and George had business to transact on the river, which might detain them somewhat. Myself and wife were to start for New Orleans by sea in about a week; and, at our earnest request, Mary was induced to remain to accompany us, while Burton and Walters went overland. We all expected to be in New Orleans at about the same time.
On the evening of October 4th (I must now be particular about dates), George and Harry took their departure. The separation was to be for so short a time that few regrets mingled with the parting. All that evening and the next day Mary was as gay and happy as usual. Why should she not be? What evil had she to apprehend?
"Well, Mary," said I, as she was about to retire the next evening, "where do you suppose your husbands are now?"
"In Buffalo, I presume; I hope they are as happy as I am, What a lovely night it is!" she added, drawing aside the curtains and looking out into the calm moonlight. "Surely nothing evil could happen on a night like this." And she bade us good-night with her usual glad smile.
I was roused from sleep by an eager, continuous rapping at my chamber-door. It seemed as though some one, faint with mortal terror, was seeking entrance.
"Who's there?" I exclaimed, springing to the door.
"It's me—Mary. For Heaven's sake let me in. Oh God!"
I opened the door, and there stood, or rather cowered, Mary Walters. Her snowy night drapery was not whiter than her white face. The pale dawn mingling with the faint gas-light in the hall made her look still more ghastly. Her large eye was dilated with horror; her breath came and went in quick, convulsive gasps.
"In Heaven's name, Mary, what is the matter? What has happened?" I asked, as I bore her to the sofa.
"Dead! dead! Both dead—George and Harry! I heard him call me, and I could not go to him. Oh my God, have mercy upon me!"
The wild paroxysm soon passed away. She became calm and composed. But a look of stony, unutterable woe settled upon her face, more fearful than the wildest burst of agony.
"Tell us what has frightened you, Mary. Was it a dream?"
"A dream? No. It was all real! I heard him call me with his dying breath, and I could not help him—could not go to him!"
Her voice sounded low and hollow, but she went on speaking with the utmost distinctness:
"I was awakened by hearing his voice calling me. I know it was he. You can not distinguish his tones from Harry's; I can. 'Mary! Mary!' he said; and his voice sounded low and faint, as though it came from a thousand miles away. Yet it was clear and audible, as though breathed into my ear."
"Why, you foolish child, you have been dreaming. It's all over now."
"I was not dreaming. I was as broad awake as I am now. Could he call me, and I sleep on?"
"All a dream," said my wife; "I have had the same a hundred times when my husband has been away."
"So I thought at first, and I looked around, to be sure where I was. I saw every object in the room. The moonbeams came calmly in at the window, just as they did when I retired. I saw my dress on a chair by the bedside. It partly hid the open grate. I saw the clock on the mantle. I heard it strike two, I was half reassured, and said to myself, 'It was a dream.' Then again I heard his voice calling, 'Mary! Mary!' I tell you it could be only his voice. Do I not know it? Could I ever mistake it? It seemed as though my name was wrung out from his lips by the agonies of death. I tried to spring up. I was powerless. I could not move a limb. I tried to speak, but could not utter a sound."
"Oh, the night-mare, Mary. lie upon your back, child."
