Delphi collected works o.., p.525
Delphi Collected Works of Grant Allen, page 525
Here was a piece of extraordinary luck! In a house with two trained observers, supplied with every instrument of modern experimental research, we had lighted upon an undoubted specimen of the common spectre, which had so long eluded the scientific grasp. I was beside myself with delight. “Really, sir,” I said, cheerfully, “it is most kind of you to pay us this visit, and I’m sure my friend will be only too happy to hear your remarks. Of course you will permit me to call him?”
The apparition appeared somewhat surprised at the philosophic manner in which I received his advances; for ghosts are accustomed to find people faint away or scream with terror at their first appearance; but for my own part I regarded him merely in the light of a very interesting phenomenon, which required immediate observation by two independent witnesses. However, he smothered his chagrin — for I believe he was really disappointed at my cool deportment — and answered that he would be very glad to see my friend if I wished it, though he had specially intended this visit for myself alone.
I ran upstairs hastily and found Harry in his dressing-gown, on the point of removing his nether garments. “Harry,” I cried breathlessly, “you must come downstairs at once. Algernon Egerton’s ghost wants to speak to you.”
Harry held up the candle and looked in my face with great deliberation. “Jim, my boy,” he said quietly, “you’ve been having too much whisky.”
“Not a bit of it,” I answered, angrily. “Come downstairs and see. I swear to you positively that a Thing, the very counterpart of Algernon Egerton’s picture, is sitting in your easy-chair downstairs, anxious to convert you to a belief in ghosts.”
It took about three minutes to induce Harry to leave his room; but at last, merely to satisfy himself that I was demented, he gave way and accompanied me into the sitting-room. I was half afraid that the spectre would have taken umbrage at my long delay, and gone off in a huff and a blue flame; but when we reached the room, there he was, in propriâ personâ, gazing at his own portrait — or should I rather say his counterpart? — on the wall, with the utmost composure.
“Well, Harry,” I said, “what do you call that?”
Harry put up his eyeglass, peered suspiciously at the phantom, and answered in a mollified tone, “It certainly is a most interesting phenomenon. It looks like a case of fluorescence; but you say the object can talk?”
“Decidedly,” I answered, “it can talk as well as you or me. Allow me to introduce you to one another, gentlemen: — Mr. Henry Stevens, Mr. Algernon Egerton; for though you didn’t mention your name, Mr. Egerton, I presume from what you said that I am right in my conjecture.”
“Quite right,” replied the phantom, rising as it spoke, and making a low bow to Harry from the waist upward. “I suppose your friend is one of the Lincolnshire Stevenses, sir?”
“Upon my soul,” said Harry, “I haven’t the faintest conception where my family came from. My grandfather, who made what little money we have got, was a cotton-spinner at Rochdale, but he might have come from heaven knows where. I only know he was a very honest old gentleman, and he remembered me handsomely in his will.”
“Indeed, sir,” said the apparition coldly. “My family were the Egertons of Egerton Castle, in the county of Flint, Armigeri; whose ancestor, Radulphus de Egerton, is mentioned in Domesday as one of the esquires of Hugh Lupus, Earl Palatine of Chester. Radulphus de Egerton had a son — —”
“Whose history,” said Harry, anxious to cut short these genealogical details, “I have read in the Annals of Flintshire, which lies in the next room, with the name you give as yours on the fly-leaf. But it seems, sir, you are anxious to converse with me on the subject of ghosts. As that question interests us all at present, much more than family descent, will you kindly begin by telling us whether you yourself lay claim to be a ghost?”
“Undoubtedly I do,” replied the phantom.
“The ghost of Algernon Egerton, formerly of Egerton Castle?” I interposed.
“Formerly and now,” said the phantom, in correction. “I have long inhabited, and I still habitually inhabit, by night at least, the room in which we are at present seated.”
