{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_39769/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_39769","id":"gutenberg_39769","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/39769","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Biographies","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Ghosts","Parapsychology"],"text":"Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Josephine Paolucci and the\nOnline Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.\n(This file was produced from images generously made\navailable by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nGHOSTS I HAVE SEEN\n\nAND OTHER PSYCHIC EXPERIENCES\n\nBY\n\nVIOLET TWEEDALE\n\n\nNEW YORK\nFREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY\nPUBLISHERS\n\n_Copyright, 1919, by_\nFREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY\n\n_All rights reserved_\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nCHAPTER                                                    PAGE\n\nI \"SILK DRESS\" AND \"RUMPUS\"                                   1\n\nII THE GHOST OF BROUGHTON HALL                               14\n\nIII CURIOUS PSYCHIC EXPERIENCES                              33\n\nIV EAST END DAYS AND NIGHTS                                  48\n\nV THE MAN IN THE MARYLEBONE ROAD                             66\n\nVI THE GHOST OF PRINCE CHARLIE                               74\n\nVII PILGRIMS AND STRANGERS                                   91\n\nVIII SOME STRANGE EVENTS                                     98\n\nIX POMPEY AND THE DUCHESS                                   114\n\nX THE INVISIBLE HANDS                                       124\n\nXI DAWNS                                                    133\n\nXII PEACOCK'S FEATHERS--THE SKELETON HAND AT MONTE CARLO    146\n\nXIII I COMMIT MURDER                                        157\n\nXIV THE ANGEL OF LOURDES                                    175\n\nXV THE WRAITH OF THE ARMY GENTLEMAN                         184\n\nXVI AN AUSTRIAN ADVENTURE                                   197\n\nXVII ACROSS THE THRESHOLD                                   211\n\nXVIII HAUNTED ROOMS                                         221\n\nXIX \"THE NEW JEANNE D'ARC\"                                  241\n\nXX HAUNTED HOUSES--\"CASTEL A MARE\"                          251\n\nXXI THE SEQUEL                                              263\n\nXXII THE HAUNTED LODGE                                      276\n\nXXIII AURAS                                                 291\n\nXXIV ADIEU                                                  307\n\n\n\n\nGHOSTS I HAVE SEEN\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\"SILK DRESS\" AND \"RUMPUS\"\n\n\nFrom the terrible conditions of the present I have turned back to the\npast, for a little joy and a great deliverance.\n\nIn the present one lives no longer from day to day, but from hour to\nhour, and even a fleeting memory of the joys that are no more refreshes\nthe soul--wearied, and fainting with a pallid anxiety that wraith-like\nenvelops the whole being in a thrall of sadness.\n\nTo-day I heard music which I had known and loved in the happy, careless\nlong ago, and whilst I was lost in a dream of half-forgotten bliss I\nsmelt the fragrance of mimosa flower. I cannot describe the sensations\nof joy that thrilled through my whole being. An involuntary moving of\nthe spirit, an emergence into a dream world, described by the Greeks as\n\"ecstasy.\" The music fashioned the invisible link, and I was back again\non a hillside where the mimosa grew in native abundance. Now, one thinks\nof France only as a hideous battle plain, but memory, the true\ndispensator of time, is never bound by years. She keeps ever fresh, in\nglowing colors, those ideal moments that gather up the utter joys of\nlife into one divine sheaf of memory.\n\nIt is not only for its great uses that we must have memory, but for its\njoys. It rends the gray veil shrouding present existence, and shows us\nlife as what it really is. A phantasmagoria of wonder, wrapped in\nmystery.\n\nThe day of miracles is not past, it never will be past, but if you want\nmiracles you must have the power of seeing them.\n\nI have written in this book of the miracles I have seen. Some of them\nany one can see, others are reserved for the delectation of the few.\n\nI have written of strange visitants from other realms, and of that vivid\nillumination which at moments lays bare the hidden springs of life, when\nthe spirit emerges beyond the limit of human thought, and familiar\nthings, beyond the horizon of life, and touches a sphere beyond\nimmortality. It is a condition that the grave has nothing to do with, a\nbeholding beyond the frontiers of the soul.\n\nI have written of the spiritual life, for without this spiritual life a\npalace would be no wider than a tomb. The vastness of the spirit world\ndefies description. It can choose its own pathways, and any one of these\nlong, long roads leading to the great mysteries.\n\nIt is now almost universally acknowledged that psychic experiences, of a\nspecific nature, occur at certain times to certain people, that are not\nexplicable by any known science. Generally, they are experiences which\npoint to the continuity of the human consciousness with a wider\nspiritual environment, from which the normal man is shut off.\n\nA few such experiences that have come to me I record.\n\nI hope that I have never tried to convince others of the truth of these\nexperiences. If I have done so it has been unconsciously done. I am\nabsolutely persuaded that such phenomena can only become convincing when\npersonally experienced. Such matters ought not to be accepted on\nhearsay. It is mere folly for one woman to attempt to demonstrate to\nanother the existence of the human soul. The most that A can communicate\nto B, of any part of her own experiences, is so much of it as is common\nto the experiences of both.\n\nI have proved conclusively to my own consciousness that I am linked up\nwith a wider consciousness from which, at times, such experiences flow\nin.\n\nI know my soul to be in touch with a greater soul, which at moments\nenters into communication with me, and opens out a vastness which it is\nimpossible to translate into words, and which annihilates space and\ntime.\n\nI have had my vision, and I know. Therefore I am quite unmoved by\ncriticism or ridicule.\n\nI believe that what has come to me will come to all, and there is no\nneed to hurry the process. We are simply a tiny part of a whole, which\nhas neither beginning nor end. We live in a universe which is infinite\nin time and space, which has always existed in some form, and will go on\nin some form for ever. The discovery of the law of the indestructibility\nof matter has proved this beyond a doubt.\n\nAt some second in time our Universe will be dissolved into new systems,\nfor the life of a solar system lasts only a second in eternity, but that\nneed not worry us yet. There is lots of time for man to realize his\nsoul, and all will doubtless do so at some moment in their many earth\nlives.\n\nThe classic idea is that the Golden Age lies in the past, but the Stoic\ndoctrine of recurring cycles in the ages of the world seems to suggest\nthat the Golden Age may return.\n\nThere are people to-day who ask, \"Is this the end of the world?\"\n\nMore probably it is the end of an age. The harvest may be ripe for the\nsickle to be thrust in. The opposition of good and evil may have reached\ntheir fullest manifestation. It may be the hour in eternity for a\ncomplete readjustment of the little ant-hills we call great nations.\n\nWe know the rise and fall of nations to be an historical fact,\napparently based on an immutable law. This recurring phenomenon cannot\nbe explained, though there are theories. Possibly the true one may be\nfound in the failure or compliance to respond to the challenge: \"Advance\nto a higher spiritual plane or perish.\" It may be that the right of\ncontinuance depends upon the answer to that challenge.\n\nWhat brought about the decline of those mighty civilizations whose\nmonuments of antiquity seem to mock our pride? What insidious disease\nbrought about the fall of Rome? The beauty and inspiration of Greece was\narrested by some swift decay, and the giant temples and Pyramids of\nEgypt, and the Mounds of Mesopotamia, testify to a grandeur far\nsurpassing ours.\n\nIn the world's morning time, before the mists began to clear, we can\ntrace the rise and fall of a score of mighty Empires. From out their\npresent tombs of tragic silence arise figures, colossal sculptured\nfigures, with faces and forms of commanding power. Assyrians, a mighty\nrace, leaving behind whole libraries of record, chiseled upon\nindestructible pages. The lost arts of three thousand years ago.\n\nEarlier still the earth resounded to the thunder of Xenophon's\nthousands, and the chariots of Persia sweeping after them. Lying deeper\nstill in the shroud of antiquity the Pharaohs emerge as mighty\nconquerors, and we can dimly discern in the Empire of the Chaldeans the\nmovement of a gorgeous civilization, and the majestic figures of men\nversed in mystic, and, to us, unknown lore. In Italy, memorials of a\nrefined people, who were precursors of Roman power, have been found,\nforms of perfect grace in delicate vases and coins of gold and silver.\nThe old Etruscan art is traced back to the Assyrians' sculpture. The\nsnowy crown of ancient Greece budded and bloomed in the mighty halls of\nAssyria's splendor, hundreds of years before Christ. No phantom world\ncould furnish a mightier or more resplendent host.\n\nReading of those proud and mighty civilizations brings the simple life\nof the Nazarene very near to us in years, it also shows us how quickly\ngreat splendors are sanded over by the hands of time. The British Museum\nholds the sculptured records of twenty-five hundred years. Whilst the\nflames, kindled by the mob of Christian monks, from the great\nAlexandrian library rose to Heaven, the temple fronts of the Pharaohs,\nthe Pyramids, the Sphinx, loomed out of the conflagration. The impotent\ntorches of the fanatics were powerless against such imperishable\nrecords. What of our records? Will these ancient civilizations be\nremembered when the fame of modern nations has vanished utterly? Which\nhas the best chance of enduring in the future? The paper and pasteboard\nof to-day, or the monuments of stone, to which the Monarchs of bygone\nEmpires entrusted the history of their unsurpassed grandeur?\n\n\"If thou hadst known in this thy day, even thou, the things which belong\nto thy peace! but now they are hid from thine eyes.\"\n\nThis is the epitaph written across the tombs of all nations now\ncrumbling into dust.\n\n\"The things which belong to thy peace.\" The things which never die or\nfade, whose continuity is never broken, the Divine seeds that cannot\nperish, the things which are immortal. The winged soul in its aeon-long\npilgrimages through eternity to home.\n\nI find it easy to write to-day upon psychic subjects, for everywhere I\ndiscern the dawn of what Conan Doyle, in his deeply interesting book,\ncalls \"The new revelation.\"\n\nTo one who, for the last forty years, has been immersed in all branches\nof occult research, the change of view that has come over the world in\nfour years is very remarkable. Every one is now interested in the human\nsoul, and all that appertains to it. The speeding up in the number of\npsychic experiences coming to light is enormous. So often now I come\nacross \"the last man in the world to see or hear anything\" who has just\nbeen accorded a startling experience, and the rank skeptic is becoming a\nthing of the past.\n\nWhilst sitting in solitude it is interesting to let one's thoughts slip\nback to childhood, and trace the present life in the mirror of the old.\nI discover that in the immediate now there is nothing new, but only that\nwhich has its symbol in the old. I seem to get only the much clearer\nvision of what once was vague and cloudy, or wholly unconsidered by the\nmind of youth.\n\nIn that garden of memory I can set old happenings in a new light, and\nmeasure my slow footprints in the age-long journey behind me. Two facts\nemerge from out such musings. Firstly, the journey of my soul takes a\nspiral path, which at intervals brings me face to face with the old\nthings that I have learned to modernize by dressing in fresh thought\nforms, as new perceptions are won. Perceptions prophetic of the greater\ncapacity for attainment when the Divine Power is permitted to unfold\nitself without let or hindrance.\n\nSecondly, the further on the soul journeys the more solitary the road\nbecomes. One by one the old companion pilgrims drop away. Perhaps it is\nthat on that long, lone trail the traveler must be free.\n\nVery early in my life came the consciousness that everywhere about me,\nin the infinitely above, in the infinitely below, permeating heart, mind\nand soul, is life--endless, eternal.\n\nOn this shoreless ocean of existence, without form or name, the soul is\nafloat. Birth and death are the tides, the ebb and flow of the ocean of\nlife. The human soul is but a ripple on the sea of existence, and\nphenomenal life is but a flash in the eternity of eternities. All the\nteeming lives of effort around us, all the travail and suffering to\nwhich humanity is destined, are ordained for the great purpose of soul\nevolution. God sets the balance at every grave. That which distinguishes\nevery man is the vast dower of our nature, eventually the same to all,\nthe passing incidents of station, fortune, talent, are mere surface\nvarieties.\n\nI find in my mind the existence of something illimitably beyond mind,\ndoubtless a common experience. I do not know what that something is, but\nit is very real, and it invariably shows me how cribbed, cabined and\nconfined this life really is. I cannot even tell what it is that\nconfines me. I only know that there is a limitless world full of\ninfinite possibilities all around me. I seem always to have known this,\nbut I cannot grasp it. True, at rare intervals, I catch a glimpse\nthrough a rift in the clouds, then they close again.\n\nAt such moments I experience an ecstasy of heart sweet happiness, so\nmarvelously sweet, so pure, so near Divine with its deep wordless\nthoughts of infinite beauty. Such regions are not so much impenetrable\nas ineffable. They are glimpses gained at some great altitude, from\nwhich I can look down on the mortal pageant and behold mysteries in\nwhich I take no part, but by which I am encircled, as an island, by\ninfinity. Such are luminous and splendid moments, when the soul beholds\nthe world in its real mystic beauty. It is the hour of transfiguration,\nin which the veil drops from the heart and the film from the eyes, so\nthat we see life as God means it to be.\n\nOften, as a mere child, when lying awake in those nights, whose\nstillness have a quality of awe, the silence would be broken by weird,\nbarbaric songs which wafted a sense of old, wild adventurous life, and\nin a curious quality of mystery I saw violet mountains sleeping in\nsunlight, above a sea of amethyst. Childish visions, but sacred nights.\nVery many years passed before I understood them.\n\nOn hot velvety nights in June a curious scent of smoke would come to me,\nthe measured hollow beating of bells, and a tremulous far-away piping.\nYears after, I stood alone one evening on the slopes of Etna, amid the\npale asphodels and the desolation of tumbling lava fields, and I heard\nthe pipes of Pan, the reed pipe of the herd boy, and linked the past\nwith the present. Again, passing through a region where the smoke rose\nfrom the charcoal burners' fires the scent of an ancient memory came\nvaporing up, the unfamiliar scent that puzzled my childhood, and I was\naway in a flash, to wait for the soul to free herself and return from\nthe world's edge.\n\nI had to journey further east before I heard again at dawn the ring of\ncamel bells as a caravan broke camp, and then I understood the visions\nof my youth, as I listened to the measured hollow beating, and watched a\nstrange medley of eastern traffic trail away across the desert.\n\nSometimes, when the nursery clock seemed to tick more loudly than usual,\nI saw a gigantic water-wheel, and behind it massive rocks with the hewn\ntombs of ancient kings, and beyond them lay distant glamorous mountains,\nwhite sails creeping amid warm purple isles, set in a gulf of turquoise.\nSometimes I have dreamed holy things, and waked to find myself over-awed\nby the sublimity of the vision and the glory of the Universe.\n\nSo many of those childish visions I have identified in later life, but\nthere is one which eludes me. It is a great white road leading to the\nfarther east, and I see it drenched in white sunlight. Tinkling mule\ntrains pass along it, and I know now it is in some way connected with\nIda that saw ancient Troy, and the Capital of Pontus, the seat of\nMithridates' Court, and the Empire of Trebizond. Some day, who knows, I\nmay walk upon it.\n\nLooking back I can recollect nothing psychic happening to me before the\nage of six. I can fix that date upon which I became actually aware of\nthe other world. It all happened through \"Silk dress\" and \"Rumpus.\"\n\nI slept in a bed in one corner, and my younger brother slept in another\ncorner. The room was large, and at the top of a modern, quite ordinary,\ntown house. Two flights of stairs ran down to the ground floor. \"Silk\ndress\" was something we were extremely interested in, but I cannot\nrecollect that we were ever in the least afraid.\n\nWhen we first became aware of \"silk dress\" I do not know, but in looking\nback across those many years I think that in the beginning we must have\naccepted \"it\" as something or somebody \"real.\" Only after several\nexperiences did it dawn upon us that \"it\" was not real. By then we had\npassed beyond the stage when we might have felt fear. After we had gone\nto bed we were left quite alone in the dark, and the nurses went down to\nsupper. The younger children slept in another room. It was during such\nperiods of silence that \"silk dress\" began its ascent.\n\nJust as we were dropping off to sleep one of us would murmur drowsily,\n\"Here comes silk dress.\" Then we lay quite still, very wide awake again\nand listened intently.\n\nFrom far down on the ground floor we heard footsteps quietly and\nmethodically ascending, and the rustle of a silk dress. We could hear\nquite distinctly when \"it\" arrived at the first floor, which was\noccupied by our parents, then \"it\" passed on to the next flight of\nstairs leading to our floor.\n\nThe sound of footsteps and the rustle of the silk dress became more and\nmore clearly audible as \"it\" drew ever nearer. We could tell the second\nat which \"it\" passed from the last step on to the corridor which led\npast our half-open door. Then there was a thrilling moment or two, when\nthe tip-tap of shoes, and the swish of silk on the linoleum was quite\nloud, but the footsteps never halted. They always swept past the\nhalf-closed door, and went on into a small room beyond, which was used\nfor storing boxes. Then dead silence fell again.\n\nIn those days we never heard the word \"ghost\" mentioned, yet I cannot\nrecollect thinking of \"silk dress\" as anything but a visitor from the\nother world. We talked of \"it\" freely in the household, but probably\nbecause we expressed no fear, no one seemed in the least interested. On\nwakeful nights we occupied ourselves in waiting for \"it,\" and on wet\nnights we could not hear \"it\" clearly because the rain pattered so\nloudly on a large skylight outside our door. What interested us\nenormously was the fact that we never heard \"it\" descend again. How \"it\"\ngot down in order to mount once more was a great puzzle.\n\n\"Rumpus\" was quite another matter, quite another order of manifestation.\n\"Rumpus\" always began when we were sound asleep, and \"Rumpus\" always\nwide awakened us. \"They\" came at longer intervals, about every ten days,\nwhilst \"it\" came on most nights. During the summer mornings in the\nNorth, when one could often read a book in the light of a one a. m.\ndawn, \"they\" were very interesting, because when \"their\" hour, five a.\nm., arrived the room was flooded with sunshine. In winter mornings, when\nthe room was in black darkness, we were merely bored, and cross at being\nroused, and we simply lay still and endured \"them\" till they had quite\nfinished. But in the summer mornings we always sat up in bed and\nintently watched something we never saw.\n\nWhen \"Rumpus\" roused us brusquely from our slumbers it was by means of a\ndemoniac pandemonium. The room was in possession of \"them,\" and \"they\"\ncrashed, and banged, and tossed about the furniture in the most reckless\nfashion. Crash went the wardrobe, bang went one chair after another,\nhurtling across the room. Crash went wardrobe back into its place again,\nclang went the fire-irons. Rushing collisions, and rappings on the\nwindow-panes, thuds on the floor, rattlings and clatterings of crockery,\njingling of brass, creakings and groanings of expostulation from the old\nsofa, clanking of the fireguard, a veritable tornado of noise, enough\nsurely to awaken the dead, yet out of the living it only awakened--us.\nNo one else in the house ever heard it, and our vivid descriptions were,\nperhaps, naturally attributed to nightmare.\n\nWe, of course, knew that it was nothing of the sort. We were, indeed,\nvery wide awake during the ten to fifteen minutes the pandemonium\ncontinued, and our eyes were kept darting from side to side following\nthe track of the noises, as they grew in volume and intensity. Creak,\ngroan, crash! No mistaking the spot where that deafening sound came\nfrom. That was the old mahogany wardrobe being hurled face downwards on\nthe floor, but whilst our eyes were riveted on its statuesque and utter\nimmobility jingle, clank, from the fender, where the fire-irons\ncommenced to jig. A wildly confused uproar over all the room, then boom,\nthud, beneath us, and our beds shivered convulsively, and sent thrills\nof wild excitement coursing through our nerves.\n\nSuddenly the tumult would cease. The mystery lay in the fact that we\nnever saw anything move, though we distinctly heard everything moving,\nand could feel our beds reel beneath us.\n\nI have no explanations to offer of those happenings. They are very\nclearly fixed in my objective memory, and when we were both grown up,\nand had finally left that house my brother used often to say to me, \"Do\nyou remember 'Silk Dress' and 'Rumpus'?\"\n\nSuch recollections crowd back upon me now, with many other images of\nchildhood. No sooner do I recollect one than another emerges like a\nshining cloud from below the horizon. Where have they been lying hidden\nduring all those flying years? They have dwelt deep down in the eternal\nmemory, the heart of God which beats in all humanity. Within that heart\nare stored aeonic treasures. They lie ever in wait to be bidden arise and\ncross the threshold.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nTHE GHOST OF BROUGHTON HALL\n\n\nI was about six years old when my family moved to a brand new house in\nClaremont Crescent, that had just been erected on the outskirts of\nEdinburgh. There were still some green fields unbuilt upon, and some\nfine old trees left standing close to us, and those were still included\nin a triangular group of three grand old Manors--Broughton Hall, Powder\nHall, and Logie Green. All three had the reputation of being badly\nhaunted. The first named stood almost within a stone's throw of our end\nof the Crescent, and was occupied by an ancient family named Walker, who\nhad held the property for generations. They still existed as a very\ncharming relic of Scotch antiquity, and they had always been friends of\nour family.\n\nThe house from the outside was very grim and forbidding-looking. It was\nhidden from the eyes of the curious behind very high walls, and was\nentered upon by two huge gates, always kept closed.\n\nInside, the house was most interesting and attractive. There were many\nclosed rooms and winding staircases, and odd steps in long, dark\ncorridors, but the rooms that were lived in were beautiful of their\nkind. There were desks with secret drawers, wonderful pieces of\nChippendale, tenderly cared for, quantities of rare old china and cut\nglass, and on the walls hung glorious Romneys and Hoppners, which\nfetched huge prices at Christie's when the household was finally broken\nup by death.\n\nThe family consisted of three sisters, Fanny, Hope, and Kitty, the\nlatter a widow, named Mrs. Chew. There were two brothers, Adam and John.\nThe former lived with his sisters. John was a minister, and only paid\nvisits. There was a nephew, the heir, William Stephens, who also paid\nlong visits to the Hall. Though, at the date of which I speak, about\n1870, he must have been at least sixty, he was always referred to as\n\"the Laddie.\"\n\nThe three sisters occupied distinct positions in the house. Mrs. Chew\nacted as cook, though servants were kept, and she always sat in the\nkitchen, only coming \"through\" to the dining-room for her meals. Miss\nHope was the worldly member of the family. She had been to London Town,\nand could not be relied upon to stop at home. She looked after the\npolishing of the furniture, the old glass and china. Miss Fanny was the\nlady of the family. She always sat in the best parlor. Every one waited\non her, and she was never permitted to do anything for herself.\n\nShe dressed for the part in thick, black satin, with, in winter, a white\nsilk embroidered Chinese shawl, and, in summer, old Brussels lace.\nAcross her forehead was a band of black velvet, with a pear-shaped pearl\ndepending between the eyebrows. Over her snow-white hair was flung a\npiece of old lace surmounting a wreath of artificial flowers. Her\nclaw-like hands were covered by lace mittens and many rings. I saw her\nconstantly, and she was always idle. I never saw her read, or sew, or\nknit, and often I wondered what she thought about, as she sat there\nalways in the same chair, year in year out, and with no companion but a\nlarge gray parrot. True, her surroundings were delightful. From her\nchair near the fire she could look out on the quaint old garden, always\nfull of flowers, and she could glance around her at the many beautiful\nobjects the room contained.\n\nI especially admired one Hoppner. The subject was a beautiful woman,\nwith a mass of powdered hair, seated by an open window. Her cheek was\nsupported in her hand, and at her elbow was a quaint little wicker cage\ncontaining a bird. I think the artist meant to suggest that both were\ncaptives. Though quite well in health, Miss Fanny never left the house,\neven to walk in the garden.\n\nMy father and I went very often to call upon those curious old people,\nwho were so utterly out of touch with modern life, backward though life\nwas then in the Northern Capital. We arrived at all sorts of hours, but\nrefreshments were always produced. An amazingly rich cake, and fruity\nold port, served in large quarter-pint cut-glass rummers. It was not\nconsidered polite to refuse those offerings, which were always kept in a\ncorner cupboard, and served by Mrs. Chew, who emerged from the kitchen,\nor Miss Hope, who left her housework to greet us.\n\nThough Broughton Hall was commonly reputed to be haunted, no one seemed\nto know what form the ghost took. I was great friends with Mr. Adam, a\nmajestic, clean-shaven old man, who carried his chin very high above an\nenormous black silk stock, and often I tried to draw him on the subject\nof the ghost, but without success. He took it very seriously, and warned\nme that \"I wouldn't be any the better for having seen it. Besides,\" he\nalways concluded, \"it's a family affair.\" The sisters were even more\nuncommunicative.\n\nMy father and I were profoundly interested in this ghost. There was\nsomething about the whole establishment that was extremely promising,\nfrom the ghost-hunter point of view. The consequence of this was that we\nwere always on the prowl. Nothing discouraged us, and we spared neither\ntime nor trouble. There is no research which requires such infinite\npatience as psychic research. Several years passed before the great\nmoment arrived, and when it did arrive it was all over in about four\nminutes.\n\nMy father had a way of suddenly looking up from his work and saying,\n\"Let's go to Broughton Hall.\" I would at once rise, and together we\nwould pass out into the night, without either hats or coats. Very\neccentric, it may be said, but then we frankly were very eccentric. We\nwould steal away together around the Crescent, and down the road till we\nreached the great gates. Very softly we opened and closed them, and\nkeeping well in the shadow of the trees and bushes we would creep round\nthe silent house.\n\nI cannot describe the thrill of those nocturnal adventures. It was all\nso eerie, so full of vague, terrifying possibilities. I don't know what\nwe expected to see, and we were generally back again in our own house in\nhalf an hour; but one night our patience really was rewarded.\n\nIt was November, dry, but wild and bitterly cold. Billowy white snow\nclouds scudding before a brisk north wind threw us alternately into\nlight and darkness, as they covered and uncovered the face of the full\nmoon. We had emerged from our house about half-past nine, and had\nreached the back of Broughton Hall. The house was shrouded in darkness\nand dead silence, every blind was close drawn, and the suggestion was\none of utter emptiness. My father and I were walking apart, I being\nright under the shadow of the walls, whilst he was in the middle of the\npaved court, which had neither hedge nor walls, but met the edge of the\nfield running up to it.\n\nSuddenly I heard him whisper \"Hush!\" though we never did utter a word\nwhilst close to the house. His arm was pointing in front of him. I\nstared ahead, and then I saw, clearly lit by the moon, a woman who had\napparently just rounded the corner of the house. She was running hard,\nstraight towards us, and her feet made no sound on the round cobble\nstones.\n\nTerror suddenly seized me, and I darted across to my father, and got\nwell behind him, seizing him firmly round the waist. The woman came on,\nrushing wildly. She had nearly reached us, and I was almost thrown over\nas my father faced her, and backed to allow her to pass. I peeped round\nhim, and saw a woman, ghastly pale, and distraught-looking, clad in a\nwhite nightdress. Two long strands of black hair streamed out behind\nher, and her bare arms were outstretched in front. In a flash she had\npassed, and absolutely silently, and I found myself lying on the ground\nalone, and my father vanishing in hot pursuit.\n\nNeedless to say I very quickly picked myself up again, and joined the\nchase. Terror lent me wings, and in a minute or two I came up with him,\nstanding breathless by the gate.\n\n\"Vanished into thin air just as I reached her. That's always the way.\nYou can't catch them,\" he said.\n\nWe made a little detour before going home, in order to discuss the\ngreat event. We had no doubt that we had seen a genuine apparition. We\nknew all the occupants of the Hall, and the woman had vanished in the\nopen, and in full flight, just as my father had come up alongside her.\nHe cautioned me against mentioning our adventure to any one, and I kept\nsilence until years after, when Broughton Hall was pulled down and its\ninmates were all dead.\n\nBefore going on to our next ghostly adventure I will say a few words\nabout my father, Robert Chambers, who in those days was something of a\ncelebrity, and a very remarkable man.\n\nIn appearance he was very handsome, extremely tall and well built, and\nwith features that were well-nigh perfect. It was the fashion in his\ntime to wear the hair rather long, and his was dark and very curly. He\nalways dressed well, in the style of the country gentleman, rather than\nas a town dweller.\n\nIn character he was extremely independent, and was utterly indifferent\nto two things--money and public opinion. His intellect was\nextraordinary, and it was commonly said that he knew a great deal about\nmost things, and something about all things.\n\nIn Scotland, in those days, it was not considered necessary to trouble\nabout the education of girls. No one ever tried to educate me,\nconsequently at a very early age I was absolutely free to devote myself\nentirely to my father, and we were inseparable. Our intercourse was not\nthat of father and daughter. It was that of confidential friends of an\nequal age. At that period my mother was more or less of an invalid, and\nhad her own attendants.\n\nMy father and I went every morning at ten o'clock to the old business\nhouse of W. and R. Chambers, in the High Street of Edinburgh, and\nremained there till half-past two, when we walked home together,\nsometimes paying a call or two on the way. Though a mere uneducated\nchild I helped him in his literary work, and at odd hours committed to\nmemory many poets. We returned to four o'clock dinner, the correct hour\nin those days, and at six o'clock a porter arrived with my father's bag,\ncontaining manuscripts to be read and selected for _Chambers' Journal_.\nFrom six p. m. till midnight he worked at reading manuscript, not typed\nthen, and proof correcting.\n\nTwice a week we went to the theater--there was only one in Edinburgh\nthen. It was managed by a hard working couple, Mr. and Mrs. Howard, who\nsometimes filled up a week by acting themselves. I am bound to say we\nspent most of our time in the Green Room, and I knew every turn and\ntwist behind the curtain. This turned out to be lucky for us.\n\nOne night we went to a performance given by the Arthur Sullivan Company,\nand about halfway through a cry of \"Fire\" was raised. Great masses of\nburning stuff began to drop from the ceiling down into the auditorium.\nInstantly there was a panic, and a terrible stampede, and my father and\nI leaned forward, protecting our heads behind the backs of the stalls in\nfront, whilst the mad rush climbed over us. When all was clear in front\nof us we made our way to the back of the stage, and escaped quite\neasily. I looked behind me, and I can see now the dense mass of\nstruggling humanity wedged in the doorway.\n\nI remained safely with Mrs. Howard whilst my father ran around to the\nfront and helped to extricate the dead. The theater was burned to the\nground, but was very rapidly built up again.\n\nMy first literary effort must here be recorded. I collaborated with\nProfessor Andrew Wilson in writing the pantomime of \"Ali Baba and the\nForty Thieves.\"\n\nAndrew Wilson was Professor of Natural Science, and an extremely\nversatile person--a passionate love of the drama was added to his many\nscientific attainments. We wrote the dialogue together, in one long\nrevelry of laughter, and I was responsible for the words of the songs.\nAs a literary effort I can only describe it as appalling. The pantomime\nwas, however, a great success. The audacity of our utter incompetence\nproved highly successful, and the critics justly described it as \"The\nfunniest Pantomime in Scotland.\" No wonder the audience laughed from\nstart to finish.\n\nMy father always called at once upon any celebrity who happened to be\npassing through the city, and thus I became acquainted with many\ninteresting and amusing people. Henry Irving was amongst the number. We\nalways called upon him on our way to business, a little before ten. If\nhe was playing for a week we called on him every morning, and often\nlooked into the Green Room at night. He and my father were great\nfriends, and at the hour of our visit he was always propped up in bed\nhaving breakfast. I used to perch on the bed whilst the two men talked.\nIrving's nightshirt interested me (pyjamas had not come in then). It was\nwhite cambric with two enormous double frills down the front, and quite\na pierrot ruffle round his neck. He was profoundly interested in the\noccult, and told me that a ghost he had once seen had suggested to him a\nparticular action of his whilst playing in \"The Bells.\" At the moment\nwhen he parted the curtains, and looked wildly out, shouting hoarsely,\n\"The Bells, the Bells.\"\n\nThrough Irving we came to know the Baroness Burdett Coutts, his ardent\nadmirer. She was very kind to me, and presented me with a green silk\ndress, but I always thought her a very melancholy woman, even when\nentertaining many interesting people in her celebrated corner house in\nPiccadilly, with its white china parrot swinging in the window. She was\nmuch attached to my father, and treated him with a humble and touching\ndeference.\n\nRobert Chambers was a very keen sportsman, who fortunately did not\nrequire much practice to keep up his game. He held championships in golf\nand bowling. He was too ardent a naturalist and ornithologist to care\nfor shooting, but he was an expert angler. He was also a born actor and\nmimic, and used to keep a Green Room in roars by \"taking off\" any of\n\"the profession\" called for, and I never heard a better ventriloquist.\nHe adored music, and played the flute well. As a platform speaker he was\nextremely fluent and perfectly at ease.\n\nHis indifference to money resulted in his never having a penny in his\npocket at night, no matter how much he took with him in the morning, and\none of my tasks was to prevent his being fleeced by those who lay in\nwait for him. He took any amount of trouble over impecunious and\nincompetent authors, and constantly re-wrote their work for them in\norder to make it fit for publication. He was a unique editor, and his\nlabors in the cause of charity were strenuous, secret, and, I fear,\nrather indiscriminate.\n\nDuring this period of my life, the head of the house, William Chambers,\nwas still living, with his quaint old wife, in the West End of\nEdinburgh. William, who had survived his more versatile brother, Robert\n(my grandfather), was a little shriveled-up old man, with a dry and\nsevere manner. Most people were afraid of him, few liked him, but I got\non with him famously. I have always been extremely proud of the fact\nthat he rose from nothing to great wealth. There must be something fine\nin a man, who, as a lad, rose at four a. m. to read classics to an\nintelligent baker, whilst the batch of bread was being baked, and who\ngladly accepted as payment a copper or a roll.\n\nWilliam and Robert Chambers had left their widowed mother to fend for\nthemselves. The family was at the lowest financial ebb. Much money had\nbeen spent on the French refugees who flocked into Scotland in 1810, and\nthere was nothing to spare now. We were originally French, like so very\nmany of the old Scotch families. The first of us in history is recorded\nas Guillaume de la Chaumbre, who, as the most prominent man in Peebles,\nsigned the Ragman Roll in 1296. My people had always lived in the dales\nof the Tweed, so very appropriately I married a man called Tweedale.\n\nTowards the end of his life William Chambers amused himself by spending\nmany thousands on the restoration of St. Giles' Cathedral, an historic\nchurch which had fallen into great disrepair. This was a time of great\ninterest for me, and I used to spend hours helping the workmen to gather\nup the thousands of human skulls that paved the church to a good depth.\nThere were tombs laid bare of many celebrated people of the long ago,\nand these had to be identified, and carefully kept intact, until finally\ngiven a safer resting-place.\n\nWilliam Chambers had been offered a baronetcy some years previously, but\nhe refused it. He told me he did not consider it a dignified thing for a\nman of letters to bear any other honor than that accorded to brain power\nby a benefited world. He and his brother Robert were the pioneers of\ncheap and good educational literature for the laboring man, and the\navidity with which this literature, \"Chambers' Information for the\nPeople,\" was consumed, appeared to be a fitting reward. In those days it\nwas an unheard-of thing for a publisher to be honored by a title. Now,\nhowever, on the eve of the re-opening of St. Giles' Cathedral, Her\nMajesty, Queen Victoria, commanded William Chambers to accept a\nbaronetcy. The old couple were much agitated, but had to submit, and the\nQueen announced her intention of performing the opening ceremony.\n\nWhen the day arrived William Chambers lay dead in his house, and my\nfather and I took the place of the old couple. The Queen was indisposed,\nand Lord Aberdeen took her place.\n\nAfter the ceremony both Lord Aberdeen and Lord Rosebery urged upon my\nfather to take up the baronetcy, more especially as he was his uncle's\nheir, but this he utterly refused to do.\n\nOld Lady Chambers, the widow, discarded her title immediately and\nremained Mrs. Chambers till the day of her death.\n\nIt must have been at least a month after William Chambers' death that he\nvisited me in a very vivid dream. I dreamed that he was standing beside\nmy bed, and suddenly he bent over me and whispered in my ear, \"I've left\nyou all my money.\" On waking I had totally forgotten the dream, but\nlater in the day an old servant of ours said to me, \"I saw the wraith\nof your Uncle William last night, but he had nothing to say to me.\"\n\nThen my dream flashed back to me. A day or two afterwards I said\nsuddenly to the old family lawyer, \"Was there ever a question of Uncle\nWilliam leaving his money to me?\"\n\nThe dry answer was, \"Yes! at one time there was a question of that.\" I\ncould never extract anything further from him on the subject.\n\nThough now possessed of considerable wealth my father made no difference\nin his mode of life, and he continued to work just as hard as ever, and\nto give away large sums of money. He never wanted anything for himself,\nbut was always ready to give to others. He had a great love of precious\nstones, and always carried about little packets of diamonds, which\nlooked like packets of chemists' powders. Had I desired I could have\nloaded myself with jewels. He never denied me anything and we continued\nour close companionship, the only difference now being we took some\nholidays in the form of afternoons off.\n\nOn one of these occasions we saw our second ghost.\n\nWe went to pay a visit to a very old woman, whose name I cannot\nremember. She lived alone with one servant in an ancient dwelling in\nInveresk. The house was a large one, and was enclosed by very high\nwalls, which entirely isolated it from the busy streets that surrounded\nit. The original old garden remained, in all its beauty, and the rooms\nwere full of quaint heirlooms.\n\nWe were always made very welcome, and the servant at once produced a\ndelicious tea, consisting of fresh baked scones, butter made of real\ncream--margarine being not then invented--home-made strawberry jam, and\nhome-laid eggs. Russian eggs were not then imported.\n\nI must here interpose that deliciously innocent telegram sent by an\nAberdeen merchant in the first days of the Great War, and which set all\nEngland and Scotland mad to see the fur and snow-clad Russian troops\npassing through to the Front. The telegram ran as follows:--\n\n    \"Twenty thousand Russians arrived.\"\n\nThe twenty thousand Muscovites were only twenty thousand stale eggs, but\nLord Kitchener's order was, \"Let it stand.\"\n\nTo return to my story.\n\nOne glorious late spring evening we were seated at tea, and the window\nwas thrown wide to the perfumed garden, where lilacs, and wallflowers,\nand lilies of the valley rioted gloriously. The birds were in full song\nin this peaceful sanctuary, which might have been a hundred miles away\nfrom a town. My father had put his invariable question to the old woman,\n\"Have you seen her again?\" Sometimes the answer was Yes, sometimes No. I\ngathered that this question referred to the old woman's dead daughter,\nher only child. This daughter had been violently insane for many years\nand had remained under her mother's protection. She had died some years\npreviously, at the age of fifty-five, having endured a terribly long\nmartyrdom.\n\nSuddenly my father broke off the conversation.\n\n\"My God! there she is!\" He half rose from his chair and stared through\nthe open window. I looked in the same direction. A woman was strolling\naimlessly along the path just outside. There was a curious uncertainty\nabout her movements. She walked like a blind person, who has neither\nstick nor arm to guide her. Strangely enough I never thought of\nconnecting this woman with the ghost of the mad daughter. She looked so\nnatural, so commonplace. Her hollow face was quite gray, and her dark\nhair was drawn tightly back from it, and rolled in an ugly knob behind.\nHer dress was of some dark material, her boots were of cloth, and her\nhands and arms were rolled up in a stuff apron she wore.\n\nThere she was, vacantly wandering in the garden, in the lovely spring\nevening, with the blackbirds and thrushes singing their hearts out all\naround her, and I did not comprehend why such an ordinary, unattractive\nlooking person should so deeply interest my father.\n\nI turned round to say something to the old woman, then I instantly\nunderstood. She had gone down on her knees, and had hidden herself by\nthrowing the end of the tablecloth over her head.\n\nThen I turned my eyes back to the apparition. I don't suppose she was\nvisible for more than four minutes. I remember my father uttering\nconsoling words to the effect that \"she's gone,\" and helping the old\nwoman into her chair again, when we resumed our tea and conversation, as\nif nothing unusual had occurred.\n\nLooking back upon these incidents I contrast the infinite trouble we\ntook in our hunt for ghosts, with present-day psychical research. I\nthink of the innumerable half hours we spent at Broughton Hall, and only\nonce were we rewarded by seeing anything. We visited the old woman at\nInveresk whenever we found time. There was nothing in the least\ninspiring or interesting in her conversation, yet to us there was an\nunspeakable charm about her outward circumstances.\n\nThere was the spiritual charm of the silent old house, with its\nvibrating memories of the long departed. The charm of the cloistered\npeace, amidst which the woman lived and dreamed, shut away from the\nworld by the high walls. It was a retreat in which to meditate, and that\nalways appealed to me. A dwelling with a beautiful view has a great\ncharm, but it draws the thoughts always outward to the external. Still,\nwhen I pass a quiet old homestead, hidden away in its own flowery old\ngarden from the eyes of the world, it attracts me far more than the\nfar-flung grandeur of many a stately English mansion.\n\nOnly in such retreats of ancient peace can the thoughts be turned\ncontinuously inward, to their true bourne--the temple of the living God.\n\nI seem to have been born with an ingrained belief in the enormous virtue\nof renunciation. Self-sacrifice, I am certain, is the foundation stone\nupon which is built the moral progress of man. I had occasion to prove\nthis for myself at a comparatively early age. My mother suddenly became\nmuch more ailing than usual, and began to suffer a great deal of pain. A\nconsultation of doctors was called by our own family physician, and two\nof the greatest surgeons in Edinburgh arrived one morning at our house.\n\nAfter about an hour they came into the room in which I awaited them.\nTheir faces were very grave. They informed me, as kindly as they could,\nthat they had arrived at the unanimous opinion that my mother was\nsuffering from internal cancer, and that she might possibly live another\nsix months. Our own doctor confessed that he had long suspected this,\nand the two surgeons corroborated his opinion. There was no doubt in\ntheir minds, as the disease had openly declared itself.\n\nI took this shock in perfect silence for a minute or two, then I decided\nupon my first course of action. I asked them in the meanwhile to keep\nthis matter secret from every one, even from my father.\n\nTo this they rather demurred, saying that it was only right that he\nshould know the truth, and that he would certainly question them. I then\nurged that our family doctor had known of this, and had hidden his\nknowledge up to to-day. It would be easy enough for him to go on hiding\nthe truth for a short time longer.\n\nThe doctors sought to know my reason for this secrecy; it would do no\ngood, the truth would have to come out. I could give no reason. I had no\nreason, only a very strong instinct, and I wanted time. I asked for a\nfortnight, after which I would myself inform my father of the nature of\nmy mother's malady.\n\nThey agreed to this, doubtless much relieved that so unpleasant a task\nwas removed to other shoulders, and they went away.\n\nThat night I did not sleep. I had too much to think out. My mother must\nnot die. I had to form some plan to save her, if it were humanly\npossible. She was absolutely necessary, I considered, to the younger\nchildren. She would be required for some years yet. My life was wholly\ngiven up to my father, I had become necessary to him, and this left me\nno time to mother the young ones. His health was not of the best. A\ncurious tendency to hemorrhage kept him constantly weak. If he had a\ntooth drawn bleeding would continue for days after. He needed all my\nattention.\n\nAt that particular time I possessed something--never mind what--that\nmeant more to me than anything else in the whole wide world. It was the\ngreatest thing I had in life. I decided before morning that with this,\nmy one great possession, I would strike a bargain with the Almighty. I\nwould give Him a fortnight to consider it. I would offer Him the\ngreatest thing in my life in exchange for my mother's life.\n\nQuite conceivably He might refuse to consider the proposition, in which\ncase I stood to lose everything. I could never again recover what I\nproposed to risk, but I came to the deliberate conclusion that it was\nworth it. The case demanded a desperate remedy.\n\nHaving made up my mind, I went about the business in the crudest and\nmost practical manner. I set aside certain odd half hours during the\ncoming fortnight, in which I would state my case. I wanted God to have\nevery opportunity of considering my suggestion on its simple merits.\n\nI began by pointing out to Him why it was so necessary that my mother\nshould live, and then I went on to say that He might be sure I asked\nnothing for myself. I proposed to give in exchange for my mother's life\nthe greatest thing I possessed on earth, a thing that doubtless was of\nlittle interest to Him, but nevertheless meant a very great deal to\nme--in fact, my all. I really had nothing else of any value to offer.\n\nNow, in thus addressing the Almighty, I was not acting as a primitive\nsavage, for I had considered the subject of Deity for several years, and\nhad studied most of the great theologians. I addressed Him thus as a\nSpirit of too supreme a potency, of too extraneous a mentality and\nmajesty, to be addressed in any other terms but plain downright\nreasoning. Elaborate and propitiatory words were good enough for earthly\nprincelets, but ridiculous when offered up to the Supreme Creative\nPower. That was my way of looking at it, and I began at once to carry\nout my plan. There was no time to lose. Meanwhile, no living soul, save\nthe doctors, knew of my secret.\n\nAt the end of the second day my mother was free from pain. At the end of\nthe first week she was recovering rapidly. The family doctor was\nintensely puzzled, but still adhered to his original conviction. On the\neighth day I ceased my half-hourly reasoning with God. I merely thanked\nHim for concluding the bargain. He had accepted my sacrifice, the\ngreatest I could make, and there that matter ended. I felt, without the\nsmallest irreverence, that we were quits.