"It was not the night-mare. I was not lying on my back. Listen to me. I lay upon my side looking toward the grate, which was partly hidden by the chair, upon which hung my clothes. As I lay, incapable of speech or motion, a picture—no, not a picture—a real scene slowly opened up far within that grate. It was far off—how far I know not—a thousand miles perhaps; but there it was. I saw it. My husband was lying in a narrow room, lighted by a single lamp, in the extremity of mortal agony. I saw Harry bending over him, vainly endeavoring to relieve him. At intervals I heard him call my name in the same fearful tones that had awakened me—tones that never yet came from human lips until the seal of death was upon them. The little room where he lay was only half-lighted, and the chair partly hid it, so that I could only partially make it out. It seemed more like the cabin of a vessel than an apartment in a house. But there he lay, in mortal agony, calling upon me. I saw all; I heard all. I knew that in my body I was lying here in your house, yet in soul I was there too. I knew every thing that passed there and here. I heard every footstep that passed along the pavement here. I saw all the while every thing in my room. I saw the calm moonlight shining coldly through the half-drawn curtains. I was there too. In soul I was in that dark room. I saw the death-dews gathering on his forehead. I heard him calling my name. I heard too, as I remember, something that sounded like the rush of waters poppling against the side of a vessel. Then all was dark. I could see nothing; but I heard my husband's groans of agony. I heard him again and again call my name. The clock on the mantle struck successively three, four, and five; so I knew that I had lain in speechless, motionless agony, three hours. Day began slowly to break here and there—here calm and bright, there gusty and overcast. Then, as the gray dawn lighted up the room—both rooms—that in which I lay in body, and that in which my husband's life was ebbing away—I saw there new faces. I heard eager voices whispering; what they said I could not distinguish. At last I heard my husband's voice calling my name in a tone of deeper agony. Then for a moment all was still. Some one said, 'It's all over. He's dead. Call Burton.' Then I heard a voice, apparently from another room, saying, 'Good God! Burton is dead!' With a strong wrench I burst the invisible bonds that had held me. The distant scene faded away. I saw the dawn streaming in at the window, and heard the clock on the mantle strike six. I rushed down to your door, where you found me."
I could not but be impressed with the earnestness with which she spoke. Still I put the best face on the matter.
"You were nervous, Mary. Your fancy and your fears were unduly excited. You have had a severe attack of the night-mare. It's all over now. Before night you will have a dispatch telling you that all's well."
"Mr. Winter," said she, "you have known me from a child. Did you ever know me to be nervous or fanciful? I was not disquieted. I had no evil forebodings. I never went to rest a happier woman than last night. I never slept more calmly than I did until I was awakened by my husband's cry. I was never more fully awake and conscious than I was during those long hours of deadly agony. I tell you that I heard my husband's dying voice, and I shall never hear it again with my living ears. I tell you he is dead—they are dead. I must go this very day after them. I shall never see them living, but I must look on their dead faces. Mr. Winter, you will help me now. I must go."
Her piteous look moved me.
"Yes, Mary, I see that you are bent upon it. If we do not hear good news to-day, you shall go by the evening train."
Toward noon a telegraphic dispatch was brought to me. I gave it a hasty glance, and hurried to Mary.
"Here, my child, is good news! Is not this a consoling message from two dead men?—Listen: 'Buffalo, October 6, 8 a.m. Start for Cleveland in an hour. All well.—B. &anmp; W.' Now, how about your dreams?"
"It was no dream," she replied. "I saw him die. I heard his last cry with my own mortal ears. His living voice I shall never hear again. But I may look upon their dead faces. I must go. Will you aid me?"
"But, Mary, you heard—or thought you heard—all this in the night; and here you have a message from them, alive and well, hours afterward."
"If they are not dead now, they will be before I can reach them. It was a forewarning. I heard his dying voice. I must go. Will you help me?"
It was in vain to struggle against this fixed idea; and I left her with a promise to see her safely on her way. My friend Marston was to start in a couple of days for New Orleans by the western route, and at my earnest entreaty he agreed to hasten his departure and go that very evening.
At Buffalo they met a score of persons who had seen George and Harry leave for Cincinnati in perfect health. Marston and Mary lost no time, and followed on their route. As they had intended, Burton and Walters had twice stopped over a train to transact some business. At Cincinnati they were almost overtaken; George and Harry were only six hours ahead. The river was too low to allow the usual steamers to run when fully loaded. But the Forest City was to run down the next day without freight to Cairo, and there take in a cargo. Just as they had decided to wait for her, they learned that the little Fox, which, it was said, could run in a heavy dew, was about to start. They took passage on her, and set off without delay.
Marston and his companion learned this at Cincinnati, and remained overnight for the Forest City. Although the Fox had eighteen hours' start, it was hoped that the Forest City would overhaul her at Cairo. In this they were disappointed. No sooner had they touched the wharf than Marston recognized an acquaintance.
"Hallo! Wilson," he shouted. "How are you? Is the Fox in?"
"Yes, and gone—an hour ago."
"Did you see Burton and Walters?"
"Yes, they were on board. I saw them off."
"How were they? Mrs. Walters is with me. She got frightened, and would follow after. We hoped to overtake them here."
