Spiritist Review - Journal of Psychological Studies - 1868

Contemporary literature, periodical or not, is imbued every day with Spiritist ideas. This is so true, as we have said for a long time, that these ideas are a fertile mine for the works of imagination, rich in poetic images and in endearing situations; so, writers are already digging deep into it. Materialist doctrines offer them a very limited, too prosaic field; what can be learned there that is likely to touch the hearts, to uplift the minds? What poetry does the prospect of nothingness offer, of the eternal destruction of oneself and of those that one loves? The materialist feels the need to speak to the soul of his readers if he does not want to freeze them; to lend a soul to his characters if he wants people to be interested in it. At all times, poets and writers have borrowed from spiritualist ideas their most beautiful images and their most moving situations; but Spiritism today, by defining beliefs in the future, gives a body to thoughts, and an emphasis that they did not have; it opens a new field that we are beginning to explore. We have already cited many examples of this, and we will continue to do so from time to time, because it is a characteristic sign of the reaction that takes place in the ideas.



In addition to literary works properly saying, the press also registers daily facts that fall within the scope of Spiritism.




The Countess of Monte Cristo



With this title, La Petite Presse publishes a serial novel in which we find the following passages, extracts from chapters XXX and XXXI:



“My paradise, dear mother," said her dying daughter to the Countess of Monte Cristo, "it will be to stay near you, near you!" still alive in your thoughts, listening to you and answering you, chatting in a low voice with your souls.



When the flower smells in the garden, and you bring it to your lips, I will be in the flower, and I will receive the kiss!" I will also be the ray, the passing breath, the sounding murmur. The wind that will shake your hair will be my caress; the scent of flowering lilacs will rise towards your window, it will be my breath; the distant song that will make you cry, it be my voice! …



Mother do not blaspheme! No anger against God! Alas! perhaps these anger and blasphemy would separate us forever.



As long as you stay down here, I will make myself your companion in exile; but later, when resigned to the wishes of our Father who is in heaven, you in your turn will have closed your eyes so as not to reopen them, then I will in turn be at your bedside, awaiting for your freedom; and intoxicated with eternal joy, our two hearts, united forever, entwined for eternity, will fly the same flight towards a merciful sky. Do you understand this joy, mother? Never leave one another, always love each other, always! To form, so to speak, two distinct beings and a single being, at the same time: to be you and me at the same time? To love and know that one is loved, and that the measure of the love that one inspires is the same that one feels?



Here below, we do not know each other; I ignore you as you ignore me; our two bodies are an obstacle between our two Spirits; we only see ourselves confusedly through the veil of flesh. But up there, we'll clearly read each other's hearts. And knowing how much we love each other is true paradise, you see!



Alas! All these promises of a mystical and infinite happiness, far from calming the anxieties of Helena, only made them more intense, by making her measure the value of good that she was going to miss.



At intervals, however, at the breath of these inspired words, Helena’s soul almost flew to the serene heights where Pippione's hovered. Her tears stopped, her calm returned to her disturbed bosom; it seemed to her that invisible beings were floating in the room, whispering the words to Blanche, as she pronounced them.



The child had fallen asleep, and in her dream, she seemed to be conversing with someone you couldn't see, listening to voices that only she could hear, and responding to them.



Suddenly, an abrupt tremble shook her frail limbs, she opened her large eyes wide and called her mother, who was dreaming, leaning on the window.



She approached the bed, and Pippione grabbed her hand with an already damp hand from the last sweats.



“The time has come," she said. “This is the last night. They call me, I hear them! I would like to stay still, poor mother, but I cannot, their will is stronger than mine; they are up there waving to me.”



- Madness! exclaimed Helena! Vision! Dream! You, die today, tonight, in my arms! Is that possible?



“- No, not die," said Pippione; “be born! I come out of the dream instead of entering it; the nightmare is over, I wake up. Oh! if you only knew how beautiful it is, and what light shines here, beside which your sun is but a black spot!”



She let herself fall on the cushions, remained silent for a moment, then continued:



"- The moments that I have to spend with you are short. I want you all to be here to tell me what you call an eternal farewell, that is just a brief goodbye. Everybody, do you hear me well? You first, the good doctor, Ursula, and Cyprienne, and Joseph.”



This name was pronounced lower than the others, it was the last breath, the last human regret of Pippione. From that moment, she belonged entirely to heaven…



…………………..