\n\nAt the end of the month the two great surgeons returned, at our own\ndoctor's request. I awaited them with perfect assurance and\ntranquillity. When they came in to me they still looked perturbed. They\ntold me that they had examined my mother, and found all traces of the\nmalady had disappeared. They could not account for it, they reiterated\ntheir former diagnosis, dwelling upon certain facts, in very natural\nself-justification. They expressed, in the very kindest manner, their\ndeep regret for all the suffering and anxiety they must have caused me,\nand said how very lucky it was that no one had been made aware of their\noriginal convictions, save myself. The case was extraordinary, abnormal,\nthere was nothing more to say. Then they went away for the last time.\n\nMy father was greatly puzzled at their refusing to accept any fee, and\nto the day of his death our own doctor, whenever he found me alone,\nreferred to the case as the most marvelous he had ever come across. My\nmother quite regained her health, and died many years after from lung\ntrouble.\n\nOne other great sacrifice I had to make a year or two after. My father\nwas entirely confined to bed with a severe attack of internal\nhemorrhage, and at the same time my youngest sister was threatened with\nconsumption. She was ordered to go to the South of France immediately.\n\nIt was decided that I must go with her, as she could not be trusted to\nstrangers. My mother, absolutely restored to health, would be left with\nmy father, who had also a good nurse valet.\n\nMy father and I bade each other farewell one early morning in February,\n1888. We knew we would not meet again on earth.\n\nOnly one other curious incident do I remember in connection with that\ntown house we lived in. On the night of the 28th December we were all\nassembled in the library, most of us were reading, and a violent wind\nstorm was howling round the house. Suddenly my father laid down the\nproof sheets he was correcting, and took out his watch. Then he turned\nto us and said: \"At this moment, seven fifteen, on Sunday the 28th of\nDecember, 1879, something terrible has happened. I think a bridge must\nbe down.\"\n\nThe next day we learned that the Tay Bridge had been blown down at that\nvery hour, and the train and its occupants hurled to death in the waters\nbelow.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nCURIOUS PSYCHIC EXPERIENCES\n\n\nAfter my father's death I began to live a much more independent life. I\nwas financially independent, and I proceeded to London, where I felt I\nwould have a wider range of intellectual companionship. I lived in\nhotels and dispensed with all chaperonage, thus leaving myself free to\njoin my mother on the Riviera in the early spring months.\n\nI never cared for dancing, and always having had the companionship of\npeople who were years older than myself, I had made few girl friends. My\nfirst cousin, Lady Campbell, wife of Sir Guy Campbell, Bart., 60th\nRifles, and another first cousin, Menie Muriel Dowie, were the only two\nI really saw much of.\n\nLady Campbell was, and is, a very attractive woman, possessed of great\ncharm of manner. Exceedingly cultured and intelligent, she is also an\nartist to her finger tips. As girls we used to be fond of attending\nQueen Victoria's Drawing-rooms. A bevy of us would take lunch with us in\nthe carriages, and thoroughly enjoy our day out. I was the last woman to\nkiss the hand of Queen Victoria at a Drawing-room. I was stopped by a\nCourt official just as I was moving forward, and told to wait as \"Her\nMajesty is going to withdraw.\" The present Dowager Queen Alexandra, as\nPrincess of Wales, then took her place. On this occasion I heard the\nQueen say, \"Let this lady pass.\" I was then told to proceed.\n\nBeing very tall I had always a certain difficulty in getting down low\nenough to kiss the tiny Queen's hand. After I had passed, and as I\nbacked out of \"the presence,\" I saw Her Majesty being assisted out of\nthe queer little half chair, half stool she used. She never held another\nDrawing-room, and I regret that, being abroad, I had not the honor of\nmaking a last curtsy to the little coffin as it passed through the\nstreets of London.\n\nMenie Muriel Dowie was a brilliant bohemian, as can be gathered by those\nwho have read her book, \"A Girl in the Carpathians.\" I have never known\nany woman who was possessed of so many natural talents. She is as much\nat home in skilled and polished diplomacy as in practical agriculture.\nShe has always been a great traveler, yet a delicate woman. Only her\nindomitable spirit kept her going in her youth, as it still does in her\nbeautiful house in Green Street, and her model farm in Gloucestershire.\n\nMy greatest older friends were Mrs. Lynn Linton, the novelist, Browning,\nthe poet, Lord Leighton, the painter, and Mrs. Proctor, widow of Barry\nCornwall, and mother of Adelaide Proctor, the poet. All people old\nenough to be my parents.\n\nI had a great admiration for Mrs. Lynn Linton's strong, cold intellect;\nit was so invigorating, and she was so self-reliant, an uncommon thing\nfor a woman to be in those days. We had long arguments over matters\noccult, but I never could make the least impression upon her strong\nmaterialism. \"I won't leave this earth even with you,\" she used to\nprotest. She was a great friend and admirer of my aunt, Lady Priestley,\nalso a woman of very fine intellect, who devoted herself to scientific\npursuits. Had she been a man, or had she lived in the present day, when\nwoman has at last come into her own, she would have made a very strong\nmark.\n\nRobert Browning, whom I had known for some years, used to drop in very\noften to have a chat, and I rejoiced in him exceedingly as a born mystic\nof a high order. We often discussed the possibility of his work being\ndirected from the other side, and we argued as to whether he received\ninspiration from various quarters, or whether he was the beloved of some\npoet of a former age, who, active still in the spirit world, expressed\nhis great thoughts through Robert Browning on earth. So many people at\nthat time frankly said they could not understand Browning's poetry, and\nthis I told him was to be attributed to lack of the mystic perception.\nNow that mysticism has so enormously developed, his work is much more\ncomprehensive to the world.\n\nI had alas! only one year of really close friendship with him, for he\ndied the year after I came to London.\n\nOne curious thing Browning told me.\n\nHe dropped in one night to see me, after dinner at a house where\nMillais, the painter, had been one of the guests.\n\n\"Johnnie Millais told me an odd thing to-night,\" he said. \"He's\nconstantly seeing figures appearing and disappearing on the face of the\ncanvas he's working upon.\"\n\n\"What sort of figures?\" I asked.\n\nBrowning shot out his cuff.\n\n\"Here they are. I knew you'd be interested, so I took them down for you.\nBetter write them down for yourself, but don't mention the subject to\nhim or any of his family.\"\n\nI fetched a piece of paper and copied from Browning's cuff.\n\n\"13. 1.8.9.6. The figures don't always come in that order,\" he said,\n\"but more often than not they do. The 13 always comes up as 13, but he's\nseen 9.6.1.8. What do you make of it?\"\n\n\"At present nothing, but the future may throw light upon the\nphenomenon,\" I answered.\n\nI never mentioned this occurrence to any one, and, indeed, forgot all\nabout it till some years after Millais' death, when I came upon my notes\nin an old box. I then realized that the great painter had been looking\nupon the dates of his own death. He died on August 13th, 1896.\n\nOne night some one, I have not the least idea who, came to me in my\nsleep and bade me take up pencil and paper, and write to dictation.\nStill sound asleep I did as I was bidden. I always kept writing\nmaterials by my bedside.\n\nIn the morning I remembered nothing of this till my eye fell upon some\nsheets of paper. The writing upon them was mine, but very big and\nuntidy. Then I recollected the command I had received in the night and\neagerly read what I had written. Here it is. I gave Browning a copy as\nhe was so deeply interested--\n\n     \"A solitary cottage stood on the edge of a bleak moorland. The sun\n     sank behind the low horizon, and left marshy pools glowing like\n     living opals. A stream of homeward flying rooks made a streak of\n     indigo across the topaz sky where gauzy wind-riven clouds floated\n     westward. The sacred hush of eventide brooded under the calm wings\n     of night.\n\n     \"Out on the waste wandered the Angel of 'Sleep,' and the Angel of\n     'Death' with arms fraternally entwined, and whilst the brotherly\n     genii embraced each other, night stole down with velvet footfall,\n     and the green stars peered forth.\n\n     \"Then the Angel of Sleep shook from out his hands the invisible\n     grains of slumber, and bade the night wind waft them o'er the\n     world. And soon the child in its cradle, the tired mother, the aged\n     man, and the pain-laden woman were at peace. The curfew tolled out\n     from the distant hamlet and then was still.\n\n     \"Inside the cottage a rushlight burned faintly, indicating the\n     poverty of the room, and illuminating the death-like features of\n     the boy who lay on the bed. By his side, worn out, sat the father,\n     his horny hand clasped in that of his child.\n\n     \"And the two brother Angels advanced, hand in hand, and peered in\n     at the window, and the Angel of Sleep said: 'Behold how gracious a\n     thing it is, that we can visit this humble dwelling and scatter\n     grains of slumber around, and send oblivion to the weary watcher. I\n     am beloved and courted by all. How merciful is our vocation.' And\n     silently he entered the room.\n\n     \"He kissed the eyelids of the weary watcher, and as he did so some\n     grains fell from out the wreath of scarlet poppies that lay like\n     drops of blood upon his brow.\n\n     \"But the Angel of Death sat without, his pallid face shrouded in\n     the sable of his wings.\n\n     \"And he spake to the Angel of Sleep, 'Of a truth thou art happy and\n     beloved. The welcome guest of all, whereas I am shunned, the door\n     is barred as against a secret foe, and I am counted the enemy of\n     the world.'\n\n     \"But the Angel of Sleep wiped away the immortal tears from the dark\n     and mournful eyes of his brother Death.\n\n     \"'Are we not children born of the one Father?' said he, 'and do not\n     the good call thee friend, and the lonely, the homeless, the weary\n     laden bless thy hallowed name when they wake in Paradise.'\n\n     \"And the Angel of Death unfurled his sable wings and took heart.\n     And as Lucifer the light-bringer paled in the violet Heavens he\n     silently entered the dwelling. With his golden scythe he cut the\n     silver cord of life, and gathered the child to his faithful bosom.\"\n\nThe evenings I most enjoyed were those I spent in the studio of Felix\nMoscheles, the great apostle of peace. There one met all the genius and\ntalent in London, and any genius of foreign nationality who happened to\nbe visiting England. The cosmopolitan element always attracted me, and I\nwent to several frankly revolutionary houses, where red ties flaunted,\nand where those Russian Nihilists found a welcome who were constantly\nrushing over here to escape Siberia. Through them I learned to\nunderstand what the real woes of Russia were, and to expect the present\nrevolution as the inevitable result of brutal repression and\nmisgovernment.\n\nDuring one winter at Nice I renewed my acquaintance with one of the most\nremarkable mystics of modern times, Marie, Countess of Caithness and\nDuchesse de Pomar.\n\nI had first met her in Edinburgh in 1872 when she was on the eve of her\nsecond marriage with Lord Caithness. My father and mother attended her\nvery quiet wedding. Now we met again many years after at her beautiful\nhome, the Palais Tiranty, Nice. Lady Caithness was widowed for the\nsecond time, Lord Caithness having died in 1881, and lived alone with\nher devoted son, the Duc de Pomar. She had a magnificent home in Paris,\n\"Holyrood,\" Avenue Wagram. This house contained a large lecture hall\nfilled with gilt chairs, and hung round with fine pictures. Leading from\nthis hall down a flight of marble stairs one came to a chapel or seance\nroom, used for direct communication with the spirit of Mary Stuart, and\nsaid to have been built \"under the Queen's instructions.\"\n\nThis presupposes Queen Mary to be still on \"the other side.\" Other\noccultists maintain that she has reincarnated again in the person of a\nvery old Empress, who still lives on earth.\n\nIt has been often said of Lady Caithness that she believed herself to be\nthe reincarnation of Mary Stuart. During all the years I knew her\nintimately I never heard her even hint at such a belief, and the fact\nthat she believed herself to be in touch with the Queen on \"the other\nside\" precludes in my opinion the possibility of her having formed such\na conception.\n\nWhat may have given rise to the suggestion was the fact that she dressed\nafter the fashion of the Scottish Queen, and was surrounded by \"Mary\nrelics.\" Also, there is no doubt that she had a deeply sympathetic\ninterest in the unfortunate Queen, and had elevated her memory into what\namounted almost to a religion. In the chapel there is a full length\nlovely portrait of Mary, which is so lighted and arranged that it gives\nthe impression of a living woman. Leading out of the dining-room was the\nbedroom of Lady Caithness, a sumptuous apartment. The bed was a state\nbed, plumes of ostrich feathers uprose at each corner. At one end was a\ncrown, and behind the pillows was a fresco painting representing Jacob's\nLadder, with a multitude of angels ascending and descending. Often Lady\nCaithness received in bed, as was the habit of the French Queens of\nformer days.\n\nThe jewels possessed by Lady Caithness were the most gorgeous I have\never seen. Nothing worn by crowned heads, at the many English Courts I\nhave attended, were comparable to them. I can remember an Edinburgh\njeweler inviting my father and me to inspect some diamonds belonging to\nher that he was cleaning. There was a long chain of huge diamonds\nreaching to the knees, with a cross attached, which no casual observer,\nnot possessing the jeweler's guarantee as we did, would have believed to\nbe genuine. When standing receiving her guests in the beautiful salons\nof the Palais Tiranty, clad in crimson velvet, she looked a very\nwonderful figure, for she possessed exceptional personal beauty as well.\n\nAs may be supposed, a woman of such commanding presence who was known to\npossess a deep interest in the occult, could secure the services of the\nbest mediums the world over. I sat with her through many seances,\nsuccessful, barren, and indifferent, conducted by mediums of various\nnationalities. I remember one conducted by a South American medium,\nwhere the \"controls\" became very noisy and troublesome, and threatened\nto do serious damage. The medium could not be roused out of the trance\nshe had fallen into, and it had really become necessary to put an end to\nthe performance. She was a very big, heavy woman, and had sunk half off\nher chair on to the floor. I suggested to Lady Caithness that if we\ncould drag or carry her into another room matters might then quiet down,\nbut I added dubiously, \"She must be a great weight.\"\n\nLady Caithness replied with a smile: \"Try. You'll probably find her very\nlight indeed.\"\n\nI did try, and this was the only time in my life that I had the\nopportunity of proving to myself how tremendously a medium loses weight\nwhilst genuine manifestations are in progress. I found it quite easy to\nlift this woman, who in ordinary circumstances must have weighed at\nleast twelve or thirteen stone.\n\nSir William Crookes has given to the world a very interesting account of\nhis work in weighing mediums, before and during materialization. He\nalways found that a great decrease in weight took place during the\nmaterializations, proving how enormous is the drain on the strength of\nthe medium. Such evidence is most valuable, as coming from our greatest\nchemist.\n\nOn this particular night I had no doubt as to the genuineness of the\nmedium. Had she been a fraud she would have stopped the seance at once,\non seeing how annoyed Lady Caithness was. She had every reason to\nconciliate her, and was greatly distressed to hear that her services\nwould no longer be required. The troublesome spirits followed her into\nthe next room, but gradually subsided as we succeeded in bringing the\nwoman back out of her trance.\n\nI used to go very often to the theater at Nice with Lady Caithness. She\nhad her own box, and often invited Don Carlos of Spain, and other\ndistinguished personages, to accompany her. One night we went to hear\nthe incomparable Judic. We were only a party of three, the third being\nPrince Valori.\n\nThe Prince was then a man past middle age. He suggested a magnificent\nruin, retaining as he did the battered remains of great good looks, and\nit was plain to see that his valet was exceedingly skillful. He\npossessed also a European reputation for heiress hunting, but to the day\nof his death he never succeeded in catching one, though it was said he\nhad pursued his quarry in all parts of the world. Perhaps the figure he\nplaced upon his ancient lineage and his personal charm was too high;\nperhaps he had begun his quest too late in life, though the position of\na widowed Princess Valori would certainly not have been without\nattraction. I attributed his single blessedness to quite a different\ncause.\n\nThat night, whilst my attention was fixed on the stage, I became dimly\naware that some one had entered our box, but until the song was over I\ndid not turn round to look who it was. We always had visitors coming and\ngoing. When at last I did glance round I saw nothing remarkable. Only a\nman in fancy dress seated behind Valori, a man whom I had never seen\nbefore.\n\nAt that period Nice went mad during the winter season. The most\nextravagant amusements were entered into with a wild zest, by the very\ncosmopolitan society of extremely wealthy people. There were fancy\ndress balls every night somewhere, and no one thought it strange to see\nbands of revelers in fancy costume walking about the streets and\nthronging the cafes at all hours of the night.\n\nI was not therefore astonished to see this man in fancy dress, leaning\nfamiliarly over the back of Prince Valori's chair. He was a very thin\nman, with very long, thin legs, and he was dressed entirely in chocolate\nbrown--a sort of close-fitting cowl was drawn over his head, and his\ncurious long, impish face was made more weird by small, sharply pointed\nears rising on each side of his head. He appeared to have \"got himself\nup\" to look like a satyr, or some such mythical monstrosity. He was not\nintroduced to me at the moment, and other people entering our box whom I\nknew, I forgot about him. When the box cleared before the next act I\nnoticed he had gone.\n\nA week or so after this I went to a fancy dress ball given by a Russian\nfriend of mine--Princess Lina Galitzine. There was a great crowd, and a\nnumber of Grand Dukes and Grand Duchesses, some of whom had driven long\ndistances from their villas and hotels in Mentone, Monte Carlo, and\nBeaulieu, etc. I soon saw Prince Valori making his way towards me,\ndressed very magnificently, in a French costume of the eighteenth\ncentury. By his side moved the man in brown.\n\nNow that I saw \"the satyr\" under brilliant light he struck me at once as\nsomething peculiar. His walk was alone sufficient to attract attention.\nHe strutted on tiptoes, with a curious jerk with every step he made.\nThose who remember Henry Irving's peculiar walk may form some idea of\n\"the satyr's\" movements. They were Irving's immensely exaggerated. I\nconcluded that Valori was bringing him up to present him to me, but\nsuch proved not to be his intention. Valori shook hands, coolly\nrequested the young American to whom I was talking to move off and find\nsome one to dance with, and seated himself in the vacated chair. \"The\nsatyr\" stood by his side and said nothing. I thought this very odd, and\nglancing, whenever I could do so unobserved, at the silent brown figure,\nI began to feel uneasy and shivery. It was impossible, whilst he stood\nthere listening to all we said, to ask Valori who he was, and no mention\nwas made of him.\n\nAs soon as I could I escaped to talk to some one else, and for an hour\nor two I avoided both. During this time I asked several people who \"the\nsatyr\" was, but no one seemed to have noticed him in the crowd. At last,\nwhen seated at supper with the late James Gordon Bennett, who did not\nusually go to balls, but had looked in here for half an hour for some\npurpose of his own, I found myself seated next to a very charming Pole,\nmarried to a Russian, the Princess Schehoffskoi. I knew her to be a\ngenuine mystic, one of the group who first instituted spiritualism into\nthe Russian Court circles. I seized an opportunity, whilst Gordon\nBennett was occupied with some one else, to ask her who the brown satyr\nwas who had attached himself to Valori.\n\nShe was at once absorbed in the question, and, lowering her voice, she\nsaid, \"Why, how interesting! Don't you know that is his 'Familiar' who\nis constantly in attendance upon him. People say they became attached\nwhilst he was attending a 'Sabbath' in the Vosges, and he can't get rid\nof it.\"\n\n\"A Sabbath!\" I echoed blankly.\n\n\"Yes! Surely you have heard of a 'Witch's Sabbath.' They still hold them\nat Lutzei, and each person receives a 'Familiar.' Those 'Sabbaths' are\nthe most appalling orgies and hideously blasphemous. The 'Familiars'\nhave names--Minette, Verdelet, etc. I had an ancestor who owned a\n'Familiar' called Sainte Buisson. His name was de Laski. Of course, he\nwas a Pole, and a Prince of Siradia, and he came across Dr. Dee, the\nnecromancer of Queen Elizabeth's time. They seem to have entered into a\nsort of partnership.\"\n\nAll this the Princess told me quite seriously, and I found out later\nfrom her that Satanism or devil worship was largely practiced in France.\nIt is interesting to note that the names of the French war mascots of\nthe moment are all taken from the names of well-known \"Familiars\" in\noccult lore.\n\n\"Then the 'satyr' attached to Valori is not human flesh and blood; how\nhorrible!\" I whispered back. \"Have many people seen him? Is he always\nthere?\"\n\nThe Princess nodded, \"The clairvoyantes here all know about it, and I\nmyself have seen him, not here, but in Paris. I shall go in search of\nValori directly after supper.\"\n\n\"And I shall go home to bed,\" I answered.\n\nThe next morning I met Valori, alone, on the Promenade des Anglais. He\nturned and strolled by my side, and I determined to put a straight\nquestion. After a little trivial conversation I said, \"By the way, who\nis that brown man, dressed like a Satyr, who has been with you lately?\"\n\nI watched Valori's face as I put the question, and as I saw the change\nthat came over it I felt very sorry and ashamed of having spoken. He\nlooked so utterly dejected and miserable.\n\n\"You also?\" he muttered, then fell to silence.\n\nI gathered that the same question had been put to him before, and I\nhastened to reassure him. \"Don't answer. My question was impertinent;\nlet us speak of other things,\" I said hastily, but he remained silent,\nstaring down at the ground. Then suddenly he said--\n\n\"I am not the only one in the world so afflicted.\"\n\nI did not pursue the subject. His words were true. That evening I\nreceived a large bouquet of Russian violets, and on a card was written\nthe following French proverb:--\"La reputation d'un homme est comme son\nombre, qui tantot le suit et tantot le precede; quelquefois elle est\nplus longue et quelquefois plus courte que lui.\"\n\nAt that time the whole Riviera was swarming with professional\nclairvoyantes, and it soon \"got wind\" that Prince Valori's \"Familiar\"\nwas walking about with him. He treated the matter almost as lightly as a\ndistinguished English General treated his \"Familiar.\"\n\nThe Englishman, General Elliot, who commanded the forces in Scotland,\nwas a very well-known society man, about twenty-five years ago. He had a\nname for his Familiar, \"Wononi,\" and used actually to speak aloud with\nhim in the middle of a dinner-party. The General occupied a very\ndistinguished position, not only in his profession, but in the social\nworld, and to look at he was the very last man that one would associate\nwith matters occult.\n\nIn 1895 Marie, Duchesse de Pomar and Countess of Caithness, died. She\nhad the right to claim burial in Holyrood Chapel, and a very simple\nstone marks her last resting-place. To her I owe the warmest friendship\nof my life, for it was in her opera box I met the present Lady Treowen,\nborn a daughter of Lord Albert Conynghame, who afterwards became the\nfirst Lord Londesborough. To the many who know and love her, Albertina\nTreowen represents a type of perfect breeding, alas! fast becoming\nextinct in these days. She has lived the reality of noblesse oblige, has\nthe rare gift of perfect friendship, and combines a rare refinement of\nmind with strong moral courage.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nEAST END DAYS AND NIGHTS\n\n\nIf we had found the golden thread of meaning which gives coherence to\nthe whole; if we had been taught as our religion that every man and\nwoman was receiving the strictest justice at the Divine hands, and that\nour conditions to-day were exactly those our former lives entitled us\nto, how different would be our outlook on life. As it is, men have\nfallen away in their bitter discontent from a God in whose justice they\nhave ceased to believe, and of whose impartiality they see no sign.\n\nI doubt if any religion extant has claimed such a wide diversity in its\nadherents as Christianity. Calvin, Knox, Torquemada, the Archbishop of\nCanterbury, and Kaiser Wilhelm. Mr. Gladstone, and Czar Nicolas. The\nPope of Rome, and Spurgeon. Even those nine names, which might be\nmultiplied indefinitely, show us diametrically opposed readings of the\nsame faith.\n\nIt would be of enormous benefit to us if we studied all the great\nreligions, and separated from each the obviously false from the true,\nand appropriated the latter. The Bible would gain enormously in value if\nstudied in conjunction with other sacred books written before the advent\nof Christ.\n\nA careful study of the ancient faiths will reveal a wonderful\nsimilarity. We are beginning to break down the limitations which have\nbeen presumptuously cast around the conceptions of the Divine teachings.\nWe begin to see that not only in Palestine, but in all the world, and\namongst all peoples, God has been revealing Himself to the hearts of\nmen.\n\nIt is always folly for the orthodox to hold up hands in holy horror at\nthe views of the unorthodox. It is a selfish standpoint, and makes\nmatters no better. Doubt does not spring from the wish to doubt. It\narises solely from the play of the mind on the facts of daily life\nsurrounding us. The truth remains, that, unless the Church recovers\nthose vital doctrines that she has lost, and which alone make life\nrational to the intelligent, she will be finally abandoned when the\npresent generation dies out.\n\nWe can never rest content with a faith which flatly contradicts the\nfacts of life which surround us, and press in on us from every side in\nour daily existence. We hold that what we undoubtedly find in life ought\nto have its complement in religion. The searching temper of our vast\nsacrifices in war are thrusting faith down to primitive bed-rock.\nOrthodoxies and heterodoxies will not matter much now. What will matter\nwill be honesty, effectiveness, and a rational explanation of life. For\nnineteen hundred years we have professed the religion of what others\nsaid about Christ. Now the hour is approaching when we must try the\nreligion of what Christ said about us and the world.\n\nI was always of a very inquiring turn of mind, and I had abandoned\northodoxy before I was twenty. I had read everything I could lay my\nhands on, and I emerged after a year or two, an out-and-out agnostic, in\nthe popular sense of the term.\n\nI had, however, no intention of remaining in that condition. I was\nconvinced there must be some link between Science and Religion, and that\na just God, worthy of all worship, was to be found, if only I knew where\nto seek. I can look back on this crude stage of my life, and see what a\nnuisance I must have been, with my defiant disbelief and constant\nquestioning. I became an ardent truth-seeker, but my demands, I can now\nrealize, grew out of my palpitating desire to reduce the world of\ndisorder to the likeness of a supreme and beneficent Creator. If God be\njust and good, then what is the explanation of this hideous discrepancy\nin human lives?\n\nFollowing on this came the question: \"Is it possible that a just God is\ngoing to judge us, one and all, on our miserable record of three score\nyears and ten?\"\n\n\"Whatsoever ye soweth that shall ye reap.\" So the criminal and the\nsavage were to be judged by their deeds, though, through no fault of\ntheir own, they were born under circumstances which precluded any\nglimmer of light to shine in on their darkness. \"Ah!\" but I was told,\n\"God will make it up to them hereafter. Of course, He won't judge them\nas He will judge you.\"\n\nThis seemed to me pure nonsense. I could not understand a God who\narranged His creation so badly. Whilst in London I started out on a\nsearch for truth.\n\nAmongst those who accorded me interviews were Cardinal Newman and the\nlate Archdeacon Liddon. The former was exquisitely sympathetic and\npatient, but he gave me no mental satisfaction. I helped him for some\nweeks in the great dock strike, and then we drifted apart for ever.\nLiddon listened patiently, then told me flatly he could not solve the\nmysteries I sought to probe. I also was accorded an unsatisfactory\ninterview with Basil Wilberforce. After a lapse of thirty years we met\nagain, though I never recalled to him the visit I had paid him in my\nyouth, being sure he must have forgotten all about it. I found him\nenormously changed mentally. He had outgrown all resemblance to his\nformer mental self.\n\nAt that early period some one happened to mention to me that a certain\nMadame Blavatsky had just arrived in London, bringing with her a new\nreligion. My curiosity was at once fired, and I set off to call upon\nher.\n\nI shall never forget that first interview with a much maligned woman,\nwhom I rapidly came to know intimately and love dearly. She was seated\nin a great armchair, with a table by her side on which lay tobacco and\ncigarette paper. Whilst she spoke her exquisite taper fingers\nautomatically rolled cigarettes. She was dressed in a loose black robe,\nand on her crinkly gray hair she wore a black shawl. Her face was pure\nKalmuk, and a network of fine wrinkles covered it. Her eyes, large and\npale green, dominated the countenance--wonderful eyes in their\narresting, dreamy mysticism.\n\nI asked her to explain her new religion, and she answered that hers was\nthe very oldest extant, and formed the belief of five hundred million\nsouls. I inquired how it was that this stupendous fact had not yet\ntouched Christendom, and her reply was that there had never been any\ninterference with Christian thought. Though judge of all, Christianity\nhad been judged by none. The rise of Japan was a factor of immense\npotency, and in time would open out a new era in the comprehension of\nEast by West. Then the meaning would flash upon the churches of the\nwords, \"Neither in this mountain nor yet at Jerusalem.\"\n\nI explained to her my difficulties, which she proceeded to solve by\nexpounding the doctrines of reincarnation and Karma. They jumped\ninstantly to my reason. I there and then found the Just God, of whom I\nhad been in search. From that day to this I have never had reason to\nswerve from those beliefs. The older I grow, the more experience I\ngather, the more I read, the more confirmed do I become in the belief\nthat such provide the only rational explanation of this life, the only\nnatural hope in the world to come.\n\nI have offered those beliefs to very many people whom I discovered to be\non the same quest as I had been. I have never once had them rejected by\nany serious truth-seeker, and I have seen them passed on and on by these\npeople to others, forming enormous ramifications which became lost to\nview in the passage of time and their own magnitude.\n\nIn these early days there was little literature available for the\nstudent, but the circle of clever brains which rapidly surrounded\nBlavatsky set to work with a will under her guidance, and now, after the\nlapse of thirty years, there is an enormous literature always commanding\na wide sale, and the little circle that gathered round \"the old lady\"\nhas swollen into very many thousands.\n\nWhat was the secret of Helena Petrovski Blavatsky's instant success? I\nhave no doubt that it lay in her power to give to the West the Eastern\nanswers to those problems which the Church has lost.\n\nIn her way Blavatsky was a true missioner. \"Go forth on your journey for\nthe weal and the welfare of all people, out of compassion for the world\nand the welfare of angels and mortals,\" was the command given by the\nLord Buddha to his disciples, and Christ, following the universal ideal,\nfive hundred years later, commanded, \"Go ye into all the world and\npreach the Gospel of the whole Creation.\"\n\nI began to study those, to me, new doctrines at once, and I also took up\ntheir occult side, no light task, but one of absorbing interest. Not\ntill then did I fully realize that in no one human life could that long,\nlong path be trodden, in no new-born soul could be developed those\ndivine possibilities of which I could catch but a fleeting illusive\nvision.\n\n\"Thou canst not travel in the Path before thou hast become the Path\nitself.\" Did not the Christ warn his followers that the Path must be\ntrodden more or less alone? \"Forsake all and follow Me.\" So, also in the\nBhagavad Gita it is written: \"Abandoning all duties come unto me alone\nfor shelter. Sorrow not, I will liberate thee from thy sins.\"\n\n\"The secret doctrine\" written by Blavatsky proved a mine of wealth, and\nI read the volumes through seven times in seven different keys. The\nworks of A. P. Sinnett, text books then, and now brought up to date by\nexpanding knowledge, were extremely helpful. For advanced students \"The\nGrowth of the Soul\" is unsurpassed. A very short time elapsed before\nmental food was supplied for practically every branch of mysticism and\noccult development, and students flocked into headquarters from all\nparts of the world.\n\nIt is interesting to remember the two adjoining villas in Avenue Road,\nSt. John's Wood, where we used to congregate to study, and hear lectures\nthirty years ago, and to look now on the stately buildings in Tavistock\nSquare. They are designed by the great architect Lutyens, whose wife,\nLady Emily, is an ardent theosophist. I am glad that I have lived to see\nthese doctrines take firm root in the West, and grow so amazingly that\nin all cities they are now held by vast numbers, and even in cases where\nthey have not been finally adopted they are acknowledged to be the only\nlogical conclusion for those who desire to possess a rational belief. I\nam glad that I can look back with love and profound gratitude to Helena\nP. Blavatsky, the woman who grafted on the West the wisdom of the ages.\nI have no doubt that she is enabled to see the mighty structure raised\non her small beginnings, and doubtless she has met on \"the other side\"\nmen and women whose debt to her is equally as great as mine.\n\nBlavatsky began by exploding the theory that men are born equal. If this\none life were all, then this great error ought, in common justice, to be\nabsolute truth, and every man should possess common rights in the\ncommunity, and one man ought to be as good as another. If every soul\nborn to-day is a fresh creation, who will in the course of time pass\naway from this life for ever, then why is it that one is only fitted to\nobey, whilst another is eminently fitted to rule? One is born with a\ntendency to vice and crime, another to virtue and honesty. One is born a\ngenius, another is born to idiocy. How, she asked, could a firm social\nfoundation ever be built up on this utter disregard of nature? How\ntreat, as having right to equal power, the wise and the ignorant, the\ncriminal and the saint? Yet, if man be born but once it would be very\nunjust to build on any other foundation.\n\nRe-incarnation implies the evolution of the soul, and it makes the\nequality of man a delusion. In evolution time plays the greatest part,\nand through evolution humanity is climbing. \"Souls while eternal in\ntheir essence are of different ages in their individuality.\"\n\nMany of us must know people who though quite old in years are children\nin mind. Men and women who having arrived at three score years and ten\nare still utterly childish and inconsequent. They are young souls who\nhave had the experiences of very few earth lives. Again, we all know\nchildren who seem born abnormally old. Infant prodigies, musicians,\ncalculators, painters who have brought over their genius from a former\nlife.\n\nI remember once meeting with a curious experience, which is not very\neasy to describe. It was an experience more of feeling than of seeing.\n\nI was standing in Milan Cathedral. In front of me and behind was\ngathered a crowd of peasants. High Mass was being celebrated, and all\nthe seats were occupied.\n\nAfter a few moments I began to feel a curious sensation of being\nintently watched. Some penetrating influence was probing me through and\nthrough, with a quiet but intensely powerful directness. I had the\nsensation that my soul was being stripped bare. I looked round, but\ncould see nothing to account for my sensation. Every one seemed intent\non their devotions. I began to wonder if some malicious old peasant was\nthrowing over me the spell of the evil eye, but again my feelings were\nnot conscious of an evil intent; it was more an absorbed speculation\ndirected towards me. Some one was probing my soul, speculating on my\nspiritual worth or worthlessness, with an intensely earnest yet cold\ncalculation.\n\nJust in front of me stood a peasant woman of the poorest class. Her back\nwas towards me, and over her shoulder hung a baby of not more than a\nyear old. Suddenly I met the eyes of the child full. Then I knew. As a\npsychological experience it was most interesting, but it sent a little\nthrill of creepiness through me.\n\nThe baby did not withdraw its gaze, but continued leisurely to look me\nthrough and through. The eyes were large and gray, the expression that\nof a contemplative savant, with a faint dash of irony in their glance. I\ndo not pretend to be anything but what is now called \"psychic,\" but I am\ncertain that those windows of the soul, with that age-long experience\nflooding out of them, would have arrested the most material person. My\nhusband, who is accustomed to my \"flights of imagination,\" was very much\nstruck by that look of maturity, that suggestion of aeonic knowledge.\n\nBlavatsky taught me to look on man as an evolving entity, in whose life\ncareer births and deaths are recurring incidents. Birth and death begin\nand end only a single chapter in the book of life. She taught me that we\ncannot evade inexorable destiny. I made my present in my past. To-day I\nam making my future. In proportion as I outwear my past, and change my\npresent abysmal ignorance into knowledge, so shall I become free.\n\nI have often heard Blavatsky called a charlatan, and I am bound to say\nthat her impish behavior often gave grounds for this description. She\nwas foolishly intolerant of the many smart West End ladies who arrived\nin flocks, demanding to see spooks, masters, elementals, anything, in\nfact, in the way of phenomena.\n\nMadame Blavatsky was a born conjuror. Her wonderful fingers were made\nfor jugglers' tricks, and I have seen her often use them for that\npurpose. I well remember my amazement upon the first occasion on which\nshe exhibited her occult powers, spurious and genuine.\n\nI was sitting alone with her one afternoon, when the cards of Jessica,\nLady Sykes, the late Duchess of Montrose and the Honorable Mrs. S.----\n(still living) were brought in to her. She said she would receive the\nladies at once, and they were ushered in. They explained that they had\nheard of her new religion, and her marvelous occult powers. They hoped\nshe would afford them a little exhibition of what she could do.\n\nMadame Blavatsky had not moved out of her chair. She was suavity itself,\nand whilst conversing she rolled cigarettes for her visitors and invited\nthem to smoke. She concluded that they were not particularly interested\nin the old faith which the young West called new; what they really were\nkeen about was phenomena.\n\nThat was so, responded the ladies, and the burly Duchess inquired if\nMadame ever gave racing tips, or lucky numbers for Monte Carlo?\n\nMadame disclaimed having any such knowledge, but she was willing to\nafford them a few moments' amusement. Would one of the ladies suggest\nsomething she would like done?\n\nLady Sykes produced a pack of cards from her pocket, and held them out\nto Madame Blavatsky, who shook her head.\n\n\"First remove the marked cards,\" she said.\n\nLady Sykes laughed and replied, \"Which are they?\"\n\nMadame Blavatsky told her, without a second's hesitation. This charmed\nthe ladies. It seemed a good beginning.\n\n\"Make that basket of tobacco jump about,\" suggested one of them.\n\nThe next moment the basket had vanished. I don't know where it went, I\nonly know it disappeared by trickery, that the ladies looked for it\neverywhere, even under Madame Blavatsky's ample skirts, and that\nsuddenly it reappeared upon its usual table. A little more jugglery\nfollowed and some psychometry, which was excellent, then the ladies\ndeparted, apparently well satisfied with the entertainment.\n\nWhen I was once more alone with Madame Blavatsky, she turned to me with\na wry smile and said, \"Would you have me throw pearls before swine?\"\n\nI asked her if all she had done was pure trickery.\n\n\"Not all, but most of it,\" she unblushingly replied, \"but now I will\ngive you something lovely and real.\"\n\nFor a moment or two she was silent, covering her eyes with her hand,\nthen a sound caught my ear. I can only describe what I heard as fairy\nmusic, exquisitely dainty and original. It seemed to proceed from\nsomewhere just between the floor and the ceiling, and it moved about to\ndifferent corners of the room. There was a crystal innocence in the\nmusic, which suggested the dance of joyous children at play.\n\n\"Now I will give you the music of life,\" said Madame Blavatsky.\n\nFor a moment or two there fell a trance-like silence. The twilight was\ncreeping into the room, and seemed to bring with it a tingling\nexpectancy. Then it seemed to me that something entered from without,\nand brought with it utterly new conditions, something incredible,\nunimagined and beyond the bounds of reason.\n\nSome one was singing, a distant melody was creeping nearer, yet I was\naware it had never been distant, it was only becoming louder.\n\nI suddenly felt afraid of myself. The air about me was ringing with\nvibrations of weird, unearthly music, seemingly as much around me as it\nwas above and behind me. It had no whereabouts, it was unlocatable. As I\nlistened my whole body quivered with wild elation, and the sensation of\nthe unforeseen.\n\nThere was rhythm in the music, yet it was unlike anything I had ever\nheard before. It sounded like a Pastorale, and it held a call to which\nmy whole being wildly responded.\n\nWho was the player, and what was his instrument? He might have been a\nflautist, and he played with a catching lilt, a luxurious abandon that\nwas an incarnation of Nature. It caught me suddenly away to green\nSicilian hills, where the pipes of unseen players echo down the mountain\nsides, as the pipes of Pan once echoed through the rugged gorges and\npurple vales of Hellas and Thrace.\n\nAlluring though the music was, and replete with the hot fever of life,\nit carried with it a thrill of dread. Its sweetness was cloying, its\ntenderness was sensuous. A balmy scent crept through the room, of wild\nthyme, of herbs, of asphodel and the muscadine of the wine press. It\nenwrapt me like an odorous vapor.\n\nThe sounds began to take shape, and gradually mold themselves into\nwords. I knew I was being courted with subtlety, and urged to fly out of\nmy house of life and join the Saturnalia Regna. The player was speaking\na language which I understood, as I had understood no tongue before. It\nwas my true native tongue that spoke in the wild ringing lilt, and I\ncould not but give ear to its enchantments and the ecstasy of its joy.\n\nMy soul seemed to strain at the leash. Should I let go? Like a powerful\nopiate the allurement enfolded me, yet from out its thrall a small\ninsistent voice whispered \"Caution! Where will you be led: supposing you\nyield your will, would it ever be yours again?\"\n\nNow my brain was seized with a sense of panic and weakness. The music\nsuddenly seemed replete with gay sinfulness and insolent conquest. It\nspoke the secrets which the nature myth so often murmurs to those who\nlive amid great silences, of those dread mysteries of the spirit which\nyet invest it with such glory and wonderment.\n\nWith a violent reaction of fear I rose suddenly, and as I did so the\nwhole scene was swept from out the range of my senses. I was back once\nmore in Blavatsky's room with the creeping twilight and the far off\nhoarse roar of London stealing in at the open window. I glanced at\nMadame Blavatsky. She had sunk down in her chair, and she lay huddled up\nin deep trance. She had floated out with the music into a sea of earthly\noblivion. Between her fingers she held a small Russian cross.\n\nI knew that she had thrust me back to the world which still claimed me,\nand I went quietly out of the house into the streets of London.\n\nOn another occasion when I was alone with Madame Blavatsky she suddenly\nbroke off our conversation by lapsing into another language, which I\nsupposed to be Hindustanee. She appeared to be addressing some one else,\nand on looking over my shoulder I saw we were no longer alone. A man\nstood in the middle of the room. I was sure he had not entered by the\ndoor, window or chimney, and as I looked at him in some astonishment, he\nsalaamed to Madame Blavatsky, and replied to her in the same language in\nwhich she had addressed him.\n\nI rose at once to leave her, and as I bade her good-by she whispered to\nme, \"Do not mention this.\" The man did not seem aware of my presence; he\ntook no notice of me as I left the room. He was dark in color and very\nsad looking, and his dress was a long, black cloak and a soft black hat\nwhich he did not remove, pulled well over his eyes.\n\nI found out that evening that none of the general staff were aware of\nhis arrival, and I saw him no more.\n\nI remember clearly the first night that Annie Besant came to\nheadquarters as an interested inquirer. She arrived with the socialist,\nHerbert Burrows. Madame Blavatsky told me she was destined to take a\nvery great part in the future Theosophical movement. At that time such a\nthing seemed incredible, yet it has come to pass.\n\nAbout this period I went to live in the East End of London, Haggerston\nand Whitechapel, where I had a night shelter of my own. There I saw into\nwhat surroundings children were born, how they grow up, and how their\nparents live and die. I have seen so much of the lives of the outcast\npoor that I can feel nothing but the most passionate pity for them,\neven though I can now look upon them as souls just beginning to climb\nthe ladder of evolution.\n\nMy night shelter was for women only, and was purposely of the roughest\ndescription. The floor was bare concrete, and round the walls were heaps\nof millers' sacks I had bought cheap, owing to mice having eaten holes\nin them.\n\nAccording to our laws the legal age at which a girl can marry is\nthirteen, and I used to get many of these girl wives in for the night,\nas their lawful husbands used to turn them out of doors. I discovered\nthat it was no uncommon practice for a man to buy one of those children\nfrom the parents for a few pence, the parents' consent being necessary.\nThe marriage was solemnized, and the child wife was used only as a\ndrudge to slave for the husband and his mistress, who was of a more\nsuitable age to become his mate.\n\nI used to be very much troubled by women in the throes of delirium\ntremens. They would come in quite quietly when the shelter opened,\nstrip, pick up a sack and get into it, and then lie down and at once go\nto sleep. After a few hours' dead slumber they would get up, raving mad,\nand disturb all the other sleepers. The reason of this peculiar form of\nD. T. was explained to me by a doctor in the neighborhood. The publicans\nkept a pail behind the bar, into which was thrown the dregs of every\nspecies of liquor sold during the day. This concoction was distributed\ncheap at closing time, and its effects were cumulative.\n\nOne night I had a curious experience. The room was unusually quiet, and\nI had closed my eyes, but I was not asleep. I opened them, and, in the\nbright light of one unshaded gas jet, I saw a dark figure moving. Its\nback was towards me, and I instantly thought a plain clothes policeman\nhad entered, no unusual occurrence, without my hearing him. In these\ndays detectives used often to escort the West End ladies on slumming\nexpeditions, and they usually called on me. Then I saw this figure was\nclad in dark robes, and was very tall. Again I thought, this is some old\nJew who has crept in, and I was just about to rise and eject him, when\nsomething suddenly stopped me.\n\n_I saw through him and beyond him._ I then and there realized that\nfeeling of hair of one's head rising on one's scalp is no mere figment\nof speech.\n\nThe figure moved softly round the room, it made no sound whatever, and\nas it came to each sleeper it bent down, as if closely scrutinizing each\nface. It occurred to me that it was looking for some one. I began to\ndread the moment when the search was over, and the figure would turn its\nface towards me. I felt that my hair had turned into the quills of a\nporcupine. I wanted to shut my eyes, but dared not. Then before that\nquest was over, the figure straightened itself and turned full towards\nme. My fears instantly fell away from me like a fallen mantle, for\nthough I knew the visitor had come from the other side, there was\nsomething so profoundly sad in the pale weary face, that compassion\nquite eclipsed fear. Another second and it had vanished.\n\nI lived in Whitechapel during the dread visitation of \"Jack the Ripper,\"\nand all women at once adopted the habit of walking in the middle of the\nroad amongst the horses and carts. Fortunately there were no motors in\nthose days to add to the confusion. When we came to the house or alley\nwe wished to enter, we made a sudden dash for it.\n\nOne night I had occasion to pass the entire night by the bedside of a\ndying prostitute. She lived in one of four rooms, all occupied by the\nsame class, and all opening into a court not larger than ten feet by\nten. I suppose I must have been very tired, for I fell asleep, and about\nfive a. m. I woke and found I was alone, the woman was dead. I went out\ninto the court, hearing a sudden noise of excited voices, and discovered\nthat \"Jack\" had been at work in the adjoining room, only separated from\nmine by a match-board partition. Portions of the unfortunate woman were\nneatly arranged on a deal table. I had heard absolutely nothing. Later\non that same day I revisited the scene, and found a curious contrast.