“The deuce you do,” said Harry warmly. “This is a most illegal and unconstitutional proceeding. The house belongs to our landlord, Mr. Hay: and my friend here and myself have hired it for the summer, sharing the expenses, and claiming the sole title to the use of the rooms.” (Harry omitted to mention that he took the best bedroom himself and put me off with a shabby little closet, while we divided the rent on equal terms.)
“True,” said the spectre good-humouredly; “but you can’t eject a ghost, you know. You may get a writ of habeas corpus, but the English law doesn’t supply you with a writ of habeas animam. The infamous Jeffreys left me that at least. I am sure the enlightened nineteenth century wouldn’t seek to deprive me of it.”
“Well,” said Harry, relenting, “provided you don’t interfere with the experiments, or make away with the tea and sugar, I’m sure I have no objection. But if you are anxious to prove to us the existence of ghosts, perhaps you will kindly allow us to make a few simple observations?”
“With all the pleasure in death,” answered the apparition courteously. “Such, in fact, is the very object for which I’ve assumed visibility.”
“In that case, Harry,” I said, “the correct thing will be to get out some paper, and draw up a running report which we may both attest afterwards. A few simple notes on the chemical and physical properties of a spectre will be an interesting novelty for the Royal Society, and they ought all to be jotted down in black and white at once.”
This course having been unanimously determined upon as strictly regular, I laid a large folio of foolscap on the writing-table, and the apparition proceeded to put itself in an attitude for careful inspection.
“The first point to decide,” said I, “is obviously the physical properties of our visitor. Mr. Egerton, will you kindly allow us to feel your hand?”
“You may try to feel it if you like,” said the phantom quietly, “but I doubt if you will succeed to any brilliant extent.” As he spoke, he held out his arm. Harry and I endeavoured successively to grasp it: our fingers slipped through the faintly luminous object as though it were air or shadow. The phantom bowed forward his head; we attempted to touch it, but our hands once more passed unopposed across the whole face and shoulders, without finding any trace whatsoever of mechanical resistance. “Experience the first,” said Harry; “the apparition has no tangible material substratum.” I seized the pen and jotted down the words as he spoke them. This was really turning out a very full-blown specimen of the ordinary ghost!
“The next question to settle,” I said, “is that of gravity. — Harry, give me a hand out here with the weighing-machine. — Mr. Egerton, will you be good enough to step upon this board?”
Mirabile dictu! The board remained steady as ever. Not a tremor of the steelyard betrayed the weight of its shadowy occupant. “Experience the second,” cried Harry, in his cool, scientific way: “the apparition has the specific gravity of atmospheric air.” I jotted down this note also, and quietly prepared for the next observation.
“Wouldn’t it be well,” I inquired of Harry, “to try the weight in vacuo? It is possible that, while the specific gravity in air is equal to that of the atmosphere, the specific gravity in vacuo may be zero. The apparition — pray excuse me, Mr. Egerton, if the terms in which I allude to you seem disrespectful, but to call you a ghost would be to prejudge the point at issue — the apparition may have no proper weight of its own at all.”
“It would be very inconvenient, though,” said Harry, “to put the whole apparition under a bell-glass: in fact, we have none big enough. Besides, suppose we were to find that by exhausting the air we got rid of the object altogether, as is very possible, that would awkwardly interfere with the future prosecution of our researches into its nature and properties.”
“Permit me to make a suggestion,” interposed the phantom, “if a person whom you choose to relegate to the neuter gender may be allowed to have a voice in so scientific a question. My friend, the ingenious Mr. Boyle, has lately explained to me the construction of his air-pump, which we saw at one of the Friday evenings at the Royal Institution. It seems to me that your object would be attained if I were to put one hand only on the scale under the bell-glass, and permit the air to be exhausted.”
“Capital,” said Harry: and we got the air-pump in readiness accordingly. The spectre then put his right hand into the scale, and we plumped the bell-glass on top of it. The connecting portion of the arm shone through the severing glass, exactly as though the spectre consisted merely of an immaterial light. In a few minutes the air was exhausted, and the scales remained evenly balanced as before.