"- It was my daughter!



“- It was! … Repeated Doctor Ozam, in an almost fatherly voice, drawing Helena to his chest. It was! … So it is no longer… What is left here? A little half-decomposed flesh, nerves that vibrate no more, blood that thickens, eyes without gaze, a speechless throat, ears that no longer hear, a little mud! Your daughter! This corpse in which fertile nature already makes inferior life germinate, that will disseminate its elements? - Your daughter, this mud that tomorrow will turn green in the weeds, will flower in roses, and will restore to the ground all the living forces that it has stolen from her? No, no - this is not your daughter! This is only the delicate and charming outfit that she had created to go through our life of hardships, a rag that she disdainfully abandoned, like a worn dress that one throws away! If you want to have a vivid memory of your daughter, poor lady, you must look elsewhere… and higher.



“So, you believe it too, doctor,” she asked, “in this other life? You were said to be a materialist.”



“The doctor smirked softly. "Maybe I am, but not the way you mean it."



“It is not in another life that I believe, but in eternal life, in the life that has not begun and that, therefore, will have no end. – In the beginning, each of the beings equal to the others, educates, so to speak, their soul, and improves their faculties and power, in proportion to their merits and actions. Immediate consequence of this argumentation: this more perfect soul also aggregates a more perfect envelope all around itself. A day arrives when then finally this envelope is no longer sufficient, and then, the soul breaks the body, as they say.



But does she break it to find another more in line with her needs and her new qualities? Where? Who knows? Perhaps in one of those superior worlds that shine on our heads, in a world where she will find a more perfect body, endowed with more sensitive organs, thereby even better and happier!

……………….



We ourselves, perfect beings, from the first day endowed with all the senses that put us in touch with external nature, how much effort do we not need! What latent labors are not necessary for the child to become a man, the ignorant and weak being, king of Earth! And endlessly, until death, the courageous and the good ones persevere in this arduous way of work; they expand their intelligence by the study, their heart by dedication. That is the mysterious work of the human chrysalis, the work by which it acquires the power and the right to break the envelope of the body and to rise with wings."



Observation: The author, who had up until now kept anonymous, is Mr. du Boys, a young dramatic writer; from certain almost textual expressions, we can obviously see that he was inspired by the Doctrine.

With the title of: A humanitarian vow, Anacharsis Clootz, Prussian Baron, French conventional, to his fellow citizens of Paris and Berlin, the Progress of Lyon, on April 27^th, 1867, published, in the form of a letter, supposedly written from the other world, by the conventional Clootz, a rather long article starting as follows:



“In the other world, where I live since the terrible day of March 24^th, 1794, that I admit, disillusioned me a little about men and things, only the word war has the privilege of reminding me the concerns of earthly policy. What I liked the most, what am I saying? What I adored and served when I lived on your planet, it was the brotherhood of peoples and peace. To this great object of study and love, I made a rather serious pledge: my head, to which my hundred thousand pounds of income that to the eyes of many people added an important value. What even consoled me somewhat, as I climbed the steps of the scaffolding, were the considerations by which Saint-Just had just justified my arrest. It was said there, if I remember correctly, that henceforth peace, justice and integrity would be on the agenda. I would have given my life, I declare it out loud, without hesitation, and twice rather than once, to obtain half of that result. And please notice that my sacrifice was more complete and deeper than most of my colleagues could have been. I was in good faith and kept respect for justice at the bottom of my heart; but, without speaking of the cults that horrified me, the Supreme Being of Robespierre himself irritated my nerves, and the future life had for me the appearance of a pretty fairy tale. You will probably ask me what it is. Was I wrong? Was I right? This is the great secret of the dead. Judge for yourself at your own risk. It seems, however, that I was going a little too far, since I am permitted to write to you, on this solemn occasion."





Since the article is exclusively political, and outside our scope, we only quote this fragment to show that in these very serious issues, we can take advantage of the idea of the dead addressing the living, to continue with their interrupted relationships. Spiritism sees this fiction being realized at every moment. It is more than likely that it was Spiritism that gave this idea; moreover, if it would be given as real, Spiritism would not disavow it.

“Do you know the cause of the noises that reach us? said Mrs. Des Genêts. Is this some new scene of unleashed tigers that these gentlemen are preparing for us?