\nSeeing his way to a cheap furnished lodging, a coster had married his\ndonah in a hurry, and the wedding breakfast was being eaten off the\nblood-stained table!\n\nIt was in those days that I developed into a convinced Suffragist. I saw\nthat until men and women came together to improve and mold our\ncivilization, very little improvement could be expected. The son of the\nbondwoman is not on a level with the son of the free woman, and we saw\nthat the struggle must go on until we were accorded the right to govern\nour own lives.\n\nI could always see the anti's point of view, for, had I thought only of\nmy own position as an isolated unit, a vote would have seemed to me a\nneedless responsibility. No social worker who has penetrated to the\ndepths can maintain this attitude, and so, in company with all other\nwomen workers, I entered on the crusade which has just terminated in\nvictory. Much as I dislike militancy, I am convinced that it hastened\nour victory by very many years, by bringing the subject before the\nworld. Also the enormous number of idle and, formerly, indifferent\nwomen, who have rushed into work in answer to their country's call, has\nhelped our cause enormously. I have invariably found that directly a\nwoman enters the ranks of active labor, her views, however strongly they\nhave been opposed to us, at once swing round. Once a woman _proves for\nherself_ the disabilities under which we labor, she is at once\nconverted. To the very many women who suffered acute physical torture\nduring the militant campaign, our easy victory must seem passing\nstrange.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nTHE MAN IN THE MARYLEBONE ROAD\n\n\nIt is thirty years ago since I became a convert to Spiritualism. At that\ntime I made up my mind that I would attend fifty seances, and if, out of\nthat number, I did not come across one that I could be absolutely\ncertain was genuine I would attend no more. Spiritualism, in itself,\nnever interested me, but I was determined to see for myself if there was\nreally anything in it.\n\nI attended twenty-nine seances before I happened on one that was\nabsolutely convincing. Several had been almost convincing, but a\nloophole for fraud had remained, and so long as that was the case I\npersevered.\n\nI went one summer morning to see an old man who lived in the Marylebone\nRoad. I was shown up into a sunny little room on the first floor. It had\nneither carpet, curtains nor window blind, and it looked on the street.\nThe furniture consisted of a plain, uncovered deal table in the middle\nof a clean planked floor, and eight plain uncovered deal chairs were\nranged round the walls. The room was utterly destitute of ornament,\nthere was not even a clock, and I was the only occupant.\n\nSoon the old man entered, a very ordinary looking person, and civilly\nasked what I wanted.\n\nI said that I understood he was possessed of psychic powers, and I would\nlike to see an exhibition of them.\n\nHe smiled and answered, \"My fee is two-and-six for a quarter of an\nhour. Choose your own phenomenon, and I'll see what I can do.\"\n\nI was puzzled at first, and looked round the bare walls for inspiration.\nThere was not even a photograph or picture. Then suddenly I thought of\nsomething rather silly.\n\n\"Please make those four chairs opposite to us cross the floor and mount\non to the table,\" I said.\n\nThe old man drew his chair quite close to mine, \"Then give me your\nhand.\" I removed my glove and did as he asked.\n\nHe looked, not at the chairs, but into my face, and I at once warned\nhim.\n\n\"I am no good as a subject for hypnotism, so it is useless to try.\"\n\nHe laughed and answered, \"I am not a hypnotist, but I see you have\npower. You may as well lend me some. You are young, and I am old.\"\n\nAt that second my attention was distracted by a grating sound, and I\nforgot all about my companion. I saw the four chairs leave the wall and\nadvance towards the table, in exactly the position, and tilted forward,\nthey would be in if a human hand was dragging them across the floor.\nThere appeared to be four invisible hands at the work. Then, one by one,\nthey were neatly balanced, one on the top of the other, on the table.\n\nWhen the manifestation was complete I remembered the old man, and looked\nround at him. He was watching the business, as keenly interested as I\nwas.\n\n\"Good boys! good boys,\" I heard him murmur.\n\n\"How is it done?\" I asked him.\n\nHe shrugged. \"The Petris (spirits) do it. I don't.\"\n\n\"Then ask 'the Petris' to put the chairs neatly back again.\"\n\n\"The Petris\" performed this feat very expeditiously, and I paid\ntwo-and-sixpence and departed. There was no loophole here for fraud, not\na wire, or string, or any human manipulation, and I was not hypnotized.\nI never have been. For that sort of test I had seen enough.\n\nShortly after I witnessed a materialization in broad daylight. I was\nfree to move about the room, and stand by the medium as she lay bound\nand deeply entranced. I was free to make any examinations I pleased,\nwhilst others present conversed with the spirit, and I left the house\nabsolutely convinced of the genuineness of that phenomenon.\n\nThat was the last test seance I attended, and for years afterwards I did\nnot interest myself in spiritualism, nor did I attend many private\nsittings.\n\nTowards the close of the South African War I was ordered from \"the other\nside\" to begin again, but on different lines. I was ordered to be a\nmedium.\n\nA man whom I barely knew, and who had passed over, wished to communicate\nwith his people. This put me in a quandary. I hardly knew his people,\nand their social position was not such as could be treated\nunceremoniously by a casual acquaintance. I had never heard that they\nwere interested in \"other side\" subjects. The very little I knew of them\nsuggested quite the reverse.\n\nI consulted with my husband. \"One cannot,\" I argued, \"go up to people\nwho are almost strangers and tell them their son wishes to communicate\nwith them through me.\"\n\nMy husband quite saw the difficulty, but it had always happened that\nwhen any one wished to communicate with us, and we paid no attention, we\nwere given no peace till we did take heed, and sat down with an Ouija\nboard to receive the message. He therefore proposed that we should\nconsult Mr. A. P. Sinnett, now such a well-known writer on Occultism,\nand an old friend of ours. We therefore laid the matter before him.\n\nHis reply was uncompromising.\n\n\"Do as you are told from the other side. It is not for you to question\nor consider the social consequences to yourselves.\"\n\nThis advice we immediately followed, and we were met with the utmost\nkindness and sympathetic understanding. Sittings were arranged,\ncommunication established. Test questions were put, which we did not\nunderstand, but which were satisfactory to the questioners, and for many\nyears the sittings continued until the \"other side\" made arrangements\nfor a change of mediums and I was set free for other work. I say, set\nfree, because during all those years we had held ourselves entirely at\nthe disposal of this wonderful spirit, who communicated through me, and\nit is no exaggeration to say that our daily lives, our worldly plans,\nentirely depended upon his wishes. He had his own work to do, and our\nearth lives were always arranged to suit his convenience.\n\nAbout the same time as the above experience began my husband was\ndisturbed by noises in his library, and he came to the conclusion that\nsome one had something to say and was determined to say it. One evening,\nwhen the disturbance prevented serious reading, we sat down with the\nOuija board. The result was as follows--\n\nA spirit who purported to be a well-known soldier of fortune who had\nlately committed suicide, desired to give a message. This astonished us,\nas we had known him only slightly, and we wondered why he had chosen to\nbestow his attentions on us. He said he was very unhappy because he owed\na certain sum of money to a friend, whom I will call B. This money B.\ncould have refunded to him if he would communicate with a certain London\naddress, which the departed soldier gave us in full.\n\nWe knew B., and knew that he had been a close friend of the departed. We\nalso knew that B. was on the Gold Coast. We promised, however, to send\nhim the message, and that was the last we ever heard of the soldier.\n\nMy husband wrote to B. on the Gold Coast simply giving him the message\nand leaving it at that. We were sure B. was an absolute skeptic. He was!\nand did nothing till his return to England three years later, when he\napplied at the address which he happened to have kept, and received his\nmoney.\n\nI first became interested in Occultism, not only through my own very\nearly experiences, but through hearing as a mere child that my\ngrandfather, Robert the younger of the two well-known publishing\nbrothers, W. and R. Chambers, had investigated spiritualism to his\nentire satisfaction.\n\nIn those days, about 1860, scientific men did not trouble about occult\nsubjects, which were deemed beneath their notice. Science was so\nstrictly orthodox that my grandfather published his \"Vestiges of\nCreation\" anonymously. It created an enormous sensation, and upon that\nbook and the writings of Lamarck, Darwin founded his \"Origin of\nSpecies.\" Robert Chambers determined to go to America and investigate\nfor himself the reported marvelous happenings there. He had sittings\nwith all the renowned mediums, bringing to bear upon their phenomena the\nacumen of his scientific mind, and he returned to Europe a convinced\nbeliever. He carried on regular sittings with Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall\nand other intellectuals, and with General Drayson, then a young beginner\nwho went very far in his investigations before he died.\n\nAbout the year 1885 I happened to be staying at Hawarden with Mr. and\nMrs. Gladstone, and the only other guest, outside the family party, was\nthe late Canon Malcolm McColl, through whose instrumentality I became a\nmember of the Psychical Society.\n\nMcColl was a most interesting personality, a leading light on matters\noccult, and a famous recounter of ghost stories. He was also _persona\ngrata_ in the Gladstone household, and Mrs. Gladstone often spoke to me\nof their deep love for him.\n\nI forget now what led up to the subject, but one night, when we were\nsitting talking, I told Mr. Gladstone that my grandfather, Robert\nChambers, had been a convinced spiritualist. The Canon at once tried to\ndraw the G.O.M., and to our mutual amazement his arguments in favor of\nthe return of the disembodied soul to earth were met by concurring short\nejaculations, such as \"Of course! Naturally! Why, certainly!\"\n\nThen quite suddenly Mr. Gladstone began to prove to us that the old\nBiblical scribes were convinced spiritualists. From his intimate\nknowledge of the Bible he quoted text after text in support of his\ncontention. \"Here He worked no wonders because the people were wanting\nin faith,\" he compared to the present day medium's difficulty in\nworking with skeptics. When Christ asked, \"Who has touched Me? Much\nvirtue has passed out of Me,\" He but spoke as many a modern healer\nspeaks on feeling a failure of power. \"Try the spirits whether they be\nof God,\" is what all spiritualists of to-day should practice rigorously.\n\nConan Doyle, in his book, \"The New Revelation,\" touches upon those\nfacts, and it was only on reading his book with profound interest that I\nremembered the impressive talk I had so many years ago with Mr.\nGladstone. As Conan Doyle truly says, \"The early Christian Church was\nsaturated with spiritualism.\"\n\nWhat, it may be asked, is the value to a woman of psychic experiences,\nwhose reality may be convincing to herself, but never to others?\n\nFirstly, there is this enormous value for me, that certain psychic\nexperiences I have had make a future existence, after so-called death, a\ncertainty.\n\nSecondly, other varieties of psychic phenomena have furnished me with\nunmistakable proof that I possess an immortal soul.\n\nThirdly, still other varieties of experiences have provided me with the\nimplicit belief in a God, who is in actual touch with Humanity.\n\nAgain, all soul experiences, begotten from out the supreme mystery of\nBeing, show us that our real life is not contained in our present normal\nconsciousness, but in a vastly wider, grander plane, which, as yet, is\nbut dimly sensed by the few.\n\nThose who have bathed in \"the light invisible\" can bring glory to those\nin gloom. They visit, but no longer live in the day. Their glory is in\nthe night, when they walk with the Immortals, and bear with them the\ngolden lamps of life eternal. Those who have realized the powers within,\npowers which not only are the pillars of infinite harmony, but the\nmainspring of eternal life, have builded on a rock which no tempest can\ndestroy.\n\n\n    \"'Tis time\n    New hopes should animate the world,\n    New light should dawn from new revealings to a race\n        Weighed down so long.\"\n\n                         PARACELSUS.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nTHE GHOST OF PRINCE CHARLIE\n\n\nScotland in the autumn of the pre-war days was a very gay place. The big\ncountry houses were filled with shooting parties, and for the Autumn\nMeetings, Ayr races, Perth races, and games, The Inverness Gathering,\netc. The dates were so arranged that one could go the round, and thus\ndance through several weeks. I used to go regularly to Inverness, and\nafterwards visit friends in the surrounding neighborhood. One of the\nmost delightful houses to visit was Tarbat, belonging to the Countess of\nCromartie. Any one who has read her unique books must have come to the\nconclusion that Lady Cromartie is a mystic of no ordinary type, but only\nthose who know her intimately are aware how predominating in her\ncharacter is this inborn mysticism.\n\nI first remember the two sisters, Lady Sibell and Lady Constance\nMackenzie, hanging on to their father's arms as they walked about\nFolkestone. They were then tiny tots, and I was staying with their\nmother, the beautiful Lilian, daughter of Lord Macdonald of the Isles.\nBeautiful was the only word to describe Lord Cromartie's wife--and Lily\nseemed the most suitable name that could have been bestowed upon her.\nShe was intensely musical and interested in ghosts. Born the daughter of\na Highland chieftain she understood how to live the life of a great\nScottish noblewoman. She was always very kind to me, and I used to stay\nwith her very often.\n\nIn 1893 Lord Cromartie died, and his eldest daughter, Lady Sibell,\nbecame Countess of Cromartie in her own right--the title going in the\nfemale line. As a child the young Countess had been a great reader. I\nremember she used often to be missing, and found in some quiet room\nburied in a book. To this day she has the faculty of so absorbing\nherself in a book that no amount of talking and noise in the room\npenetrates her ears. Lady Constance was quite different, devoted to\nout-of-door life, and I shall never forget how adoring the old people on\nthe properties were to her, and how she loved them. One sterling and\nunusual quality she had. I never heard her say an unkind word of any\none.\n\nIn 1899 the Countess of Cromartie married Major, now Colonel Blunt, and\nshe has three fine children, two boys and a girl.\n\nOne of the most remarkable facts about her is her agelessness. She never\nalters with the years. Her white delicate skin, her girlish figure and\ndark glowing eyes, always retain their look of extreme youth.\n\nI have said that her mysticism must at once become apparent to the\nreaders of her books, but to those, who like myself have known her from\nchildhood, her psychic powers have always been extraordinary.\n\nI remember one autumn staying at Tarbat with only a very few other\nguests, I forget now who they all were. It had been a dead, still day.\nOne of those sad, brooding days one gets so often in the north. In the\nafternoon, when we were out walking, Lady Cromartie said suddenly to me\nand a Miss Drummond, whom we were both very fond of, \"There is going to\nbe an earthquake to-night.\"\n\nWe received this piece of information as a joke, and I thought nothing\nmore of the matter till tea-time, when a gorgeous sunset was\nilluminating the heavens. As we were standing at the window looking out\nat it we were all startled by a tremendous roar, more like a very loud\npeal of thunder than anything else, yet we knew, by the look of the sky,\nthat it could not have been thunder. Every one offered a different\nopinion as to what the noise could mean, but Lady Cromartie calmly said,\n\"The noise is in the earth, not in the sky; it is the forerunner of the\nearthquake.\"\n\nWe now began to take this earthquake business more seriously. Sibell\nDrummond, also very psychic, said she knew the noise came from the\ninterior of the earth, and that very early that morning she had heard\nthe same sound, only much more distant. We asked Lady Cromartie how she\ncould possibly tell that an earthquake was coming. Such convulsions are\nnot common enough in Scotland to admit of lucky guesses.\n\n\"I can tell those things of Nature; something in me is akin to them,\"\nshe explained. \"It is quite certain this earthquake will come before\nmorning.\"\n\nAs the sun went down the quiet weather changed, and by bed-time it was\nblowing such a gale that we forgot all about Lady Cromartie's prophecy.\nAt one o'clock in the morning, when we were all asleep, the earthquake\narrived, and awakened us all instantly. My bed rocked, and the china\nclattered, and I heard a big picture near my bed move out from the wall\nand go back again. Some of us got up, but there was only the one sharp\nshock. In the morning we heard that considerable damage had been done.\nSeveral houses and stables had been razed to the ground, and some\nanimals killed and people injured.\n\nAnother curious incident I remember happening during a visit to Tarbat.\n\nAt breakfast one morning Lady Cromartie told us that she had a very\nvivid dream just before daylight. She dreamed that if she went into a\ncertain room in the house she would find some jewels that had been\nhidden there. She seemed to have been told this in her sleep by some one\nshe did not know. The room was indicated, but not the spot where the\njewels lay. The present Duke of Argyll, always keenly alive to psychic\nphenomena, was of our party, and he at once proposed that directly after\nwe had finished breakfast we should all proceed to the room, rarely\nused, but formerly a business room, and make a thorough search.\n\nBy the way, I cannot refrain here from suggesting what a wonderful book\nof Scottish ghost stories the Duke could give us if he chose. His\nrepertoire was endless and most thrilling, and he knew how to tell a\nghost story.\n\nAfter breakfast we adjourned to the room indicated in the dream, and\nbegan our search. The only likely place seemed a large bookcase, full of\nbooks, with cupboards beneath. All the doors were locked and keyless. A\npause ensued whilst keys were fetched from the housekeeper's room, and\nfor a long time we could find nothing to fit the doors, but at last we\nwere rewarded. The cupboards below were opened, disclosing a quantity of\nrubbish. Old books, estate maps, fishing tackle, every sort of thing,\nbut no jewels.\n\nAt last the Duke, down on his knees fumbling amongst the dust, drew\nforth two tin japanned boxes. He shook them, and the thumping inside\nproved that they were not empty. The trouble was they also were locked\nand keyless. Again there was a scramble to fit keys. We were all on the\ntiptoe of excited expectation.\n\nAt last both boxes were opened, and there lay the jewels. Fine,\nold-fashioned pieces that had lain there, who knows for how long, and\nprobably had belonged to Lady Cromartie's grandmother, \"the Countess\nDuchess\" 3rd Duchess of Sutherland.\n\nStill another reminiscence of beautiful Tarbat.\n\nLady Cromartie asked me to join a shooting party she and Major Blunt\nwere giving, to meet Prince Arthur of Connaught.\n\nI arrived one evening in wild winter weather. There had been a heavy\nsnowstorm, and the sky looked as if there was considerably more to come.\nI found all the other guests had already arrived, and we were a very\nmerry party. It was Prince Arthur's first \"shoot\" in the far North, and\nhis first experience of what Scotland could provide in the way of autumn\nweather, and he was glad to avail himself of a thick woolen sweater of\nmine, which I was proud to present to him. He was perfectly charming to\nus all, and there was, owing to his simplicity, no sense of stiffness\nintroduced into our party. That evening, after dinner, he was strolling\nround the room, looking at the pictures, and he paused opposite a framed\nletter, written by Prince Charles Edward during the '45 to the Lord\nCromartie of that time, who was his earnest supporter.\n\n\"Why!\" exclaimed Prince Arthur, \"that letter is written by 'The\nPretender,' isn't it?\"\n\nThere was no answer. A thrill of horror ran through the breasts of the\nardent Jacobites present. Dead silence reigned.\n\nThen I could stand it no longer. \"Please, sir,\" I said, \"we all call him\nPrince Charles Edward Stuart.\"\n\nPrince Arthur turned round laughingly. \"I beg his pardon and all of\nyours,\" he exclaimed in the most charming manner, and the hearts of all\nthe outraged Jacobites warmed to him at once.\n\nI was just about to creep into bed, very late that night, and very tired\nafter my long, cold journey in a desperately sluggish train, when Lady\nCromartie peeped in at my door. Her wonderful dark eyes were ablaze, and\nI knew at once she had something psychic to tell me. Her eyes looked\nlike nothing else in the world but her eyes, when she is on the track of\na ghost, or one of her \"other side\" experiences.\n\n\"I have just seen Prince Charles Edward,\" she announced.\n\nI took her firmly by the arm. Prince Charles Edward means a very great\ndeal to me, and I don't let anything pass me by that concerns his\nbeloved memory.\n\n\"Tell me quick. Where did you see him?\" I asked.\n\n\"I was just going to get into bed when I saw him standing looking at me,\nat the far end of the room. He was smiling, and as I stared back at him\nhe slowly crossed the floor, his smiling face always turned to me, and\nvanished through the wall,\" was Lady Cromartie's answer.\n\nThen I told her of a certain feeling I had experienced earlier in the\nevening. At the moment when our Jacobite hearts were stung to deep,\nthough fleeting resentment, we had formed a thought form, powerful\nenough to reach the spirit of Bonny Prince Charlie on \"the other side.\"\nOur spirits had called on him, and he had heard and responded. Why not?\nIf we believe in the immortality of the soul, the soul of Prince Charles\nEdward surely lives. Where? On the Astral plane, where the souls of all\nmust go to divest themselves of the lower passions of earth, and the\nveil between the Physical plane and the Astral plane is wearing very\nthin in these days.\n\nFor many of us there are rents through which we are permitted to see the\nold friends who are not lost but gone before, and who await us in a\nsphere where we in turn will await the coming of those who follow after.\nIndeed, the time does not now seem to be so far distant when so-called\ndeath will be pushed one stage further back, and the transference of the\nsoul from earth to the Astral plane will no longer be treated as\nseverance. What then will be termed the severance we now call death? It\nwill be the passing of the cleansed soul from the Astral plane to the\nHeaven world, for a period of blissful rest before the life urge compels\nthe reincarnating ego to take on once more the veil of flesh, in a\ntransient human world.\n\nI doubt if it is possible for an English person to comprehend what it\nmeans to be a Jacobite. One is born a Jacobite or one is not. I was born\na Jacobite, and I never lose my passionate love and regret for the\nsufferings and sorrows of Prince Charles Edward. No female figure in the\npast attracts me so much as does Flora MacDonald. Had I lived during the\n'45 I would have worn the white cockade, and parted with my last \"shift\"\nfor the love of Bonny Prince Charlie. All very ridiculous, many may say,\nbut there it is. That is what it means to be born a Jacobite.\n\nMy grandfather was an ardent Jacobite, and consorted largely with old\nJacobite families. The Sobieski Stuarts often made their home with him.\nGrand looking men of striking physique and good looks. Robert Chambers\nused to tell a story of the ghost Piper of Fingask; the property of a\nfine old Jacobite, Sir Peter Murray Threipland. The baronetcy is now\nextinct.\n\nOne night, whilst my grandfather was visiting Sir Peter, they were\nsitting at supper in the old dining-hall. The two old sisters of Sir\nPeter, Eliza and Jessie, were present. Suddenly the faint strain of the\npipes was heard in the distance, surely no uncommon sound in Scotland,\nwhere every Laird has his own piper to play round the dining-table, yet\na sudden silence fell upon the little party of four. All ears were\nlistening intently, and straining eyes were blank to all but the\nevidence of hearing. The noise grew louder, the piper seemed to be\nmounting the stone staircase, yet his brogues made no sound as he\nascended.\n\nSir Peter dropped his head down into his arms folded upon the table. He\nsought to hide the fear in his old eyes. The women sat as if chiseled\nout of granite, gray to the lips. The piper of Fingask had come for one\nof them. Which? Now the piper of death was drawing very near, the skirl\nof his pipes had nearly reached the door. In another moment, with a full\nblast of triumph that beat about their ears as it surged into the hall,\nhe had passed, and had begun his ascent to the ramparts. The skirl was\ndying away into a wail. Miss Eliza spoke: \"He's come for you, Jessie.\"\nThere was no response. The piper of Fingask was playing a \"Last Lament\"\nnow, as he swung round the ramparts.\n\nTrue enough he had come for Miss Jessie, and very shortly after she\nobeyed the call.\n\nTo this day there are men and women who never forget to offer up their\npassionate regret for Prince Charles before they sleep. I know of one\nold Scottish house where his memory is an ever-present, ever-living\nthing. The shadowy old room is consecrated to him. On the walls hang\nportraits of him, and trophies of the '15 and the '45 stand round in\nglass cases. On one table lies a worn, white cockade, yellow with age,\nand a lock of fair hair clasped by a band of blackened pearls. In a tall\nslender glass there is always, in summer-time, a single white rose.\n\nAbove is the portrait of the idol of the present house, who gave in the\npast of their all in life and treasure, for the cause they hold so\nsacred, so dear. I cannot look upon that gay, careless, handsome face\nwithout the tears rising to my eyes. His eyes smile into mine.\nInvoluntarily I bend before him. What was the power in you, Prince\nCharles Edward Stuart, that drew from countless women and men that wild\nunswerving devotion? Which made light of terrible hardships, which\nfollowed you faithfully through glen and corrie? What is that power\nwhich you still exert over those to whom your name is but a memory, but\nwho still, when they think on you or look upon your pictured face, cry\nsilently in their hearts for the lost House of Stuart? \"Oh! waes me for\nPrince Charlie!\"\n\nOne must be Scotch to understand that the Union did nothing to unite\nEngland and Scotland. To the Scottish plowman the Englishman is still a\nforeigner, whom he dislikes. Scotch and English servants do not work\nwell in the same house. To us, Mary Queen of Scots lived \"only the\nother day.\" When the House of Stuart passed from us our history ended.\n\nOur old houses are full of ghosts, the atmosphere is saturated with the\ntragic history of the past, the very skies seem to brood in melancholy\nover the soil, where so many wild bloody scenes were enacted. To the\nPsychic, Scotland is a land not yet emerged from the dour savagery of\nthe past. Once, on visiting an historic old castle, my host pointed out\nto me a group of seven old trees standing close to the entrance.\n\n\"Seven skeletons lie there,\" he said. \"My grandfather went after a\nneighboring clan who had raided his cattle. He brought back seven men\nwith halters round their necks and strung them up to those trees. Holes\nwere dug beneath, and they all dropped into them by degrees, and then\nthe earth was shoveled over them again.\"\n\nWhat will become of all those grand old places in the future? They are\nso costly to maintain. I think of all those lying around our own\nAberdeenshire home; Fyvie Castle, a great stately pile, beautiful to\nlook upon always, but more especially so when the red fires of a winter\nsunset blaze upon its many windows, and turn to rose the mantling snow\non battlements and towers, whilst all around is wrapped in a garment of\nspotless white: House of Monymusk, Craigston Castle, Craigievar.\n\nI have just mentioned a few, all have their ghosts, and some have a\ncurse upon them.\n\nA friend of ours came to see us, not very long ago, and told us of a\nhorrible experience he had been through recently.\n\nHe had been visiting a great house in the North, noted in Scottish\nhistory. The new Laird had only entered into possession during the last\nfew years, on the death of a near relative, who had died from excessive\ndrinking, the Scotchman's curse. Our friend had heard that this dead\nLaird \"walked,\" but he had not met any one who had actually seen his\nghost. After spending a pleasant evening with his host, and going\nthrough many reminiscences of his former visits to the house, and to the\nlate Laird, who in spite of his fatal propensities had been a gallant\ngentleman and a great sportsman, our friend retired to bed.\n\nThe room he slept in was a large one, and the bed faced the door, and a\nwashstand stood on one side of it. He remembered the room, having slept\nin it on former occasions. He was roused in the night by some one rather\nnoisily fumbling at the handle of his door, which was not locked. He sat\nup in bed and called out, \"Who is it?\"\n\nThere was a full moon riding in a clear, frosty sky, and the room was\nonly in semi-darkness. He stared at the door, which at that moment burst\nopen, and standing in the aperture was a man, the dead Laird. Outside,\nwas a long corridor with several windows, through which the moonlight\npoured. Against this silvery background stood the huge figure of the\nlate Laird. He leaned forward, supporting himself by holding with both\nhands to the framework of the door, and with a glowering, half-drunken\nstare his eyes were fixed on the startled occupant of the bed.\n\nA panic seized our friend, who felt that if that menacing figure\nadvanced into the room he would go mad. There was only one door, and no\nother means of escape, and very stealthily he slid to the opposite side\nof the bed, and reaching out, seized the water-bottle on his washstand.\n\nThis action did not pass unnoticed by his terrible visitor. Suddenly\nrelaxing his hold on the doorposts, he dropped down on his knees, and\nbegan rapidly crawling on all fours towards the bed, his inflamed eyes\nblazing with anger.\n\nOur friend did not wait for his arrival. With a blood-curdling yell he\nhurled the water-bottle full at his old friend, and leaping from the\nother side of the bed tore to the door and fled down the passage, as if\npursued by a pack of devils. Hardly knowing what he did, he battered\nwith his hands on the door of the room he knew to be occupied by his\nhost and hostess, shouting out at the same time a call for assistance.\nThen he heard the voice of the wife saying to the husband, \"It's\nCharlie. Open the door. I believe he's seen poor Angus.\"\n\nHe had indeed seen \"poor Angus,\" and for the last time, he assured us.\nOld friendship could not stand the test of so horrible an apparition.\nThe room was empty when he returned to it with his host. Angus had gone\nback again to the land of the shadows, and only the scattered fragments\nof the water-bottle remained as a souvenir of his visit.\n\nSeveral servants had seen Angus, and it was difficult to keep the house\nstaffed. One old housemaid, who had been in the family many years, had\nseen him frequently, and had even ventured to remonstrate with her\nformer master, bidding him go back to his shroud and sleep peacefully in\nhis grave like a respectable man, but apparently to no purpose. Angus\npreferred to \"walk\" and to terrify all to whom he had the power to show\nhimself.\n\nSpeaking of the Duke of Argyll has reminded me of some curious\noccurrences in connection with Lord Colin Campbell. At one time of my\nlife, soon after my father's death, I saw a good deal of him. He was\nthen studying law and intended later to practice in India. This plan he\ncarried out, and in India he died, the result of a chill.\n\nLord Colin was a very interesting man, a keen geologist and something of\nan artist. There were few subjects he was not interested in, and though\nsomewhat shy of the subject, he had a decided aptitude for ghosts.\n\nOne day in London he brought to my house a small gold cross fixed to a\nslab of gray marble, and asked me if I would keep it for him. He\nexplained that it was an exact reproduction of the old stone cross of\nInverary. He was then living in Argyll Lodge, Campden Hill, and I said I\nshould have thought there was room enough for it there. I could not\nunderstand why he brought it to me. He looked uneasy and said he wished\nto get rid of it out of the house. When pressed to say why, he confessed\nthat there was something uncanny about it. He thought it made him \"see\nthings,\" and he added, \"Garry hates it.\"\n\nGarry was a fine, sable collie, devoted to his master and he to it.\nGarry had the misfortune to break his leg, and this caused Lord Colin\nacute distress. The leg was set, and the dog lay in a large clothes\nbasket, and eventually got well. Garry was just recovering when Lord\nColin brought me the cross.\n\nHe became more expansive in a few moments, and said that he had seen a\nfigure bending over the cross, as if to examine it. The figure had a\nhood, and he thought it must be the ghost of a monk. He had seen this\nmany times, and Garry often growled, and his hair bristled at the very\nmoment when his master caught sight of the apparition. Anything that\ndistressed the dog must be removed, and knowing how interested I was in\nghosts he had brought the cross to me.\n\nOf course I was delighted to have a chance of witnessing psychic\nphenomena of any kind, but alas, though I kept the cross for years, and\nonly sent it lately to the present Duke, I never saw anything in\nconnection with it.\n\nI did, however, see something interesting in connection with Lord Colin.\n\nOne hot June evening, in London, I was sitting alone by the open window.\nThe day had been very exhausting; it was one of those hot spells that\ncome so often before regular summer sets in, and I was glad to rest\nquietly and do nothing.\n\nThe street was wonderfully quiet at that hour, nine o'clock, when all\nthe world of fashion was dining, and the daylight was strong enough to\nread by, had I so desired. Suddenly my attention was attracted by a\nslight noise behind me, and glancing round at the open door I saw that\nLord Colin and his dog had just entered the room, as was their habit,\nunannounced. In his hand he carried a huge bunch of white and mauve\nlilac blossoms. I had not expected him that evening, but I was very\npleased to see him, and exclaimed, \"Why, Colin, what a glorious bouquet!\nI can smell it already.\"\n\nHe was smiling as he and his dog moved up the long room towards me, but\nhe said nothing. I had risen and held out my hand, but when about\nhalfway across the floor both he and the dog vanished entirely and quite\nsuddenly.\n\nI shall never forget my utter amazement and consternation. I could not\ndisbelieve the evidence of my own senses, for I was absolutely certain\nI could still smell the lilac, and I had no doubt whatever that I had\nseen Lord Colin and his dog.\n\nI sat down again and fell to considering the extraordinary circumstance.\nI was perfectly well and normal, I had not been thinking of Lord Colin,\nand yet in the midst of other thoughts a sound had attracted my\nattention, and looking round I had seen him enter with his dog. For the\nspace of quite two minutes both had been visible. I got up again and\ntimed the whole affair by my wrist watch. The room I sat in was very\nlong. I was at one end, and the door at the other. It took me just one\nminute to walk leisurely forward over the ground they had covered,\nbefore they vanished from my sight.\n\nI sat down again and began to wonder if Lord Colin was ill, or was he\ndead, and why was he carrying lilacs? 'Phones were uncommon things in\nthose days; I had no means of communication with Argyll Lodge.\n\nFor an hour I sat considering the wonderful vividness of my curious\nexperience. The daylight had faded into a close, soft twilight, but I\nwanted no artificial light. Then just as ten o'clock was striking I\nheard a voice in the hall below; a voice I was sure was Lord Colin's,\nand he was answered by one of my servants. Steps sounded on the stairs,\nand in another moment in he walked with Garry, and in his hand he\ncarried a big bunch of white and mauve lilacs.\n\nI stood staring at him in the dim twilight. Was this the real man and\ndog at last?\n\n\"I know it's awfully late to pay a call, but I thought you would like\nsome lilac,\" he exclaimed; \"it's so lovely in our garden just now,\" and\nhe held out the flowers.\n\nI took them and bade him be seated. Garry came to me and rested his nose\non my lap. For a moment I could not speak.\n\n\"Aren't you well?\" asked Colin.\n\nThen I recovered myself, but I did not tell him what had happened only\nan hour before. As we talked I discovered that he had intended to come\nat nine o'clock, and was just starting when a relative arrived and\ndetained him.\n\nOn another occasion he told me of a curious dream he had as a boy.\n\nQueen Victoria came to Inverary to pay a visit to the Duke and Duchess\nof Argyll, Lord Colin's parents, and it was arranged that the young sons\nof the house should act as pages to Her Majesty. The night of the day on\nwhich the Queen arrived, Colin dreamed that some one whom he did not\nknow came to him and said, \"To-morrow the Queen will give you twenty\nshillings.\"\n\nWhen the boy wakened up in the morning he remembered this dream, and all\nday long he was on the outlook for its fulfillment. The hours passed,\nbut though he was often in her presence and kept as close to her as he\ndared, the Queen never produced her purse. Just before reentering the\nhouse towards evening, she suddenly turned to John Brown, her constant\nattendant, and said something which Colin did not catch. What was his\njoy on perceiving that surly henchman extract from a shabby old purse a\nfilthy Scotch one pound note, which he handed to Her Majesty.\n\n\"My little Colin, here is a present for you,\" said the Queen, and making\nhis best bow the boy accepted the gift. His dream had come true.\n\nJohn Brown was the terror of all the great nobles whom the Queen was\npleased to visit. Her Majesty took him everywhere with her, and he was\nher closest attendant. Born of the humblest Scotch parents on the Estate\nof Balmoral, he died in the position of a potentate in a royal\nresidence. His manners were terribly rough and objectionable, and his\nbehavior to the gentlemen with whom he constantly came into contact was\ninsulting to the last degree. He had one invariable habit. When the\nQueen paid a visit naturally her honored host was in waiting to hand her\nout of her carriage. Brown contrived to nip down from his perch at the\nback of the carriage, just at a certain moment, and with a violent push\nthrust aside the prince, duke or peer who sought to do honor to the\nSovereign.\n\nSome of the gentlemen about the Court paid him very liberally, not for\ncivility, but simply to desist from his habitual insults, and it has\nbeen said that Disraeli discovered some method of conciliation, but\nBrown took an absolute pleasure in insulting all who had occasion to\napproach Her Majesty. Latterly he drank very heavily, and when he died,\nto the unutterable relief of all and sundry he bequeathed all his\nsavings and possessions, even the watch he wore, to Her Majesty. His\nmany poor relatives living in cottages on the estate never saw a penny\nof his money, nor so much as a button from his doublet.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nPILGRIMS AND STRANGERS\n\n\nWe are all of us, in this world, strangers and pilgrims, and to each\nhuman being, in turn, and in varied ways, comes the knowledge, \"A\nstranger with Thee and a sojourner as all my Fathers were.\"\n\nLike ships that pass in the night \"we exchange signals with one\nanother,\" and pass on our different ways through the ocean of life. I\nthink it is the sea that most clearly brings home to me the transitory\nnature of our pilgrimage. Leaning over the side of a ship in mid ocean,\nand watching a trail of smoke from another ship on the horizon, I am\nalways impelled to wonder about its human cargo. Who and what are they,\nand for what distant shores are they bound? Again one sweeps the far\nhorizons only to find them empty of aught but a vast tumbling expanse of\nwaters. Then, without warning, we are wrapped in a dense blanket of fog.\nThe sirens sound insistently, and are at once answered by ships on every\nside. It is startling to find there are many so near, but utterly\ninvisible. In a few minutes we have emerged again into distance and\nclear skies, and again there is nothing that meets the eye but the empty\nwatery expanse.\n\nLooking back on my life I can recall many meetings with fellow pilgrims\nthat apparently were purely accidental, yet they left their mark upon\nmy life. Meetings such as those, when two souls thrown together by the\nforce of circumstances, in quiet far-away places; or in the marts of the\nworld, become in a few short hours like old and tried friends. How often\nhave I heard it said, even after one short hour, \"I feel as if I had\nknown you all my life.\" Such I look upon as epochs in my pilgrimage,\nmilestones and guiding stars on my life's road. Yet the limitations of\nsuch epochs are obvious enough. Time on earth is circumscribed, still\nthere is subconsciously the instant recognition of two kindred souls who\nhear and remember, who instinctively know that once, perchance many\ntimes before, they have landed together on the shores of time, from the\nstorm-tossed bark of life.\n\nIt seems strange that those chance meetings should have no continuity. I\nremember one such meeting in the East, and how utterly by chance it\nseemed to come about. It lasted for three days, yet after three hours I\nknew more of my fellow pilgrim and he of me than we would have known of\neach other in three months at home. We were both quite alone, but I\nremember his recalling the pre-Buddha words written a thousand years\nbefore the coming of the Christ: \"Thou shalt not separate thy Being from\nBeing, and the rest, but merge the ocean in the drop, the drop within\nthe ocean. So shalt thou be in full accord with all that lives, bear\nlove to men as though they were thy brother pupils, disciples of one\nteacher, the sons of one sweet mother.\"\n\nWhen we bade each other good-by and I boarded my ship we told each other\nwe would meet again, but instinctively we knew we never should. I have\nforgotten his name, but all else I can remember very clearly, and the\nwonderful comradeship two souls, drifting together for a second in time,\ncan give each other. He gave me the sufi mysticism of Omar Khayyam, and\nI can still see the English face burnt dark with eastern suns, under the\nsnowy turban, and the brilliant parrot swinging on a palm bough above\nhis head. I can still hear the low grave voice reciting the quatrains of\nPersia's astronomer poet, written a thousand years ago. They fitted in\nwith our surroundings:--\n\n    \"There was a door to which I found no key.\n    There was a veil past which I could not see!\n    Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee\n    There seemed, and then no more of Me and Thee.\"\n\nI suppose we all have many such recollections in our lives, and it is\nimpossible (for me) to believe them to be a mere matter of chance, for,\nalways on parting, I have been conscious that I have received some\nlasting good, or it has mercifully chanced that I have been able to help\na stranger and pilgrim on a difficult way.\n\nAgain, I remember another interesting meeting. A woman was sitting alone\non a bench in the outskirts of Cairo, and her worn face was turned to\nthe dying fires of sunset. She was very shabby and poor looking, and\nobviously she was a European. In my casual glance I caught something\nfamiliar, and after going on some paces I felt a compelling force\nbidding me return. I sat down beside her and at once spoke to her. I\nknew who she was when she turned her face to me, and the hideous\ncontrast of her past and her present appalled me. She does not know\nto-day that I am aware of her real identity. She is in England, and all\nnow is well with her. One can always, as the pre-Buddhist taught us,\n\"Point out the way however dim and lost amongst the Host, as does the\nevening star to those who tread their path in darkness.\"\n\nAgain, it is strange to tell why unknown pilgrims should leave their\nmark upon us for all earthly time, pilgrims to whom one has never\nspoken, and of whom one knows nothing. When I was quite a child I passed\nevery day through a very quiet and well-to-do street of dwelling-houses.\nAt a window behind two flower-pots, sat a woman whom I supposed to be\nsewing, though her hands were hidden from view. I can see her as clearly\nnow as I saw her then, over forty years ago in the northern capital. The\npale, tragic profile, the down-drooped eyelids, the meekly-banded hair.\nI used to wonder about her constantly. She possessed me, and interested\nme at that time more than anything else in my life. Even to this day she\ncomes unbidden into my mind at frequent intervals.\n\nAgain from my bedroom window in Belgrade I used to watch another woman.\nShe came out on her balcony twice a day, always at the same hours. She\nput her hands on the rails, and turned her dark, southern face up to the\nskies, and there she would stand for an hour, gazing fixedly above. I\nnever once saw her eyes drop to the busy street below, and once a\nprisoner, dragging his heavy chains behind him, paused and looked up and\ncried out to her for bread. She appeared not to hear him, her rigid\nattitude never relaxed.\n\nIt is the thoughts of such pilgrims, as one conjectures them to be, that\nform the interest, or perhaps it really is something more, a far-off\nkinship, stretching invisible threads down through the ages. With both\nthose women I had a feeling of kinship. I had picked them out of the\nworld's crowd, because of some silent influence they exerted over me,\nthe lingering power of some far back, forgotten touch, which had once\ndrawn us together. I know that in my life I had met those \"that I have\nloved long since and lost awhile.\"\n\nFor me there was purpose in those \"stars\" that shine through my life, as\nlooking back they show me where I had arrived at the moment of their\nuprising, and their rays pierce the penumbra shadows wherein the soul\nlies hid. Each star showed me the lees in the cup of destiny, brought to\nme a new revelation of soul, and elucidated for me something of the\nmystery of life.\n\nAgain, surely there is Divine purpose in those islets of friendship\nwhich jewel-like stud the gray vesture of ordinary existence. They are\nclose, warm, and utterly sincere, often for many long years, then they\nare suddenly sundered by the inrush of some invading force which cuts\nthem off in their full bloom. Sometimes the Master Death bids them pass\non, sometimes the break comes by some utterly trivial, yet inexorable\nfiat of human destiny.\n\nIn the clash of human interests it must needs be that pain must come to\nsome. Life cannot be all serenity and peace to the pilgrims who toil\nupon its stormy way, its _via dolorosa_. Such crises teach us the just\nattitude that should prevail in all such trials and circumstances. Amiel\nsays, \"There is one wrong man is not bound to punish, that of which he\nhimself is the victim. Such a wrong is to be healed, not avenged.\" For\nhate there is but one antidote--love. The art of forgetfulness is not\nyet a science, but to forget the evil one has but to remember the good.\nLove knows neither saint nor sinner, for she seeks in every heart the\nhidden gem of good. She thinks no ill, because she knows the trials of\neach one are penalty enough for deeds already done. Neither in the case\nof Death's intervention, nor in the case of human misunderstanding\nshould there be sorrow for lost friendships, though there must\ninevitably be regret.\n\nLove brings with it suffering, for all who love suffer with those they\nlove. Unkindness and injustices are hard to bear, and the loss of those\nwe love is a bitter pain, but those whose hearts are great enough still\nfind others on whom to lavish love. Are there not many who need it, and\nare there not great rewards for those who have love to spare. To be\nrequired, to be appealed to, and turned to as a help and refuge. Such\nare the prizes for those whose hearts are always alight with love, who\nfrom one flame can kindle many.\n\nWhen death looses the silver cord, and souls seem torn asunder for ever\nmore, there will be sadness of spirit. When a break comes, perhaps\nthrough third-party treachery, there may come the sense of eternal\nseverance, but is it eternal? I doubt it. More probably there lies\nbefore us an existence of clearer judgment and understanding, of vaster\npossibilities, in which we shall know, even as also we are known. Though\nnow we see each other through a glass darkly, a day will come when we\nshall no longer see in part, but face to face. When faith, hope and love\nshall be reunited, and we shall realize that the greatest of these three\nis love, which suffereth long, and is kind and thinketh no evil.\n\nAgain, there are these loves in one's life, some fleeting, some\nlasting, that are too sacred to write of, and of which one never speaks.\nThe joys and sorrows they brought, the prose or poesy of our intercourse\nare graven deep on the heart. Whether it be they still walk by our side,\nor have gone west to rest after labor, we must learn to say with the\npre-Buddhists of old time: \"Do not grieve for the living or the dead.\nNever did I not exist for you... nor will any one of us ever hereafter\ncease to be.\"\n\nSuch sacramental hours sanctify the variety of our lot, combine the\npathos of love and death, and stretch through the corridors of memory\ninto the hush and shadow of the haunted past; where all the mystery of\nsuch hours seem gathered for inspiration. There linger the symbols of\nour sojourn here. How potent, yet how fragmentary they are! The scent of\na flower, the long embrace, the hand held out in vain, the flash of\nrecognition, the chime of the clock which altered the course of the\npilgrimage. The meek hands folded on the still breast. Such symbols\nabide with us like the image of a Divine form, some echo of immortal\nmusic, some lingering word of angels. Their cadences come ever back to\nus from infinite distances, ghostly chords and evanescent. Harmonies\nwhich come and go too fitfully for apprehension.