“This experiment,” said Harry judicially, “slightly modifies the opinion which we formed from the preceding one. The specific gravity evidently amounts in itself to nothing, being as air in air, and as vacuum in vacuo. Jot down the result, Jim, will you?”
I did so faithfully, and then turning to the spectre I observed, “You mentioned a Mr. Boyle, sir, just now. You allude, I suppose, to the father of chemistry?”
“And uncle of the Earl of Cork,” replied the apparition, promptly filling up the well-known quotation. “Exactly so. I knew Mr. Boyle slightly during our lifetime, and I have known him intimately ever since he joined the majority.”
“May I ask, while my friend makes the necessary preparations for the spectrum analysis and the chemical investigation, whether you are in the habit of associating much with — er — well, with other ghosts?”
“Oh yes, I see a good deal of society.”
“Contemporaries of your own, or persons of earlier and later dates?”
“Dates really matter very little to us. We may have Socrates and Bacon chatting in the same group. For my own part, I prefer modern society — I may say, the society of the latest arrivals.”
“That’s exactly why I asked,” said I. “The excessively modern tone of your language and idioms struck me, so to speak, as a sort of anachronism with your Restoration costume — an anachronism which I fancy I have noticed in many printed accounts of gentlemen from your portion of the universe.”
“Your observation is quite true,” replied the apparition. “We continue always to wear the clothes which were in fashion at the time of our decease; but we pick up from new-comers the latest additions to the English language, and even, I may say, to the slang dictionary. I know many ghosts who talk familiarly of ‘awfully jolly hops,’ and allude to their progenitors as ‘the governor.’ Indeed, it is considered quite behind the times to describe a lady as ‘vastly pretty,’ and poor Mr. Pepys, who still preserves the antiquated idiom of his diary, is looked upon among us as a dreadfully slow old fogey.”
“But why, then,” said I, “do you wear your old costumes for ever? Why not imitate the latest fashions from Poole’s and Worth’s, as well as the latest cant phrase from the popular novels?”
“Why, my dear sir,” answered the phantom, “we must have something to mark our original period. Besides, most people to whom we appear know something about costume, while very few know anything about changes in idiom,” — that I must say seemed to me, in passing, a powerful argument indeed— “and so we all preserve the dress which we habitually wore during our lifetime.”
“Then,” said Harry irreverently, looking up from his chemicals, “the society in your part of the country must closely resemble a fancy-dress ball.”
“Without the tinsel and vulgarity, we flatter ourselves,” answered the phantom.
By this time the preparations were complete, and Harry inquired whether the apparition would object to our putting out the lights in order to obtain definite results with the spectroscope. Our visitor politely replied that he was better accustomed to darkness than to the painful glare of our paraffin candles. “In fact,” he added, “only the strong desire which I felt to convince you of our existence as ghosts could have induced me to present myself in so bright a room. Light is very trying to the eyes of spirits, and we generally take our constitutionals between eleven at night and four in the morning, stopping at home entirely during the moonlit half of the month.”
“Ah, yes,” said Harry, extinguishing the candles; “I’ve read, of course, that your authorities exactly reverse our own Oxford rules. You are all gated, I believe, from dawn to sunset, instead of from sunset to dawn, and have to run away helter-skelter at the first streaks of daylight, for fear of being too late for admission without a fine of twopence. But you will allow that your usual habit of showing yourselves only in the very darkest places and seasons naturally militates somewhat against the credibility of your existence. If all apparitions would only follow your sensible example by coming out before two scientific people in a well-lighted room, they would stand a much better chance of getting believed: though even in the present case I must allow that I should have felt far more confidence in your positive reality if you’d presented yourself in broad daylight, when Jim and I hadn’t punished the whisky quite as fully as we’ve done this evening.”