"She need have no fear. They were never better. They intend to stop at Memphis. You'll overhaul them there."
The Forest City remained at Cairo for two days. From here Marston wrote me a full account of all that had happened. Mary, he said, was unmoved in her opinion. She was not wild or demonstrative, but calm and sad. "The bitterness of death is passed," she said, in reply to all attempts at encouragement. "I shall never behold them alive, but I shall look upon their dead faces. You are very kind; I thank you for it. But they are dead. I heard his dying words." "What nervous things women are!" moralized Marston. "I wonder what she will say when she meets her husband!"
This letter reached me by the evening mail of the 12th. I will own that I was greatly reassured by it; for in spite of myself, I could not wholly divest myself of a lingering feeling that something was amiss.
Some friends dined with me that evening. Among them was Watson, of the Telegraph Company. I told them of the whole affair, and made light of Mary's vision and her journey. I took some blame to myself for permitting her to go on such a wild-goose chase. Perhaps I was not altogether unselfish, for my wife and myself had anticipated much pleasure from her company on our voyage. "But you know," I added, apologetically, "when a woman takes a whim into her head, there's no beating it out. To do Mrs. Walters justice, this is her first offense of that kind."
So we chatted gayly, over our wine and cigars, of ghosts and omens; of dreams, visions, and apparitions; of spiritual rappings and table-turnings; distributing the blame for these things pretty impartially between dreams, nightmares, roguery, and folly; summing up the whole matter in the comprehensive word, "Humbug."
Late in the evening, a telegraphic dispatch was left at my door. It was addressed to a mercantile friend, who had sent it up to me.
"Ha! here's something about Burton and Walters," said I, as I ran my eye hastily over it.
"What is it? Read it."
"'Memphis, October 12. Cotton, so-and-so. Jones all right. Smith and Parker failed. River low. Burton and Walters both dined here to-day. Tell Winter.'"
"Dined! Well, that does not look much like dead men. I'll wager that at this very moment Mrs. Walters is enjoying a pleasant supper with her two husbands," said Watson. "After all, she's a woman out of a thousand. Here's a happy evening to them! What a pair Burton and Walters are—always together. I do believe if one should die the other could not survive."
"They were always so," I replied. "You know they were brought up in my counting-house."
"Yes, and they are a credit to you," said Watson. "Give me another cigar. Thank you. Don't trouble yourself for a light—this will do."
As he spoke he took up the dispatch which I had flung upon the table.
"Ha! What's this?" he cried, as his eye fell casually on the concluding words. "Confound their carelessness. They're always making blunders. Did you see how this reads: 'Burton and Walters died here to-day.' That's how the careless fellows have written it."
So it was; a little indistinctly written indeed, but it was evidently died, not dined.
"Of course," said Watson, "it should be dined. Though, for the matter of that, it's about the same thing in Memphis, judging from a horrid dinner I once got there. I almost died of it. As it is, there's no great harm done, for we know what it should have been. But it might have done a world of evil. Suppose Mrs. Walters had been here! I'll bring those fellows up with a short turn. Come down to the office with me, and see how they'll catch it."
We reached the office, and Watson took his seat at the instrument. The sharp clicking of the machine was heard as his message flew over the wires:
"What do you mean by your blunders? You sent on word that Burton and Walters died, instead of dined, as it should have been. Mind your p's and q's."
"Your n's you should have said, Watson."
"It's all one. Wait half an hour, and see what they'll say to that. They know I mean something when I blow them up."
In due time the bell tinkled, and the answer came. Watson read it off word by word:
"B. and W. came down on the Fox last night. Both died this morning. Dispatch correct. Mrs. Walters came down on the Forest City this afternoon.'"
When the Forest City reached Memphis Marston saw an acquaintance on the wharf.
"Wilson, how are you? Did you see the Fox?"
"Yes. Burton and Walters—"
"I know they were on board. They are to stop a day or two in Memphis. Do you know where they are? Mrs. Walters is with me. We've come after them. It's a singular story. I'll tell you some time."
"Mr. Marston, they are dead."
"Dead! You are jesting. We heard of them at Cairo two days ago. They were in perfect health."