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nSOME STRANGE EVENTS\n\n\nAfter my marriage my husband and I passed some time in the United States\nand Canada; we then returned to England and took a place in\nCambridgeshire. We were both very fond of racing, and attended all the\nmeetings at Newmarket.\n\nOne day I drove by appointment to the house of a neighbor who had asked\nme to meet Miss Catherine Bates, author of that interesting book, \"Seen\nand Unseen.\"\n\nJust before I started my husband, half in fun, and knowing Miss Bates to\nbe a psychic, said, \"Ask her what horse is going to win the\nCambridgeshire.\"\n\nI promised to put the question and drove off. I had a most interesting\nvisit, but I totally forgot to ask Miss Bates for the winner of the\ncoming race.\n\nIt was not until I was seated in the victoria, exchanging a few parting\nwords with the two ladies standing in the doorway to bid me good-by,\nthat I suddenly recollected my husband's request. As the horses were\nstarting I called out to Miss Bates--\n\n\"Tell me what's going to win 'The Cambridgeshire?'\"\n\nThe answer was prompt and clear:\n\n\"Marco to win, ---- for a place.\" (I regret I cannot remember the name\nof the second horse.)\n\nAs I drove away I waved my thanks, and directly I got home I told my\nhusband--\"Marco to win, ---- for a place.\"\n\nHe was much interested in this \"tip\" from so well-known a psychic, and\nof course we backed \"Marco to win and ---- for a place\" for all we were\nworth. I wish I could remember the odds. I only know that they were\n\"long.\"\n\nThe event duly came off, and I wrote to Miss Bates thanking her for the\ngood turn she had done us.\n\nHer reply astounded me.\n\nShe began by saying she had not heard me put any question to her\nregarding the winner of the Cambridgeshire, and went on to say that she\nknew nothing about racing, and knew none of the horses' names, therefore\nit was impossible that she could have given me the \"tip.\"\n\nHer hostess cared nothing for racing, and was as ignorant as she was\nupon the subject, but she did remember hearing me call out to Miss\nBates, \"What's going to win the Cambridgeshire?\"\n\nI then questioned our coachman and footman. Both distinctly remembered\nmy calling out the question, and both, keen on racing, listened for the\nreply, but they heard none.\n\nWhere did that answer come from? I cannot tell. Was some spirit\ninterested in racing hovering near? Did he contrive to drop the \"tip\"\ninto my mind, open at that moment and eager to catch the response?\n\nA year after the event I have recounted above, I was resting one\nafternoon in the summer-time. I had been ill, and was not yet strong\nenough to lead an ordinary life, and I was lying on a sofa in a top\nfloor room. The room immediately beneath me was the drawing-room, and\nthe weather being hot all the windows were wide open. The house we\ninhabited was quite isolated in its own park, and the village was about\nhalf a mile distant. My husband was from home, and I was alone in that\nparticular part of the house, the servants' quarters being at the back,\nand shut off from the rest.\n\nOut of the absolute quiet suddenly came the sound of music. Some one was\nplaying my piano in the drawing-room below. This, in itself, caused me\nirritation, but no surprise. I was not well enough to entertain callers\nat tea, due in half an hour, and I had given orders that I would see no\none, but it had happened before that the musical neighbors had called,\nand whilst waiting for me had sat down to the piano.\n\nI was too annoyed to hasten downstairs. I lay waiting for the butler to\ncome to me and inform me why my orders had been disobeyed. Meanwhile I\nlistened to the music, and wondered greatly who the brilliant pianist\ncould be. I did not recognize the music, but it sounded quite modern,\nand requiring a great amount of technique. The player was, however, a\nmost brilliant performer, who had acquired considerable skill.\n\"Evidently a professional,\" I thought, and wondered all the more who it\ncould possibly be.\n\nStill there were no signs of the ascending butler, and time continued to\npass. I began to feel obstinate, and determined to remain where I was,\nuntil I was correctly informed of the caller's identity.\n\nThe music steadily continued, every note borne to my ears as clearly as\nif I had been in the room with the performer. \"Very wonderful music, but\nsoulless,\" I concluded, and though my curiosity was growing every\nmoment my obstinacy prevailed, and I remained where I was. At last,\nafter quite twenty minutes, the music suddenly stopped; it broke off in\nthe middle of a movement.\n\nI rose at once, and went downstairs feeling very cross. I pushed open\nthe drawing-room door and entered. It was absolutely empty, but the\npiano, which had not been opened for several weeks, was open now. I went\nto the window which commanded the avenue; not a soul was in sight. Then\nI rang the bell, and when the butler entered the following dialogue took\nplace:----\n\n\"Who was the caller who has just been?\"\n\n\"There have been no callers to-day, madam.\"\n\n\"But surely you heard the piano being played?\"\n\n\"We heard a lot of music, but we thought it was you playing, madam.\"\n\n\"Then you all heard it?\"\n\n\"All of us in the hall heard it, madam.\"\n\nI left it at that. Suddenly it came to me that I had better not push my\ninquiries further. Until that second it had never occurred to me that\nthe performer might be a disembodied spirit.\n\nThe butler did not leave the matter alone, but made every inquiry at the\nLodge, and also of the out-door servants, but nothing came of it. No one\nhad seen a stranger, and the silver was intact. My maid told me some\ntime afterwards that the household had shaken down to the conviction\nthat I had really been the performer, and that my recent illness had\ncaused me to forget the fact. I let this conviction remain unshaken, but\nI marveled at the lack of musical discrimination my household displayed.\nThe disparity between my strumming and the brilliant execution of my\nspirit guest was so vast that I could not even feel flattered by their\nmistake.\n\nA year or two after we took a cottage on the Thames, and there, during\nour summer visits, I had an uncomfortable time.\n\nThere was something wrong with the sideboard end of the dining-room. For\na long time I could not make out what it was. My attention was\nconstantly being attracted to the spot. If I passed the door I thought\ninstantly of the sideboard. In plain language, I was constantly being\ninvited, by some invisible person, to come in and have a drink. If I was\nputting anything away in the sideboard the suggestion was always very\nstrong. On the outside stood a tantalus of spirits and soda water, ready\nto refresh any calling boating men. Inside the cupboards were wine\ndecanters.\n\nI always resisted the suggestion, I suppose because I did not happen to\nwant anything to drink--for years I have been a total abstainer, and at\nthe time I certainly did not realize the menace of those suggestions.\n\nNow and again I caught sight of a small oblong gray cloud hovering in\nfront of the sideboard but it was not till many months afterwards that I\nsaw something much more definite. The gray shadow had become the clearly\ndefined shade of a small woman. She hovered about the spot in a\nwavering, undecided manner. It was apparent that she was seeking\nsomething. One day, in a flash, I recognized the truth, the suggestion\ncame from her. She was inviting me to drink with her.\n\nMy husband and I set to work to find out who this unfortunate woman had\nbeen when she dwelt on earth. We discovered a very sad story. She had\nbeen a celebrity of the half world, and I had actually seen her in the\nflesh. She had traveled to Monte Carlo one winter in the next sleeping\ncompartment to ours, and she had lived for some years in our riverside\ncottage. Latterly she had fallen an incurable victim to drinking, and\nhad died of it. Poor little soul; my heart went out to her in deepest\npity, but I was glad to leave the cottage forever, when in 1898 we went\nto live at my husband's place, Balquholly, Aberdeenshire.\n\nSome people, perhaps once in their lives, become sensitive enough to\nrecognize a visitor from the Astral plane. If the occasion is not\nrepeated they believe themselves to have been victims of hallucinations.\nOthers find themselves seeing and hearing, with increasing frequency,\nsomething to which those around them are blind and deaf. They realize,\nin fact, that they are in touch with the Astral plane, the region lying\nnext to our world of dense matter, and often some Astral entity on the\nlowest levels of that plane is continuously striving to work through\ntheir mediumship. The world is very far from realizing this danger. What\nare those entities working for?\n\nThe man or woman who has led a decently pure life on earth will have no\nattraction to the lowest levels, contiguous with earth, of the Astral\nplane, and will, at so-called death, pass swiftly through it. But, alas!\nthe vast majority have by no means freed themselves from all lower\ndesires before passing over, and it takes a considerable time before the\nevil forces generated on earth work themselves out on \"the other side.\"\n\nThe length of man's detention on the lower level will depend entirely\non the earthly life he has lived, and the quality of the desires he has\nindulged in.\n\nThe desires of a drunkard, a debaucher, are as strong after death as\nbefore. The present Bishop of London made that very clear in one of his\nEaster addresses, but the subject finds it impossible, without a\nphysical body, to gratify his lusts. Occasionally it can be done in a\nvicarious manner, when he is able to seize on a like minded person and\nobsess him or her, or when he finds a medium who consciously or\nunconsciously panders to his desires. For this reason I hold it to be\nimperative for safety's sake, that every genuine medium should be a\ntotal abstainer.\n\nHow often one is asked the question: \"What is a medium?\"\n\nIt is a difficult question to answer in a few words. I should put it\nthus----\n\nA medium is one whose principles, physical, mental, spiritual, are so\nloosely bound together that an Astral entity can draw from him without\ndifficulty the matter it requires for manifestation. The very essence of\nmediumship is the ready separability of the principles.\n\nIn the case of the poor little woman I have mentioned, she was fortunate\nenough not to meet with (in me) a sensitive, through whom her passion\ncould be vicariously gratified.\n\nSuch unfulfilled desires gradually burn themselves out, and the\nsuffering caused in the process no doubt goes to work off evil Karma\ngenerated in the past life. It is the soul that desires, the body is but\nthe tool to grasp the desire, and after death old lusts crowd upon the\ndeparted. Thirsty with no throat; sensual with no body to grip the foul\ndesire, soon it is learned that the worst evils and the hardest to undo\nhave been woven out of the mind.\n\nHere is another story or two relating to one of the most puzzling\nmysteries in ghost lore--the phenomena of temporary hauntings.\n\nWhy do ghosts suddenly take possession of a house with which, in their\nincarnate days, they have had no connection?\n\nSuch ghosts differ from those only seen once. They take up their abode\nin a dwelling which has absolutely no traditions of haunting. They will\nbe seen and heard on many occasions, for a few months, possibly for a\nfew years. They will then suddenly depart, and be seen or heard no more.\n\nSuch apparitions cannot readily be traced to any defunct friend or\nmember of the family. They have no known connection with the house in\nwhich they appear, and no one can form the faintest conception why they\nshould suddenly elect to \"walk\" within those four walls, which hitherto\nhave been normal and free from \"other side\" visitors.\n\nA case of this description happened to my youngest brother, who, before\nhe bought his present country house, lived in a detached, new building,\nnot far from the Dean Bridge, in Edinburgh.\n\nHe had occupied this house for some years previous to his experience,\nand had neither heard nor seen anything of a spooky nature. The\nmanifestation only lasted for a few weeks. Nothing in the form of a\nghost was seen, but much was heard.\n\nI will give the story in my brother's own words:\n\n\"On a certain evening, a year or two ago, I went out after dinner to\nvisit some friends, and returned home about half-past eleven.\n\n\"Not feeling inclined to go to bed, I took up a book and sat down to\nread for half an hour.\n\n\"About a quarter-past midnight I suddenly became aware that stealthy\nfootsteps were coming upstairs. Looking at my watch I thought it very\nstrange that any of the maids should be still up at such a late hour.\n\n\"The door was well ajar, and I arose from my chair, listening intently,\nas I crossed the room. The footsteps were now quite distinct, and I knew\nat once they were not those of any woman. They were the stealthy\nfootsteps of a man, and naturally I at once concluded that he was a\nburglar.\n\n\"I calculated swiftly that he would either enter the room in which I\nstood, or he would go on and up the next flight of stairs to the\nbedrooms. In any case, he had to be faced and caught. I realized that,\nand I much regretted I had nothing at hand which would help me, should\nhe prove to be armed.\n\n\"There was, however, no time for further thought. Every second brought\nhim nearer, and taking up a position just behind the door, I waited till\nhe arrived on the landing, and until he came to the spot when he must\neither turn in, or go on upstairs.\n\n\"The moment came, almost at once. With a sudden bound I sprang out to\nclose with him. Lo! and behold! nothing was to be seen! Nothing was now\nto be heard, except the ticking of a clock.\n\n\"I stood still and absolutely astounded. The footsteps had been no trick\nof imagination, I was very sure of that. Had I not heard them stealthily\nbeginning the ascent of the stairs, and grow louder the nearer they\napproached me?\n\n\"I mopped my brow. Would any self-respecting burglar have come on, and\nup a lighted staircase, and along a landing towards a room which he must\nhave known was still occupied, as the light shone through the half-open\ndoor? Are burglars ever as rash as that?\n\n\"Then I reminded myself that as there was no burglar in the case my\nspeculations were mere waste of time.\n\n\"I put out the lights, and went to bed in a very uncomfortable frame of\nmind.\n\n\"The next day, when I returned home from business, my housekeeper\ninformed me that a strange man had been walking about the house. She had\nnot seen him, though she had looked for him--that was the curious part\nof it, but she had heard him quite distinctly, several times, and she\ndidn't like it one little bit. Not that she was frightened! Oh! dear no,\nbut it was uncanny, and she thought she had better tell me. I thanked\nher and assured her that there was nothing to fear. The house was quite\nnew, and uncanny things never happen in new houses. I advised her not to\nmention the subject to any one but me, and told her that I was not going\nout again that evening.\n\n\"After dinner I settled down in my room, to wait for the footsteps I\ninstinctively felt sure would return. I kept the lights burning on\nstairs and landing, and set the door half open, placing my chair in such\na position that I could see any one who passed outside the room on the\nlanding. This time I did not think of arming myself. I had come to the\nfirm conclusion that the sounds came from no person living in the flesh.\nAs no house adjoined mine I had no 'next door' on which to lay the\nblame for the disturbance.\n\n\"Sure enough, about an hour earlier this time, the unknown, unseen\nvisitor began his ascent of my staircase. I cannot describe my feelings\nduring those moments of waiting for 'it' to pass. I can only say they\nwere intensely unpleasant, and I hope I may never again have to confess\nmyself to be a wretched coward. A burglar would at that moment have\nappeared to me in the guise of a dear friend.\n\n\"However, the thing had to be faced, there was no one else that I could\nput onto the job, and so I simply sat still and waited, with my eyes\nfixed on the landing outside. The steps came on, distinct enough, and\ngrowing nearer and louder. They arrived on the landing, they reached my\ndoor, they passed, and proceeded to mount the next flight of steps to\nthe bedrooms. I had seen absolutely nothing.\n\n\"I rose and walked out on to the landing, and looked up at the brightly\nlit staircase. I could mark, by the sound, the progress made by those\ninvisible feet. They passed on to the bedroom floor, and with heartfelt\ngratitude I heard them enter, not mine, but an empty room. I heard\nnothing more that night. Presumably the ghost remained quietly in his\ncomfortable quarters.\n\n\"The next day came more complaints from the housekeeper. The 'strange\nman' not only promenaded the house at intervals, but he had the\nimpertinence to ring several bells. I wondered if a whisky and soda left\ncasually on his dressing-table would appease his thirst for summoning\nthe servants in this irritating fashion.\n\n\"For some days after this we were left in peace, and I began to hope\nthat 'it' had betaken itself to the house of some other chap, but no\nsuch luck!\n\n\"One evening I was in the dining-room decanting some wine before dinner.\nIt was just seven o'clock, when I heard 'its' footsteps again. This time\nthey were coming downstairs. I went to the door and looked out. There\nwas no one to be seen. I reentered the dining-room and shut 'it' out. I\nsuppose 'it' had been having a rest in the bedroom. I trusted 'it' meant\nto have a night out.\n\n\"A moment or two later I heard a click near the fireplace, and looking\ntowards the spot whence this sound came, I saw the handle of the bell\nbeing pulled back. In another second the bell rang.\n\n\"When the maid answered it I was ready for her.\n\n\"'Oh! don't you know what that is?' I inquired with mild sarcasm. 'Only\nmice crossing the wires. Nothing to be frightened of in that, is there?'\n\n\"I stuck to this all through the weeks that followed. The maids ceased\nto answer the bells, and went early to bed in a bunch. They no longer\nrequired rooms to themselves.\n\n\"In a few months the trouble stopped as suddenly as it had begun. 'It'\nhad evidently found other quarters more to 'its' liking. The mice were\nequally obliging. They ceased running across the wires.\"\n\nWhat theory will explain this species of haunting which is quite common?\nMay it not be that this disembodied entity attached itself to my brother\nwhilst he was out, and like a lost dog followed him home? There must be\ncountless entities wandering about all over this globe, seeking an\nabiding-place for their restless souls. People who find themselves as\nbereft of friends on the other side of death, as they were in earth\nlife. Those who have friends here have doubtless friends there.\n\nIn old days we used to think of a post-mortem abode as somewhere in the\nskies. Some even mentioned a receiving station in the bowels of the\nearth. Now I find that the majority of educated people have come to\nregard so-called death as merely a change of consciousness, and the\nimmediate post-mortem sphere of our activities to be a region\ninterpenetrating this earth.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA county neighbor of ours in Aberdeenshire told me of a very tantalizing\nexperience he had a very few years ago of temporary haunting. This was a\ncase of seeing, not hearing.\n\nThe time was late autumn, and his family had gone south for the winter,\nleaving him alone for a week or two to finish up the shooting.\n\nOne night, immediately after he had dined, he ran upstairs to his\nbedroom to fetch something. On coming out of his room again, what was\nhis astonishment to see, walking in front of him, a tall young lady,\nvery smartly dressed in the height of the prevailing fashion. She wore\nblack satin, cut very low and without sleeves, and she moved very\nquietly along the passage, and proceeded to go downstairs. She never\nturned her elaborately coiffed head, and he could not see her face. He\nfollowed, too speechless with amazement to address her. Who on earth\ncould she be? Where was she going? Nine o'clock at night; only two old\nservants in the house! In the depth of the country, and nine miles away\nfrom anywhere! And this charming young lady who so unexpectedly had made\nher appearance to brighten his solitude!\n\nWhat a surprising adventure! The situation was piquant to say the least\nof it.\n\nHe followed immediately behind the attractive vision. He even wondered\nwhat room he would have prepared for her. So absolutely real did she\nlook, that not for a second did he doubt she was ordinary flesh and\nblood.\n\nWhen describing her afterwards to me he said, \"I can assure you I saw\nthe actual white flesh of her bare arms and shoulders. I was close\nbehind her.\"\n\nThe lady moved composedly on, walking with supple grace and perfect\nself-possession. She was not in the least hurried or flustered. She\nreached the bottom of the stairs, and he had a momentary fear that she\nwould make for the front door, where surely a Rolls Royce would be\nawaiting her. Not so! She walked straight into the dining-room. He\nfollowed.\n\nAs he entered the door she had gained the opposite end of the room,\nwhere the sideboard stood.\n\nFor a second she stood still, turned and glanced round at him with an\nenchanting smile of delicate raillery. Then she deliberately walked\nthrough the sideboard and wall beyond, and was lost to sight.\n\nThe beholder of this ghost had never seen anything of the sort before,\nand was, if anything, a disbeliever in psychic phenomena. He is a\nperfectly healthy, normal country gentleman, whose principal hobby is\nsport, and who prefers a country life out of doors to the life of an\nintellectual student.\n\nNeedless to say the occurrence puzzled him beyond measure. He could not\n\"place\" the lady, and was certain that he had never seen her before. Her\ndress proclaimed her to be absolutely modern.\n\nThough in roundabout ways he tried to find out if any woman, answering\nto her description, was visiting at the time in any of the neighboring\ncountry houses, he failed entirely to get any result.\n\nBeing rather shy of the chaff he knew would be indulged in at his\nexpense, he mentioned the incident to no one. He took careful notes of\ndate, time, and other particulars, and kept a strict watch, but the lady\nappeared no more during his stay, and before Christmas he went south to\nrejoin his family.\n\nHe did not forget the experience. When the following autumn came round\nhe found himself again in the North, under exactly similar\ncircumstances. Eagerly he anticipated the anniversary of his first\nghost. He was waiting for her on the landing outside his bedroom door,\nand suddenly she sprang into sight from nowhere. To-night he had\ndetermined to lay hold of her, but he calculated without his ghost. She\nsped downstairs, this time as if she was well aware that he was in\npursuit. They gained the dining-room almost neck to neck, and this time\nshe made no pause before slipping through the wall. She simply looked\nback at him over her shoulder, and smiled at him enchantingly,\nprovokingly. Then he found himself alone.\n\nThe following year was blank. She came no more.\n\nWhy did she come to that house, with which, it is certain, she had no\nconnection? Why did she only appear twice, and both times on the same\ndate?\n\nSuch are the questions one asks in vain, but such fugitive visions\nsuggest the whisperings of a voice which calls out in the wilderness,\nand leads through life's enigmas to the final awakening.\n\nThere are visions of beauty to which we are blind, and joyous harmonies\nwe do not hear. There are depths of feeling we have not plumbed, and\nheights we have not aspired to, yet I am sure if we but place ourselves\nin a simple attitude of receptiveness, we will draw nearer to the glory\nof the unseen, and Nature's finer forces will draw nearer to us.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nPOMPEY AND THE DUCHESS\n\n\nHave animals souls?\n\nI unhesitatingly answer \"Yes.\"\n\nIf my dog has not a soul then neither have I--my dreams of immortality\nare merely a delusion. I base my belief upon the God-like qualities\nfound in animals--the highest quality of all, love, pure, and\nunadulterated by self-seeking.\n\nThe oldest scriptures of the world tell us that when wild animals die\ntheir life flows back into a group soul, a mass, as it were, of\nundifferentiated life essence. As the animal becomes domesticated, as a\ndog or cat learns to live with man, shares in his joys and sorrows, to\nbe his constant companion, then it advances rapidly in evolution. It is\ndeveloping human qualities, and in due time will no more return to merge\nin the group soul, but be born into the human family. A lowly human\nfamily it is true, a primitive savage to begin with, but that animal has\npassed one of the most important milestones on the long, lone trail. It\nwill never more return to the world in the form of the beast, henceforth\nit will commence its slow ascent from the most elementary human body to\nthe exalted heights of a god. They tell us in the East: \"First a stone,\nthen a plant, then an animal, then a man, and finally a God.\" This is\nhow the wisdom of the East understands Divine evolution.\n\nCases where the ghosts of animals have been seen are becoming quite\ncommon. Before describing the astral apparitions of some of our animals,\nI will recall a very interesting case which was investigated in recent\nyears at Ballechin, Perthshire. The accounts of the Ballechin hauntings\nare contained in a big volume, but at present I am only concerned in the\nfour-footed ghosts that were seen. The trouble began upon the death of\nthe eccentric owner, old Major Stewart, in 1876. He had frequently\nstated his intention of haunting the place after his death, and,\nfurthermore, had asserted his determination to \"walk\" in the form of one\nof his many dogs, a favorite black spaniel.\n\nThe family, anxious, as they thought, to be on the safe side, had all\nthe pack, numbering fourteen, destroyed at the death of their master,\nbut this wholesale slaughter of the innocents proved of no avail.\n\nThe first intimation of its futility was immediately apparent. The wife\nof the old Major's nephew and heir was seated one day adding up accounts\nin the dead man's study, when the room was suddenly invaded by the old\ndoggy smell, and an unseen dog pushed distinctly up against her.\n\nMany other unpleasant incidents followed after, but the really great\nhappenings did not begin till 1896, when a shooting tenant, after a week\nor two, was compelled to quit the house, and forfeit the considerable\nrent he had paid in advance.\n\nThe above fact came to the notice of that inveterate ghost-hunter, the\nlate Marquis of Bute, and he, and several other members of the Psychical\nSociety, hired the house, and went into residence. _The Times_ of June,\n1897, contains elaborate details of the various experiences and the\nnames of the investigators.\n\nThe phenomena they describe are very startling, but perhaps the most\nunnerving specter was the frequent appearance of a black spaniel, which\nwas seen by numerous persons. One member of the party had brought a\nblack spaniel of his own. He saw it run across the room, when at that\nmoment the real dog--his own--entered and began to fraternize with the\nghost dog.\n\nTwo ladies occupying the same bedroom had a curious experience. A pet\ndog on the end of the bed began to whine, and looking to where its eyes\nwere fixed they saw, not the black spaniel, but two black paws on the\ntable by the bed.\n\nVarious other sorts of dogs were seen by many people. The black spaniel\nby no means had the monopoly, and dogs, purposely brought by the\ninvestigators to aid them in their elucidation of the mystery, made\nfriends or exhibited mistrust of the pack of ghost dogs haunting both\nhouse and grounds.\n\nTwice in my life I have seen the wraith of our own dogs, \"Pompey\" and\n\"Triff.\" Pompey was a big brindled bulldog of terrifying aspect and\nangelic nature. My husband and I adored him, and his death caused us\ngreat grief. Indeed, the whole household mourned him long and deeply.\nOne day, about ten days after his death, I suddenly caught sight of him\nwalking in front of me down the avenue.\n\nOn the spur of the moment I called him by name, then he vanished.\n\nI mentioned this occurrence to my maid, who at once told me the\nkitchenmaid had seen him in exactly the same place.\n\nWhen alive on earth \"Pompey\" had a habit of stealing into a guest's room\nwhen the early tea was brought up. He would lie in wait in a dark\ncorner and then attempt to enter behind the maid or valet. When the door\nwas shut again he would emerge from his hiding-place, and attempt to\nleap on the bed. He was exceedingly gentle and affectionate, but\nexternally he was so forbidding that his offers of friendship were not\nalways accepted, and he was a great weight.\n\nOne day a Mrs. Shelton came to stay with us, and the next morning asked\nto have her room changed, because \"Pompey\" had kept walking round her\nbed all night, and she had not been able to sleep. She was sure it was\n\"Pompey,\" because she recognized his peculiar, heavy, slithering\nmovements.\n\nSome time after this Millicent, Duchess of Sutherland, came to pay us a\nvisit. She had been very overworked, and needed a complete rest. She\nbrought with her a maid and a small French bulldog, and she and the maid\noccupied a suite of three rooms, two bedrooms and a bathroom, shut off\nfrom the rest of the house by a heavy swing door.\n\nThe French bulldog was accustomed to sleep in the maid's room. We had no\ndog left of our own. The beautiful Duchess went to bed about half-past\nten; she was very tired and ought to have slept well, but she didn't.\n\nIn the night she was awakened by what she took to be her own bulldog\nprowling round her bed, yet its footsteps sounded strangely heavy.\n\nShe knew nothing about \"Pompey's\" ghostly visits; we had been careful\nnot to mention them.\n\nWhen she came downstairs the next morning she told us what a disturbed\nnight she had passed through. She was awakened soon after midnight by\nthe restless movements of a bulldog round her bed. She did not doubt it\nwas her own dog, that owing to the forgetfulness of her maid had been\nleft asleep under her bed. She called it, and at the same time switched\non the light, but could see no signs of any dog at all. Rather puzzled,\nbut concluding that she must have been mistaken, she composed herself to\nsleep once more.\n\nBefore very long the noise began again. A bulldog with its heavy,\nslouching tread was moving about round her bed.\n\nThis time the Duchess got up, and made a thorough search of her room,\nbut could see nothing in the shape of any animal. Yet so convinced was\nshe that a dog had been in the room, that she determined to look into\nher maid's room to see if her own dog was there.\n\nShe opened her maid's door, which was shut, and went into the room. The\nwoman was asleep, and on the bed at her feet slept the French bulldog.\n\nThere was nothing to be done but to go back to her own bed once more,\nand try to sleep in spite of the disturbances.\n\nThis was the story the Duchess told us, and added to me, \"If he comes\nagain to-night I shall come along to your room and rouse you.\"\n\nIt did not come again. The peculiarity of \"Pompey's\" visits was that\nthey only occurred once to each stranger, though he came several times\nto me, as was but natural.\n\nWe honored his memory by raising to him a large granite headstone, on\nwhich was inscribed--\n\n    \"Soft lies the turf on one who finds his rest,\n    Here, on our common Mother's ample breast,\n    Unstained by meanness, avarice and pride,\n    He never flattered and he never lied.\n    No gluttonous excess his slumbers broke,\n    No burning alcohol, no stifling smoke.\n    He ne'er intrigued a rival to displace,\n    He ran, but never betted on a race.\n    Content with harmless sports and moderate food,\n    Boundless in love, and faith and gratitude.\n    Happy the man, if there be any such,\n    Of whom his epitaph can say as much.\n\n                    \"On this spot\n          are deposited the remains of one\n        who possessed beauty without vanity,\n              strength without insolence,\n              courage without ferocity,\n      and all the virtues of man without his vices.\n    This praise, which would be unmeaning flattery\n            if inscribed over human ashes,\n         is but a just tribute to the memory of\n                     'Pompey' a dog.\n         Born 1891.                Died 1902.\"\n\nOur next dog, \"Triff,\" was a very handsome sable collie. Of course, we\nbecame devoted to him, and when he also passed away we felt very\ndesolate without him.\n\nFor a long time I never could feel that he had left me. Though I could\nnot see him, I used to speak to him, just as if I could see the dear\npresence I so strongly felt. It was hard that I never could catch a\nglimpse of him, because others did. The butler saw him many times, and\nmy maid caught sight of him twice.\n\nOne often reads in ghost books of abnormal animal-like creatures being\nseen by psychics, but it is rare to meet with living individuals who can\ntestify to such personal experiences.\n\nI remember Lilian, Countess of Cromartie, telling me of a strange\nincident that once happened to her.\n\nShe was walking alone one bright summer morning in Windsor Great Park.\nSuddenly she saw an amazing looking creature loping slowly towards her.\nIt resembled an enormous hare. That is to say, its legs and head were\nthose of a hare, but its size was that of a goat, and its horned head\nwas half-goat, half-hare. This creature, loping without any fear, and\nwith a hare's movement straight towards her, caused her to pause. She\nstood still and breathlessly waited its approach. It passed quite close\nto her, and as it did so she struck at it with her parasol. Instantly it\ndisappeared.\n\nPrincess Frederica of Hanover, always intensely interested in psychic\nphenomena, and herself no tyro in psychic knowledge, told me many years\nago that she had seen several different sorts of abnormal animals, quite\nunknown to this earth, and under circumstances which left no doubt as to\ntheir actual existence.\n\nMany years ago there was much talk amongst a certain set of an\nexperience that had come to a foreign Grand Duchess and her husband, who\nspent much of their time in England. This couple were traveling in the\nwilds of Greece, and one night they wandered out together on to a bare\nmountain side. Sitting down to rest they were enjoying the beauty and\nutter loneliness of the moonlit scene, when they suddenly heard the\ngalloping of many horses' hoofs approaching them. This astonished them\ngreatly, as they were in so wild and unfrequented a part of the country.\nThere was no road near them, and it seemed strange to hear horses\ngalloping so fast on such rough ground at night, even though there was a\nmoon.\n\nHusband and wife stood up immediately in order to show themselves. The\nsound suggested a headlong rush, and they feared that in another second\na whole regiment might ride over them.\n\nThey had not long to wait. A troop of creatures, half-men, half-horses,\ntore past them, helter-skelter. Fleet and sure-footed they thundered by,\nand they brought with them the most wonderful sense of joy and\nexhilaration. Neither the Grand Duchess nor her husband felt the\nsmallest fear; on the contrary, both were seized by a wild elation, a\ndesire to be one of that splendid legion. The thundering of their hoofs\nspread over the hills, and died away into the distance.\n\nOn returning to their camp the husband and wife found an uproar.\nSomething had gone wrong with the Greek servants, who were shivering\nwith terror, and struggling with equally terrified horses to prevent a\nstampede. All that could be learned from the Greeks was that they had\nheard something, something known of and greatly feared.\n\nI happened to hear the Grand Duchess tell of her weird experience, and I\nhave often wondered in later years if Algernon Blackwood had also heard\nthe story, and founded upon it his fascinating book, \"The Centaur.\"\n\nThere were several people in the room whilst the Grand Duchess was\nunfolding, in the most impressive manner, this strange event. Amongst\nthem was the first Lady Henry Grosvenor, born Miss Erskine Wemyss of\nWemyss Castle.\n\nShe told us that when a child of seven years old, she had passed through\nsome minutes of such absolute terror, that as long as she lived she\nwould never forget the experience.\n\nWith another child, and a nurse in attendance, she was playing one\nsummer morning out of doors. After a little while the nurse rose from\nher seat amongst the heather, and wandered away a short distance, out of\nsight but not out of hearing.\n\nA few moments after the two little girls heard some bushes behind them\nrustling, and a huge creature, half-goat, half-man, emerged and\nleisurely crossing the road in front of them plunged into the woods\nbeyond and was lost to sight. Both children were thrown into a paroxysm\nof terror, and screamed loudly. The nurse ran back to them, and when\ntold what was the matter scolded them for their foolish fancies. No such\nanimal existed, such as they described, an animal much bigger than a\ngoat, that walked upright, and had but two legs, and two hoofs, that was\ncovered with shaggy brown hair from the waist downward, and had the\nsmooth skin of a man from the waist upward!\n\nThe nurse bade them come home at once, and as they gained the road Miss\nWemyss pointed down into the dust. Clearly defined was the track of a\ntwo-hoofed creature that had crossed at that spot. The nurse stared for\na moment or two, then with one accord they all ran. She never took her\ncharges near that spot again.\n\nLady Henry said that the memory of that experience was so firmly grafted\non her mind that she could always recall with perfect clarity the exact\nappearance of this appalling creature. In after years, when grown up,\nshe realized from pictures that what she had seen was a Faun or Satyr.\nSuch pictures or statues always sent a thrill of horror through her. She\nattributed this apparition to the fact that she and her companion were\nplaying close to the site of a Roman camp, and the road was an old Roman\nroad.\n\nShe went on to say that the Grand Duchess had given her courage to tell\nthis incredible story. It was as absolutely real to her as was the\npassing of the Centaurs to the Grand Duchess.\n\nThe whole scene stood out in brilliant light as a picture before her,\nwhenever she thought of it, which she very often did. She never\nmentioned it to any one, as she felt that no one would believe her. She\ncould always smell again the scent of summer, and the odor of pine\ntrees, and hear the trickling of water from a tiny stream. She could\nalways see a wide, white road, ribbon-like stretching away to the\nhorizon. Then, suddenly, she and her young companion stood face to face\nwith a presence, a hideous, unspeakable shape, that was neither man nor\nbeast.\n\nShe believed that there was a real world beyond the glamour and vision\nof our ordinary senses, and sometimes this veil was lifted for a few\nseconds. She believed that much of the tradition of mythical creatures\nrepresented solid fact, and that it was possible there were failures of\ncreation still extant. Again, might there not be races fallen out of\nevolution, but retaining as a survival certain powers that to us appear\nmiraculous. A very gifted being was Miminie Erskine Wemyss, who married\nLord Henry Grosvenor. One of my earliest memories is the thrill her\nbeauty gave me when first I saw her, as she walked into church, a silver\nprayer-book, slung on a silver chain, depending from her arm.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nTHE INVISIBLE HANDS\n\n\nAll through my life there have come to me moments never to be forgotten.\nOften the incidents that so deeply impressed me were utterly trivial in\nthemselves, still they were sacramental, inasmuch as they proved to me,\nabsolutely and conclusively, the immortality of the soul, and the power\npossessed by the soul after so-called death to concern itself with\nterrestrial happenings. Such moments are sacramental, in the sense that\nNature is sacramental, in its showing forth of God's glory, and the\nmanifestation of His handiwork.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI was sitting near the library window, reading, in the fading light of a\nquiet November afternoon. It was one of those utterly still, mournful\ndays, with a gray, brooding sky, save where, in the west, a pale\nprimrose sunset was bathing the horizon in light. I was reading \"Man and\nthe Universe,\" by Sir Oliver Lodge, and had arrived at page 137, which\nends Chapter VI.\n\nIn those days, the year was 1908, I always tried to arrange at least one\nweek of perfect quiet for the study of a new book which I had just\nordered. I would calculate on which day the post would bring it to my\ncountry home, and I would arrange my life accordingly. This may sound\nrather ridiculous, but the truth is that a book like \"Man and the\nUniverse\" is such a pure intellectual treat to me, that I like to gloat\nover it, to taste it slowly, and imbibe it gradually. I try to spin out\nthe joy of it as long as possible by reading slowly, and thinking over\nthe problems presented.\n\nAt last I put the book down on a table by my side. I was in no hurry. It\nlay on its back, open, the pages uppermost; just where I had stopped\nreading. I fell to wondering on the words I had just read.\n\n\"A reformer must not be in haste. The kingdom cometh not by observation,\nbut by secret working as of leaven. Nor must he advocate any compromise\nrepugnant to an enlightened conscience. Bigotry must die, but it must\ndie a natural, not a violent death. Would that the leaders in Church and\nState had always been able to receive an impatient enthusiast in the\nspirit of the lines--\n\n    \"Dreamer of dreams! no taunt is in our sadness,\n    What e'er our fears our hearts are with your cause,\n    God's mills grind slow; and thoughtless haste were madness,\n    To gain Heaven's ends we dare not break Heaven's laws.\"\n\nI must have sat thinking for quite ten minutes when my attention was\nsuddenly attracted by a sound. The sound of paper leaves being rustled.\nThe room was so dead still that the faintest sound would have called my\nattention, but this sound was by no means faint. I turned my head and\nlooked at the book I had been reading, because, from it, unmistakably\nthe noise proceeded.\n\nI beheld a most enthralling phenomenon. Unseen hands were turning over\nthe pages.\n\nA thrill of intense excitement ran through me, and I stared at the book\nin breathless interest. The hands seemed to be searching for some\nparticular passage. The number of the page upon which the passage was\nprinted was not, apparently, known to the searcher. I will try to\ndescribe what actually happened.\n\nSeveral leaves of the book were turned over rather rapidly, each leaf\nmaking the usual sound which accompanies such an ordinary physical\naction. Then, as if fearing that the passage required had been\noverlooked or passed by, several leaves were turned back again.\n\nThis manifestation continued for at least ten minutes, and I could see\nnothing but the pages of the book being turned quite methodically, as by\na human hand.\n\nAt moments there was rather a long pause in the search, and at the first\npause I thought the demonstration might be over, but once again the\ninvisible entity resumed the search, and I found myself saying, \"He\nfound something there that interested him. That is why he stopped.\" For\nno reason I can give I felt certain my visitor was a male spirit.\n\nOn the second pause in the search occurring I had no doubt that again he\nhad found something that interested him. The whole manifestation was\nvery leisurely and wonderfully human. As I sat watching the book being\nmanipulated by unseen fingers, every smallest action suggested design.\nOne could not doubt as to what was taking place. At length there came a\npause longer than usual. The book lay flat on its back wide open. There\nwas now no quiver of the leaves. The invisible entity had found what he\nwanted and gone.\n\nI curbed my curiosity for five minutes more, then feeling convinced\nthat I was again alone I stretched out my hand, took the book and,\nrising, carried it close to the window.\n\nThere was still enough light to read by, and the leaves were open at\npages 172-173.\n\nI had only read as far as page 137.\n\nI scanned them eagerly, and at once discovered that a mark had been made\non the margin of page 172. A long cross had been placed against a\nparagraph. The mark was such as might have been made by a sharp\nfinger-nail. The words marked were--\n\n\"I want to make the distinct assertion that a really existing thing\nnever perishes, but only changes its form.\"\n\nTo-day the mark is as clearly visible on the page as on the day it was\nmade. I can form no conjecture as to who the entity was, but he\ncertainly knew the contents of the book. No one watching the search\ncould doubt that, or that he was desirous of impressing upon the readers\nof the book a certain fact stated therein, which must have previously\nattracted his attention.\n\nIn the year 1900 we took a house for the winter months in the West End\nof London.\n\nIt was a small house though joined on either side by great mansions, and\nonce upon a time it had actually been a farmhouse standing amid smiling\nfields.\n\nIt retained many relics of its ancient origin in fine oak paneling and\nquaint nooks and corners, and had been for many of its latter years the\ntown residence of a man whose type had practically died out, the perfect\ntype of our old English aristocracy.\n\nThe bedroom I occupied was exceedingly comfortable and warm. The bed,\nplaced against the wall, was exactly opposite to the fireplace, so that\nlying on my right side I looked straight at the fire and could see the\nwhole room.\n\nI was constantly on the alert, as I knew how full of history such a\nhouse must be, but for several weeks I neither saw nor heard anything in\nthe least unusual.\n\nOne night, quite unexpectedly, a change occurred. I no longer had the\nroom to myself. A stranger occupied it with me.\n\nIt was a cold, snowy night, and I was lying in bed facing the fire and\ncourting sleep, when I heard a sudden noise which was totally different\nto the sounds made by the dying fire. Take a large sheet of stiff\nwriting paper in your hand and crush it up between your fingers and you\nwill hear the sound I heard. Quite a loud and distinct noise if you\nhappen to be in a very quiet room, at an hour when all the household has\nretired to bed.\n\nNaturally, I instantly opened my eyes and looked out into the room,\nwhich was lit brightly enough by the fire to make all the objects it\ncontained quite distinct.\n\nAn armchair was drawn up close to the fire; half an hour before I had\nbeen seated in it warming my toes before getting into bed; now it was\nagain filled.\n\nIn it sat a man turned sideways towards me. He was lying back with his\nlegs stretched straight out in front of him towards the fire. One of his\narms hung over the arm of the chair, and in his clenched hand was a\nlarge piece of paper or parchment.\n\nHis finely cut profile was clearly outlined, he was clean shaven, and he\nstared into the fire, his chin sunk in a high black stock.\n\nHis hair was powdered and tied behind by a large black bow, and he wore\nbright blue cloth knee breeches, white stockings, silver buckled shoes,\nand many gold buttons on his blue coat. I did not take in all those\ndetails at once; I had ample leisure to do so later. For, I suppose, a\nfull two minutes, I stared very hard at him, and lay very still, knowing\nfull well I was looking at a ghost. Then very cautiously I drew the\nbedclothes over my head, and shut out the startling vision. I was\ninvaded by wild panic.\n\nI have never been one of those timid women who are frightened by their\nown shadows. I require to be face to face with a tangible danger before\nI put faith in its existence, yet, I confess that at that moment I knew\nwhat actual fear meant. My heart beat thickly, then seemed to stop, and\nI was instantly bathed in cold perspiration. I knew that the servants\nwere all in bed two flights of stairs below me, and my husband was out\nof London, so no calling for help was any use. I therefore forced a sort\nof spurious desperate courage, and began to be angry with myself for\nbeing thus afraid when no cause for fear existed. I treated myself to a\nscornful lecture. \"You who profess to know all about ghosts, you who\nhave actually seen several ghosts, you coward to quail before this one!\nDon't you know perfectly well that he won't hurt you, that he has a\nperfect right to sit in that chair, and that it is your duty to speak to\nhim should he show any desire for conversation?\"\n\n\"I am so terribly alone,\" pleaded my other self in feeble self-defense.\n\n\"Well, what of it? If the whole household was in the room what could\nthey do? You are not a child. Uncover your head and look the specter\nboldly in the face.\"\n\nThe stillness and hush of deep night, at the hour when sleepers slumber\nsoundest, was upon the house. The traffic of London was muffled in a\nheavy fall of snow. I could hear nothing but the feeble crackling of the\nexpiring fire in the grate, but gradually I rallied my courage and\nfaculties and peeped stealthily out.\n\nThere sat that dark form between me and the fire; there he lay in an\nattitude of moody carelessness, watching the cooling embers as they\nfaded from scarlet to pink, from pink to yellow, and then fell tinkling\ninto heaps of white ashes. No statue was ever stiller. He did not move\nin the least, but sat more like an effigy of a man carved out of stone\nthan a creature of flesh and blood.\n\nI closed my eyes and re-opened them, to test the fact whether I was\nawake or asleep and dreaming. No, I was broad wake and the room was\nstill fairly well lit, and there sat the phantom before the fire, the\nproud, well-set head with its powdered curls distinctly visible in the\nred glow of the firelight. I should think an hour must have passed thus,\nwhilst I gazed at the figure before me, taking in every detail. There\nwas no indication that he knew or cared for my presence. The figure sat\nlike a stone.\n\nI came to the conclusion that the phantom was about thirty years of age,\nand a sailor who had lived in the days of Nelson, judging by his clothes\nand the pictures I had seen. I noticed particularly his hand clenched on\nthe paper. A white hand, with strong cruel-looking fingers. There is so\nmuch character in hands. The face may be drilled into a mere mask, but\nhands tell tales of their owners. I could imagine the hand that had\ncrushed the paper closing murderously on the throat of an adversary, or\ngripped hard on the hilt of a dagger.\n\nThere were moments when the awful inertia of the figure began to play\nhavoc with my nerves, when I would have given anything to make that\nimpassive form move from out its dreary attitude of sullen brooding;\nanything to cause the profile of the face, with all its gloom and pride,\nto turn and front me, so that I might know the worst. But the figure\nnever turned, never stirred, but sat with stately head bowed under a\nweight of thought.\n\nNow and again a little flame would spurt up and glitter on his shoe\nbuckles, his brass buttons, but the fire was dying now, and gradually\nthe figure became more and more indistinct.