When the candles were out, our apparition still retained its fluorescent, luminous appearance, and seemed to burn with a faint bluish light of its own. We projected a pencil through the spectroscope, and obtained, for the first time in the history of science, the spectrum of a spectre. The result was a startling one indeed. We had expected to find lines indicating the presence of sulphur or phosphorus: instead of that, we obtained a continuous band of pale luminosity, clearly pointing to the fact that the apparition had no known terrestial element in its composition. Though we felt rather surprised at this discovery, we simply noted it down on our paper, and proceeded to verify it by chemical analysis.
The phantom obligingly allowed us to fill a small phial with the luminous matter, which Harry immediately proceeded to test with all the resources at our disposal. For purposes of comparison I filled a corresponding phial with air from another part of the room, which I subjected to precisely similar tests. At the end of half an hour we had completed our examination — the spectre meanwhile watching us with mingled curiosity and amusement; and we laid our written quantitative results side by side. They agreed to a decimal. The table, being interesting, deserves a place in this memoir. It ran as follows: —
Chemical Analysis of an Apparition.
Atmospheric air
96.45
per cent.
Aqueous vapour
2.31
“
Carbonic acid
1.08
“
Tobacco smoke
0.16
“
Volatile alcohol
A trace
—— ——
100.00
“
The alcohol Harry plausibly attributed to the presence of glasses which had contained whisky toddy. The other constituents would have been normally present in the atmosphere of a room where two fellows had been smoking uninterruptedly ever since dinner. This important experiment clearly showed that the apparition had no proper chemical constitution of its own, but consisted entirely of the same materials as the surrounding air.
“Only one thing remains to be done now, Jim,” said Harry, glancing significantly at a plain deal table in the corner, with whose uses we were both familiar; “but then the question arises, does this gentleman come within the meaning of the Act? I don’t feel certain about it in my own mind, and with the present unsettled state of public opinion on this subject, our first duty is to obey the law.”
“Within the meaning of the Act?” I answered; “decidedly not. The words of the forty-second section say distinctly ‘any living animal.’ Now, Mr. Egerton, according to his own account, is a ghost, and has been dead for some two hundred years or thereabouts: so that we needn’t have the slightest scruple on that account.”
“Quite so,” said Harry, in a tone of relief. “Well then, sir,” turning to the apparition, “may I ask you whether you would object to our vivisecting you?”
“Mortuisecting, you mean, Harry,” I interposed parenthetically. “Let us keep ourselves strictly within the utmost letter of the law.”
“Vivisecting? Mortuisecting?” exclaimed the spectre, with some amusement. “Really, the proposal is so very novel that I hardly know how to answer it. I don’t think you will find it a very practicable undertaking: but still, if you like, yes, you may try your hands upon me.”
We were both much gratified at this generous readiness to further the cause of science, for which, to say the truth, we had hardly felt prepared. No doubt, we were constantly in the habit of maintaining that vivisection didn’t really hurt, and that rabbits or dogs rather enjoyed the process than otherwise; still, we did not quite expect an apparition in human form to accede in this gentlemanly manner to a personal request which after all is rather a startling one. I seized our new friend’s hand with warmth and effusion (though my emotion was somewhat checked by finding it slip through my fingers immaterially), and observed in a voice trembling with admiration, “Sir, you display a spirit of self-sacrifice which does honour to your head and heart. Your total freedom from prejudice is perfectly refreshing to the anatomical mind. If all ‘subjects’ were equally ready to be vivisected — no, I mean mortuisected — oh, — well, — there,” I added (for I began to perceive that my argument didn’t hang together, as “subjects” usually accepted mortuisection with the utmost resignation), “perhaps it wouldn’t make much difference after all.”
Meanwhile Harry had pulled the table into the centre of the room, and arranged the necessary instruments at one end. The bright steel had a most charming and scientific appearance, which added greatly to the general effect. I saw myself already in imagination drawing up an elaborate report for the Royal Society, and delivering a Croonian Oration, with diagrams and sections complete, in illustration of the “Vascular System of a Ghost.” But alas, it was not to be. A preliminary difficulty, slight in itself, yet enormous in its preventive effects, unhappily defeated our well-made plans.