"Would to God I were jesting! But it is too true. The Fox came in late last evening. Burton and Walters came at once to my store-boat, which lies off the wharf. My partner has been absent for a week, during which time I have not slept at home. 'Come boys,' said I, 'you do not want to go up to the town to-night; turn in here, and keep boat for me, and I'll go home.' Just as I was about to bid them good-night, Walters said that he felt a little out of sorts, and asked for a glass of brandy.
"'There! I'm all right now,' said he, when he had drunk it. 'Go home to your wife. Burton and I will keep boat for you.'
"Just as day was breaking I was aroused by a violent ringing at my door. Going down, I found Burton in a state of high excitement, amounting almost to frenzy.
"Walters is terribly sick,' said he. 'I was afraid he would die in the night. Where shall I find a physician? Come down to the boat.'
"Leaving an urgent summons for a physician who lived close by, we hurried down. On the way Burton told me, as well as he could, what had happened. They had retired shortly after I had left. Walters had complained of a slight uneasiness, but said a night's rest would put him all right again. Just at two o'clock Burton was awakened by hearing his companion calling 'Mary! Mary!' in a tone of anguish. He was sure of the hour, for he heard the clocks strike at the moment. The sufferer grew momently worse. His agonies were intolerable, and at intervals he called despairingly upon his wife. Burton knew not what to do. He would have gone for a physician, but he knew not where to seek one; besides, Walters implored him not to leave him. At length he could bear it no longer, and was on the point of going in search of a physician, when, by some accident, the lamp was extinguished, and they were left in darkness. He had forgotten the position of the plank which formed the only connection between the boat and the wharf, and it was vain to endeavor to find it by groping in the blank darkness among the boxes and bales with which the boat was encumbered. For two hours he remained in the dark with his suffering friend, listening to his groans, and the piercing cries with which he called for his absent wife. As soon as the earliest dawn enabled him to find his way he set out in search of aid.
"The physician reached the boat almost as soon as we did. It was still early morning, and the daylight, mingled with that from the lamp, which we had lighted again, shone ghastly upon the hollow face of the sufferer. The first glance which the medical man caught of poor Walters was enough.
"'It's the cholera,' he whispered, hoarsely. 'He is in the last stages of collapse. He can not live half an hour.'
"Still we did all that could be done, in the faint hope that the progress of the disease might be arrested. We chafed his cold limbs, and administered the most powerful stimulants. I once happened to look on Burton's face, and was shocked at its aspect. He said, however, in answer to my inquiry, that he was well; but he looked twenty years older than he had done the evening before.
"'You can do nothing more, Mr. Burton,' said the Doctor. 'He can not hold out a quarter of an hour. Lie down for a few minutes. We will call you when all is over.'
"I dragged him to the door of the adjoining cabin, and heard him fling himself heavily into a berth. In a few minutes a terrible paroxysm convulsed the frame of poor Walters.
"'It's the last,' whispered the Doctor.
"He opened his eyes wide, looked eagerly around, and cried out, 'Mary! Mary!' in a tone which still rings in my ears. It was the last effort of nature. His eyes closed, his jaw fell, his convulsed limbs straightened themselves. He was dead. At that moment I heard the clock strike six.
"'Poor Burton,' said the Doctor. 'He must be told,' and he stepped into the next cabin. In a moment I heard a great cry.
"'Good Heavens! Burton is dead, too!'
"I rushed in, and there, lying upon his face in the berth where he had flung himself, was Burton, lifeless. He must have died at the very same instant with his friend."
"How shall I break the tidings to Mrs. Walters?" said Marston to himself, as he returned to the Forest City. "Poor woman! It will kill her." His heart failed him as he stepped on board. "I can not do it."
Mary met him as he entered the cabin.
"Mr. Marston," said she, calmly, "there is no use of attempting to disguise the truth. You need not attempt to soften the blow. I can read it all in your face. But that was not needed. I know that they are dead. Tell me how they died. I can bear it. The bitterness
of death was passed a week ago."
And bear it she did, bravely and nobly, as a woman always bears a great woe. . .
I started with giving my general theory about omens, presentiments, and spiritual manifestations. Here are the facts, which I can not reconcile with my theory. For their perfect accuracy I vouch. I still hold to my theory. But I can not reconcile them.