\n\nThen I slept. I had been feeling drowsy for some time, and fought\nagainst it. I had violently resisted sleep, feeling a great repugnance\nto losing consciousness whilst the specter still sat there, but the\nblank force of sleep at length overpowered me. When I awoke the cold\ngray morning light was stealing feebly in through the window. The chair\nwas empty. The figure was gone.\n\nThe next night I went to bed full of courage, but I was left alone. If\nthe sailor returned it was not until after I had gone to sleep.\n\nA week later he came back. One moment the chair was empty, the next\nmoment with one wild heart throb I opened my eyes at the sound of\ncrackling paper, and the chair was filled. There he sat in his brooding\nsullen attitude and continued so to sit till slumber vanquished me.\nAfter that I saw him at constant intervals.\n\nBy this time I had entirely rid myself of all fear. I did not even\ndesire to change my room which would have been very inconvenient, and I\ndreaded alarming the household and being left alone to conduct the\ndomestic duties. But though no longer afraid those constant visits began\nto get on my nerves, and I consulted a Catholic friend who was always\nsympathetic to the occult side of life.\n\nShe said at once that this spirit should be exorcised and set free from\nthe bondage of earth, and that she had an old friend, a Franciscan monk,\nwho was known to be a powerful exorcist. She offered to arrange the\nmatter, and I gladly accepted her suggestion.\n\nIt was on an early spring afternoon that Father Reginald Buckler came to\nthe house. In his white habit, sandaled feet and shorn crown, he looked\nan incongruous figure in that fashionable locality already beginning its\nsocial entertainments in view of the season's approach. He was a\ncharming, courteous old man, who took his mission very seriously. After\na few words of explanation we mounted to the bedroom floor.\n\nThere were four doors opening on to the little landing, and without\nasking which of the doors led to the haunted chamber, he turned the\nhandle of the right one and entered. Still he put no question, but at\nonce proceeded with the Service of Exorcism.\n\nSprinkling the four corners of the room with Holy Water, he bade me\nkneel down in the middle. Then he raised his Crucifix and offered up\nprayers for the repose of the earth-bound soul, that he might be loosed\nand set free.\n\nFor five weeks longer we remained in the house, but I never saw the\nsailor again.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nDAWNS\n\n\nWe have been given many wonderful dawns this winter, and I have used\nthem eagerly as a cleansing of the war-weary mind and distracted soul.\nIn such ethereal apparitional dawns one walks with the Eternal, and all\ntemporal things fade away. Those pale silver daybreaks have a rapture of\ntheir own, they suggest a fresh creation straight from the looms of God.\nWhen the hours of day have drawn on the flaming sunset, that exquisitely\nserene emotion of virgin tranquillity will have passed away, and the\nhorizon will be lurid and grand beneath a grave frowning sadness\ngathered from the scenes of earth they have brooded over.\n\nSuch dawns beckon imperiously to the pilgrim, to leave the shelter of\nthe roof-tree, and come forth to walk with the immortals whilst the\nMorning Star, the light-bringer, still shines, a white gold radiance in\nthe heavens, and the distance is still dissolved in veils of pearl and\nopal.\n\nSuch daybreaks always rouse in me the urge for wider thought, for the\nbroad day of the mind. Out of the limitless beyond comes the certain\nknowledge of a something unimagined, lying just outside human thought. I\nam sure there is so much not yet imagined, something more than mere\nexistence.\n\nThere is a wine of happiness in tranquil daybreak, and an aloofness from\nlife that urges one to seek for that which is beyond comprehension. The\ndraught exalts the soul, and quickens it with unquenchable fire, until\nthe world falls away, far from one, as day wells out of still darkness.\nOnly at such moments do we reach the true horizon.\n\nAgain, there is an amnesty in such dawns, a glory of release from the\nhouse of bondage. In the great silences, life, as we know it, is remote,\nand the immensity is a magic that draws the soul, fusing it in a strange\npassion, so that whatever fulfillment our existence holds is summed in\nthat hour of solitude.\n\nA pale wash of translucent gold is thrown across land and sea. On the\nfar horizon a ship is set in relief, against a core of crimson flame\nwhich heralds the sun. A dove coos softly, and on a bare branch a thrush\nthrills in waves of sound, seeking in the universal ether to reproduce\nits divine instinct in other feathered hearts that are attuned to its\nmelody.\n\nSuch joys as these are transitory, and never wholly possessed. They pass\nthe enclosures of life, and bring one nearer to the beating heart of\ntruth. The agonizing fear of losing hold on them is, in itself, the\ncause of their dispersal. It is the same at rare moments of\nsemi-consciousness, when one has actually laid hold of a genuine astral\nexperience--and knows it. Then comes the frantic endeavor to hold on--to\npin the moment fast and tight, till the whole vision is absorbed. The\nsoul seems to hold its breath! How often, with bitter disappointment I\nhave rushed reluctantly into full waking consciousness--and only half\nthe story told. Fragmentary though such moments are their potency is\nsuch that they endure through time. Thank God, that whilst the wedlock\nof body and soul still holds undissolved there is scope for such joys.\nThey are uncommunicable, and may not be shared with others at will, and\nthey tell the soul that she is not of creation and cannot be contained\nby law. At such hours she learns the truth, that she passes for a brief\nspan into the limited, from out the limitless whence she came. At such\nsacramental hours one can pray the prayer of Socrates, offered up by the\nbanks of the Illissus:\n\n\"O Beloved God of the forests and flocks and all ye Divinities of this\nplace, grant me to become beautiful in the inner man, and that whatever\noutward things I have may be at peace with those within. May I deem the\nwise man rich, and may I have so much wealth, and so much only, as a\ngood man can manage to enjoy.\n\n\"Do we need anything else, Phaedrus? For myself I have prayed enough.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHow many people now recall fragments of former lives! Ask the next man\nyou meet if he has any recollections of former existences, and be sure\nhe will not eye you askance as a fugitive from Bedlam. He may smile and\nshake his head, and regret to say he isn't psychic, but he won't ask you\nwhat on earth you mean. This is how we have progressed towards truth in\nthe last thirty years. The truth of reincarnation is being quietly\naccepted by the West and is now openly preached from many pulpits. If\nGod is love, who could reconcile with any comprehensive idea of justice\nand law in the world the lives and experiences of common humanity? How\nreconcile the births taking place in one single day in their vast\ndiversity, by the hell for the criminal, born, nurtured and killed in\ncrime, who never had a chance, and Heaven for the happily born, who\nneed never have a temptation? What is the Divine Law lying behind this\nseeming hideous injustice? Undoubtedly the continuous evolution of the\nsoul in bodies of matter. Men are looking now to the scheme of organic\nevolution to provide the field for spiritual evolution. They are finding\nit in the depths of their own consciousness.\n\nI chanced upon one of those fragments of a past life, those islets in\neternity in a strange way. I was paying a visit to a stranger in\nCambridgeshire, and whilst awaiting her entry I walked round the room\nlooking at some lovely water-colored sketches that hung upon the walls.\nWhen their owner entered, and after a few minutes' conversation, I said,\n\"How beautiful those Sicilian scenes are!\"\n\nShe looked pleased and answered: \"I'm so glad you recognize them. I\npainted them. When were you last in Sicily?\"\n\nI had never at that time been in Sicily. I told her so, but I could not\ntell a stranger that suddenly there had dawned upon me a keen\nrecollection of the country I had certainly been in, though not in this\nlife. The paintings, of course, dealt with a restricted field, but as I\nlooked at them one by one I saw mentally a wide landscape in which each\npicture formed but a tiny spot. One I remember was a painting of a\nwonderfully perfect temple, which occupied the whole space of the\npicture. As I looked at it I saw wide rolling plains, and a wide expanse\nof blue sea. This I later recognized in Girgenti.\n\nA month or two afterwards my husband and I went to Sicily for the\nwinter, and, as I had expected, the island was perfectly familiar to me.\nI knew exactly round which bend of the hill I should find a temple, but\nSyracuse was really my spiritual home. It was there that I had played\nout one of my many life dramas, and many incidents returned to me as I\nwandered over the hills, and gathered maiden-hair ferns in the twilight\nof the empty tombs.\n\nOnce I opened my eyes on Stromboli, one of the AEolian or Lipari Isles.\nInstantly I felt a passion of love for it, an intuition of spiritual\ndelight which is utterly irreducible to terms. I have looked upon it\nsince, and always with an adoration impossible to paint with pen or\npencil. I have for weeks anticipated the moment when I should see it\nagain. It means something to me far beyond what the eye can see, the\ntongue relate, and it is this something lying betwixt rhapsody and\nlament which draws me by a tenuous chain of thought right back into the\nwomb of time, where buried memory stirs in its long sleep.\n\nStromboli, so the ancient poets tell us, was the home of the fiery god,\nVulcan. That explains much to me, but it unfolds a secret none may\nlearn.\n\nIt was in a flaming dawn that I first saw Stromboli rising from amid the\nnumerous isles surrounding it. From its cone shot a great plume of\nsmoke, like a giant ostrich feather, silver tinted. In its ethereal\nloveliness it seemed to float in the void, half of earth, half of\nheaven.\n\nNeither bondage of words, nor the cold scrutiny of reason can impinge\nupon a scene which draws the soul away upon a celestial pilgrimage. Free\nand elate, she passes beyond the frontiers of life, and like the echoes\nof the sea when a shell is held to the ear, she hears the pulse of earth\nbeat far away in unfathomable distance. The marvel of the uncreated\nconsumes her in a trance of unincarnate passion.\n\nThose who have once adventured on such pilgrimages are never quite the\nsame again. They become children of \"the Divine unrest.\" They have\nexperienced a moment in which earth and flesh dissolve, in which law is\nnot, in which creeds and covenants find no place, and the hold upon\ncommon life with its moving mirages is blotted out. Time and space are\nannulled, the aeon and the second are one. The soul unswathed, has risen\nfrom the tomb where the life urge has laid it, and is aglow with the\ntranscendental fires of eternal being. In after days the soul learns to\nset barriers against such visitants. One must not look upon the other\nside of the moon too often, for fear one is drawn away from home and\nkindred. The time is not yet, but it will surely come.\n\nOne other curious happening I must relate. Years ago, one autumn when I\nwas in the far north there came a magnificent visitation of falling\nstars and many aerolites dropped to earth. The display was predicted,\nand I was on the lookout. It came in a rain of gold and seemingly from\nall points of the compass. For hours I watched a sight far more\nmarvelous than anything I had anticipated.\n\nWhen at last I reluctantly went to bed I had a strange dream or, rather,\nastral experience. I was a Hungarian gipsy, the head or queen of an\nenormous clan. I heard wild Hungarian music, and saw enormous crowds of\nmy people gathered round me. They were very savage and picturesque, and\na ceremony was proceeding.\n\nOn the ground, and in the center of a great ring of people, stood a\nlarge bowl filled with blood. I stood in front of it and watched the\nswearing in of new adherents to my clan, by means of the \"blood\ncovenant.\" The blood that filled the bowl had been drawn from the veins\nof my people, and the new adherents were each required to drink from it\nand swear their allegiance. Only one thing troubled me all through what\nseemed a long ceremony. My feet caused me pain, and I was aware that\nthey were bare, as were the feet of all my people.\n\nSo vivid was the dream that I could visualize my whole life as I lived\nit on the plains of Hungary, and the scenery surrounding me was lit up\nby a glorious sunset. There were hundreds of horses grazing loose, as\nfar as the eye could reach, and flocks of enormous white geese, amid\nwhich great storks strutted.\n\nSuddenly I awoke with the acute pain in my feet uppermost in my mind. I\nfound myself clad only in my nightgown, walking bare-footed on the rough\ngravel paths of the garden, whence I had watched the stellar display. I\nhad been walking in my sleep, and the sudden unaccustomed stony hardness\nof the path under my bare feet had awakened in me the recollection of a\npast life, in which I had lived, a wild nomad in southern Hungary.\n\nThis is the one and only occasion in my life in which I have known\nsomnambulism. Luckily my memory did not fail me on waking and, some time\nafter, when I was able to revisit the scenes of that long ago pilgrimage\nI was quite familiar with my surroundings.\n\nBuda Pest and the lands lying southward were then my home, a roving home\nand tent life of infinite variety.\n\nThus the dead of vanished years are disguised in the present living.\n\nI have no doubt that many people who have not had the interesting\nexperience of remembering one or more of their former incarnations have\nbeen able through some trivial incident to recollect happenings long\nvanished from their memory. Sometimes the scent of a flower, the glimpse\nof a scene, a chance word or expression will vividly recall some episode\nlying hidden for many years in the subconsciousness. Again it will be\npulled over the threshold from past to present, from the storehouse of\nthe eternal memory into the everyday working consciousness or mind.\n\nThis is not a book for scientists. I will therefore go into no elaborate\nmetaphysics, but will sketch as simply as I can what I mean by\nsubconsciousness. I use the term for the region or zone within us which\nstores up the residues of past thoughts and experiences. Scientists tell\nus there are three realms of mind, the super-conscious, the conscious,\nthe subconscious. The conscious mind is what we commonly use. It belongs\npurely to the objective world, and its instruments are the five senses.\nThe subconscious mind is the storehouse for experiences on the human\nplane of man's long past. The super-consciousness is independent of the\nfive senses. It is a faculty of perception closely akin to the One force\nin the Universe, which is inseparably related to all created things. It\npossesses the attributes of Infinity, is indestructible, immortal,\nundying. We may forget a fact for many years, then suddenly we remember\nit. I believe it has come back to us again across the threshold from the\nsubconscious region to our consciousness or mind which is open to\neveryday observation.\n\nI have become convinced, by personal experience, of the existence in us\nof this region below the threshold of our ordinary conscious life. When\nI was young there were many problems I wished to solve, and in this\neffort human aid often failed me. My plan was to \"sleep on\" a problem,\nardently desiring before \"dropping off\" that an answer might be accorded\nme. I suppose this desire was of the nature of prayer, though addressed\nto no Deity. Almost invariably the solution was clear and unmistakable\nto me in the morning.\n\nI lost this great advantage at the age of twenty-one, but even now I can\nsometimes \"get at\" a solution by leaving the question severely alone,\nafter turning it well over in my mind. The solution will suddenly pop\nup, often weeks after I have tried to get at it, and when it comes\nthere, it arrives apropos of nothing, so to speak. It simply dawns in\nthe thick of quite other subjects, which happen at the moment to occupy\nmy mind.\n\nThough I can no more demonstrate to others the existence of the\nsubconsciousness than I can prove the existence of the immortal soul, I\nhave got sufficient proof to satisfy myself, and I believe the same\nknowledge is open to many of us. Within our being are sympathetic chords\nthat can vibrate to all the symphonies of Nature. There are visions of\nbeauty and depths of feeling which may be seen and felt, if heart and\nmind are open to the higher influences. The finer forces of Nature, and\nher immutable laws, are ready to draw nigh to us if we desire to welcome\nthem, and are eager to place ourselves in harmony with the Infinite\nSource of being. We are in the keeping of the best and highest, and\nwhatever things are pure, whatsoever things are beautiful, whatsoever\nthings are true and high and holy will gravitate towards us in\nproportion to the degree we desire them. The mysterious gift of\nexistence is in itself a beckoning ideal, and a foregleam of the final\nawakening that will surely be ours.\n\nNow what does the subconsciousness contain?\n\nFirstly, I believe it to be permeated by Deity, and the Divine\nindwelling. It is the seat of Genius. I believe a genius to be one who\nis capable of drawing from the contents of his subconsciousness that\nwhich outwardly appears as a creation. It is said that genius creates\nand talent copies. I believe that a man becomes great when he represents\nthe results of countless lives in his individuality, and each life is an\narc of the infinite life of the Universe. The man with aeons of\nexperience behind him is infinitely more _en rapport_ with his\nsubconsciousness than those younger, more immature souls who have as yet\nexperienced few earth lives and who constitute the bulk of humanity.\n\nThe eternal mind finds its home in the subconsciousness, by which I mean\nthat nothing is really forgotten by man. This lapse of memory is the\npassing of the subject from the ordinary mind into the subconsciousness,\nwhence it may later be recovered again. The memory of all our former\nincarnations I believe to lie hidden in the subconsciousness. It is from\nthis region or zone that one gets sudden uprushes of memory, and such\nuprushes are induced by stumbling on a chance link between the two zones\nof consciousness.\n\nSome chance incident, such as the presence of my bare feet upon the\nrough gravel, touches a correspondence on the other side of the\nthreshold, and lays bare old scenes to the observation of the ordinary\nmind. It is noteworthy that the matter contained in this up-rushing is\nrecognized first, and the means which brought about the uprush is\nrecognized secondly.\n\nI believe there is a vital communication between consciousness and\nsubconsciousness which could be enormously developed and utilized by\npractice. The age in which we live has produced the most marvelous\ntriumphs of mind over matter. Access to the subconsciousness is becoming\ncommoner and simpler. We have broken in and harnessed material forces in\na manner undreamt of fifty years ago. Yet there is an alas! a fact which\ndetracts from all our legitimate pride in our achievement--the base uses\nto which our triumphs have been put. The whole of our inventive power\nhas been turned against the life that gave it birth. The parents are\nbeing consumed by their own offspring.... Matter evolved out of spirit\nhas threatened destruction to the latter.\n\nThe threshold between our ordinary consciousness and the region of\nsubconsciousness seems to me like a bridge which is rarely used, and\nwhich separates the country known from the country unknown. I live in\nthe country known, but if I can touch a button at my end I can get a\nresponse instantaneously transmitted from the country unknown. The\ntrouble is to find the button. At present I only press it at long\nintervals and by the merest chance. Still it is something of an\nachievement to have convinced one's self that such a region actually\ndoes exist.\n\nI believe this subconsciousness of ours is in direct contact with the\nGreat Creative Power. \"It is God that worketh\" in man, and its vital\ncommunications are hidden in the infinite eternity. Says a Sufi ideal:\n\"To abide in God after passing away is the work of the perfect man, who\nnot only journeys to God--passes from plurality to unity--but in and\nwith God--continuing in the unitive state he returns with God (his\nsubconscious self) to the phenomenal world from which he sets out, and\nmanifests unity in plurality.\"\n\nThough at present, to all outward seeming, the evolution of the beast is\nconsummated, there is a something that flatly contradicts this apparent\ncertainty. That something is man's subconsciousness, and the Divinity it\nenshrouds, and which fiercely and irrevocably is set against the\nbestiality into which he is plunged. War has never been so universally\nhated as it now is. It is in this vital fact, which cannot be too\nstrongly emphasized, that our future hope lies.\n\nI believe this vital fact to be so strong that entire regeneration is a\ncertainty. Where hitherto this force has lain dormant or been dispersed,\ndisunited and weak in spiritual utterance, it is now a collective force\nconcentrated in millions of lives. All over the earth it is now gathered\n_en masse_, and that stupendous aggregate, vivified, sharpened, and\nintensely accentuated by untold suffering will revolutionize all former\nweak and fatalistic acquiescence in the inevitability of war. Millions\nof men have descended into hell, they are there now, but they will arise\nagain from amongst the dead, and ascend one day into the Heaven of\npeace, and thence they will judge the quick and the dead by a new\nstandard. The standard of the God within, whose voice has been heard at\nlast from out the din of battle. It is the same God who has said to the\nEast:--\n\n\"Have perseverance as one who dost forever more endure. Thy shadows\n(physical bodies) live and vanish, that which is in thee shall live\nforever, that which in thee knows is not of fleeting life, it is the\nman that was, that is, that will be, for whom the hour shall never\nstrike.\"\n\nTo-day we all use, in some cases automatically, the powers and aptitudes\ndeveloped in us in the long and painful evolution of the physical form.\nAs evolution proceeds we will gain a vastly greater control over the\nsubconsciousness, and in aeons to come \"in the flight of the alone to the\nalone\" union will be achieved. The two will be merged in one.\n\nThe Lord Buddha has said that to enter Nirvana is to become fully\nconscious of our fundamental oneness with the universal life.\n\n\"I and my Father are one.\" Christ's sense of oneness with the Father was\nessentially Nirvanic.\n\nWe have not yet accustomed ourselves to think of evolution in any terms\nbut the material, as a power inherent in matter, Darwin's physical\nevolution stood for pure materialism. Bergson now carries us a step\nfarther. He introduces us to a spiritual principle. His creative\nevolution is a spiritual activity seeking freedom of expression in\nmatter. Darwin's struggle for existence is by Bergson transmuted into\nlife, expressing itself through material forms, and life and matter are\nin constant conflict. Again he points out that the spiritual principle,\nlife, has not \"had it all its own way.\" It has experienced checks, but\nin two modes of activity it has succeeded, in instinct and intelligence.\nThus he draws for us the grandiose upward sweep of a Divine activity.\nCurbed, it is true, by the crust of matter, but finding ever higher\ncapacities, and higher expression towards that ultimate reality which is\ncreative life and to me is union with that higher self lying in the\nsubconsciousness of all men.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nPEACOCK'S FEATHERS--THE SKELETON HAND AT MONTE CARLO\n\n\nA sea voyage once provided me with a wonderfully lucky experience,\ninasmuch as it saved me from an extremely bad accident.\n\nI was returning quite alone from the East in a ship crammed full of\nwomen and children, most of them soldiers' wives and families going home\nto escape the hot weather. Many of them were attended by ayahs.\n\nTwo days out we ran into a raging storm, and everything was battened\ndown. Owing to the weather, and the excessive crowding, the conditions\nbelow soon became very unpleasant, and I asked the captain if I might\ntake possession of the ladies' summer drawing-room on the upper deck and\nclose to the bridge. Seeing that it would not be used by any one else\nfor some time to come he kindly agreed, and I at once settled myself in\nmy eyrie with a few books, and prepared for some days of solitude.\n\nBut as the storm did not abate the suffering women and children below\nclaimed my attention. They were confined in an atmosphere which was\nappalling, they were all terribly ill and utterly helpless. The mothers\nwere unable to attend to their children, most of whom were infants, and\nthe ayahs suffered horribly. Having no cabins they lay groaning on the\nfloors of the corridors, drenched with water as the ship was awash from\nstem to stern, and tossed hither and thither as she rolled heavily.\n\nIt was never easy to descend from my perch aloft, but the sufferers had\nto be aided, and day after day I never knew a dry moment till I lay down\nat night. So far the summer drawing-room remained fairly water-tight in\nspite of being swept continually by heavy seas, but the noise of the\nelements was absolutely deafening, and when the captain called upon me\nwe had to shout in each other's ears.\n\nWith his connivance I got a shelter rigged up on what appeared to be the\nonly dry spot on board. It was about twelve feet square and walled in\nwith sailcloth, and there the sailors helped to carry a number of tiny\nchildren. They were to remain there during the best hours of the day,\nuntil their mothers and nurses were capable of attending to them once\nmore.\n\nI took charge at first and found my task no light one. The babies did\nnot seem to appreciate my blandishments. They cried persistently, but\nluckily their voices were drowned in the roaring of the wind.\n\nAt last a cabin boy chanced to look in, and at once sized up the\nsituation. He signaled to me that he knew of something that would ease\nthe tension and then he disappeared. In five minutes he was back\nbrandishing a large bunch of peacock's feathers. These he shook in the\nface of each infant in turn, at the same time making the most hideous\ngrimaces at them. It was an anxious moment for me, but luckily the\neffect was electrical. The babies suddenly forgot to yell, they stiffly\nmaintained their equilibrium and stared in a sort of indignant\namazement. Then, gradually, as the boy kept going round the circle\nrepeating the process, smiles and dimples began to appear, and in five\nminutes more the whole creche was laughing.\n\nI applied for permission to annex that boy; he was indeed a treasure,\nand the joy in the peacock's feathers never palled. His gutta-percha\nface had an infinite variety of expression, which he could instantly\nturn on to suit all occasions. It was a fascinating sight to see him\ngoing round the group feeding each baby out of the same bottle, one of\nthe old-fashioned horrors with a long indiarubber tube and teat. Those\ninfants who had contemptuously rejected all my offers of nourishment now\nsat expectantly agape waiting their turn. The scene always reminded me\nof the artificial feeding of fowls, by the man who goes round the pens\nsquirting liquid down each gaping throat.\n\nWhen we landed at Marseilles there was a wonderful parting between the\nbabies and the cabin boy. They clung to him to the last, and howled\ndismally when they were carried off by their haggard mothers.\n\nOne night, during the height of the storm I was asleep on the fixed red\nvelvet seat running round the walls of the summer drawing-room. I lay\njust under a porthole, to which was attached a rope. The other end of\nthe rope was tied round my arm to prevent my being thrown to the floor\nby the rolling of the ship.\n\nAt five o'clock in the morning I was suddenly awakened by hearing my\nhusband's voice shouting in my ear. (My husband not being on board, but\nin our home in the North of Scotland.)\n\n\"Sit up! Sit up!\" shouted his voice commandingly.\n\nConsiderably startled I threw myself into a sitting position, and as I\ndid so a gigantic wave shattered the porthole, and the heavy fragments\nof glass fell on to the pillow where a second before my face had lain.\n\nOf course, the water poured in and over me in volumes, and stopped my\nwrist watch at five a. m., but I had got used to salt water, and in a\nfew minutes the weary captain had waded in, and was disentangling me\nfrom my rope and congratulating me on my lucky escape.\n\nI told him how it was that I had escaped, and he was not in the least\nskeptical. On the contrary, he said that he had known some curious\nthings happen in his time, for which there was no accounting; but he\nalways kept a black cat on board.\n\nHad the safety of his ship not claimed his whole attention I believe he\nwould have told me some of his experiences, but when, at last, the\nweather abated he was too much in need of rest to be bothered by any\none.\n\nMy husband had no knowledge of the service he had rendered me. At five\na. m. that morning he was asleep at home, and had no premonition of\ndanger, or any recollection on waking of the role his astral counterpart\nhad undoubtedly played.\n\nWhat is this astral counterpart of man? His soul and spirit dwells in a\nshroud of flesh, and the feat of getting out of that shroud of flesh at\nwill is the aim of all occultists. It is to the astral world they go,\nsoul and spirit encased in the astral sheath we term the astral body.\n\nDuring sleep, or in trance, when the normal physical senses are in\nabeyance, when the body is unconscious in sleep, the mind continues to\nact in the realm corresponding to the suggestions given when awake. The\nworld at large is open to the highly developed man, and he will\nsometimes bring back from his astral plane expeditions memories of what\nhe has seen and heard.\n\nIn deep slumber the physical body in healthful repose remains where it\nhas lain down to rest, but the man's higher principles, the astral body\nencasing the soul and spirit, is invariably withdrawn, and in\nunderdeveloped persons hovers in the immediate neighborhood. In such\ncases the higher principles, the astral body, soul and spirit of St.\nPaul's Gospel, are not sufficiently developed to roam, and remain near\nthe physical body in a brooding sleep. All cultured persons in the\npresent day have their astral senses fairly well developed, and have the\npower during sleep to go where they will, but as yet few have the power\nto retain the memory of it when returning to the body.\n\nIn some cases the astral man during sleep is specially attracted to some\none point, and he invariably travels towards it; in other cases he will\ndrift aimlessly about on the astral currents, meeting with experience of\nall sorts and with people in a similar condition whom he knows. Is there\nanything very extraordinary in all this, and is not the condition of\ndeep unconscious sleep a demonstration in itself that the physical\nconsciousness has departed elsewhere? As it is no longer functioning on\nthe Physical plane clearly it has found another realm in which it can\ntemporarily exercise its activities.\n\nMy husband once had a rather interesting experience of his own, on the\nAstral plane. He was in bed and asleep on the Physical plane, and he\nbelieves that the time must have been between eleven p. m. and twelve a.\nm. He simply became aware that he was functioning consciously on the\nAstral plane, and was intensely interested.\n\nHe found himself in a strange house of medium size, and he was floating\nat the top of a flight of stairs leading to an ordinary entrance hall\nbelow. At the foot of the stairs hung a lighted lamp, and below the lamp\nstood a man and woman, who were apparently exchanging a word or two\nbefore bidding each other good-night.\n\nMy husband instantly conceived the idea of testing and proving his\nbelief, that he was consciously afloat on the Astral plane. If this\nbelief was true, then he ought to be able to pass through the couple\nstanding below, without their being in the least aware of his presence.\n\nIn a flash he was downstairs, and his belief stood the test. His\nimponderable astral body passed without feeling or shock through two\nponderable bodies of flesh and blood, and he was out on the other side.\nThe excitement of the adventure awakened him, and he brought back to the\nPhysical plane a clear recollection of all that had happened.\n\nWhen one thinks of it, the possible presence of total strangers in one's\nhouse is rather alarming. Luckily for us such wanderers rarely bring\nback to waking consciousness the memory of their nocturnal escapades.\nWhen we are more advanced in \"other side\" knowledge we will doubtless\nrefrain from intruding upon the privacy of our neighbors' dwellings, and\nconfine our attentions to realms which are free to all.\n\nIt is curious how constantly one hears of the ghosts of priests and\nmonks being seen. I have not met any one yet who has encountered the\nwraith of an Anglican parson, or a Nonconformist preacher. I wonder why?\nI presume the latter do sometimes \"walk.\"\n\nOnce upon a time, when we were in Rome, my husband and I went to keep an\nappointment with Monsignor Stonor, who was a great celebrity, and an\nextremely handsome and charming man. We were being shown upstairs by a\nservant, and the hour was eleven o'clock on a sunny spring day. I was\nwalking first, my husband following, and at the top of the stairs,\ncoming slowly downward, was an old priest carrying a huge portfolio,\nunder which he seemed to be staggering. He passed the servant, and as he\nneared me I noticed that the cassock which he wore was torn in great\nrents in several places. His gray hair hung on his shoulders, though his\ncrown was shaven, and his face was the color of old ivory.\n\nI moved slightly to give him and his burden room to pass, and as he did\nso our eyes met. His were very strange. They were exactly like points of\nlive flame.\n\nSomething about his whole presence struck me as so weird that I turned\ninvoluntarily and looked back.\n\nAs I did so, I saw my husband walk straight through him. My husband saw\nnothing. Then I knew and understood.\n\nI did not mention this incident to Monsignor Stonor, but some time after\nI met his sister, Viscountess Clifden, at Monte Carlo. She was an\nintimate friend of mine, and one day when an opportunity offered I told\nher the little story, and asked her if she had ever met with anything of\nthe sort herself. She replied that personally, she had not, but she had\nheard that several people encountered at different times the old priest\nin her brother's rooms, though he himself had seen nothing of this\napparition.\n\nLady Clifden enjoyed nothing more than a little flutter at the tables.\nShe never missed a single day during her long sojourns at Monte Carlo.\n\nEvery one knows that the Anglican church-goers in the Principality hurry\nfrom church to gaming rooms in order to stake on the numbers of the\nhymns. Lady Clifden used also to hurry from Mass with any numbers she\nhad caught up, and she considered Sunday her lucky day. Suddenly her\nluck changed.\n\nShe told me that on the previous Sunday she had just pulled off a nice\nlittle coup, and was about to grasp it, when, to her horror she saw a\nskeleton hand stretched forth. Before she could collect her scattered\nsenses the skeleton hand had raked in her gold. Where that gold had gone\nto worried and puzzled her dreadfully. So it did me! I never heard the\nlast of it. She could not get over her loss.\n\nIt was no use suggesting that the hand had belonged to one of the\nemaciated harpies who prey upon the unwary. Lady Clifden knew all about\nthem, and was a match for the whole gang, had they attacked her. She\ninsisted that the hand that had grasped her gold had neither skin nor\nflesh upon it, and that she had seen the two bare arm bones from wrist\nto elbow. We compromised on the suggestion of a third party that it must\nhave been the devil himself, and that the heat he is supposed to\nengender had melted the gold entirely away.\n\nMonte Carlo is a very interesting place for the clairvoyant to be in,\nmore especially if her vision extends to seeing auras. Perhaps nowhere\non earth are the basest human passions more swiftly and violently\naroused, and several times, when some tragedy was being enacted, or some\nenormous coup was being brought off, I have been unable to see details,\nbecause they were hidden within a dense envelop of dark crimson clouds.\n\nIn the rooms a crowd collects swiftly, and from a hundred human auras,\nall gathered in one compact mass, stream forth emanations of the basest\ndescription. Cupidity, envy, revenge, lust of the vilest, despair, ruin,\ndeath.\n\nI remember being met one night by a friend in the Attrium who was very\nexcited. \"Hurry up,\" she cried, \"the double Duchess has broken the bank\nand is still playing.\"\n\nI went into the gambling rooms, and looked for the table at which the\nDuchess of Devonshire was staking. I knew she would attract a big crowd\nif she was winning.\n\nI found the table easily enough, not because it was surrounded by a\ncrowd of people, but because it was hidden by a dark and dense crimson\nfog.\n\nWith patience I got through this fog, and watched the handsome Duchess\nof Devonshire, formerly Duchess of Manchester, and born a Hanoverian,\nplaying with a great quantity of gold, and a pile of thousand franc\nnotes. By bending low down, almost level with the table, I found I got\ncompletely out of the fog, and could see clearly underneath it.\n\nOne night there was a rush outside, and a huge ring formed to watch \"a\nscrap\" taking place between two celebrated members of _la haute\ncocotterie de Paris_.\n\nThey were fighting with formidable hatpins, and I understood that the\nprey they fought over was Leopold, King of the Belgians.\n\nI ran with the crowd, the gambling rooms emptied in a twinkling, for the\ncombat took place in the Casino Square. I squeezed through the excited\nmob till I got behind the backers of both parties, who were holding the\nring and defying the police.\n\nIt was a wonderful sight to witness the combined play of flaming red\nauras, shot through with vivid flashes like lightning, and blazing\njewels.\n\nThe duel ended with a few scratches, much tearing of gorgeous raiment\nand disheveled hair.\n\nHow interesting it was to the mystic to feel the psychology of that\ncrowd, and see the thin veneer of civilization stripped off, leaving\nnothing but the human tiger and ape. Both ladies were eventually led off\nthe arena by the police, not, be it understood, to the police-station,\nbut to their own sumptuous apartments. All the time they shrieked and\nchattered like infuriated macaws, and between the shrieks they\nadministered resounding smacks upon the cheeks of their patient escort.\n\nMonte Carlo was a wonderful place in those days, in which to study human\nnature at its best and worst. In latter years it has become meretricious\nand shabby, and the old magnificence is seen no more. Fifteen to twenty\nyears ago all that was greatest in Europe, Asia, and the Americas,\ncongregated there, and crowned heads mingled freely with the scum of the\nearth. Constant _habitues_ were the Duchess of Devonshire, and her son,\nLord Charles Montague; the Duchess of Montrose, known to the ring at\nNewmarket as \"Bobs,\" and always the personification, to listen to and\nlook at, of a Thames bargee. Leopold of Belgium, Ferdinand of Bulgaria,\nGrand Dukes of Russia, potentates from India, all hobnobbing together\nand gambling heavily.\n\nI often wonder now what has befallen those brilliant stars of the\nhalf-world firmament. Emmeline d'Alencon with her \"bobbed\" hair, and\nher passionate love of animals and birds. The demure Jeanne Ray, who\ncame out every morning to her garden gate, and distributed food to the\ncrowd of paupers and cripples. I have seen peasants kiss the hem of her\ndress as she walked on an afternoon along the Promenade des Anglais. The\nbeautiful, soulless Merode, the fierce, stately Otero, and many others\nwho thought nothing of wearing fifty to a hundred thousand pounds' worth\nof jewels on one evening.\n\nWhere are they now? If living they are old! Old! a word more dreaded by\ntheir class than death.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nI COMMIT MURDER\n\n\nI will now relate a very unpleasant experience that befell me thirty\nyears ago, but which has by no means exhausted itself in the passage of\nyears. It still, at long intervals, recurs to me as vividly as when\nfirst I passed through the painful hours of its unfoldment.\n\nIt was the month of July, and I was making a tour by road through a\nportion of Scotland, driving my own horse. I was accompanied by a groom\nand a maid.\n\nOne evening we arrived at a well-known inn on Deeside, where I had\narranged to pass a couple of nights. I found my room ready for me, an\nordinary hotel bedroom, and after supper I retired very early to bed,\nfeeling very sleepy after a long day in the open air.\n\nTowards morning I had a vision. I was a woman who had committed the\ncrime of murder; and I went in hourly terror of discovery and arrest, as\nthe police were actively in search of the criminal. Up to the present I\nhad succeeded in evading them, and no shadow of suspicion had yet fallen\nupon me, but I lived in constant haunting dread that sooner or later\nsome chance clue would direct their attention to me, and I should be\narrested and brought up for trial.\n\nI had no clue in the vision as to how the murder had been committed. My\nvictim was a man, and a sensation, vague and cloudy, suggested that a\nquick poison was the mode of destruction I used, but I never gathered\nwhy I murdered him, or what relation, if any, he was to me.\n\nThe vision was confined to my miserable sensations of fear of detection,\nand the trouble was that I seemed utterly powerless to keep away from\nthe scene of my crime, a large mansion in the West End of London.\n\nNot only did I haunt the outside of the house, but I had several times\ncontrived to penetrate into the interior without being discovered, the\nhouse having stood empty since the crime.\n\nIt was a dark, foggy night when I determined again to effect an\nentrance, and I listened intently in the street before darting up to the\nfront door and fitting my key in the lock. There was not a sound, and I\nfound myself in the interior with the door softly closed behind me.\n\nI carried a candle, which I was about to light, when I saw that the\nlarge hall was not in its usual darkness. A dim light burned in a\npendant globe, and looking round I perceived abundant evidences that the\nhouse was again occupied. Several pairs of men's gloves were neatly\nfolded on the hall table, and a man's silk hat was neatly covered with a\ncloth. There was not the faintest sound to be heard in the house, and\nthe hour was between eleven and midnight.\n\nVery softly I crept up the wide staircase. My heart was beating\ntumultuously, and I was in an agony of apprehension. On the first\ncorridor I entered the room where I had concealed the body of the man I\nhad murdered. I had dragged it there and hidden it in a great dress\nwardrobe. I opened the wardrobe door and found the interior had been\nfilled with women's clothes, they were swathed in linen sheets. Amongst\nthem I began to search with both hands, but, of course, found no signs\nof the body, which had long since been removed. However, in some\nunaccountable way the action of searching seemed to comfort me, and soon\nI turned to retrace my steps and gain the street once more.\n\nAt that second I heard some one approaching, and quick as thought I\nslipped into the wardrobe and pulled the door close. Some one entered\nthe room and then left it again. In a few more moments the house was\nagain silent as the grave, and I began to creep downstairs very softly.\n\nWhen halfway down, at a bend which brought me in full view of the hall\nand the front door in the background, I stopped short at a sound.\n\nSome one was about to enter, some one was fumbling with a latch key at\nthe other side of that door. Another moment and that some one would\nenter and I would be discovered. There was but one chance. Whoever it\nwas might not come upstairs. He or she might strike off to the left of\nthe hall, where a corridor ran to that end of the house.\n\nI cannot attempt to describe my agonizing terror of suspense, yet I did\nnot lose my presence of mind. Instantaneously I decided what to do,\nshould the one about to enter elect to come straight upstairs.\n\nI hastily lit my candle, carefully shading it with my hand, and\ncrouching low I peered through the banisters, towards the front door. It\nopened, and a man entered, middle-aged, well dressed, a gentleman, and\nan utter stranger to me.\n\nHe closed the door and turned the key, but drew no bolts. Then he threw\noff a heavy coat, and placed his hat and gloves on the table. My heart\nbeat to suffocation, as I waited to see which way he would go. He was\nwhistling softly to himself and, turning, began to walk across the hall,\nheading for the stairs.\n\nThen the moment for action came. I knew now I should have to pass him in\norder to make my escape. I threw myself into the tragic pose of a\nsomnambulist. I wore a long floating cloak, and I knew my face was white\nas death, and my eyes wide with sheer terror.\n\nWith both hands, one of which held the lighted candle, outstretched\ngropingly, with distraught gaze fixed in wild vacancy, I slipped\nsilently down the few remaining steps and sped noiselessly in my soft\nshoes straight across the hall towards him.\n\nThough I never turned my eyes upon him I was aware that he had stopped\ndead short, and was staring at me in startled amazement. Then fear\nsuddenly invaded him, I could feel it. He fell back as if to let me\npass, as I glided silently nearer to him and to the door.\n\nHe was backing away from me now, then in another instant, he had turned\nand fled along the corridor. One more moment and I was safely outside,\non the pavement.\n\nI woke up to a brilliant summer morning pouring in at my open window,\nbut I was in no mood to enjoy its loveliness. I was bathed in cold\nperspiration, I was shivering with pure unadulterated fear. I was\nprostrate with the violent revulsion of feeling, from acute dread of\ndiscovery to partial immunity on gaining the street and escaping from\nthe house. The vividness of every detail was crystal clear, and attended\nby all the violent emotions such an adventure and escape would\nnaturally arouse in me, had they happened in the world of realities.\n\nIt was hours before I could shake off the horror of the vision, and I\nleft the hotel that day. Nothing would induce me ever to pass another\nnight under that roof.\n\nI had no recurrence of the vision till three months after, then it came\nagain, with all its attendant horrors, when I was asleep in my own bed\nat home. This was succeeded at long intervals by a vision of my\ncondition of mind as an undiscovered criminal, always evading detection,\nbut without the vision of my return to the scene of the crime. During\nthe last thirty years I have had recurrences of the complete and partial\nvision, but at long intervals.\n\nA few years ago I happened to be standing with my host in an enormous\nstone hall, in one of the greatest houses in England. We were discussing\nthe house, and its uncomfortable vastness. There were suites of\napartments in outlying parts where whole families might hide for days if\nhousemaids were careless. To reach the dining and drawing-rooms from the\nbedrooms, if one was tired, was a real weariness.\n\nWe were looking up at the great gallery, running round the hall. It was\nreached by four wide flights of stairs at different corners, and it was\nfull of all sorts of recesses, and massive pieces of old furniture and\nscreens. On the spur of the moment I said to my host, \"Wouldn't it be\nuncanny if we were to see a strange face looking down on us?\"\n\nTo my surprise, he answered: \"Oh! that has often happened. I've often\nseen strangers looking down. At one time I took them to be inquisitive\nmembers of my own household, whom I didn't know by sight, and one day I\ncomplained about it, to the housekeeper. She looked very much disturbed\nand told me she had seen the same thing herself. The house is opened on\ncertain days to the public, and she was half inclined to think one of\nthe visitors had escaped from the crowd, and hidden herself for several\ndays, as it was not on a public day that the figure was seen.\"\n\n\"Is it always the same figure?\" I asked.\n\n\"Oh, no,\" replied my host. \"Always a different one, and always some one\nquite ordinary and modern looking. The strictest orders are given that\nnone of the servants' friends are to be allowed in this part of the\nhouse, and the housekeeper has always been with us and is thoroughly\ntrustworthy. The fact remains an unsolved mystery.\"\n\nThe housekeeper was a very agreeable old woman of the real,\nold-fashioned type. Very rustling in the evening, in a rich silk gown,\nand wearing some fine piece of jewelry presented to her by one or other\nof the crowned heads who had visited the famous house. I had asked her\nbefore I left about these mysterious appearances, and she had no\nexplanation to offer. She had ascertained beyond a shadow of a doubt,\nthat they had nothing to do with the household.\n\n\"They were always just ordinary looking men and women, such as one meets\nin the streets every day. Sometimes they seem to have hats on, sometimes\ntheir heads appear uncovered,\" she explained.\n\nThis fits in with a belief I have always held that we constantly rub\nshoulders with the disembodied, without being in the least aware of it.\nAs the Bishop of London once said: \"We will find ourselves exactly the\nsame persons ten minutes after death as we were ten minutes before\ndeath.\"\n\nThere are many occasions when we cannot express feeling in intellectual\nterms owing to the poverty of language. One's life not being a matter of\nintellectual perception, but a conscious experience, little of it can be\nmade known. The mystic life is really incommunicable.\n\nWe regard the Universe through the lens of five very imperfect senses,\nconscious all the time that there are certainly many more mediums for\nthe expression of consciousness.\n\nPerception is a manifestation of consciousness, and varies enormously in\nindividuals, ranging often above and beneath the normal. Undoubtedly\nperception can be enormously extended by practice, not only in seeing\nmaterial objects, but in approaching the borderland of other worlds.\n\nThe sight of the Psychic or Medium is not so much vision as a\nconsciousness of the thoughts and feelings of others. It is a sensation\nrather than a process of thinking, sensation not as we commonly accept\nthe term, but sensation through which mental objects are realized with\nas great a clarity of vision as physical objects are seen with the naked\neye.\n\nThis intuitive vision is near akin to ordinary physical vision, inasmuch\nas the object seen has a real concrete existence. The Psychic feels\nvibrations and absorbs them.\n\nMy explanation of my vision in the Highland inn is that the actual\ncriminal had slept the night before in the room I occupied, and\nhappening to be mediumistic I at once began to absorb the vibrations,\nand became steeped in all the circumstances, environment, and\nconditions thrown off by the criminal in connection with the crime.