- Relax, dear friend, everything is safe: our living and our dead. Hear the lovely melody of the nightingale singing in this willow tree! Perhaps it is the soul of one of our martyrs that hovers around us, in this loving form. The dead have these privileges; and I readily persuade myself that they often come back to those they loved.



- Oh! if you were telling the truth! exclaimed Mrs. Des Genêts eagerly.



- I sincerely believe it, said the young Duchess. It is so good to believe in reassuring things! Besides, my father, who is very enlightened, as you are aware, assured me that this belief had been spread long ago by great philosophers. Lesage himself believes in it too.”





This passage is taken from a serial novel entitled: Le Cachot de la Tour des pins^[1], by Paulin Capmal, published by La Liberté on November 4^th, 1867. Here, the idea is not borrowed from the Spiritist doctrine, that has always taught and proved that the human soul cannot be reborn in an animal body, that does not prevent certain critics, who have not read the first word of Spiritism, from repeating that it professes the metempsychosis; but it is still the thought of the individual soul surviving the body, returning in a tangible form to those whom it has loved. If the idea is not Spiritist, it is at least spiritualistic, and it would still be better to believe in metempsychosis than to believe in the void. This belief, at least, is not hopeless like materialism; it has nothing immoral, on the contrary; it has led all the peoples who have professed it to treat animals with gentleness and benevolence. This exclamation: It is so good to believe in reassuring things, is the great secret of the success of Spiritism.

---

[1] The dungeon of the pine trees tower (T.N.)

The Temps, on March 27^th, 1868, reads:



“Yesterday, at the funeral of Mr. Marc Michel, Mr. Jules Adenis said goodbye, in the name of the Society of Dramatic Authors, to the writer whom the joyous and light comedy has just lost.



I find this sentence in his speech:



It was Ferdinand Langlé who recently preceded the one we mourn today in the grave… And who knows? Who can tell? … just as we are following this mortal remains here, perhaps Langlé's soul came to receive Marc Michel's soul on the threshold of eternity.



It is certainly my fault, of my too lighthearted Spirit, but I confess that it is difficult for me to imagine, with the proper seriousness, the soul of the author of the Deaf, of the Bedfellow, of A leech, of the Gatekeepers' Strike, coming to receive, on the threshold of eternity, the soul of the author of Maman Sabouleux, of Mesdames de Montenfriche, of a Bengal Tiger and of the Champbaudet Station.

X. Feyrnet.”





The thought expressed by Mr. Jules Adenis is of the purest Spiritism. Let us suppose that the author of the article, Mr. Feyrnet, who has difficulty maintaining a suitable solemnity on hearing that the soul of Mr. Lauglé is perhaps present, and coming to receive the soul of Marc Michel, had spoken in turn, and expressed himself as follows: "Gentlemen, you have just heard that the soul of our friend Langlé is here, that it sees us and hears us!" He would just add that it can talk to us. Don't believe a word of it; Langlé's soul no longer exists; or it has melted into the immensity, that amounts to the same thing. Nothing is left of Marc Michel; it will be the same with you, when you die, as well as with your parents and with your friends. Hoping that they are waiting for you, that they will come to receive you when you leave life, that is madness, superstition, illuminism. The positive thing is this: When you're dead, it's all over. Which of the two speakers would have found the most sympathy among those present? Which would have dried the most tears, given the most courage and resignation to the afflicted? Wouldn't the unfortunate man, who no longer waits for relief in this world, be justified in saying to him: "If this is so, let's end life as soon as possible?” We must feel sorry for Mr. Feyrnet not be able to keep his seriousness at the idea that his father and his mother, if he has lost them, are still living, that they are watching at his bedside, and that he will see them again.

“However extraordinary the following account may seem, the author, by declaring to have received it from vice-president of the legislative body himself (Baron Jérôme David), gives these words an incontestable authority.



During his stay in Saint-Cyr, David witnessed a duel between two of his classmates, Lambert and Poirée. The latter was hurt by a sword and was taken to the infirmary to be treated, where his friend David went up to see him every day.



One morning, Poirée seemed singularly disturbed to him; he pressed him with questions and ended by wresting from him the confession that his emotion came from a simple nightmare.



I dreamed that we were at the edge of a river, I received a bullet in the forehead, above the eye, and you supported me in your arms; I was in a lot of pain and felt like I was dying; I recommended my wife and my children to you when I woke up.



