Andrew Jackson Davis (the "Poughkeepsie Seer") records that while in the clairvoyant condition he saw the entire process of the soul's disengagement from the body.—"The Great Harmonia," vol. 1, p. 163.
[49] It was commonly believed that the immortal soul escaped from the dead body through the mouth. Sometimes it passed out under the form of a bird, and sometimes it seemed to be a vapor. The appearance of the departing soul is mentioned as a known fact, by the celebrated mystic, Jacob Böhmen, in his curious book. "The Three Principles," where it is described as that of "a blue vapor going forth out of the mouth of a dying man, which maketh a strong smell all over the chamber."
[50] Dr. Moore states that when the vital flame was flickering, the heart was faltering with every pulse, and every breath was a convulsion, he said to a dying believer, who had not long before been talking in broken words of undying love, "Are you in pain?" and the reply, with apparently the last breath, was, "It is delightful!" In another person, in whom a gradual disease had so nearly exhausted the physical powers that the darkness of death had already produced blindness, the sense of God's love was so overpowering, that every expression for many hours referred to it in rapturous words, such as, "This is life—this is heaven—God is love—I need not faith—I have the promise." It is easy to attribute such expressions to delirium; but this does not alter their character, nor the reality of the state of the soul which produces them. Whether a dying man can maintain any continued attention to things through his senses, we need not inquire. It is enough for him, if, in the spirit, he possesses the peace and joy of believing.—The Use of the Body in Relation to the Mind.
[51] "And Meonothai begat Ophrah: and Seraiah begat Joab, the father of the Valley of Charashim; for they were craftsmen."—1 Chronicles iv: 14; Julius Cæsar was called the Father of his country; Cosmo de Medici is so described on his tombstone; Andrea Doria has upon his statue at Genoa, Pater Patriæ; and Louis XVIII. of France was commonly called the Father of the Country.
[52] The United States has produced no greater orator than Daniel Webster; nevertheless, in the minds of many, he fell from his most exalted station as the interpreter of the public conscience, when he delivered, March 7, 1850, his famous speech, assenting to the Fugitive Slave Law. It was this speech that called forth Whittier's poem "Ichabod," which has been often compared with Browning's "Lost Leader."
[53] Walter von der Vogelweid requested that he might repose where a leafy tree should cast its shadow, and the light of the summer day should linger long; and that the birds might be fed every day from the stone over his grave. See Longfellow's beautiful poem, "Walter von der Vogelweid."
[54] Horace lib. iii, Ode 3.
[55] Sir Charles Blagden, the distinguished English physician and chemist (1748-1820) died so quietly and peacefully that not a drop of coffee in the cup which he held in his hand was spilt. He was sitting in his chair at a social meal with his friends, Monsieur and Madame Berthollet, and Gay Lussac. Dr. Joseph Black, also a famous physician, died whilst eating his customary meal of bread and milk, and so quiet and peaceful was his departure that he did not even spill the contents of a spoon which he held in his hand.
[56]William Wordsworth died April 23rd, 1850, at the age of 80, and was buried in the little centry-garth of St. Oswald's, Grasmere, between, as De Quincey records, "a yew-tree of his own planting, and an aged thorn." On his tombstone is an inscription from the pen of Keble, in which he is styled, "a chief minister, not only of noblest poesy, but of high and Sacred truth." Surely the tender lover of Nature, and high-priest of her mysteries, could have no fitter resting-place than this Westmoreland churchyard, where, as some one has written, "the turf is washed green by summer dew, and winter rain, and in early spring is beautifully dappled with lichens and golden moss?" This reads very prettily, and represents the thing as it should be. But what are the facts? The literary pilgrim who may chance to visit the spot will follow a narrow muddy path among the grave mounds, till he reaches a gloomy dingy corner, with a group of blue-black head-stones of funereal slate. Everything round the place is decayed and blighted; no green grass is there; all is dull, dark and depressing. The poet's corner is ill-drained; and there is a tiny moat of water round the base of the stone curb, in which is fixed the iron railing that surrounds the grave. Yet here is a remarkable group of memorial tombs. Near to the poet lie all the beloved members of his household. Here slumbers his favorite sister, Dorothy; here, too, Mrs. Wordsworth,—Dora Wordsworth,—her husband, Edward Quillinan, the poet, and translator of the Lusiad,—the two infant children of Wordsworth,—and behind these, Hartley Coleridge, that "inheritor of unfulfilled renown," whose bier the poet followed one snowy day in January, unwitting that, before the trees were again clad with verdure, he would be borne along the same narrow path to his own long rest. Surely something should be done to rescue the poet's monument from decay, and render it more in accordance with the verdant foliage and the sun-bright hills around, of which he sung so lovingly and so well.
William Bates.