\n\nThe vibrations were intensely strong, and still fresh and concentrated.\nI absorbed them so fully that still at times they steal back across the\nthreshold of my subconsciousness, the vehicle which registers and\nretains all impressions.\n\nDuring sleep, when one is off guard, the gate is often ajar, and old\nmemories and incidents steal through, and range at will through the\nordinary consciousness.\n\nIn daily, normal existence the mind is merely a whirlpool, but\nundoubtedly the criminal would concentrate mentally on every detail of\nher crime. There would be a focalization of her mind; a concentration of\nher whole mental faculties upon this one single subject, and when the\nmental force is reduced from its normal, dissipated condition into\ncoherency, its power is unlimited. It is possible to catch a physical\ndisease by sleeping in an infected bed. It is quite as easy to catch a\nmental disease by the same means. Many emotions are highly contagious,\nnotably fear. All are invisible to human sight, and there is rarely any\nwarning. A Psychic may sense something unpleasant before infection is\nestablished. In fact, this often happens to quite normal individuals.\nSomething in the atmosphere of a place conveys a warning, is unpleasant\nor uncongenial and it is avoided. If a warning was conveyed to me in the\nHighland inn I was too tired to heed it.\n\nAt one time in my life I saw a great deal of two intimate and charming\nfriends, Lord and Lady Wynford. Alas! both have now passed over.\n\nLady Wynford was born Caroline Baillie of Dochfour, and owing to her\nScotch blood, and her relationship with many of our great Scotch\nfamilies, she was profoundly interested in ghosts. Lord Wynford, on the\ncontrary, had an absolute horror of the subject, and always left the\nroom whilst it was under discussion. Though very dissimilar, husband and\nwife were the best of friends. She was very handsome and a brilliant\nwoman of the world. He was shy, retiring, and deeply religious. A\nperfect example of a true gentleman of the old school, and an aristocrat\nto his finger-tips. I was devoted to them both, and they were very kind\nto me in giving me their warm friendship, though at the time of which I\nwrite I was only a girl of about twenty years old.\n\nAt that period the great topic of conversation amongst ghost-hunters was\nGlamis Castle, the most celebrated of all haunted houses. No ghost book\nis ever considered complete without reference to this celebrated Castle,\nand the story usually narrated is, that in the secret room some abnormal\nhorror lived, and that the heir, Lord Glamis, and the factor, had to be\ntold of its existence by the Earl of Strathmore in person. This\ninformation was of so terrible a nature that it changed not only the\nlives of those two men, but even their personal appearance. They grew\naged and haggard in a single night.\n\nThis story was readily discussed in old days by members of the\nStrathmore family, who were just as keen as outsiders were to probe the\nmystery. To-day it is universally believed that the monstrosity is at\nlast laid to rest, and that though other ghosts still walk the Castle,\nthe worst has departed forever.\n\nI went one afternoon to see the Wynfords in the hotel in which they\nstayed whilst in Scotland, and found Lady Reay with them. She was a\nwonderful woman in her way, and preserved her youth up till very late in\nlife. Lord Wynford was not present, and Lady Wynford at once greeted me\nby exclaiming, \"We are going to stay at Glamis next week, and Lady Reay\nhas been there and seen a ghost.\"\n\n\"But not _the_ ghost,\" admitted Lady Reay.\n\n\"Then what did you see?\" I inquired.\n\nShe then told the following story, which has a sequel:--\n\n\"I had been in the Castle for three nights and much to my satisfaction\nseen absolutely nothing. We were a very cheery party, and every one was\nfrightfully thrilled and nervously expectant, but we were very careful\nnot to breathe the word 'ghost' before our host and hostess.\n\n\"On the fourth night I was awakened by a moaning sound in my room, and I\nopened my eyes. The room was in total darkness, but I saw something very\nbright near the door. I shut my eyes instantly, and pulled the\nbedclothes over my head in a paroxysm of fear. I longed to light my\ncandles, but didn't dare, and the moaning continued, and I thought I\nshould go quite mad.\n\n\"At last I ventured to peep out again. I saw a woman dressed exactly\nlike Mary Tudor, in her pictures, and she was wandering round the walls,\nflinging herself against them, like a bird against the bars of a cage,\nand beating her hands upon the walls, and all the time she moaned\nhorribly. I'm sure she was the ghost of a mad woman. Her face and form\nwere lit up exactly like a picture thrown upon a magic lantern screen,\nand every detail of her dress was clearly defined.\n\n\"Luckily she never looked at me, or I should have screamed, and I\nthought of Lord and Lady I. sleeping in the next room to mine, and\nwondered how I could reach them. I was really too terrified to move, and\nthe ghost kept more or less to that part of the room where the door was\nsituated.\n\n\"I must have lain there awake for two or three hours, sometimes with my\nhead buried under the clothes, sometimes peeping out, when at last the\nmoaning suddenly stopped. I opened my eyes. Thank God, I was alone. The\nghost had departed.\n\n\"I lay with wide open eyes till daybreak. Then the first thing I did was\nto run to the mirror to see if my hair had turned white. Mercifully it\nhadn't, but I looked an awful wreck.\n\n\"I told just a few people what I had seen, and contrived to get a wire\nsent me before lunch. Early in the afternoon I was on the way to\nEdinburgh.\"\n\nSuch was the story Lady Reay related.\n\nThirteen years later Captain Eric Streatfield, who was a nephew of Lord\nStrathmore, and an intimate friend of my husband, told me exactly the\nsame story. He was a boy of six at the time, when the lady of Tudor days\nappeared moaning in his room, and he said he would never forget the\nmisery of the night he passed. He was very much interested in hearing\nthat Lady Reay had gone through the same experience. He told me another\nextraordinary story.\n\nWhilst, as a school boy, he was visiting at Glamis Castle with his\nparents, he noticed that they began to behave in rather a peculiar\nmanner. They were often consulting alone with one another, and\nconstantly scanning the sky from their bedroom window, which adjoined\nhis. For two or three days this sort of thing went on, and he caught\nqueer fragments of conversation whispered between them, such as, \"It\ndoesn't always happen. We might be spared this year, the power must die\nout some day.\"\n\nAt last one evening his father called him into his room, where his\nmother stood by the open window. In his hand his father held an open\nwatch.\n\nHis mother bade him look out, and tell them what sort of night it was.\nHe replied that it was fine, and still and cold, and the stars were\nbeginning to appear.\n\nHis father then said, \"We want you to take particular note of the\nweather, for in another moment you may witness a remarkable change.\nProbably you will see a furious tempest.\"\n\nEric could not make head or tail of this. He wondered if his parents had\ngone mad, but glancing at his mother he noticed that she looked\nstrangely pale and anxious.\n\nThen the storm burst, with such terrific suddenness and fury that it\nterrified him. A howling tempest, accompanied by blinding lightning and\ndeafening thunder, rushed down upon them from an absolutely clear sky.\n\nHis mother knelt down by the bed, and he thought that she was praying.\n\nWhen Eric asked for an explanation he was told that when he was grown up\none would be given him. Unfortunately the moment never came. An aunt had\ntold him that the storm was peculiarly to do with Glamis, and was\nsomething that could not be explained.\n\nLord and Lady Wynford paid their visit to Glamis, and I looked forward\neagerly to their return in a week's time. I went to see them the day\nafter their arrival back again, and was met by Lady Wynford alone.\nBefore I could question her she began to speak of the visit.\n\n\"I don't want you even to mention the word Glamis to Wynford,\" she said\nvery gravely. \"He's had a great shock, and he's in a very queer state of\nmind.\"\n\nShe paused, and I ventured to ask, \"But what sort of shock?\"\n\nThen she gave me the following account:--\n\n\"Wynford and I occupied adjoining bedrooms. We were having a delightful\ntime. Glorious weather, and a lot of very pleasant people. I really\nforgot all about there being any ghost. We were out all day, and very\nsleepy at night, and I never heard or saw a thing that was unusual.\n\n\"Two nights before we left something happened to Wynford. He came into\nmy room and awakened me at seven o'clock in the morning. He was fully\ndressed, and he looked dreadfully upset and serious. He said he had\nsomething to tell me, and he wished to get it over, and then he would\ntry not to think of it any more. I was certain then that he had seen or\nheard something terrible, and I waited with the greatest impatience for\nhim to continue. He seemed confronted with some great difficulty, but\nafter a long pause he said--\n\n\"'You know that I have always disbelieved in the supernatural. I have\nnever believed that God would permit such things to come to pass as I\nhave heard lightly described. I was wrong. Such awful experiences are\npossible. I know it to my own cost, and I pray God I may never pass such\na night again as that which I have just come through. I have not slept\nfor a moment. I feel I must tell you this, in fact, it is necessary that\nI tell you, because I am going to extract a promise from you. A promise\nthat you will never mention in my hearing the name of this house, or the\nterrible subject with which its name is connected.'\n\n\"I was speechless for a few minutes with perplexed amazement. I had\nnever heard Wynford speak like that, nor had I ever seen him so terribly\nupset.\n\n\"'But,' I said at last, 'aren't you going to tell me what has so\nunnerved you?'\n\n\"He began pacing up and down the room. 'Good God, no,' he exclaimed, 'I\ncouldn't even begin to tell you. I have no words that would have any\nmeaning or expression. Don't you understand, there is no language to\nconvey such happenings from one to the other. They are seen, felt,\nheard! They cannot be uttered. There are some things on earth I know of\nnow, that may not be related to the spoken word. Perhaps between a man\nand his God, but not even between you and me.'\n\n\"We were silent again for some minutes, during which he continued to\npace the room, his head drooped on his breast. I was really seriously\nalarmed. I even feared for his reason, and I couldn't form the smallest\nconjecture as to what had been the nature of his experiences. I was\nquite convinced of one thing. What he had seen was no ordinary ghost,\nlike Lady Reay's Tudor Lady. She might have amazed him, but it required\nsomething much more terrible and awe-inspiring to have reduced him to\nsuch a condition of mental misery and desolation.\n\n\"I wanted to comfort him, to sympathize with him, but something about\nhim held me at arm's length. It was his soul that was suffering, and\nwith his soul a man must wrestle alone. I felt that his deep religious\nconvictions of a lifetime had been violently dislocated, for all I knew\nshattered entirely, and I felt profound compassion for him. I may have\nhad doubts, on many points. I confess to being a worldly skeptic, but\nWynford's faith has always been so pure and childlike, and I have\nstriven never to jar him on religious subjects. Now I feel as if\nsomehow, everything that he has ever had has been taken away from him.\n\n\"At last I said, 'Don't you think we had better leave to-day? We can\neasily make some excuse.'\n\n\"He stopped and looked straight at me, so strangely.\n\n\"'No, I can't leave to-day. I must stay another night here. There is\nsomething I must do. Now will you give me your promise never to mention\nthis subject to me again? We may not be alone together again to-day. I\nwant to get it over. Promise.'\n\n\"I gave him my promise at once. I dared not have opposed him. I was\nhorribly frightened. He went out of the room at once, and I lay thinking\nand shivering with dread. 'What was it he had to do? Why could we not\nleave to-day?' It was all so mysterious.\n\n\"Well! the day passed in an ordinary manner, and if Wynford was more\ngrave than usual I don't think any one noticed it. Then came the night I\nso dreaded. Of course I didn't sleep at first, I was too anxious, and I\nheard him come up to his room half an hour after I did. The door between\nour rooms was closed, and I lay awake listening intently. I heard him\nmoving about; I supposed he was undressing, and his man never sits up\nfor him. Then after a time there were occasional creaks which I knew\ncame from an armchair, and I knew that he had not gone to bed.\n\n\"I suppose I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I was aware\nof was Wynford's voice. He was speaking to some one, and seemed to be in\nthe middle of a conversation. When he ceased speaking I strained my ears\nto catch a reply. I could hear no words, only his voice. Then a reply\ndid come, and it simply froze the blood in my body, and I felt bathed in\nice, and had to put my finger between my teeth, they chattered so\nhorribly.\n\n\"The reply was a hoarse whisper, a sort of rasping, grating undertone,\nthat was not so much a whisper as an inability to speak in any other\nvoice. There was something almost inhuman in those harsh, vibrating, yet\nhusky words, spoken too low for me to catch. I knew at once that no\nguest, no member of the family, spoke like that, and I could not\nconceive that it could be a servant. What could Wynford have to say to\nany servant of Lord Strathmore?\n\n\"A clock somewhere in the Castle struck three. No; I was certain that\nthe presence with him, whatever else it might be, was no human being\ndwelling under the roof of Glamis.\n\n\"At times they seemed to hold an argument; sometimes Wynford's voice was\nsharp and decisive, at other times it was utterly weary and despondent.\nI dreaded what the effect might be upon him of this awful night, but I\ncould do nothing but lie shivering in bed, and pray for the morning.\n\n\"How long it went on for I can't say, but the conviction came to me\nsuddenly that Wynford had begun to pray. His voice was raised, and now\nand again I fancied I could hear words. The rasping whisper came now\nonly in short, sharp interjections or expostulations, I don't know\nwhich. The even flow of Wynford's words went quietly on, and I began to\nbe certain that he was praying for the being who spoke with that\nterrible whisper. It occurred to me that he might even be trying to\nexorcise some unclean spirit.\n\n\"At last a silence fell. Wynford stopped praying, and I hoped that the\nterrible interview was at an end. Then it began again, and for quite an\nhour the prayers went on, with long periods of silence in between. I\nheard no more of the terrible, husky whisper.\n\n\"I fell asleep again and did not awake till my maid brought me early\ntea. No sooner had she gone than Wynford entered, fully dressed. Though\nhe looked desperately tired and wan, he seemed quite composed, and as if\nsome weight had been removed from off him. He said he was going for a\nstroll before breakfast, and, of course, I remembered my promise and put\nno questions. I have come to the conclusion that a hundred people may\nstay any length of time at Glamis and see or hear nothing. The hundred\nand first may receive such a shock to the nervous system that he never\nreally recovers from it.\"\n\nSuch was the mysterious story that Lady Wynford unfolded. I saw her\nhusband the next day, but beyond being graver than usual in his manner I\ndetected no difference in him. He never referred, even in the most\nindirect way, to his visit, but he must have inferred by my silence that\nI had been warned not to mention the subject. Many others must, however,\nhave done so, for every one, who at that period passed a night under\nGlamis Castle roof, was eagerly questioned by friends and acquaintances\non their return.\n\nThe only occasion on which I visited Glamis was on the night of a ball,\ngiven in honor of the Crown Prince of Sweden. The curiosity of the\nguests was held in check by servants being stationed at certain doors,\nand entrances to corridors and staircases, to inform rude explorers that\nthey could not pass. It is hard to believe that such a course of action\nwas necessary, but I personally watched little parties being turned back\ntowards the ballroom and sitting-out-rooms, showing that intense\ncuriosity may even prove stronger than good breeding.\n\nWhat Wynford saw that night will never be known, but one fact remains.\nIt left so deep an impression upon him that he was never the same man\nagain. He became graver and more wrapped up in his own thoughts month by\nmonth, and the change that ended in his death his wife attributed to\nthose nights passed in Glamis Castle.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nTHE ANGEL OF LOURDES\n\n\nOne lovely summer evening I was standing in a hotel bedroom, washing my\nhands. I was in Lourdes, and I was pondering upon a certain long flight\nof stone steps that I could see quite clearly from my window. At the top\nof the steps, which were cut in the face of the wooded hillside, stood a\ngreat Calvary, and from dawn till darkness pilgrims made the hard ascent\nupon their knees. The stones were worn and grooved by the stream of\nhuman beings making their painful way to the foot of the Cross.\n\nThe atmosphere of Lourdes is very impressive to the Psychic. One\nbreathes the concentrated essence of prayer. No one goes there who is\nnot on prayer intent, and in the public streets, gardens and churches\none comes across kneeling figures lost in Divine contemplation. No one\nheeds them; all are on a like mission, and sometimes men and women stand\nfor hours with outstretched arms. Human crosses, oblivious to all, lost\nin a mystic rapture which takes count of neither time nor place.\n\nI turned my head towards the window. The sun had just set behind the\nmountains, and the sky was illuminated by a rosy afterglow. Down in the\nvalley the shadows were beginning to lengthen, but I could still see the\nCalvary on the hillside, and the dark human stream slowly moving up the\nstony way, the _Via Dolorosa_ of the Cross.\n\nAt that moment the sense of a presence swung into my field of\nconsciousness, and contracted my vague faculties to focus. Something\nmoving in the sky above caught my eye.\n\nHow shall I describe the sight?\n\nI saw an angel floating above the mountains.\n\nThe figure, wingless, yet floating in erect grace, was of great size,\nand wrapped entirely in cloudy gray. The head was bare and slightly\nbent, as if looking down on earth. The movements were smooth and\ngliding, as a feather floats in the wind. The distance was too great--I\njudged about a quarter of a mile--for me to distinguish the features,\nbut owing to its great size the figure was clearly visible and deeply\ninspiring.\n\nIt was a vision on which none could look intently without feeling the\nweight of a mighty awe. It gathered up the wandering emotions of the\nheart, and all a lifetime's ideals of beauty, grandeur, sublimity, in\none serene presentation.\n\nThe vision floated on majestically, across the valley and the little\ntown with its praying multitudes. In about three minutes It had passed,\nand was lost in the pearly mists of the gathering night.\n\nAnd whilst the vision lasted I was acutely conscious of that innumerable\nconcourse of kneeling forms below, all struggling upwards to the Cross.\n\nIt seems to me that the devout, of other faiths than that of Rome, lose\nmuch by not taking advantage of Lourdes. For many years, thousands of\npilgrims from all corners of the earth have bent their steps towards the\nshrine, and poured out their souls in a passion of supplication. This\ntremendous concentration of faith, love and fervent adoration, often\necstatic thanksgiving for answered prayer, must find an echo in the\nHeaven World to which they are sent.\n\nIt is so easy at Lourdes to feel that the Throne of Grace has been\nactually reached, because one can sense the pathway, the ladder made by\nhuman love, praise and faith, down which, I doubt not, the Angels of God\nare always passing. It is easier to concentrate the mind in a place\nwhere religious thought has been poured out for many years, because one\ninsensibly becomes calmed, and tranquilized, and aided by the atmosphere\nthousands of others have created.\n\nAt Lourdes there is nothing to attract the scoffer, and thousands of\nhearts filled with reverence and devotion reenforce each year the\nalready powerful vibrations, and leave the place the better and richer\nfor their presence.\n\nHow few people realize that they have never seen themselves? How many\ncan tell what they really look like?\n\nA very, very few can, and I am amongst the number.\n\nI wakened one morning in summer, and opened my eyes on my sunlit bedroom\nat home. Instantly I saw something which thrilled me with vivid\ninterest. I saw myself!\n\nI was emerging out of a corner of the room, and composedly approaching\nthe bed. There was no doubt as to recognition. I knew instantly I was\nlooking on my own face for the first time, and it was something of a\nshock to discover that I was more or less of a stranger to myself. I saw\nhow false a looking-glass can be. I had not begun to know myself.\n\nWith absorbed interest I stared very hard, in my intense desire to\nimprint on my memory my own image. I approached the bed, and as I did\nso, I seemed to shrink, fade, and waver. Then suddenly I vanished--into\nmy recumbent body.\n\nFor a few minutes afterwards I was too concerned with my physical\ncondition to ponder on the vision of my real self. I was tossing\nviolently in the bed, in an inner distraughtness which was most\ndisturbing. Then, as my nervous system began to calm down, I strove to\nimprint on my memory the recollection of what I really looked like.\n\nMy face, even in the wonder of those few moments in which I had seen it,\nexpressed emotions I had never seemed to know. Nothing was as I had\nbelieved it to be. All the traits that went to form my character needed\nreadjusting, and all seemed curiously imperfect. I could not remember\nhow I was clothed, though I had seen myself from head to foot. I suppose\nI was too engrossed in studying my face to think of my body.\n\nThe vision left me with a blank sense of utter disillusionment and\nfailure. Nothing in me was finished or complete. My expression suggested\na character which was horribly crude, imperfect and rudimentary. Looking\nat myself afterwards in the mirror, I came to the conclusion that it\nlied, or that in waking life I wear a mask.\n\nIt is salutary to behold one's spiritual portrait, a thing not visible\nto the mind alone but to the physical sight. In a flash comes the\nknowledge that dwelling in us are forces, not yet grasped by mortal\nmind, that cry for recognition. There have been moments in all lives, I\nbelieve, when a glimpse is caught of the Olympian heights to which it is\npossible to rise. Glimpses, alas! of the evanescent thing we know\nourselves in truth to be.\n\nSometimes, on the Astral plane, it happens that friends meet under\nstrange circumstances, and one figures largely in the doings of another.\nThe memory of those nocturnal adventures is brought through and clearly\nrecollected in the morning.\n\nOne such occurrence I will relate, and it is peculiar and unusual.\n\nAn old friend of ours, a man who has devoted his life to the development\nof his spiritual faculties (not to be confused with the development of\nmediumship and phenomena), had a series of dreams in which he appeared\nto be two people. He himself was the same tall, slender man he is in\ndaily life, but in this psychic experience a much smaller man moved\nalways on his left side, and somehow seemed to symbolize his waking\npersonality.\n\nThe central figure in one of these unusual experiences was a young man\nwho was unknown to our friend, and who had died abroad. His body had\nbeen embalmed and brought home for burial, and our friend had been shown\nphotographs of him, and had also communicated with him through automatic\nwriting. This much was imprinted on his physical memory.\n\nNow, whilst lying asleep one night, the spiritual counterpart of our\nfriend became aware that the body of the young man was exposed and could\nbe seen. His companion, or other self, the shorter man who moved by his\nside, shrank back with horror from such a suggestion, just as our friend\nwould instinctively have done in waking consciousness, but he himself\nwas determined to see the body, and went straight through a door facing\nhim, into a room where it was lying on a low table.\n\nNow comes the moment when I began to figure in this experience. I was\nstanding on the opposite side of the table, making vigorous passes over\nthe young man's body, which appeared to be fashioned out of pinkish\nclay. The trunk and legs looked as though I had roughly modeled them\nwith my hands. The head was more highly finished. It was sharp and\ndistinct in outline, and our friend recognized it instantly as being a\nrepresentation of the young man whose portraits he had seen. He stared\nat the face with great interest, and taking up a cloth, gently wiped the\ncheek where a fleck of foam lay. This action seemed to vivify the body,\nfor it began to mutter and murmur indistinctly. Apparently it was alive,\nand not dead.\n\nOur friend relates that this discovery gave him such a shock that he\nlost the thread of memory which he was bringing back to his physical\nbody on the bed. The next moment he woke up. My recollection, a\nperfectly clear one, of these happenings, was that he simply vanished\nfrom the scene, leaving me alone with the body, which I continued to\nmanipulate.\n\nAfterwards, through automatic writing, our friend was told by the\ndeparted young man, that this astral vision signified the collecting of\netheric matter to fashion a body in which he could function on etheric\nplanes.\n\nOn another occasion our friend had the experience of walking about on\nthe other side with the young man, who was dressed in an ordinary tweed\nsuit, and being taken by him to various acquaintances, to whom he was\nintroduced. With the exception of the above experience, he believes that\nthis was the first time he had ever seen him. The interesting point of\nboth experiences is, that both I and our friend brought back on waking,\na clear and similar recollection of the episode in which we were jointly\nconcerned.\n\nThis friend of ours is a disciple of \"The Flaming Heart,\" called by\nCatholics \"The Sacred Heart.\" He writes to me thus:--\n\n\"I see now more clearly than before that the Christ self within uses its\npowers as a whole, just as the personal man uses intellect, will, and\nfeeling, all three being energized by love, which is the element of\ninterest in the several activities.\"\n\n\"So the self of love works out and manifests as--\n\n    Love and Life         Beauty.\n    Love and Power        Goodness.\n    Love and Knowledge    Wisdom.\n\n\"The Love element saves us from wrong living, wrong doing or wrong\nthinking. So we go from strength to strength, by yielding the lower self\nto the transmuting power of the Higher.\"\n\nIt was long before I came to understand the full significance of the\nFlaming Heart. It was plain to see what its realization meant to our\nfriend. He radiates an extraordinary serenity of mind, an atmosphere of\nstrength and peace, a calm in the midst of storm which apparently\nnothing can shake. Pre-eminently, when in his presence, one is conscious\nof a commanding power which will only be used for exalted purposes. This\nclear subjection of the lower self, to the transmuting power of the\nHigher self, has worked such marvels in him that one longs to grasp the\nsecret of his success.\n\nA few years passed, and still the heart of the mystery eluded me. This\nyear, 1918, it came to me in a flash.\n\nThe experience I am about to relate may have happened to many others. To\nme, it was a tremendous revelation.\n\nI was kneeling one morning in front of the Altar, at Early Celebration.\nI have always felt, through the Eucharist, the possibility of great\nspiritual development, and often there comes to me at such moments, a\nmystical response to the inner mysteries of the Sacrament. I have never\nlooked for supernatural happenings, hallucinations, or psychic\nexcitements, but my spiritual instincts are always alive and craving\nsatisfaction. This they have never before received in any really lasting\ndegree.\n\nNow came a new Divine illumination.\n\nTwo clergymen were officiating at the celebration. I had just received\nthe bread from the one, and had raised my head and hands to receive the\ncup from the other, when suddenly I went quite blind.\n\nThe vicar, who was moving towards me, was blotted out. I stared at a\nblack veil utterly impenetrable, and I was aware of a tremendous\ninternal dislocation. My heart beat tumultuously, and felt as if thrust\nout of place. Then my sight was restored.\n\nI saw before me, not the man, bearing in his hands the chalice, but a\nflaming heart of fire, from which radiated out living, scintillating\nstreams of golden light. They filled the background with their quivering\nradiance, and I was conscious of shrinking back, and bowing my head as\nthe supernal vision approached me and enveloped me in Its aura.\n\nThe cup had been transmuted by Divine alchemy into the Flaming Heart of\nlove's sacrifice, and I was given to taste of the living waters of Life.\n\nFor a few minutes I was quite unconscious of where I was. I had been,\nindeed, caught up into the seventh Heaven. I know now that I acted\nmechanically, and to outward semblance I behaved in the orthodox manner,\nbut when I raised my head again the vicar had passed on and the vision\nhad vanished. Nothing had happened to distract the attention of others.\n\nI returned to my seat conscious that I had been taught the meaning and\nmarvelous significance of the Flaming Heart. I understood the words of\nthe great mystic, St. John.\n\n     \"In him was life; and the life was the light of men.\n\n     \"And the light shineth in the darkness; and the darkness overcame\n     it not.\n\n     \"There was the true light, even the light which lighteth every man,\n     coming into the world.\"\n\nI know that the Flaming Heart of Divinity dwells in the breasts of all\nhumanity, that the soul is no empty shell, but the shrine of the Divine\nPresence, and that Presence is the Guide and Light of Life.\n\nI have seen revealed the inner mystery of the sacramental life. Through\na rift in the veil of the material, the hidden life of eternity was\nsymbolized for me in the Flaming Heart, the true Eucharistic Mystery.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nTHE WRAITH OF THE ARMY GENTLEMAN\n\n\nTo some people life is an unspeakable tragedy; to others it is a mere\nfarce. To all it is a profound mystery.\n\nWhat am I? Where have I come from? Where am I going? What is this\nmysterious ego that thinks and acts?\n\nFrom Darwin we learn that the human body has taken a million years to\nevolve its present form. Is it logical to suppose that there is no\nscheme of evolution for the immortal soul, in which it can preserve its\nindividuality through the ages? The mills of God grind slowly, and what\nis seventy or eighty years in eternity, in which we develop the highest\nand most complex organism we can conceive of--the Soul?\n\nFive hundred and thirty-five years B. C. Pythagoras was teaching the\nreincarnation of the immortal soul in his celebrated school. Plato,\nSocrates, Aristotle, Philo, Virgil, Cicero, Euclid, the Egyptians and\nthe Hindoos taught the same doctrine. In the days of Christ the\ntransmigration of souls was an accepted belief, and in 250 A. D. Origen,\nthe greatest of the Christian Fathers, was still teaching the same\ndoctrine. Justin Martyr recognized the presence of the Logos in Jesus,\nand Socrates and Clement of Alexandria affirmed that the same philosophy\nhad brought the Greeks to Christ. To this day it remains the belief of\nthree-fourths of the human race.\n\nIn our country, though a rapidly growing faith, Buddhism fails to\ncommand the attention it otherwise would, for two reasons. Firstly, we\nhave never been a religious-minded people, and are now very much less so\nthan formerly. What are loosely termed religious subjects interest a\nvery few, and bore intensely the great majority. Out of our forty-four\nmillion souls, a mere handful are interested in a future life. The rest\nprefer not to take the problem into consideration, though they are ready\nto accept a small dose of conventional religion, ready-made and\npre-digested. Secondly, faith in the transmigration of souls in a\nsuccession of physical bodies only becomes an urgent mental necessity, a\nvitally necessary explanation of life's inequalities, to those who mix\nwith the outcast poor. Such persons are again comparatively few, and, to\nthose of them who think, life without reincarnation is simply an\nincomprehensible and chaotic puzzle.\n\nOnce the faith is grasped that life between birth and death is only a\ntiny fragment of the aeons allotted to us, in which to develop\nspiritually, divine harmony; love and justice reappear. Only thus can\none see light. But if the tardy growth of this all-sufficient\nillumination is slow to take root, it must be remembered that to the\nordinary, well-to-do person it makes no appeal.\n\n\"Am I my brother's keeper?\" is generally answered in the negative, and\nthe hypocritical rejoinder, covering a mountain of selfishness, that it\nis an impertinence to pry into the lives of the poor, is the facile\nexcuse for sitting at ease and cozening the conscience into the belief\nthat the poor are God's affair. Even the devout and pious, who may feel\ndeep compassion for the sorrow of the destitute, have no spur to prick\ntheir mental apathy, unless they mix freely and constantly with the\npoor and oppressed. Only then will come the perplexed question: Where\ncan I see in all this overwhelming misery the Divine hand of love and\njustice?\n\nThe Christ who established his Brotherhood with us, by proclaiming God\nthe Universal Father, told us that \"Before Abraham was, I am,\" and I\nsuppose that most people, who accept anything, accept the pre-existence\nof Christ. Yet how few of us can remember anything of our own past\nlives, and how merciful it is that we cannot. How utterly overwhelming\nsuch memory would be! The future is as carefully hidden from us as the\npast, yet our previous lives have been by no means unfruitful.\n\nThe experiences we have gathered in the past years of this life are\nnearly all forgotten, yet our development has gone on, and the records\nare stored in the subconsciousness, sometimes to be pulled across the\nthreshold and displayed in a complete panorama before the dying eyes.\nThe statements to this effect made by those who have been resuscitated\nwhen at the point of death by drowning, are too numerous to be discarded\nas mere fables.\n\nUndoubtedly we all contain the germs of sin at birth, but few educated\npeople now accept the statements that we are born sinful because our\nparents sinned, or because of the moral delinquencies of those of Eden.\nCertainly we all bear the consequences of others' sins, but the cruel\ninjustice of a God who deliberately punishes present humanity for the\nsins of past humanity is too revolting a conception of the Creator to\ngain acceptance to-day.\n\nThis very fact shows that we have advanced spiritually. So base a\nconception of the Almighty is violently repugnant to serious thinkers.\nThe intuitive consciousness of man postulates the over-ruling spirit as\na power representing perfect justice and love, and the innate instinct\nto believe that we ourselves are in some mysterious way akin to this\nDivine Ideal keeps ever alive the belief in our Divine origin.\n\nWhat is the grand apotheosis of each human life? The Christ spirit; a\nscheme of regenerative redemption, simple, natural, yet superlatively\ngrand.\n\nIf one asks whether the orbs in space take precedence of personal will\nand intelligence, or personal will and intelligence take precedence of\nthe orbs in space, one has only to ask whether builders or buildings\nhave priority. Do pictures originate the artist? do books originate the\nauthor? If one begins to study with a belief in spirit as power and\ncause, one can account for all things, but to start with matter as a\nfoundation is to fail absolutely to account for either matter or spirit.\n\nIn some infinite womb the vital Heavens, the visible Universe must have\nexisted before time was. We see all elements have their affinities, all\nstars their course, all atoms their polarity. We see the wheel of\nEzekiel symbolizing the whole scheme and fabric of Nature.\n\nHeaven works not only with stupendous immensities but with small\nminorities. Atoms of unutterable minuteness are streaming into the\nunseen atmosphere every second from the souls and bodies of the human\nrace. When the soul seeks, aspires after God, the most vital of all\natoms go forth with the breath, as light from the sun to the earth.\nSurely we and our angel kindred inhabit one house of which the most\ndistant provinces are in touch with the center of all. Heaven and earth\nare bridged by the spirit ladder of love, and the soul can inbreathe the\nspirit of God as the body inbreathes oxygen.\n\nThe contemplative mind beholds every day the passage of things invisible\ninto sight, the transfer of the seen into the unseen, and all is\nnatural. The life throb of the palpable world is a pulsation going forth\nevery instant from the eternal energy, drawing out by an ethereal medium\nfrom the invisible and intangible, that which is visible and tangible.\n\nI will speak now of the passage of a thing invisible into sight. How, to\nme, it became so I cannot tell. I don't know.\n\nOne summer evening my husband and I were occupying two communicating\nbedrooms in a London hotel, contiguous with one of the great railway\nstations. We had to make an early start in the morning, and had come\nthere to be near our train.\n\nI awakened in the early morning hours. The gray dawn was just beginning\nto show through the bars of the Venetian blinds lowered before the two\nwindows. Those bars had not been adjusted, and they also admitted a\nrather bright light from a street lamp. I judged it to be somewhere\nabout four o'clock, but I did not look at my watch. I was too\npre-occupied in looking at something else.\n\nMy bare arm was stretched outside the coverlet, and I was aware that\nwhat had awakened me was a cold wind blowing on my skin. The furniture\nof the room was dimly outlined, and at first I vaguely threw my\nhalf-open eyes around without perceiving anything unusual, but gradually\nmy senses, shaking off their drowsiness, became aware of movement\nbetween the bed and the window. Something tall and gray was wavering\nlike a pillar of smoke betwixt me and the struggling daylight. I closed\nmy eyes again with a creepy feeling, a disinclination to look again, but\nmy bare arm, which still lay outside the coverlet, received another\nintimation that roused me to keen alertness. A chill wind was blowing\nover my skin.\n\nI drew in my arm hastily, and opened my eyes. That tall gray something\nhad approached much nearer to me, and now I could distinguish with\nperfect clearness the figure of a man, but such a wavering, fluid form\nthat one moment seemed on the point of dissolving into thin air, and the\nnext moment gathering itself together again in clear cut outline.\n\nFor what seemed to me a long time I stared at the gray apparition. I\nfelt a cold fear, a rigid horror creep over me, and but for the\nrecollection of my husband's nearness, and the open door between us, I\nmight have fainted from pure terror. I thought of calling to him, but\nsomething sinister in that wavering shadow made me desist. At times the\nform came quite close to the bed, but I could never see the face\nclearly; it was vague and undetermined in outline, in fact, not\ncompletely materialized. Not for a second did that wavering movement\ncease, that floating, shimmering motion 'twixt bed and window, of what I\nknew to be the ghost of a man.\n\nHow long this unpleasant state of things continued I do not know. I was\nperfectly well aware that a ghost should be addressed in sympathetic\nterms, should be asked if any human help can be rendered, but at the\ntime it never once occurred to me to speak. Gradually, as I watched that\nretreating then advancing form, at moments opaque, then almost\ntransparent, I lost consciousness and fell asleep again.\n\nI was awakened a few hours later by a loud knocking at my door. I slid\ninstantly out of bed, turned the key, and was confronted by the\nchambermaid, bringing my early tea.\n\n\"Who was the man who killed himself in this room?\"\n\nLuckily, the woman did not drop the tray, as I hurled at her this abrupt\nquestion. She set the tea down on a table and turned to me a scared\nface, as she answered by another question:\n\n\"How ever did you find out that?\"\n\n\"Never mind how I found out. Please answer me. I won't get you into\ntrouble,\" I said firmly.\n\n\"It was an army gentleman. He shot himself here the night before last.\nThat's all I know,\" was her subdued answer.\n\nPoor \"army gentleman\"! So you were revisiting the scene of your last\ntragedy, or had you ever left that confined space between four walls\nwhich witnessed the supreme mental agony of the suicide?\n\nWhat had prompted me to put that sudden question to the chambermaid? I\ncould not tell. In the moment of waking, slipping out of bed and opening\nthe door, no recollection had come to me of my earlier experience, but\nbetwixt that experience and my abrupt waking at her knock knowledge must\nhave been somehow afforded me of the tragedy. I knew a man had done\nhimself to death in that room shortly before I occupied it.\n\nA day or two afterwards I read an account of the inquest held upon the\nbody. A rankling sense of unjust treatment had preyed upon his brain.\n\nSuicide whilst of unsound mind was the verdict. Poor \"army gentleman,\" I\nfear I could have been of little service to you, even if I had opened\nup some form of communication between myself and your disembodied soul!\n\nWhen one remembers how many persons occupy even one room in a hotel in\ntwelve months, it seems natural that psychic phenomena should be common\nto such houses. Undoubtedly many tragedies must be enacted in every\nhotel within a comparatively short space of time, and one may, in utter\nunconsciousness, occupy a bedroom in which, but the night before, murder\nor suicide has taken place.\n\nSome years ago, I had occasion to pass a night in one of the big West\nEnd hotels of London. It was very full, and I had to be content with a\nvery indifferent room on the main entrance floor, and looking to the\nback. The window had iron bars in front of it, through which one could\nslip one's head, but not one's shoulders. The reason for the bars was\nobvious. A wide mews ran on a level with this floor of the house, and\nfailing this obstruction any one could have stepped with perfect ease\nfrom the pavement into the room.\n\nThrusting my head through the bars I could see from end to end of the\nmews. On the left there was no exit, on the right was a narrow lane\nrunning down the side of the hotel, and leading into the main\nthoroughfare. The mews seemed very quiet, clean and respectable, and for\none night only I decided that the room would do. I was very tired after\npassing two nights in a train, and went early to bed and fell asleep at\nonce.\n\nI ascertained afterwards that I had been sleeping for five hours, when I\nwas suddenly awakened by a loud noise of scuffling feet, accompanied by\na gurgling choking sound, as if some one was struggling to find\nutterance, to gain breath.\n\nTo be awakened by a noise out of a sound sleep is always a startling,\nuncomfortable experience. If the astral body has been wandering far\nafield, it has to return to the physical body in far too great a hurry\nfor comfort. There is always more or less of a dislocating jar under\nsuch circumstances. The startled sensation is greatly accentuated when,\nin place of waking to dead silence, one awakens to unaccountable and\nvery unpleasant sounds.\n\nI lay perfectly still, with every nerve tingling, and every muscle taut,\nand listened intently. The noise came from the window which was shut,\nand my heart began to beat more thickly with a dread and terror which\nhad neither form nor shape. Slowly I remembered the mews outside, and\nfelt instantly thankful that because of its proximity I had shut the\nwindow, instead of sleeping with it wide open, as is my custom.\n\nWas murder taking place out there? What was that hideous, choking sound,\nthat surged in with guttural gasps from out the darkness, and which\nsuggested nothing so much as a frenzied struggle of loathing and\nagonized fear?\n\nI lay shuddering and quaking as with the grip of ague. My imagination\ninstantly constructed the scene so vividly suggested by the nature of\nthe sounds. A man's hands were on the throat of a woman, and he was\ndeliberately strangling the life out of her struggling body. I was sick\nwith unspeakable agonies of dread, and for quite five minutes I could\nnot summon force or motion to my limbs.\n\nIf some unfortunate was being done to death it was clearly my duty to\nrun to the window and give the alarm by shrieking \"murder,\" but now I\nbegan to wonder if that awful struggle was taking place outside or just\ninside my room. Though the mews was well lit my blind was drawn down,\nand the room was in darkness, except for a faint reflection shining in\nfrom a street lamp. I had only to stretch out my hand in order to switch\non a light above my bed, but a paralysis of fear held me.\n\nThat noise of infinite pain, of frantic, dying agony, those convulsive,\nghastly groans and scuffling of feet, and wrestling, writhing bodies,\nwere spell-binding beyond the power of human conception, and the most\nawe-inspiring fantasy. I tried to reason with myself, but the horror\nscattered all reasoning, yet a sense of duty, of natural humanity, and\nanger with my own fears, kept tugging at me. It seemed as if the sounds\nwere losing force, were beginning to die out. I was lying still in\nabject terror, whilst a fellow-creature was being deliberately done to\ndeath.\n\nA blind fury with myself, and the murderer, suddenly superseded fear.\nWithout turning on the light I jumped out of bed, and knocking up\nagainst the furniture in my haste, I dashed towards the faint light\ncoming in from the street. In another moment I had thrust aside the\nblind, and thrown the window wide. I know I shouted out something; I\nhave no idea what. I thrust my head out between the iron bars, and\nlooked to right and left. I could see absolutely nothing. The street was\nquite empty, and so well lit that I could see from end to end of it.\n\nI drew in my head, and stood there silently, and quivering still with\nexcitement, as one does when awakened with the broken fragments of an\nevil dream.\n\nThen, suddenly, a sensation of bristling fear took possession of me once\nmore, unreasoning and unreasonable fear, clutching at my heart with a\ngrip of ice. The noise had not ceased, it continued more faintly, and it\ncame from a corner of my room to the right of the window. Murder had\nbeen done in the room in which I now stood, and was being re-enacted\nnow. The certainty rushed on me with the force of a whirlwind.\n\nI was dimly conscious of human voices in the mews, of a window being\nthrown open. My cry had awakened other sleepers. I left my window open,\nand let the blind fall before it. Then I crept softly across to the\nopposite side of the room, whence the dying sound proceeded. The victim\nwas almost dead. I could hear nothing but a gasping, rattling sigh, and\nthen silence. The silence of death.\n\nI was roused from my trance of horror by the measured tread of a\npoliceman outside. I heard him speaking with others, then, seeing\nnothing to account for the disturbance in the mews, he went away again,\nand I fell asleep from utter mental exhaustion.\n\nWhen I awoke the sun was in the room, and I looked towards the corner\nwhere the tragedy of the darkness had been enacted. How peaceful and\ninnocent the room now looked, in the light of a cheerful summer morning,\nand how thankful I was to know that I would be far away from it in a\nvery few hours.\n\nYet another hotel story comes to me as I write.\n\nMy sister and her husband came to Torquay to spend a couple of nights\nand took rooms in one of the principal hotels. They had not announced\ntheir arrival beforehand, and the manageress took them upstairs to see\nseveral vacant rooms. There was one not shown to them, but the door was\nwide open, and my sister seeing that it was unoccupied walked in, and\nsaid she preferred it to any of the others, because of its particular\nview.\n\nFor some unknown reason the manageress was greatly against their taking\nit; she raised every sort of objection, but my sister was firm, and\nfinally the luggage was carried up and she began to unpack, whilst her\nhusband went down to order tea.\n\nAfter a few minutes, and whilst she was on her knees beside the trunk,\nshe heard some one moving in the room behind her, but she could see\nnothing. It occurred to her, however, that some tragedy might have taken\nplace in that particular room, which would explain the reluctance of the\nmanageress to let them hire it. Not being of a nervous disposition, my\nsister thought no more of the matter, and went downstairs to join her\nhusband.\n\nThat night she was awakened by something, she never knew what, but on\nopening her eyes she saw a rather disturbing vision. Close to the door\nstood the figure of a man, looking straight towards her. His figure was\nbrilliantly luminous, and stood out clearly and distinctly in the\ndarkness of the room.\n\nShe awakened her husband, who sat up in bed and stared back at the\nfigure. He saw it as clearly and distinctly as his wife saw it, and for\nsome considerable time they watched it, until it gradually faded out.\n\nWhat is so sad is that they did not address this ghost. They had every\nopportunity, for at the same hour the same figure appeared the next\nnight. It never tried to approach them: it simply stood there quietly\nfor about an hour, and then vanished. Probably it was the wraith of a\nsuicide. The fact remains that very few people do address the ghosts\nthey see. Even if they are not afraid, it never seems to occur to seers\nthat to speak to the disembodied might be a very kind and helpful thing\nto do.\n\nOn their return home my brother-in-law told this story to some friends\nat his Club, and a stranger who was present said that he was aware there\nwas a haunted room in that Torquay hotel, for he knew some one else who\nhad seen it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nAN AUSTRIAN ADVENTURE\n\n\nOnly once did I ever see an elemental of the terrifying type, and I have\nno desire to repeat the experience.\n\nSeveral years ago I was traveling alone on my way to Bohemia. With me,\nin the railway carriage, I had an aluminum traveler's typewriter,\nenclosed in, and fastened down to a leather case. I had also a large\nleather dispatch box, containing several chapters of a new novel I was\nwriting, and which I meant to finish whilst abroad.\n\nAt the last moment, just as I was starting on my journey, a friend had\ngiven me a small Russian ikon, and I had put that in the box with my\nwriting materials.