My dear, you have a fever, replied David laughing; get well, you are in your bed, you are not married, and you do not have a bullet above your eye; it is quite a dream; do not torment yourself like this if you want to get well quickly.



- It is singular, Poirée whispered, I have never believed in dreams, I do not believe in them, and yet I am upset.



Ten years later, the French army landed in Crimea; the Saint-Cyrians had lost sight of each other. David, an orderly officer attached to Prince Napoleon's division, was ordered to go, and discover a passage up the Alma. To prevent the Russians from taking him prisoner, this recognition was supported by a company of hunters, taken from the nearest regiment. The Russians rained down a hail of bullets on the escort men, who returned fire in retaliation.



Within ten minutes one of our officers rolled to the ground, mortally wounded. Captain David jumped off his horse and ran to pick him up; he leaned his head on his left arm and, untangling the gourd hanging from his belt, he brought it to the lips of the wounded man. A gaping hole above the eye stained the face with blood; a soldier brought a little water and poured it on the head of the dying man, who was already moaning.





David looks with attention at the features he seems to recognize; a name is pronounced next to him; there is no more doubt, it's him, it's Poirée! He calls him, his eyes open, the dying man in turn recognizes Saint-Cyr's comrade ...



- David! you here? ... The dream ... my wife ...



These interrupted words were not finished as the head was already falling inert on David's arm. Poirée was dead, leaving his wife and children to the memory and friendship of David.



I would not dare to tell such a story if I had not heard it myself from the honorable vice-president of the legislative body.



Vox populi.”



Why does the narrator add these words: Vox populi? We could understand them like this: facts of such a nature are so frequent that they are attested by the voice of the people, that is, by a general permit.



Knocking Spirits in Russia





The following extract, dated April 8^th, 1868, from the Courier Russe, from Saint Petersburg, was sent to us from Riga:



“Do you believe in knocking Spirits?" For me, not at all; and yet I have just seen a material fact, palpable, that goes so far outside the rules of common sense, and so in disagreement with the principles of stability and gravity, that my fourth-grade teacher instilled in me, that I do not know which one of the two is more affected, the Spirit or me. - Our editorial secretary received a decent-looking gentleman the other day, of an age that he could not attribute to him the idea of a bad joke; after greeting, introduction, etc.; the whole works finished, this gentleman says that he comes to our office to seek advice; that what happens to him is so much outside all the facts of social life, that he believes to be his duty to publish it.



“My house,” he said, “is full of knocking Spirits; every night around ten o'clock, they start their exercises, carrying the heavier objects, hitting, jumping, and in a word, turning my whole apartment upside down. I had appealed to the police, a soldier slept in my house for several nights, the disorder did not stop, although at each alarm he drew his saber in a threatening manner. My house is isolated, I have only one servant, my wife, and my daughter, and when these facts happen, we are gathered. I live in a very distant street, in Vassili-Ostroff.”



I had entered during the conversation and listened to him with a gaping mouth; I told you, I don't believe in knocking Spirits, but that, not at all. I explained to this gentleman that to publicize these facts, we still had to be convinced of their existence, and suggested to go and find out myself. We made an appointment for the evening, and at nine o'clock I was at my man's house. I am ushered into a small living room, furnished comfortably enough; I examine the arrangement of the rooms: there were only four, including a kitchen, the whole thing occupying the entire middle floor of a wooden house; no one lives above, the bottom is occupied by a store. Around ten o'clock we were together in the living room, my man, his wife, his daughter, the cook, and me. Half an hour, nothing new! Suddenly a door opens and a galosh falls in the middle of the room; I believed in an accomplice, and wanted to make sure that the staircase was empty, when my galosh jumps on a piece of furniture and from there back onto the floor; then it was the turn of the chairs in the adjoining room, that had no exit except through the one we occupied, and which I had just found perfectly empty. At the end of only an hour the silence was reestablished, and the Spirit, the Spirits, the skillful friend, or God knows what, disappeared, leaving us in a bewilderment that, I assure you, had nothing to do with a game. Here are the facts, I have seen them, with my own eyes; I am not responsible for explaining them to you; If you want to find the explanation yourself, we have all the information you need to go and make your observations on the spot.

Henri de Brenne.”