\n\nOn reaching the frontier into Austria, I got out with the other\ntravelers, carrying the typewriter in my hand to ensure its safety. A\nporter brought along the dispatch box, and the luggage from the van to\nthe Custom House.\n\nI had nothing to declare and said so, but when the officials came to\nlook at the typewriter and the contents of the dispatch box, their civil\nattitude changed, and I was curtly told that I would have to remain\nbehind, in order that a more thorough examination might be made.\n\nThere was little use in expostulating, no one took the smallest notice\nof any explanations I made, and I had the unhappy fate to behold all my\nfellow travelers stream out onto the platform, and make for the waiting\ntrain, and the growing conviction that they would proceed on their\njourney without me.\n\nWhen alone with the officials I had the field to myself, and I explained\nthat I was a British subject, and a British novelist, but they merely\nlooked at me with the same blend of incredulity my fellow countrymen so\noften favor me with, when they accidentally discover that I am\nsynonymous with the writer, Violet Tweedale.\n\nHow well I know the look and the words accompanying it: \"Are you Violet\nTweedale, the novelist? Well! who'd have thought it? I never would have\nguessed.\"\n\nTheir expression says plainly enough, \"You don't look capable of writing\nout a laundry bill, far less a novel.\"\n\nSeeing that my statements made no impression upon the Customs officials,\nI resigned myself to an unknown fate, and in a few moments, looking\nthrough the open door, I had the misery of seeing my train glide out of\nthe station, leaving me behind.\n\nAn animated conversation now began which occupied at least ten minutes,\nand my typewriter and dispatch box were subjected to a most rigid\nscrutiny. I kept on imploring the officials not to break the typewriter,\nbut they paid no heed, and at last, after playing about with it for some\ntime, they requested me to give them an exhibition of its powers. Alas!\nit was too late. The machine was thoroughly upset with the rough\nfingering it had been subjected to, and I could not get it to work.\n\nI saw that this fact was set down as another black mark of suspicion\nagainst me, and they then began another long discussion upon the ikon. I\nbegan to be so bored and tired that I sat down on my trunk, lit a\ncigarette, and attempted to preserve a certain amount of outward calm,\nwhilst mentally I raged furiously within.\n\nI noticed that a messenger had been sent out of the room, but could not\ncatch the object of his errand. When all chattering and gesticulating\ntogether, they abandoned ordinary German, and fell into a dialect of\ntheir own which I could not understand.\n\nIn a few moments the messenger returned with two more officials, and a\nwaiter from the station restaurant. The waiter was given a chapter of my\nnovel--each chapter had an ordinary exercise book to itself--and told to\ntranslate my English into German.\n\nI presume he honestly tried to do his best, but the translation bore no\nresemblance to the original. Even the officials soon wearied of the\nfumbled nonsense, and the waiter was sent away.\n\nThen the head official informed me that I might continue my journey by\nthe next train, but I must consider myself under arrest, till further\ninformation concerning my business and identity was obtained. He\ninformed me, finally, that I was a Russian spy.\n\nI retaliated by informing him that I was a British subject. That my\nhusband was at that moment in Bavaria, and directly I could communicate\nwith him he would obtain my release through our Embassy at Vienna. Never\ndid I regret anything more than my own stupidity in having left my\nmuch-vised passport behind me in England.\n\nThe typewriter was then closed down, tied with string and heavily\nsealed. I was ordered to carry it myself, and place it in the very\ncenter of an empty luggage wagon.\n\nAs I complied it flashed upon me that they had never seen a typewriter\nbefore, and suspected it to be a sort of infernal machine. My dispatch\nbox disappeared altogether, and I got into a first-class carriage,\naccompanied by two very smart attendants. They wore cocked hats, much\ngold braid, and many gold buttons, and they each carried a sword and a\nrevolver, with which to shoot me, I presume, if I tried to run away.\n\nWe three were not alone in the carriage. In a corner sat a dark man with\na small black mustache, and smoking a very long cigar. He was neatly\ndressed in a long dust coat, and on his smooth black hair he wore a\nbrown Homburg hat. In one dark eye was a single monocle, through which\nhe regarded me with a mild surprise.\n\nI saw at once that if I was to be burdened with the constant society of\nmy two officials for several days, the only thing to do was to make\nfriends with them. The circumstances had not arisen through any fault of\ntheirs, and they had to obey the orders of their superiors. Both were\nmen who looked between the age of thirty to forty, and they had quite\npleasant faces. I began by offering them cigarettes from my case--no\nCustoms officials object to enough tobacco being carried to last out a\njourney--and they accepted my civility with profuse thanks.\n\nThe man in the corner still regarded us from time to time with interest,\nand when we had finished our cigarettes he leaned forward and most\npolitely offered us each a big cigar. The voice of this person so\namazed me that in refusing with thanks, and saying I never smoked\ncigars, I looked very closely at him. The voice was that of a cultured\ngentlewoman, and that was exactly what this person turned out to be. Not\na man, but a woman dressed exactly to resemble a man. When she stood up\nI saw that she wore a divided skirt, and by the manner in which my\nguards addressed her when they accepted her cigars, I knew that she was\nsome great personage. Later on I discovered that she was a member of the\nImperial House of Austria. She spoke English perfectly, and I explained\nmy position, which seemed to amuse her immensely. We found that we had\nmutual friends, and we were chattering most amicably when I reached my\ndestination.\n\nEvidently a wire had preceded us, for other officials were waiting on\nthe platform to take possession of the typewriter, and I said good-by to\nit, as I thought, forever.\n\nThe amazement of the hotel manager may be imagined when he saw me arrive\nunder escort. Though I had engaged my rooms he had never seen me before,\nand I was secretly uneasy lest he should refuse to take me in under the\ncircumstances, but my attendants appeared to possess unlimited\nauthority. I was shown into a good bedroom at the very end of the\ncorridor. The manager spoke perfect English, and I explained my position\nfrom my point of view. He was quite civil, but I thought rather\nnon-committal. He evidently did not like the situation, but at that\nmoment I had a stroke of luck.\n\nThere entered the head waiter, carrying the usual paper of\nidentification which one always fills in abroad. His face was quite\nfamiliar to me. I never forget a face, but I cannot always fit a name to\nit. Where had I seen this man before? Then in a flash I remembered. It\nwas in Egypt.\n\nWhen I had filled the paper, both men remaining in the room, I recalled\nmyself to his memory, and the occasions when he had waited upon some\nmembers of our royal family, to whose table I had been bidden. These\noccasions had been of comparatively recent happening, and though\npossibly not being quite sure in his recollection of me, he remembered\nour royal family perfectly, and several little personal incidents that\nhad occurred whilst we were all in the same hotel.\n\nFor instance, there had been a very brilliant ball given at the hotel,\nand the royalties had looked on for several hours, and included me in\ntheir circle. This man had been specially detailed to wait upon the\ncircle, all the evening.\n\nThis conversation produced a great effect upon the manager, who\nvolunteered to make matters as easy as he could for me, till the Embassy\nmoved. The officials would sit by the door, and not at my table during\nmeals, and they would be accommodated with chairs in the corridor by the\ntop of the staircase, instead of outside my bedroom door. He regretted\nthat they would closely follow me whenever I went out, but doubtless I\nwould communicate with my husband at once, and the mistake would soon be\ncorrected.\n\nAfter I had had some tea, I began to feel quite light-hearted, and I\nunpacked and wrote to my husband in Bavaria.\n\nThat night when I went to bed I locked my door securely, and composed\nmyself to sleep after a tiring and disturbing day. I had been in a\nrailway \"sleeper\" all the night before, and though I sleep like a top in\na train, I am always unusually sleepy on the following night in bed.\n\nIt was summer-time, and very hot weather, and my blinds were drawn up\nand the window thrown wide open. No houses faced me; I looked out on a\nbig public garden.\n\nI was soon fast asleep, but was awakened again by some noise in the\nroom. I lay still for a little, listening intently, all the unpleasant\nincidents of the past day rushing back upon me. The noise was not\ncontinuous, but now and again came the sound of something soft, dragging\nabout the floor. The room was fairly light, with the glow of a waning\nmoon, and I judged the hour to be between two and three o'clock.\n\nAt last I determined to ascertain what produced this curious sound. I\nhad an electric light over my bed, and I sat up and suddenly switched it\non.\n\nThen I realized with horror that I was in the presence of something I\nhad never encountered before, but had often read and heard of. An\nelemental of a malignant type, and of grotesque form.\n\nJust for an instant I saw nothing but what looked like an enormous\npillow, but suddenly out of this grayish-green pillow emerged a head of\nfrog-like shape, and two bright yellow eyes were fixed on mine. I\nsuppose I was too terrified even to remember what my sensations were. A\nsort of paralysis of fear and horror held me spellbound. There it\nsquatted, thrusting out its misshapen head, its yellow eyes regarding me\nfixedly. I have no idea how long it remained there, or how long we\ncontinued to gaze at one another, but I gradually became aware that it\nwas receding from view. It grew smaller and smaller, and dimmer and\nmore indistinct, till at length it vanished altogether.\n\nElliott O'Donnell mentions in one of his books having seen such\ncreatures, and of having had a number of such cases reported to him, but\ngenerally as the forerunners of illness. To such phantasms he has given\nthe name of \"Morbas,\" and he believes that certain apparitions are\nsymbolical of certain diseases \"if not the actual creators of the\nbacilli from which these diseases arise.\" This seems to me to be a\nreasonable explanation of such phenomena, but in my case there was no\ndisease in question. I was perfectly well at the time, and remained so.\nIt is possible, however, that a sick person might have occupied my room\nthe night before. One never knows in hotels, and I had not then read\nO'Donnell's explanation and made no inquiries. Many of the experiences\nrelated in his deeply interesting books are no doubt regarded as\nfiction, but I know that they are cases common to very many psychics.\n\nFor some time I lay awake, fearful of a recurrence of the horrible\nphenomenon, but gradually sleep overcame me, and I did not wake again\ntill seven o'clock on a lovely summer morning.\n\nThat day I took two long walks, closely followed by my escort. They\nwalked immediately behind me, and often we stopped to converse, or to\nsit down to rest and smoke a cigarette together. They told me all their\nfamily history, and about their wives and children, and really they made\nthemselves as agreeable as they possibly could. In the afternoon we\nclimbed up the mountains to one of the many cafes, and had chocolate and\ncakes, which they thoroughly enjoyed. When I finally went back to the\nhotel for the night they complained of being tired, and hoped I would\nnot walk so far on the morrow. Their idea of enjoyment was the usual\nforeign custom of taking a seat outside a street cafe, and sitting there\nhour after hour idly watching the passers-by, smoking endless cigarettes\nand drinking beer.\n\nThat night I prepared myself for a recurrence of the abnormal phenomenon\nI had witnessed, and gathered up all my courage, and decided to attack\nit with the Sacred command. For a long time I lay awake, but nothing\nhappened, and finally I fell asleep.\n\nI awoke to pandemonium. My room was in a hub-bub of high-pitched noise.\nScreams of glee and frolic, shouts of thin laughter, and pattering feet\nwith little thuds interspersed. The sounds were all pitched in an\nunknown key. They can best be described as ordinary sounds intensely\nrarefied, and pitched in so high a treble that they had run out of the\nscale altogether.\n\nIt was a much darker night, and very hot. Thunder clouds hung over the\ntown, and now and again there was a gleam of lightning and a mutter of\ndistant thunder. I peeped over the edge of the bed, but could see\nnothing. The noises continued with unabated merriment. A hundred\ncreatures of sorts apparently were playing round me.\n\nSummoning all my courage I sat up and switched on the light. What I saw\nmust read like pure nonsense to the majority, but nevertheless I mean to\nrecord facts as they happened to me.\n\nAbout a dozen small forms, half-man, half-animal, were playing leap-frog\nround the room. They were about three feet in height, some slightly\nsmaller, and though their bodies, legs and feet were human, their heads\nresembled apes.\n\nI forgot all about being afraid, they were so amazingly grotesque, and\nthey were so thoroughly happy. One would go down on all fours, and the\ncreatures immediately behind him would leap his back, and so on down the\nchain, and all the while they kept up that shrill, high-pitched note of\nintense enjoyment.\n\nI have come to the conclusion that it was the light that finally put an\nend to their revels. They took no heed of me, but gradually their\nenergies flagged, they faded and became blurred in outline; one by one\nthey simply went out like sparks until not one was left.\n\nThough I occupied that room for a month I was never disturbed again.\nPerfect quiet reigned for the rest of my stay.\n\nAt the end of five days a police official came to call upon me, and\ninformed me that my identity had been perfectly established by the\nBritish Embassy at Vienna, and that my escort was now withdrawn. He also\nbegged to return my typewriter, rendered utterly useless I discovered,\nto my great dismay, and the dispatch box arrived intact the next\nmorning.\n\nI have no explanation to offer of the phenomena I have described. They\nbelong to the many unsolved mysteries that constantly surround us. It\nwill be said that my mind was in an excited and abnormal condition owing\nto my adventures in the Customs House, and that I probably imagined the\nscene instead of really seeing the creatures I have described.\n\nI agree that probably my mental faculties, for the time being, were\npossibly abnormal, but I hold that when the consciousness is in an\nabnormal condition it is naturally much easier to see the abnormal. At\nordinary times the veil of the flesh seems denser, and the consciousness\nmuch less acute.\n\nThe question seems to me to hang more on the query--do such creatures\nactually exist, than on the argument did I, or did I not see them? There\nare creatures living in the physical world quite as horrible to look\nupon as the astral entities I saw. The octopus and some apes, for\ninstance. Innumerable people of unimpeachable veracity have testified to\nseeing grotesque and hideous creatures, which can only be placed in the\ncategory of astral denizens, and in that category I place the phenomena\nI certainly witnessed on two successive nights.\n\nThe following story has been given to me by a barrister who kindly\nallows me to give his name:\n\n    E. F. WILLIAMS, B.A.\n    Trinity College, Cambridge.\n\n\"It is clear that Needle Jim was murdered by the proprietor, Corbett of\nthe Tally Ho, and that his wraith haunted the spot. Horses appear to be\nas sensitive as dogs are to apparitions, and there are several instances\non record where horses have been the means of bringing murder to light.\n\n\"It is a difficult matter, indeed, to be asked to write a ghost story if\nyou do not believe in ghosts; however, I will endeavor to relate the\nnearest approach to one which has come within my knowledge.\n\n\"The winter of the year 1849 was an exceptionally severe one, very heavy\nfalls of snow and deep drifts in many places, especially in the\nneighborhood of Worcester, near which the scene of my story lies.\n\n\"It was, in those days, the custom of packmen as they were called, to\ntravel around the country with various assortments of goods--calling at\nthe various farmhouses and cottages offering their wares for sale; some\nwould have cutlery, some laces and ribbons, but the packman with whom we\nare concerned carried pins, needles, and such like, hailing from\nRedditch, where they are manufactured. He used to go his round four\ntimes a year, and was known by the name of Needle Jim.\n\n\"About the beginning of January, in spite of the snow, Jim left\nWorcester for Upper Onslow, Clayton and Broadway, with a view of going\nto Cleobury Mortimer, Wyn Forest, and back to Redditch. Apparently he\nwas seen at Onslow and Clayton, but after that, there was no further\ntrace of him.\n\n\"Now at the village of Broadway, there is a little cider house called\nthe Tally Ho, and a few cottages. The road is narrow, with three very\nsharp corners, protected only from a very steep dingle by an ill-kept,\nlow, out-of-repair hedge--very dangerous on a dark night. The old\nproprietor of the inn, named Corbett, lived there with his old wife, and\nwas in the poorest of circumstances, the customers at the inn not being\nvery numerous. Nothing more was heard of Needle Jim.\n\n\"Now opposite the Tally Ho, on the far bank of the dingle, was a piece\nof ground facing the south, and old Corbett thought it would make an\nexcellent cherry orchard. So the hitherto impecunious Corbett bought a\nportion, and when he had bought it he fenced it round, and from the\nopposite side it looked exactly the shape of a coffin, and the coffin\npiece it is called to this day.\n\n\"At the time of which I am writing, if was permissible after a man had\nbeen hung, for his relatives to take the body away home for burial. One\nday, two men arrived at the Tally Ho, with such a body fastened across\nthe back of a horse; tying up the horse they went into the inn for some\nrefreshment, shortly to be called out by a woman who said the horse,\nburden and all, had jumped over the hedge into the dingle and was lying\nat the bottom. They hurried down and there found the horse with his neck\nbroken and his ghastly burden under him. It was a curious fact that\nafter the disappearance of Needle Jim, horses approaching this corner\nbroke into heavy sweats and showed great signs of fear, and a number of\npeople preferred to travel by the longer route, _via_ the Hundred Horse.\n\n\"Some years ago some alterations were being made to the front of an old\nhotel in a little country town about five miles from the scenes depicted\nabove, and on raising the large flagstone of the bottom step, there was\ndiscovered the skeleton of a man with his skull smashed. The old folks\ndeclared it must be the body of the missing packman; anyhow, after the\ndiscovery, the spirit or ghost seems to have departed from the precincts\nof the Tally Ho.\n\n\"Now I am not a believer in ghosts or their allies, but when I was a\nsmall boy I went on my pony accompanied by two servants, who were taking\na parcel to a house next door to the Tally Ho, and whilst they were\ninside the house, all at once the pony snorted and started full gallop\nfor home as hard as he could go; we parted company going down a steep\nhill, and I have often thought it was a good thing for me we did, for if\nhe had bolted into his stable (which he did do) I should probably have\nhad my head smashed, as the doorway was very low.\n\n\"Still, I do not believe in ghosts, I think it is more convenient not\nto!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nACROSS THE THRESHOLD\n\n\nOnce upon a time I had an interesting experience showing how often one\nmay be in the presence of the disembodied without being in the least\naware of the fact.\n\nIt was a bright, cold day in October, with a biting wind and brilliant\nsunshine. About midday I was walking up a long avenue leading to a great\nhouse. On either side of me, for a mile or so, lay flat, open grass\ncountry, pasturages full of grazing cattle. The trees bordering the\navenue stood at about thirty feet apart; they were gigantic beeches of\nconsiderable age. Their silvery trunks of wide girth were smooth and\nstraight, and in no way impeded the view on all sides. The avenue was\nwide and straight and bordered by grass out of which the trees sprang.\n\nAs I turned in at the lodge gate I noticed, without any particular\ninterest, a woman walking in front of me, but in a very few moments I\nbegan to pay more attention to her obvious peculiarities. She was about\ntwenty-five to thirty feet ahead of me, moving in the same direction,\nand the view I had of her back began to puzzle me. On that decidedly\nchilly morning she wore a white muslin dress, a material never used out\nof doors even in summer in that northern clime. Over her shoulders\nfloated something mauve and flimsy, and on her head was what looked like\nan old-fashioned poke-bonnet.\n\nHer back looked young, and yet she was a creature of a bygone century,\nand knowing every one within a twenty-mile radius of where I walked I\nspeculated as to who she could possibly be.\n\nPerhaps what puzzled me most was how she had managed to avoid the\nattention of the village children, who would at once have been alive to\nthe novelty of her whole appearance. I looked forward to hearing all\nabout her at the big house, and as seemed highly probable, meeting her\nface to face and obtaining an introduction to her.\n\nThen it suddenly occurred to me to overtake her and pass her; we were\nboth walking very slowly. I at once quickened my steps, but somehow I\nnever seemed to gain on her. Even this did not rouse in me the faintest\nsuspicion of being in the presence of a disembodied soul, it merely\nsharpened my curiosity and urged me to greater efforts.\n\nI moved from the road to the grass which I calculated would deaden the\nsound of my footsteps, then I began to run.\n\nStill no success! The lady never turned her head to right or left, but\nwas clearly aware of my pursuit, for apparently without the least effort\nshe kept her distance from me.\n\nAt the moment when I was feeling rather baffled and very much puzzled I\ncaught sight of my friend, N., in the distance coming to meet me. \"Ah!\"\nI thought, as I at once slowed down to draw breath, \"she will have to\npass her and she'll tell me what her face is like.\"\n\nI kept eyes and attention closely fixed on the two figures as they drew\nnearer and nearer to one another. Now the stranger appeared to be\nexactly at an equal distance between us, when, lo! she simply vanished\nas utterly and entirely as the electric light one switches off in a\nroom. One second there she was, perfectly and clearly visible, the next\nsecond, there she was not. I looked foolishly around, though I knew that\nneither to right or left was there any hiding-place, moreover my eyes\nhad been fully upon her when she vanished, flicked out--\n\nHow well I remember N. running up to me and without any greeting, we\nboth simultaneously burst out--\n\n\"Did you see her?\"\n\nN. told me that the inside of the poke-bonnet was empty. The lady had no\nface.\n\nOf course we gazed around and searched behind the boles of the trees,\nbut we were both aware how foolish any such proceeding was, for we had\nboth been staring hard at her when she disappeared.\n\nThere was a bygone tragedy connected with that part of the avenue, but\non discussing the matter with the owner of the great house we all had to\ncome reluctantly to the conclusion that the woman we had seen had no\nconnection with that story. A former Lady Dalrymple had been murdered by\none of her servants in the avenue about a hundred years previously, but\nthe portraits of the deceased and the lady we had seen bore not the\nsmallest resemblance. It was said that \"Lady Dalrymple walked\"--a tall,\nmassive figure clad in a dark, heavy cloak sprinkled with snow. She had\nbeen done to death one January night in a snowstorm which had hidden her\nremains for several days.\n\nThe apparition we had seen was that of a very slender girl or young\nwoman. The interesting fact that I wish to emphasize is that had this\nyoung drama in muslin turned aside, slipped through the light fence,\nand struck off across the fields it would never have occurred to either\nN. or me that she was not physical. We would have speculated as to who\nshe was, but out of common civility we would not have followed her. We\nwould have made casual inquiries as to who she was, simply out of\ncuriosity aroused by her peculiar attire, and then the trifling incident\nwould have been forgotten.\n\nThat sudden vanishing has rooted the experience firmly in my mind, and I\nhave long since become convinced that the little story I have just told\nis an extremely common one. I believe such disembodied spirits are\nconstantly with us, and that many of us see them, pass them in the\nstreets, stand beside them in crowds, and accept them perfectly\nnaturally as physical entities in no way different from what we are\nourselves.\n\nMany people believe that our faculties have a limit beyond which we\ncannot go, but this is certainly not so, as it is now proved that some\npeople have the X-ray sight by nature and can see far more than others.\nThis faculty has nothing to do with keenness of sight, it is a question\nof sight which is able to respond to different series of vibrations.\nUndoubtedly there are many entities about us who do not reflect rays of\nlight that we can see, yet who may reflect those other rays of rates of\nvibration which can be photographed.\n\nIt is extremely difficult for the average person to grasp the reality of\nthat which we cannot see with our physical eyes, and to realize how very\npartial our sight is, yet science continually demonstrates to us worlds\nof teeming life of whose very existence we should be ignorant so far as\nour senses are concerned.\n\nWhat ought clearly to be grasped is the fact that we are not separated\nfrom the so-called dead, save by the limitation of our consciences. We\nhave not lost those gone before, we have only lost the power to see\nthem, and very occasionally that power is restored to us, by what means\nwe know not. All visible things are the result of invisible causes, and\ndoubtless those denizens of the subtler worlds come amongst us with a\ndistinct purpose in view. Sometimes that purpose can be traced to\nremorse, revenge, a quest, a strong attraction to the scene of a crime,\nbut in many other cases no object can be discerned.\n\nThe condition of the observer is constantly found to be absolutely\nnormal. The mental conditions of both myself and N. were, as far as we\ncould tell, quite normal. Our mental activity was no greater, no more\nvivid or more accurate than usual, yet we both saw an object that was\nbeyond normal sense and rational vision.\n\nThe fact that so often there is no connecting link between the\napparition and his or her surroundings induces me to believe that we are\neverywhere surrounded by the denizens of the other world, and on rare\noccasions we catch a glimpse of them.\n\nHere is another utterly trivial story which emphasizes the above\nsuggestion.\n\nI was lunching with my husband in a house built within the last fifty\nyears. The only former occupants were known to us. We were discussing a\nletter I had that morning received and I said: \"I'll go and fetch it for\nyou to read.\" I rose and left the dining-room, and pushed open the\nhalf-closed door of the adjoining drawing-room.\n\nWhat was my astonishment to behold standing in the middle of the floor\na tall, dark man, a total stranger. He stood exactly between the door\nand a large bow window, through which poured a flood of sunshine, and I\npaused involuntarily and stared at him. Not that there was anything the\nleast peculiar about him, and, indeed, his air of great respectability\ninstantly banished the flashing thought of \"Burglar.\"\n\nThe stranger returned my stare with perfect composure, and in a second\nor two during which we regarded each other I had time to observe his\nappearance. He was well dressed, all in black, with a modern, black\nbroadcloth frockcoat buttoned close. He was very tall and strongly\nbuilt, his face was sallow and heavy featured, and he wore a short,\nblack beard. I bowed and addressed him:\n\n\"I'm sorry! I didn't know any one was waiting. Do you wish to see me or\nmy husband?\" I said politely.\n\nThe man made no reply, but at once began to glide, not walk, towards a\nclosed glass door leading to a conservatory on the left. His eyes never\nleft mine. Without opening the door he passed through it and vanished.\n\nThen I realized and darted after him, throwing open the door and staring\nbeyond. Nothing! Nothing physical could have passed through a glass door\nwithout shattering it, and that is all there is to this story. The man\nhad no connection with us nor, so far as we could learn, with the former\noccupants of the house.\n\nA very old friend of mine, Mrs. Sinclair, wife of the late Sir\nTollemache Sinclair's second son, told me of an experience she and her\nmother once had when visiting a cousin, Major Fetherston Dilke, of\nMaxstoke Castle, Warwickshire. The Castle is ancient and surrounded by\na moat, and within the moat lies a tennis court. In order to reach their\nrooms on the ground floor, Mrs. Sinclair and her mother had to pass\nthrough a great stone hall filled with fine old oak and armor. Beyond\nthat their way lay through the remains of an old chapel, which once had\nbeen extensively damaged by fire.\n\nOne evening after playing tennis till rather late, Mrs. Sinclair and her\nmother hastened indoors to change for dinner. As they passed through the\nchapel Mrs. Sinclair saw her mother suddenly shrink back against the\nwall; at the same time she exclaimed, \"Oh, May, stand aside and let that\nperson pass.\"\n\nMrs. Sinclair looked round, but could see no one. Again her mother cried\nout insistently:\n\n\"Oh, do let her pass.\"\n\n\"But no one is here,\" Mrs. Sinclair assured her. Then seeing that her\nmother looked terrified she took her by the arm and hurried her to their\nrooms.\n\nWhen the door was shut Mrs. Sinclair tried to soothe her mother's\nagitation, and asked her what she had seen, and why she was so\ndisturbed.\n\nHer mother replied: \"There was a young woman in the corner who was\ntrying hard to escape observation, and the sight of her gave me the most\nuncomfortable feeling. She was not a maidservant, and wore no cap. She\nwas dressed in a mauve print gown with a violet sprig upon it. She might\nhave been a needle-woman.\" Mrs. Sinclair calmed her mother as well as\nshe could, and they went down to dinner together.\n\nDuring the meal what was her horror to hear her mother say to their\nhost, \"Oh, William, I feel sure there are ghosts in the Castle. I've\nseen one to-night.\"\n\nThere was a most uncomfortable silence after this, and Major Fetherston\nDilke looked terribly agitated.\n\nAfter dinner, when the ladies were alone in the drawing-room, Mrs. Dilke\nasked Mrs. Sinclair what they had seen, and on being told she explained\nthat before a death in the family a certain housekeeper, who had been\nmurdered, always haunted the chapel, and in consequence of this warning\nalways coming true her husband was exceedingly nervous of this\napparition. Nothing more was said upon the subject during Mrs.\nSinclair's stay, but before the end of the year Major Fetherston Dilke\nlay dead.\n\nSuch warnings are very common, and very hard to understand. They suggest\nthat the apparition knows of the approaching death of a certain person,\nand that it has the power to make itself visible to certain persons, at\ncertain times. Why this warning should be given is a baffling mystery.\nAgain, why did not Mrs. Sinclair see this ghost when her mother so\nplainly saw it?\n\nThe fact is that all sorts of most unlikely persons see apparitions,\neven the rankest unbeliever and the most matter-of-fact individual, and\nthey generally see them at most unexpected moments.\n\nI remember one day walking along a country road, and seeing a dog-cart\nin the distance coming towards me. As it drew nearer I saw that it\ncontained (the late) Lord Wemyss, and on recognizing me he drew up and\njumped down.\n\n\"I've got a confession to make to you,\" he said. \"I wouldn't tell any\none else for the world. I'd have the life chaffed out of me. I've\nactually seen a ghost.\"\n\n\"I'm not in the least surprised. Why shouldn't you see a ghost?\" I\nretorted.\n\n\"Well! I never believed in them, and I didn't think I was the sort of\nman who'd ever see one. Now, if it had been Arthur Balfour there would\nhave been nothing in it. He's a member of the Psychical Society, and all\nthat sort of thing.\"\n\n\"But being a member of the Psychical Society does not predispose one to\nsee ghosts,\" I expostulated, but Lord Wemyss remained very puzzled.\n\nHe told me that when about half a mile from his own front door at\nGosford, East Lothian, he saw a man walking in front of him in the same\ndirection, going towards the house. In a vague sort of way he wondered\nfor a moment where this man had suddenly sprung from, as he had not\nnoticed him before, but there was nothing unusual in his appearance to\narouse curiosity. He was a stranger and looked like a foreman in his\nSunday clothes.\n\nLord Wemyss walked on, always keeping about ten yards between himself\nand the stranger. At a certain point he fully expected he would strike\noff by a path leading to the servants' and tradesmen's entrance, but\nrather to his surprise, the man did no such thing. He pursued an\nundeviating course towards the main entrance, and on observing this Lord\nWemyss became more interested, and looked at him more closely.\n\nStill there was something remarkable to be observed, and concluding that\nthe man, being a stranger, did not know of any other entrance, he\nquickened his steps in order to come up with him. In this he failed--the\nman kept his distance, and just as he reached the door he vanished from\nsight.\n\nI tried hard to persuade Lord Wemyss to tell this story to Mr. Balfour,\nwho was so intimate a friend, but I believe he never did so. The\ninterest lies in the long time, during a half-mile walk, in which the\nghost was under observation, also in the fact that until the man\ndisappeared on the doorstep Lord Wemyss had never suspected that the\nstranger was other than ordinary flesh and blood.\n\nSo many people have confided their ghost stories to me, and swore me to\nsecrecy, that I am convinced such experiences are very common, and only\nremain hidden either from fear of being laughed at or from being thought\nto suffer from hallucinations.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\nHAUNTED ROOMS\n\n\nHow is it that one can \"feel\" a room is haunted? What is it that gives\none the strong impression that there is something unpleasant about a\ncertain room, a something that sets it apart, as a place to be avoided?\n\nThe mind operates with the senses. It receives impressions through the\nair as sound, or through the ether as sight, and so forth. Through the\nvarious senses we catch the vibrations of consciousness belonging to our\nenvironment, near or far. Psychically developed persons possess an\nincrease of sensibility which enables them to see, hear, and feel more\nacutely than most people. Wherever some great mental disturbance has\ntaken place, wherever overwhelming sorrow, hatred, pain, terror, or any\nkind of violent passion has been felt, an impression of a very marked\ncharacter has been imprinted on the astral light. So strong is this\nimpression that often persons possessing but the first glimmer of the\npsychic faculty are deeply impressed by it. But a slight temporary\nincrease of sensibility would enable them to visualize the whole scene.\nThat such impressions should be imprinted on the astral light is no more\nwonderful than ordinary photography, or the impression of the human\nvoice upon the cylinders of a gramophone.\n\nTo me, a haunted room is always full of shadows. That is how I see it.\nThat is one of several ways by which I distinguish it from other rooms.\nOther people do not always see these shadows, and the room may actually\nbe flooded with sunshine when I enter it for the first time. This makes\nno difference to what I see. The shadows are there, despite the\nsunshine.\n\nThere are long-drawn-out shadows, which seem to take their rise in the\ncorners of the room, and creep across the floor. They are not\nmotionless, but in constant vibration and re-formation, like smoke\ndrifts. Such shadows are not of a uniform gray, but tinged by dull\ncolors, dark red, sulphur yellow, muddy brown. In a haunted room there\nis always a shadow above one's head. A hovering cloud between the\nceiling and midway to the floor.\n\nThen there are the sensations I feel when entering a haunted room.\nLittle shivers run through me, and what I take to be nervous excitation\nsets all my spine jangling, and the tiny nerve threads quivering. The\nsensation of icy cold water trickling down my back is most unpleasant.\n\nAt times a profound melancholy falls upon me, often blended with a\npoignant compassion for some one, I know not whom. At other times a\nsensation of violent repulsion invades my being, which has actually, in\nsome cases, produced physical sickness. Again, there is the helpless\nfeeling, and that is the hardest to bear of all such psychic\ndisturbances. The feeling that something is about to occur in that room\nwhich I will be powerless to ward off.\n\nWhat can one do when paying a visit if one is ushered into a bedroom by\none's hostess which one instantly knows to be \"unhealthful\"? I cannot\nfind a better word to describe many a haunted room. This experience has\nseveral times happened to me, and unless I know my hostess very well, I\nam obliged to sleep in this unhealthful atmosphere.\n\nOn one occasion I was invited to dine and sleep with some old friends,\nwho had taken on lease an old castle in the neighborhood of St. Andrews,\nwhere I happened to be staying. They had only been in residence for a\nmonth or two, an old brother and an old sister, whom I had known all my\nlife.\n\nIn spite of this long friendship they were not the sort of people to\nwhom I could have said, \"Would you mind giving me another room? The one\nyou have selected for me is haunted, and if I remain in it I will have\nno sleep. I shall not even dare to try to sleep, but shall have to keep\nawake all night to ward off the evil.\" They would have been both shocked\nand indignant at such a suggestion, and probably have concluded that I\nhad gone stark staring mad.\n\nI had accepted a seat in a carriage belonging to some friends in St.\nAndrews, who were also going to the castle to dine, but who were\nreturning to sleep in their own homes in the town.\n\nIt was twilight when we drove up the long avenue, and caught a first\nglimpse of the exterior. A typical old Scotch castle, very large, with\nhigh-peaked roofs and pepper-box turrets, and all built of gray stone.\n\nAbout an hour before dinner I was conducted to my room. My evening dress\nwas already spread upon the bed, and the housemaid was arranging my\ntoilet articles on the dressing-table.\n\n\"I think you will be comfortable here, my dear,\" said my kind hostess,\nand I thanked her with a sinking heart as she went away.\n\nAs the housemaid prepared to follow her I said, \"Am I the only person\nsleeping on this floor?\"\n\nShe answered, \"You are the only one in this wing, miss.\"\n\n\"It is a very large house, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Twenty-six bedrooms,\" answered the housemaid, \"but we've shut up most\nof them. This one has such a good view that Miss Young thought it ought\nto be used.\" With that she went away, and I looked round.\n\nSix lighted candles and a big wood fire seemed only to accentuate the\nprofound gloom and depression of the large, irregular room. The very\nfirst thing I did was to throw a towel over the face of the mirror on\nthe dressing-table. Then I investigated every nook and corner.\n\nThere was a powdering closet formed in a pepper-box turret. The carpet\nof the room stopped short at its door, and inside the boards looked\nloose and uneven. I fetched a candle and soon discovered that the\nfloorboards lifted up quite easily, and beneath them was a black yawning\nhole, an _oubliette_, through which wretched prisoners were cast in days\nnot so long ago.\n\nI replaced the boards, telling myself that in the morning I would have a\nlook at the outside of this black shaft. It probably ended, as most of\nsuch places did end in the old Scotch castles, in a big dungeon\nunderground.\n\nInside my big room there were sloping ceilings, and great beams, and an\nenormous fireplace had been bricked up to suit more modern requirements.\nThere were two doors, the one I had entered by and another which was\nlocked and keyless. The window, with the view, was hidden by heavy red\ncurtains, and the atmosphere was musty and dank, like that of a vault.\n\nAs I stared around me I could not help thinking what an unfortunate\nthing it is to be born without any imagination. Any one possessed of a\nspark of that quality would have hesitated before putting a young guest\ninto so gloomy a chamber, the only room occupied in that wing.\n\n\"No sleep possible here,\" I told myself grimly, as I began to dress.\nThen I set myself to \"feel after\" what was really wrong with the room.\nSupposing I did fall asleep, what would happen? Would some one come and\ntry to strangle me in the night? That had actually happened to many\npeople. Would I suddenly awake to the fact that some one unseen was\npulling off the bedclothes? That was also a trick common to ghostly\nvisitants.\n\nGradually I gathered impressions, very unpleasant ones. I became\npositively certain that I was being watched intently. Some one, present\nin the room, though unseen by me, was watching my every movement. That\nsome one violently resented my occupation of the room, was intensely\nhostile, and meant to make things nasty for me later on that night.\nWherever I moved I felt that malignant eyes followed me, and I kept\nglancing over my shoulder at every crack of the furniture, and the\nscratching of a mouse in the wainscot. It was in the stretches of dead\nsilence that the presence became most imminent, most menacing, and I had\na strong instinct to set my back against the wall and face right out\ninto the room.\n\nAgain I was confronted by the mirror problem. I had become certain that\nit must remain covered. If I looked into its surface I knew I would see\nsomething horrible. Something kept whispering to me, \"Never mind how you\nlook, never mind if your bodice is all awry, or your skirt all askew, or\nyour hair all bulging out on one side. Don't uncover the mirror if you\nvalue your sanity. What there is to be seen can only become visible in\nthe mirror. Don't worry after explanations, or why this should or how it\ncould be. Do as I tell you. Keep the mirror covered and when you come up\nto bed keep your back to the wall.\"\n\nDressing was a very rapid process that night, and when completed, so far\nas circumstances would allow, I found I still had twenty minutes to wait\nuntil the dinner gong would ring. I sat down with my back against the\nwall, and surveyed the depressing apartment with a gloomy anticipation.\nWhere was that stealthy watcher, whose baleful eyes I felt were fixed\nupon me? I could see nothing. I could only feel acutely that I was not\nalone, and that I was \"in for\" an awful night.\n\nOh! to get away, and leave that malignant unseen watcher in undisputed\npossession of his dismal abode! I was quite certain of the gender! Then\na chance of deliverance flashed over me. I could return after dinner to\nSt. Andrews with the friends who had brought me. But I had accepted the\ninvitation to stay the night. What possible excuse could I make for\ncutting short my visit? In this case the truth was no use; in fact,\nworse than useless. Not only would my host and hostess utterly fail to\nunderstand what I was talking about, but they would be exceedingly\nindignant, and look upon me as absolutely insane.\n\nAs falsehood had to be resorted to, I surely could invent some plausible\nexcuse that would hurt no one's feelings, but the only excuse I could\nthink of was illness. I must tell my hostess that I feared I was \"in\nfor\" an illness of some sort, and the wisest thing to do was to drive\nback to St. Andrews and be laid up in my own bed. The most hospitable\nperson would rather not have a sick guest under her roof. The excuse I\nproposed to make seemed to me to be the one most likely to be accepted\nwithout much fuss.\n\nI did not determine upon this plan without a certain amount of wavering.\n\"After all,\" I told myself, \"it is only for one night, and what can this\nentity do but give you a very creepy and disturbed night. You will have\nto sit up against the wall, and defend yourself by the power of the\nCross, bidding it begone, in the Name of the Father, the Son, and the\nHoly Ghost. This you may have to do many times, but the night won't last\nforever, and you had best try to make the best of things, and not risk\noffending old friends.\"\n\nIt did seem hard that I dared not tell the truth. Had the entity been in\nthe flesh how easy it would have been. Who has not, at some time or\nanother in her life, found herself unwittingly to be an unwelcome guest,\nand made to feel \"if you don't go away at once you will regret it\"?\nSometimes one comes across persons who for some private reason dread\nbeing overlooked, or who love their hermitage so dearly that they refuse\nto be amiable, to even the most swiftly passing guest. Old people are\noften like that, every one knows, or has known, of such people in the\nflesh. Yet how few believe that such unpleasant traits persist just as\nstrongly after so-called death, as before. What should suddenly change a\nman's whole disposition the moment he \"shuffles off this mortal coil\"?\n\nI felt I was now in the presence of one who dreaded being overlooked,\nand who sought to get rid of me by every device in his power.\n\nWhilst thinking thus my mind was irrevocably made up for me.\n\nMy attention was suddenly drawn towards a soft stealthy noise. Padded\nfootsteps. Something had come near, and was creeping warily round in\nfront of me. I felt the eyes upon me. I was being regarded more closely.\nWhat was about to follow?\n\nI leapt to my feet, and raising my arm made the sign of the Cross. \"I\nbid you begone, in the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.\"\n\nThere was a moment's pause of utter silence. The atmosphere struck\nsuddenly chill as ice. A curious sensation of emptiness crept over the\nroom. I was alone, but for how long would I remain alone?\n\nI hurried downstairs and tried to play my part, and during the course of\nthe evening I told my falsehoods as naturally as I could. At half-past\nten I drove off to St. Andrews with a light heart, and an utter\nindifference to the consequences.\n\nI believe that my falsehoods did not, however, \"go down,\" for I never\nwas asked again to that house.\n\nPerhaps it was as well, for I certainly never would have set foot in it\nagain, and I had sacrificed the truth quite sufficiently upon this one\noccasion.\n\nI had no difficulty in finding out what sort of reputation the castle\nbore. Every one agreed that it was haunted. I asked one elderly woman\nwho had lived all her life in St. Andrews, and who knew the whole\ncountry intimately, what she thought of S. Castle.\n\n\"Horrible, haunted old place. I can't think how the Youngs could have\ntaken it,\" she replied.\n\n\"But what sort of ghosts haunt it?\" I asked.\n\n\"Old Sir James and his son. They were in league with the Devil, and the\nson, another James, used to murder people and throw them down into the\ndungeon. He was beheaded in the reign of Charles the First.\"\n\n\"Have you known any one who has ever seen anything?\" I persisted.\n\n\"No, but my father remembered as a young man seeing a pile of human\nbones being removed from the dungeon, and buried in the churchyard. The\nlate people lived to be very old, and always kept Sir James' wing shut\nup. Now the place has changed hands, and probably the Youngs will never\nbe disturbed. They are installed in the most modern part of the house,\nand won't need to use the haunted wing.\"\n\nIt must not be supposed that all haunted houses or rooms are unpleasant\nto live in. People in the flesh are either pleasant or unpleasant,\ndisturbing or tranquil to live with, and so it is with their astral\ncounterparts. When they elect to haunt the scenes of their old\nactivities some ghosts are so inoffensive that they can be lived with\nunder the most tranquil conditions.\n\nOne autumn we took a shooting lodge in the far North of Scotland, and\nthough I recognized at once that it was frequented by an entity from the\n\"other side,\" I experienced no uneasy feelings whatever.\n\nWe had not been in residence longer than three hours before this ghost\nput in an appearance.\n\nWe were in a lively confusion of unpacking and settling down. Several\nlarge trunks had been carried upstairs, and set down on a wide corridor\non to which the bedrooms opened.\n\nI was on my knees unpacking one of those trunks, our dog \"Pompey\" was\nseated beside me superintending matters, and my maid was standing at my\nside waiting to carry various articles into the different rooms. The\nhour was midday, and the early autumn sunshine flooded the house.\n\nSuddenly \"Pompey\" growled, and turned towards the staircase, with all\nhis hair bristling. I also looked round and saw a tall, quite ordinary\nman mounting the staircase.\n\nI thought nothing of this, supposing him to be the factor whom we\nexpected, and I rose to my feet at once. He came on along the corridor\nstraight towards us, and looking directly at us, but when within about\nten feet from where we stood he suddenly vanished.\n\nI heard my maid give a sharp exclamation, and at the same instant\n\"Pompey\" made a furious dash at the spot, and growling angrily began to\npursue something invisible to us, down the stairs.\n\nI followed as quickly as I could. I feared \"Pompey\" would be lost if he\nran out into the deer forest surrounding us on all sides. I caught him\nat the deer fence, edging the vegetable garden, and induced him with\nsome difficulty to return to the house.\n\nMy maid and I compared notes. What I had seen accorded exactly with what\nshe had seen. She soon got over her uncomfortable experience, and though\nI never saw this entity again, I often felt him near me. He was,\nhowever, of so colorless a personality, that he never proved in the\nleast disturbing to any one in the house.\n\nAt the time of which I write the Astral Plane was not so generally\nrecognized as an actual residential quarter as it is now. In these days\na halfway house for the soul was not considered necessary for\nProtestants. They either went direct to heaven or hell, according to\ntheir manner of life on earth. The Catholics alone had their Purgatory,\nto which the departed souls repaired, there to slough off the passions\nof earth and fit themselves for higher realms.\n\nPurgatory and the Astral Plane mean the same thing now to the vast\nmajority of thinkers. A halfway house for the soul. A condition of\nconsciousness interpenetrating this earth, which may actually be visited\nunder certain conditions by those still possessing a physical body, an\nabode so contiguous to this world as to make the words of the Poet\nliterally true--\n\n\"All houses wherein men have lived and died are haunted houses.\"\n\nIn these days I used to get severely chaffed on the subject of the\nAstral Plane. Frivolous young things would say to me, \"Hello! been on\nthe Astral Plane lately?\"\n\nOne day I was undergoing a certain amount of good-natured chaff from a\nnumber of young people at Dunrobin Castle. I defended my beliefs\nvigorously, and at last the present Lady Londonderry, then Miss Chaplin,\nthe Duke's niece, challenged me to pick out the haunted room in the\nCastle.\n\nI had never at that time been in any part of the building save in one\nbedroom, and the public rooms. I at once took up the challenge, and the\nDuke remarked that I had my work cut out for me, as several of the rooms\nhad a reputation for being haunted.\n\nI replied that I would undertake to pick out a room where life was still\nactively carried on by those who had suffered something terrible on that\nspot in the past, and who were now denizens of the Astral Plane.\n\nA small crowd of us then started, led by Miss Chaplin, and we went from\nroom to room. She opened the door and remained with the others on the\nthreshold. I walked into each room alone and gathered impressions.\n\nIn several of the rooms I felt the presence of astral entities, but\nnothing of a strong or unpleasant nature. At last we came to a room\noccupied by a maid, sitting alone, sewing, and I felt instantly that my\nquest was at an end.\n\nThere was a sharp atmosphere of anguish that was quite unmistakable;\nsome ghastly tragedy had taken place within those four walls, but I said\nnothing before the sewing woman. I felt drawn towards the window, the\ntrouble was centered there. If I remember rightly, the room was high up,\nand overlooking, not the sea, but a paved courtyard.\n\nI walked back to the others with my finger on my lip, and Miss Chaplin\nclosed the door behind me.\n\n\"We need not go any further; that is the haunted room,\" I said, in a low\nvoice that could not reach the woman inside.\n\n\"You're right. You've found it,\" was the answer.\n\nI heard the story when we went downstairs, but I can only recollect that\nit had to do with a Lady Sutherland, who had been brutally flung out of\nthe window.\n\nI will now relate a curious incident of haunting by elementals, and it\nwill be seen that such hauntings may quite easily appear to the ordinary\nobserver as an abnormal occurrence to which no clue can be given.\n\nWhat is an elemental? It is only when the mystic has advanced in her\nstudies that she discovers how manifold evolution is, and how small a\npart humanity really fills in the economy of nature.\n\nWhen the microscope is used myriads of germs of life, unsuspected by us,\nare revealed; even so the invisible planes connected with this earth\ncontain myriads of forms of life, of whose existence most of us are\nunconscious. When we read of a \"good or bad elemental\" it must always\nbe either an artificial entity, or one of the many varieties of nature\nspirits that is meant. I will deal now with a case of the artificial\nvariety.\n\nSuch elementals are formed out of the elemental essence lying behind the\nmineral kingdom. It is the monadic essence, or material used in\ncreation, or it may be called the outpouring of Divine force into\nmatter. This elemental essence is marvelously sensitive to human\nthought, however fleeting. It responds instantly to the vibrations set\nup consciously or unconsciously by human will or desire. The influence\nof thought can mold a living force, good or evil, into an existence,\nevanescent or lasting. Such shapes possess a certain appropriateness to\nthe character of the desire which calls them into existence, though they\ngenerally possess distortions, either unpleasant or terrifying.\n\nPersons who play with, or use for some malign purpose, Black Magic,\ngenerally have a swarm of such semi-intelligent entities surrounding\nthem, and professional Black Magicians can call artificial elementals of\ngreat power into existence, and use them for their fell designs.\n\nAs a rule, however, the enormous inchoate mass of entities, known as\nelementals, are beings of human thought creation, created in no\nmalicious spirit, but more often the result of curiosity, and tampering\nwith a very dangerous power, as yet little understood. The amateur\nmagician on passing over to the other side by no means loses his taste\nfor the grotesque and abnormal, and often continues to play pranks on\nthose left behind, by means of the dangerous powers he has acquired\nwhilst on earth.\n\nI was visiting some old friends in the South of England. Some years\nbefore they had succeeded to a fine inheritance, and it was the first\ntime that I had stayed with them in that house. I did not experience any\nuncomfortable sensations in the bedroom appointed to me. It was early\nsummer-time when there is but a short spell of darkness, and I was on\nsuch intimate terms with my hostess, herself a psychic, that I had only\nto say I disliked the atmosphere of my bedroom, to have it changed.\n\nThe former mistress of the house had been a very remarkable woman whom I\nhad known intimately. She was brilliantly clever and accomplished, and\ncharming to talk to, but unfortunately she took a vivid interest in\noccultism of the wrong sort--in Black Magic. Anything to do with spells,\nwitchcraft, elementals, incantations, attracted her enormously, and she\nhad a very considerable knowledge of the subject. I have no doubt she\ncould have worked a great deal of mischief had she been so inclined, but\nluckily her designs were more impish than malign.\n\nI often warned her that there was undoubted danger in such researches,\nand that she was certain to attract about her elementals of a most\nundesirable kind, but my warnings went unheeded, and to the time of her\ndeath her interest in the dark subject never flagged.\n\nShe had not died in the house I had come to stay in, but it occurred to\nme as I dressed for dinner that I was in her old bedroom.\n\nThis suggestion came to me suddenly, and to the accompaniment of a\nsound. A sound more felt than heard, a sound known to the spirit rather\nthan to the ear; a tiptoe silence hovering on the brink of sound's\nthreshold.\n\nMy surroundings gave a very pleasant impression. A glorious sunset was\nflooding the west. My room was full of golden light, and the window was\nflung wide to the warm summer air. There was nothing to be recorded\neither ghostly or uncanny, yet something was present which made me\nuncomfortable. Strange thoughts, bizarre fancies, found lodgment in my\nmind, and I stood rigid, listening intently. The room was full of\nsecrets. They seemed suddenly to creep forth and whisper together.\n\nThere it was again! that soft echo of a sound which was like no other\nsound. An eerie, uncanny sensation crept down my spine, a strange,\nundefinable feeling of uncertainty, not yet amounting to fear. I moved\ntowards the corner of the room, whence the sound proceeded, and as I\napproached, out of that corner dropped down a huge gray moth, a second\ndropped down after it, and both lay with outstretched wings on the white\ncoverlet of the bed.\n\nNow I have always had a peculiar antipathy to moths, the big furry sort.\nI can handle a spider, and bear with a black beetle, but with big woolly\nmoths I cannot live happily. I saw one once under a microscope, and it\nwas covered with horrid looking parasites. I am aware that other\ncreatures are similarly afflicted, but this microscopic vision\naccentuated my horror of all big moths. They seem to me repulsive,\nsinister, and uncanny creatures. The curious thing is that though I\ndislike them they adore me, and I always know that if there is one in my\nparish it will find me out.\n\nOn this occasion I felt a very natural desire to laugh at myself. Of\ncourse, the creatures had at once discovered me, and this was all that\nhad resulted from my uncomfortable sensations. A feeling of scorn swept\nover me. Two moths had rustled softly. Could anything be more banal,\nmore commonplace? I flung a towel over them, and finished dressing. Then\nI rang for the housemaid.\n\nWhen she came I told her she must accomplish the destruction of the\noccupants of my bed. I could see no moths flying about outside, but\nnevertheless the window must be kept closed till I opened it again in\nthe dark, before getting into bed.\n\nShe told me that she was always particular to close the windows before\nbringing in a light, as the bats were a nuisance. I assured her that I\nhad no objection to a room full of bats, but I could not sleep in a room\nfull of moths. She promised to look about the room whilst it was still\nlight, and destroy any she found. I closed the window myself and went\ndown to dinner.\n\nWe were but three women present; my hostess, myself, and a friend of\nours, and we spent a delightful evening together talking of old times.\n\nThat night, before beginning to undress, I blew out my candle, and\nthrowing up the window I stood looking forth upon enchantment. It was\nstill light, with a luster that filled all space, and it seemed wicked\nto shut out such beauty. Westward the stars were pale, but southward one\ngreat dull red star shone low down on the horizon. The owls were\nhaunting the gardens with their banshee notes. It was a night for the\nrevelation of the fairy folk, elves and pixies, fauns and dryads,\nelfins, nymphs and satyrs. A night when she tells her secrets to her\nlovers in the psalmody of nature, when the spirits of earth, fire, air,\nand water utter softly to human souls, if they will but incline the ear\nto hearken to the message.\n\nIf I want a definition of God I shall go, not to the bell and the book,\nbut to a starlit, fragrant garden, where I can look long and deep into\nthe passion of Creation's eyes. I will be as the old gray poet who\nwrote--\n\n    \"I am he that walks with the tender and growing night,\n    I call the earth and sea, half hid by the night.\n    Press close magnetic, nourishing night,\n    Night of the South wind, night of the large, few stars.\"\n\nAcross the hushed magic came silver sweet the strokes of eleven from the\nvillage church, and the spell was broken. I closed the window, lit my\ncandles, and prepared for bed.\n\nJust before extinguishing my lights, and re-opening the window, I\ncarried a candle to the side of the bed with a box of matches. What was\nmy horror on discovering that the turned-down bed and both pillows were\nliberally strewn with enormous gray moths. The sight was extraordinary,\nI literally could not believe my eyes. I stood there staring, and\nmechanically counting them. Twenty--thirty. I turned back to the\ndressing-table with the candle still in my hand. What was I to do? If I\nhad the courage to destroy them, what sort of condition would the bed be\nin after?\n\nI am writing of actual facts, and without the least exaggeration. The\nsmallest of those moths must have been quite an inch long in their fat\ngray bodies, and quite three inches long across the wings. I thought I\nknew most moths by sight and name, but I had never seen any like these\nbefore. What depressed me most was the fact that moths are attracted by\ncandle-light. I had been burning four candles for quite twenty minutes,\nand not a moth had forsaken the bed for the flame. I was positively\ncertain that they had not flown in whilst I stood in the dark of the\nopen window. They were far too big and numerous to have escaped\nobservation. What was I to do? I could not use that bed, and I now felt\na strong repulsion for the room. I regretted deeply that the household\nmust all be in bed, because I knew that no description I could give\nwould convey anything like actuality, and the truth was certain to\nappear wild exaggeration.\n\nI made up my mind at once. I knew there were several unoccupied rooms on\neither side of me, and taking my lighted candle I placed it, still lit,\nin a basin on the marble-topped washstand. It should remain lit all\nnight, and in the morning I would come to search for victims. The other\ncandles I extinguished, all but one to take with me, and leaving the\nwindow still shut I softly left the room. I entered the next bedroom and\napproached the bed. Of course, there were no sheets, but the white dust\nsheet covering the blankets was spotless--there was not a moth to be\nseen anywhere. Blowing out my candle I opened the window, and getting\ninto bed between the blankets I was soon fast asleep.\n\nI awakened to glorious sunshine, and looked at my wrist watch, which I\nhad placed beside my bed. Six o'clock and a lovely warm summer morning.\n\nI jumped out of bed, full of curiosity regarding my visitors of\nover-night, and returned to my own room. Not a trace of a moth to be\nseen anywhere. The candle had burnt itself out, no singed wings or\nblackened bodies lay near. The window was shut. I threw it wide, and\nthen I went round the room shaking curtains, looking behind pictures,\nand climbing on a chair I examined the top of the wardrobe. Not the\nfaintest signs of the great gray drove of the night before. Where could\nthey all have vanished to?\n\nI gave it up, and got into my own bed, to await the advent of my early\ntea. I hated having to tell the housemaid that I had been driven into\nanother room, but I knew she would find out the fact for herself. She\nwas obviously incredulous, and assured me she had thoroughly searched\nthe room, and seen but two winged creatures; those she had removed from\nthe bed. I had seen for myself when coming to bed that the window had\nremained shut. She had often seen one or two brown moths in the rooms at\nnight, but she owned that never before had she seen huge gray ones.\n\nThe matter was left at that, and during the day I told my hostess of my\nadventure, and she at once ordered the room I had slept in to be\nprepared for me, in case I might encounter the same difficulties again.\nI dressed for dinner in the moth-room, without catching sight of one.\nWhen bedtime came we three women all entered the room together.\n\nOn approaching the bed, and looking down on it, no one spoke for a\nmoment. Then my fellow guest exclaimed:\n\n\"Well, I must say that if I had not seen this with my own eyes I never\nwould have believed it.\"\n\nThe bed was liberally sprinkled with large gray moths.\n\nMy hostess shivered. \"Come away, and let us shut the door. It's too\nhorrible,\" she said.\n\nDuring the remainder of my visit I was perfectly comfortable in my new\nroom, and the curious fact must be stated that after I had left the\nmoth-room the moths forsook it too. I could discern a pitying\nincredulity in the housemaid's attitude towards me afterwards. She had\nseen but two, and she did not believe in the drove.\n\nMy hostess and friend who had witnessed the phenomenon at once agreed\nthat there was something more in it than an entomological curiosity. I\nwould have given much for the opinion of a naturalist. What, I wonder,\nwould he have made of that fat, gray flock sprinkling the bed? What\nspecies of moth would he have declared them to be?\n\nI have searched in many books since and never found anything the least\nresembling them, and I retain my original, firm belief that they were\nnothing more or less than a flock of elementals, sent forth as a\npractical joke by a practiced magician on the other side.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\n\"THE NEW JEANNE D'ARC\"\n\n\nBefore writing on the above subject, which is proving to-day of\nabsorbing interest to a very large number of people, Protestant as well\nas Catholic, I will point out a curious fact that is occultly connected\nwith it.\n\nAt certain periods in our normal life, certain subjects lying quite\noutside our earthly experience begin quite suddenly to be talked of and\nwritten upon. No one knows why, no one, outside occultism, can even form\na conjecture why such subjects should suddenly obsess the brains of a\nconsiderable number of persons, why they should crop up in the most\nunexpected places, or why they should form the foundations of a\nconsiderable mass of literature.\n\nIt would appear as if they were floating in the air at some particular\ntime, and masses of people catch them up like germs, and carry them\nabout until their power is exhausted.\n\nI will give an instance. In the years just before the war \"The Great God\nPan\" drifted across our mental horizon and was at once drawn into our\naura.\n\nNo one knows anything about \"The Great God Pan.\" He is supposed to\nbelong to mythology, but novelists of distinction at once began to write\nupon him, not one after the other, but simultaneously. I read at least\nthree thrilling novels in which he figured largely, and I myself was\nimpelled to write a novel upon the same subject.\n\nI began the book knowing nothing of the god, beyond what I could gather\nfrom the London Library, and Frazer's \"Golden Bough,\" but as I proceeded\nI was conscious of new information drifting in from without, and on\nfinishing the book I found that other authors had been at work on the\nsame subject.\n\n\"The Great God Pan\" appeared on the stage, and a popular actress sang a\nsong about him. One heard his name mentioned constantly in society, and\nhideous stories were told of him in Bohemian art circles. He was the\nbugbear of the seance room, journalists mentioned him in quite serious\narticles, and I once heard his name spoken from a pulpit.\n\nThe bare fact of this seemingly inconsequent disease (for it almost\namounted to a disease with us) drifting into our stolid British\natmosphere was not curious to the occultist, who is aware that at\ncertain times, certain subjects are flooded in on us from \"the other\nside\" by those who have our welfare at heart.\n\nI never heard any explanation of why Pan should have come here to play\nquite an important part in our mental lives, or why he should have\nobsessed so many of us for about a couple of years. The more one\ndiscovered about him the less one liked him, but psychics are led to\nbelieve that there are many schemes of evolution hovering about us, and\ninterpenetrating our own, though not visible to our normal\nconsciousness.\n\nIt may therefore be that \"The Great God Pan\" did actually come into our\natmosphere, and thus his individuality impressed itself upon those whose\nminds were plastic to such impressions. Possibly he arrived on this\nearth much as an aerolite arrives, drawn out of his own orbit by the\nsuperior attraction of this globe.\n\n\"The Great God Pan\" was, what might be termed, the forerunner of the\ndevil's reincarnation. The belief in a personal devil was rapidly dying\nout amongst us, in spite of \"The Sorrows of Satan,\" and the belief in\n\"The Prince of this World\" so insisted upon throughout the Old and New\nTestaments.\n\nThere is no more engrossing subject for the occultist to indulge in than\ngathering together every verse in the Bible dealing with \"The Evil One,\"\nand trying, with the aid of ancient traditions, to piece a coherent\nstory together. When one gets a certain distance in the study one comes\nto the conclusion that there is a great deal more in it than meets the\neye. It is a vast subject, and I think the most profoundly occult\nmystery extant and undeciphered.\n\nThe devil now occupies a prominent position in the collective thought of\nthe nation. An enormous number of people believe now in his existence,\nwho would have scorned the bare idea before 1916. It was in that year\nthat he began to loom large in the beliefs of quite materially minded\npeople, and his advent into actual, active existence at once complicated\nmatters terribly.\n\nSaid a well-known writer to me, \"I think there is something in it. It's\nvery tiresome. I was just beginning to settle down in my beliefs, now\nI'm all upset again by this conception of a personal adversary to the\nSupreme Ruler.\"\n\nIn the early weeks of 1917 a new impression drifted in on us.\n\nSome angel came down and stirred the pool of the world, and left with us\n\"The Sacred Heart.\"\n\n\"The Sacred Heart\" was the forerunner of \"The New Jeanne d'Arc,\" Claire\nFerchaud.\n\nThere is nothing that has more astonished the Catholic world than\nhearing \"The Sacred Heart\" talked of by Protestants, and actually\nadopted by them as a sacred symbol. Hitherto it has been exclusively a\npart of Catholic worship.\n\nThere was such a demand for the little metal \"Sacred Heart\" images (a\nfigure of the Christ, with hands outstretched and a flaming heart at His\nbreast), that can be carried about in the pocket, that they were not to\nbe bought in England, and were hard to procure abroad. Enormous numbers\nhad been sent to the front by persons belonging to all denominations,\nwho treasured one of their own at home. Very suddenly \"The Sacred Heart\"\nbecame an object of veneration amongst thousands to whom Roman\nCatholicism was anathema.\n\nThen came the demand from France that \"The Sacred Heart\" should be\nplaced above the tricolor.\n\nI had not heard of Claire Ferchaud before the beginning of 1918, though\nher Divine Mission began about six years previously.\n\nOccultists began to speak of her amongst themselves as one who would yet\nsave France. This hope was never lost sight of in the country's darkest\nhours. Now there is a steadily growing demand amongst the educated\nBritish public to learn all that can be known about this girl who has\nbeen called \"The New Joan of Arc.\"\n\nIn 1916 she was summoned to appear before an Ecclesiastical Commission\nat Poitiers in the same room in which \"The Maid of Orleans\" was\ninterrogated, before being placed at the head of the Army of\ndeliverance.\n\nBoth Claire Ferchaud and her communications were subjected to the\nstrictest scrutiny. The result was entirely in her favor. Her writings\nwere examined by Father Vaudrious, D.D., M.S.D., who declared them\ninspired, and equal to those of St. Catherine of Sienna and St. Teresa.\nFinally they were taken to Rome, and submitted to a commission appointed\nby the Holy See. The result being that she was ordered to continue her\nmission. The writings deal with devotion to \"The Sacred Heart\" and the\ndignity of priesthood.\n\nOne is irresistibly reminded of the opening scenes at Lourdes, whilst\nBernadette Soubirons was alive, in 1858. Again, one cannot but recall a\ncertain similarity betwixt certain events in the life of the Maid of\nOrleans and the events taking place now in the life of Claire Ferchaud.\n\nClaire is a girl twenty-two years old, the daughter of a peasant\nproprietor in the village of Ranfillieres, a mile from Lublande, Deux\nSevres Dept., France. Her parents are alive, and she has two sisters and\nthree brothers. The father and one brother fought during the war,\nanother brother was a prisoner, and the youngest assists on the farm.\nOne of the sisters works on the farm, and the eldest sister is a\nreligieuse at the community of La Sagesse.\n\nClaire was tending her father's flocks when the first great revelation\ncame to her nine years ago; then she was but thirteen years old. She had\ncrept into a thicket to read, and suddenly the Divine Master appeared to\nher and bade her lay down her book. He told her she had been chosen for\na Divine Mission, and that He would guide and instruct her. He showed\nher \"The Sacred Heart\" covered with wounds.\n\nOn recounting her vision to her priest, she was treated with coldness\nand disbelief, and on her telling him two years later that Our Lord\ndaily appeared to her in Holy Communion she was treated still more\ncoldly.\n\nUntil he himself received a sign he maintained an attitude of utter\ndisbelief. What happened soon after whilst he was celebrating Holy Mass,\nentirely convinced him.\n\nAt that particular part of the Canon when the priest divides the Sacred\nSpecies he saw blood issue from the Sacred Host. Nor was this all. A\nweek afterwards he observed Claire Ferchaud in a trance in his own\nchurch, and he saw her using a handkerchief as if wiping some object in\nfront of her, which he could not see. Blood stains appeared on the\nhandkerchief, and increased as she repeated the action.\n\nFilled with amazement he sought later for an explanation, and she told\nhim.\n\n\"Our Lord appeared before me suffering greatly because of the terrible\nsins of the world, and He asked me to do for Him what Veronica did on\nthe road to Calvary. To wipe away the bloody sweat that trickled down\nHis face. I saw the Sacred Heart, riddled with wounds, and the deepest\nwound of all was inflicted by France, the eldest daughter of the Church,\non whom He had lavished so deep a love. Once before He appeared to me\nwalking upon ears of corn which He crushed to powder.\"\n\nThe priest after hearing this explanation took the handkerchief to the\nbishop, who listened to the wonderful story with sympathetic attention.\nHe examined the blood-stained handkerchief minutely, and sent for a nun.\n\"If,\" he said, \"the stains are what they are represented to be they\ncannot be washed out.\"\n\nThe bishop put the matter to the test, and watched the nun endeavoring\nto remove the stains. It was all in vain, and the bishop standing by his\nown test declared the mission of Claire Ferchaud to be Divine.\n\nEvery night, between eleven and twelve o'clock, Claire beholds\napparitions, and receives the sacred teaching that was promised, and it\nwas in 1916 that she was ordered to Poitiers to undergo\ncross-examination.\n\nUnfortunately the further development of Claire Ferchaud's mission\ncannot yet be communicated to the world, but in time it will be, and\nvery startling and wonderful it will seem.\n\nMeanwhile she encountered very strong opposition. With considerable\ndifficulty the Deputy of Vendee arranged a meeting between Claire and M.\nPoincare. Claire implored him to permit the emblem of the Sacred Heart\nto be placed on the Standards of France, as the one condition of\nsuccess. Unfortunately M. Poincare had to refuse, owing to political\nreasons, though as proof of her mission she disclosed an incident only\nknown to him which happened after the victory of the Marne.\n\nThe same adverse influence operated at her interview with M. Clemenceau.\nThis appointment was arranged by the Archbishop of Rheims, Cardinal\nLucon. The Archbishop implored M. Clemenceau to fix a day of public\nintercession for France. This also the Prime Minister of France had\nreluctantly to refuse.\n\nIt is openly stated that before the later French successes the emblem of\nthe Sacred Heart was secretly sewn upon the flags of France, and it is\nalso affirmed that General Foch is a devoted lover of the Sacred Heart,\nand bears its emblem with him wherever he goes.\n\nGreat changes have come about in the village where Claire Ferchaud\ndwells. Formerly a sleepy, neglected little place, it is now converted\ninto a scene of the greatest activity.\n\nFrom all parts of France the pilgrims come--some on foot, having walked\nmany miles, some in motors and horse-driven vehicles. Hundreds of\nsoldiers find their way there, and it is estimated that from fifteen to\ntwenty thousand people pass through Lublande in a month.\n\nWith the consent of her bishop, Claire Ferchaud has formed a small\ncommunity of nine, and is now established in a temporary convent\nadjacent to her parish church at Lublande. It is believed that her\nDivine Mission will be accomplished in 1922, and that she will then be\nreleased from earthly life.\n\nClaire has predicted a stormy period for France after peace has been\nsigned. According to her prophecy there will be violent unrest until\nrulers arise who possess firm religious convictions. At the beginning of\nthe war she affirmed that the French Army would never prosper until the\ntroops were commanded by a true son of the Church. This affirmation she\nclaimed to receive from a Divine source. When Marechal Foch took over\nthe supreme command she was satisfied that victory, so far as the French\narms were concerned, was assured.\n\nAs all the world knows, and as all may learn who read Hyndman's life of\nhis old friend Clemenceau, the Prime Minister of France, like the\nmajority of his colleagues, is frankly atheistical. Claire Ferchaud\nclaims to have received the Divine intimation that until this condition\nof mind is superseded by a public acknowledgment of a supreme divine\npower, a supreme arbiter over the destinies of the world, the affairs of\nFrance can never prosper. She predicts that in 1922 rulers will arise\nwho will bow before a Power superior to their own human energies.\n\nThe first part of her prophecy has come true. A man of God won his way\nto the front, and saved France and the Allies at the darkest hour of\ntheir tribulation.\n\nThe supreme command was vested in a man of profound religious\nconvictions, who carried his beliefs and observances openly into the\narena of war.\n\nI translate the words written lately to me by one who has served under\nFerdinand Foch. They throw a brilliant light upon a great soul.\n\n\"I can see him now, alone and unattended, at an hour when the Church of\nCassel was deserted, praying and seeking comfort in the great sorrow, of\nwhich he never spoke. He had lost his only son, and one of his daughters\nwas widowed. In spite of his indomitable energy there was about him an\nair of profound melancholy and sadness.\n\n\"At certain moments his eyes seemed to say, 'I approach the twilight of\nmy life in the consciousness of being a good servant who will repose in\nthe peace of God. My faith in life eternal, in a good God, has sustained\nme in my hardest hours. Prayer has illumined my soul. See to it, you\nyoung men of France, who are without a great ideal, without any\nconception of the spiritual side of life, there can be nothing for you\nbut discouragement and feebleness. We demand of you great sacrifices to\nthe end. Accept those sacrifices as I accept mine, who believe that\nspirit must prevail over matter.'\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\nHAUNTED HOUSES--\"CASTEL A MARE\"\n\n\nI have never yet met any one who was not interested in haunted houses.\nEven the most blatant skeptic always wants to \"hear all about it,\"\nthough he has predetermined to treat the story with his habitual\nscoffing incredulity. Of all the departments of psychical research none\ncommands more general interest than a \"spooky\" house, and there are few\npeople who cannot name a dwelling which has acquired the reputation for\nbeing haunted by denizens of the other world.\n\nOf course, any house that falls into serious disrepair, and remains\nunoccupied for some long period, any dwelling whose owner permits decay\nto proceed unchecked, and dilapidation to run its course, at once\nsuggests the thought to the beholder, \"what a haunted looking old\nplace,\" and rumor, in such cases, quickly supplies all the old\nphenomena, even though tradition be totally absent. Tramps are always on\nthe lookout for such shelters, and their damped-down fires catch the eye\nof some scared rustic who happens to be passing in the dark. Rats and\nthe winds of heaven play hide-and-seek through the deserted rooms and\ncorridors, and owls find sanctuary in the surrounding gardens. Their\ncries, varying from the exultant shriek to the mournful wail, add a\nweird suggestiveness to the abiding melancholy of such abandoned\nhabitations.\n\nThere is so much talk nowadays of hauntings and ghosts, that it seems\nstrange we should know so very little about them. I have never heard a\nreally convincing explanation of why ghosts should haunt certain houses,\nand I have no explanation of my own to offer. If ghosts could be\ncommanded, if one could be sure of witnessing certain phenomena that\nhave been elaborately described to one, then there might be the ghost of\na chance of advantageous investigation. No such opportunities seem to be\nafforded the investigator. He may watch for months and see nothing, yet\nthe elusive wraith may turn up before several witnesses on the very\nnight after he has abandoned his quest out of sheer boredom and\ndiscouragement.\n\nSome seven years ago, whilst wintering in Torquay, I heard a great deal\nof gossip about a villa on the Warberries, which was reputed to be badly\nhaunted. For the last forty to fifty years nobody, it was said, had been\nable to live in it for any length of time. Several people asserted that\nthey had heard screams coming from it as they passed along the high\nroad, and no occupant had ever been able to keep a door shut or even\nlocked.\n\nThe house is at present being pulled down, therefore I commit no\nindiscretion in describing the phenomena connected with it.\n\n\"Castel a Mare\" is situated in what house agents would describe as \"a\nhighly residential quarter.\" It is surrounded by numerous villas,\ninhabited by people who are all very \"well to do,\" and who make Torquay\ntheir permanent home. The majority of these villas lie right back from\nthe road, and are hidden in their own luxuriant gardens, but the\nhaunted house is one of several whose back premises open straight on to\nthe road.\n\nNo dwelling could have looked more commonplace or uninteresting. It was\nbuilt in the form of a high box, three storied. It was hideous and\ninartistic in the extreme, but along its frontage looking towards the\nsea and hidden from the road, there ran a wide balcony on to which the\nsecond floor rooms opened, and from there the view over the garden was\ncharming. When I first went to look at it, dilapidation had set in.\nJackdaws and starlings were busy in the chimneys, the paint was peeling\noff the walls, and most of the windows were broken. Year after year\nthose windows were mended, but they never remained intact for more than\na week, and during the war there has been no attempt at renewal. Even\nthe agents' boards, \"To be let or sold\" dropped one by one from their\nstems, as if in sheer weariness of so fruitless an announcement.\n\nIt was not long before I obtained the loan of the keys, and proceeded to\n\"take the atmosphere.\" It was decidedly unhealthful, I concluded, though\nI neither heard nor saw anything unusual during the hour I spent alone\nin quietly wandering through the deserted rooms. I found no trace of\ntramps, and all the closed windows were thickly cobwebbed _inside_, an\nimportant fact to notice in psychic research. I fixed upon the bathroom\nand one other small room, as the _foci_ of the trouble, and left the\nhouse with no other strong impression than that my movements had been\nclosely watched, by some one unseen by me. It was no uncommon sight in\npre-war days to see several smart motor cars drawn up at the gate.\nFrivolous parties of explorers in search of a thrill drove in from the\nsurrounding neighborhood, and romped gayly through the house and out\nagain, and I discovered that several of those visitors had distinctly\nfelt that they were being followed about and watched.\n\nMy husband and I were naturally much interested in this haunted\ndwelling, so accessible, and so near to our own house. We determined\nthat if we could make friends with the owner we would do a little\ninvestigation on our own. Numerous people, on the plea that the house\nmight suit them as a residence, got the loan of the keys, and spent an\nhour or two inside the place, wandering about the house and garden, but\nthe owner was getting tired of this rush of spurious house-hunters. He\nwas beginning to ask for _bona fides_, so we determined honestly to\nstate our purpose.\n\nThe proprietor was an old builder who owned several other houses. He\nreceived me very civilly, even gratefully. He would willingly give us\nthe keys for as long a period as we required them. \"Castel a Mare\"\nbrought him extreme bad luck; he longed to be rid of it, and he added\nthat after our investigations, if my husband could give the house a\nclean bill of health it would be of enormous benefit to him, in enabling\nhim to let or sell it. He did not seem very hopeful, but stated it to be\nhis opinion that the hauntings were all nonsense, and that the screams\npeople heard were the cries of some peacocks that lived in a property\nnot far off. This sounded very reasonable, and I promised him that if we\ncould honestly state that the house was perfectly unhealthful, we would\npermit our conclusions to be made public.\n\nMy husband and I decided that the hour one p. m. till two p. m. would be\nthe quietest and least conspicuous time in which to investigate.\nDoubtless the night would have been better still, but it would have\ncreated too much excitement in the neighborhood, and callers to see \"how\nwe were bearing up\" would have defeated our object. Between one and two\nall Torquay would be lunching, and we could easily slip in unobserved,\nand we would require neither lights nor warm comforts.\n\nWe started at once, my husband keeping the keys, and making himself\nresponsible for the doors. Though the window-panes were badly broken\nthere were no openings large enough to admit a small child, and, as I\nhave said, the network of cobwebs within was evidence that no human\nbeing entered the house by the windows. The front door lock was in good\norder, and so were most of the other locks in the house. We shut\nourselves in, and after a thorough examination of the premises we\nmounted to the first floor. Three rooms opened on to it, belonging to\nthe principal bedroom--a smaller room and a bathroom opening out of the\nbig bedroom. My husband closed all the doors, and we sat down on the\nlower steps of the bare staircase leading to the floor above. That day\nwe drew an absolute blank, and at two o'clock we closed every door in\nthe house, and just inside the front door we made a careless looking\narrangement of twigs, dead leaves, pieces of straw and dust, which could\nnot fail to betray the passing of human feet, should anybody possess a\nduplicate key to the front door and enter by that means.\n\nThe second day we found our twig and straw arrangements intact, but not\na single door was shut, all were thrown defiantly wide. This seemed\nrather promising and we went upstairs to our seat on the steps, and\ncarefully reclosing the doors immediately in front of us, sat down to\nawait events.\n\nQuite half an hour must have passed when suddenly a click made us both\nlook up. The handle of the door, but a couple of yards distant from me,\nleading into the small room, was turning, and the door quietly opened\nwide enough to admit the passing of a human being. It was a bright sunny\nday, and one could see the brass knob turning round quite distinctly. We\nsaw no form of any sort, and the door remained half open. For perhaps a\ncouple of moments we awaited developments, then our attention was\nsuddenly switched off the door by the sound of hurrying footsteps\nrunning along the bare boards on the corridor above us. My husband\nrushed up and searched each empty room, but neither saw anything nor\nheard anything more. Before leaving the house we shut all doors, and\nlocked all that would lock. Such was the meager extent of our second\nday's investigations.\n\nOn the third day the doors were all found wide flung. No door opened\nbefore our eyes as on our former visit, but a brushing sound was heard\nascending the stairs, as if from some one pressing close against the\nwall.\n\nFor about a fortnight nothing happened beyond what I have recounted, but\nI was strongly conscious that we were being watched. The most\nunhealthful spots were the bathroom, a servants' room entered by a\nstaircase leading from the kitchen, and the stable, a small building\nimmediately to the right of the house. The bathroom was in great\ndisrepair, long strips of paper hung from the walls, and an air of\nprofound depression pervaded it. Obviously it had once been merely a\nlarge cupboard, and it had a window admitting light from a passage\nbehind it.\n\nWe had never once failed to find every door which we had closed thrown\nwide on our return, and one day we locked the bathroom, and removing the\nkey we looked about for some spot in which to secrete it. On that floor\nwas nothing large enough to hide even so small an object as a key, so we\ntook it downstairs to the dining-room. In a corner lay a rag of linoleum\nabout six inches square, under this we placed the bathroom key and left\nthe house.\n\nThat afternoon a house agent called and asked for the loan of the keys.\nHe told us that a brave widow, who knew the history of the house,\nthought it might suit her to live in, and he proposed to take her over\nit and point out its charms. He would return the keys to us directly\nafterwards. I took advantage of this occasion to say to the agent that\nprobably the screams some people had heard proceeded from the peacocks\nin the neighborhood.\n\nHe shook his head and answered, \"We hoped that might prove to be the\ncase, but we have ascertained that it is not so.\" He seemed despondent\nabout the place, even though what we had to tell him was as yet nothing\nvery formidable or exciting. What we did not tell him was that we had\nlocked up the bathroom, and hidden the key. We left him to discover that\nfact for himself.\n\nHe returned with the keys in about an hour, and I asked him what the\nwidow thought of \"Castel a Mare.\"\n\n\"She thinks something might be made of it. The cheapness attracts her,\"\nhe answered.\n\n\"But it will need so much doing to it,\" I demurred. \"What did she think\nof the bathroom?\"\n\n\"She said it only needed cleaning and repapering. The bath itself she\nfound in good enough condition.\"\n\nSo the bathroom door was open, in spite of our having locked it and\nhidden the key!\n\nAfter the agent had gone we went to the house. Every door stood wide.\nThe bathroom key was still in its hiding-place, and the door open. We\nreplaced the key. The ghosts laughed to scorn such securities as locks\nand keys.\n\nFor a month or two we pursued our investigations, then we returned the\nkeys to the owner. Though we had seen and heard so little it was\nimpossible to give the house a clean bill of health, and the old builder\nwas much cast down. A few days afterwards we received a letter from him\noffering us the house as a free gift. It would pay him to be rid of the\nground rent, and the place was as useless to him as to any one else. We\nthanked him and refused the gift.\n\nAbout this period I was lucky enough to get into touch with a former\ntenant of \"Castel a Mare,\" and this lady most kindly gave me many\ndetails of her residence there. About thirty years ago she occupied it\nwith her father and mother, and they were the last family to live in it\nfor any length of time, and for many years it has remained empty.\n\nSoon after their arrival this family discovered that there was something\nvery much amiss with their new residence. The house, the garden, and the\nstable were decidedly uncanny, but it was some time before they would\nadmit, even to themselves, that the strange happenings were of a\nsupernatural order.\n\nThe phenomena fell under three headings: a piercing scream heard\ncontinually, at any hour and during all seasons; continuous steps\nrunning along corridors, and up and down stairs; constant lockings of\ndoors by unseen hands.\n\nThe scream was decidedly the most unnerving of the various phenomena.\nThe family lived in constant dread of it. Sometimes it came from the\ngarden, sometimes from inside the house. One morning whilst they sat at\nbreakfast, they were violently startled by this horrible sound coming\nfrom the inner hall, just outside the room in which they sat. It took\nbut a moment to throw open the door, but, as usual, there was nothing to\nbe seen.\n\nOn another occasion the family doctor had just arrived at the front\ndoor, and was about to ring, when he was startled by the scream coming\nfrom inside the house. This doctor still lives in the neighborhood, and\nis one of many people who can bear witness to the fact.\n\nThe footsteps of unseen people kept the family pretty busy. They were\nalways running to the doors to see who was hurrying past, and up and\ndown stairs. Very soon the drawing-room became extremely uncomfortable,\nand practically uninhabitable. It was always full of unseen people\nmoving about. The lady of the house never felt herself alone, and when\nshe found herself locked into her own room, the behavior of her astral\nguests seemed to her to have become intolerable. The master of the house\nno more escaped these attentions than did the rest of the inhabitants,\nand finally all keys had to be removed from all doors.\n\nOne night some guests, after getting into bed, heard some one open the\ndoor of their room and enter. Astonishment kept them silent, and in a\nminute or two their visitor quietly withdrew and closed the door again.\nThey concluded that it must have been their hostess, and that thinking\nthey were asleep she had not spoken, yet still they thought the incident\nvery strange. The next morning they discovered that no member of the\nhousehold had entered their room.\n\nOn another occasion a lady who had come to help nurse a sick sister saw,\none night, a strange woman dressed in black velvet walk downstairs.\n\nAnimals fared badly at \"Castel a Mare.\" A large dog belonging to the\nfamily was often found cowering and growling in abject fear of something\nvisible to it, but not to the human inhabitants, and the harness horse\nshowed such an invincible objection to its stable, that it could only be\ngot in by backing.\n\nLater on I was told that a member of the Psychical Society had visited\n\"Castel a Mare,\" and had pronounced the garden to be more haunted than\nthe house.\n\nIt is interesting to note how absolutely untenable badly haunted houses\nbecome. No matter how skeptical, how resolutely material the tenants may\nbe, the phenomena wear them down to a humble surrender at last. After\nall, what can people do but quit a residence which is constantly showing\nincontrovertible evidence that it is possessed by numerous unseen\nentities that defy analysis?\n\nEvery one is interested in getting rid of this weird disturbance, but\nhow to do it? The skeptic is resolute in unmasking the fraud, but finds\nhimself balked by intangibility. He hears the scream at his door, and\nrushes to arrest the miscreant, but sees no one to grapple with.\nDomestic difficulties become acute. No warning is given, no wages asked.\nThe servants decamp, too scared to care for anything but putting\ndistance between themselves and the nameless dread. Visitors begin to\nfight shy of the house. They have heard the screams.\n\nMonth after month the master of the house, thinking of his rent, and his\nreputation for sanity, and what the loss of both would mean to him,\nclings to skepticism as his only hope and refuge. He is not going to be\ndriven forth by any such stuff and nonsense as ghosts! Why! there are no\nsuch things! \"Seen things? heard things?\" Well, yes, he has, but, of\ncourse, there must be some rational explanation. A man who has fought\nfor king and country is not going to be defeated and put to flight by a\npack of silly women's stories. He will soon get to the bottom of the\nwhole affair, then woe betide the practical joker!\n\nWhen alone he racks his brains in vain. He is furious with himself for\nhaving heard the scream, and tells himself he must be \"going dotty.\" He\nis puzzled, baffled, irritated, but more determined than ever to \"stick\nit out.\" Who can the \"joker\" be who is demoralizing his household, who\nhas even dared to lock him into his own room? He thinks of his wife and\nfamily, and of their shattered nerves; he thinks of his terrified\nservants, and of his dog, which can no longer be persuaded to enter the\nhouse. He feels he must look elsewhere for the disturber of his peace.\nBut where? He keeps careful watch unknown (as he thinks) to his family.\nThe steps approach him, pass close to him, then die away in the\ndistance, leaving him fuming, impotent. He finds it necessary to wipe\nhis brow, which enrages him still more. At dead of night he watches on\nthe staircase, with all lights full on.\n\nSilence, utter silence! Absolutely nothing to be seen or heard. He\nthinks of going to bed. He always said the whole thing was \"tommy rot.\"\nThe deathly silence is suddenly rent by a piercing scream at his very\nelbow, and he leaps to his feet, growling out an oath below his breath.\nHe looks wildly round on every side of him. Nothing! Something strange\nis happening to his head. He passes his hand over his hair. It seems to\nbe creeping along his scalp, and he thinks of the quills of a porcupine.\n\"What the devil is he to do?\" \"Go to bed,\" answers inclination, \"you're\ndoing no good here. Yes! Go to bed; that's the sensible thing to do.\"\n\nThe next morning every one asks him if he heard \"it.\" He acknowledges to\nhimself that his temper is becoming vile.\n\nThe day comes when he is left alone with his family. The staff has fled\nand he feels rather broken.\n\nAt last he gives in, and agrees to seek another home, but it is not to\nthe ghosts he gives in, but to the nervous fancies of a pack of silly\nwomen. He feels wonderfully light-hearted, however, now that his mind is\nmade up, and a glow of magnanimity pervades him. \"If you do a thing at\nall do it well and _at once_,\" he tells himself, and promptly hires\nanother house in another neighborhood.\n\nWhen questioned by his men friends he laughs. The man in the street\nmight understand certain things that he could tell, but the man in the\nclub, never! \"All tommy rot, my dear chap, but my wife got nervous, and\nthe servants! You know what they are. Scared by the scratch of a mouse.\nFor the women's sake I thought it best to quit. You know what women are,\nwhen they once get an idea into their heads!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\nTHE SEQUEL\n\n\nIn 1917 a friend rang me up and asked me if I would form one of a party\nof investigation at \"Castel a Mare.\" The services of a medium had been\nsecured, and a soldier on leave, who was deeply immersed in psychic\nresearch, was in high hopes of getting some genuine results.\n\nI accepted the invitation because a certain incident had once more\nroused my curiosity in the haunted house.\n\nDuring our investigations I had been disappointed at not hearing the\nmuch-talked-of scream, the more so after learning from the former\ntenants how very often they had heard it. When I did at last hear it I\nwas walking past the house on a very hot summer morning, about eleven\no'clock. I was not thinking of the house, and had just passed it on my\nway home, when a piercing scream arrested my attention. I wheeled round\ninstantly; there was not a doubt as to where the scream came from, but\nunfortunately, though there were people on the road, there was no one\nnear enough to bear witness. The scream appeared to come from some one\nin abject terror, and would have arrested the attention of any one who\nhappened to be passing. I mean that had no haunted house stood there,\nhad the scream proceeded from any other villa, I am sure that any\npasser-by would have halted wonderingly, and awaited further\ndevelopments.\n\n\"Castel a Mare\" lay in absolute silence, under the blazing sunshine, and\nin a minute or two I walked on. I could now understand what it must have\nmeant to live in that house, in constant dread of that weird and hideous\nsound resounding through the rooms or garden.\n\nThis incident made me eager to join my friend's party, and on reaching\nthe house I found a small crowd assembled.\n\nThe medium, myself, and four other women. The soldier, and an elderly\nand burly builder belonging to the neighborhood, who was interested in\npsychic research. Eight persons in all.\n\nAs there was no chair or furniture of any description in the house, we\ncarried in a small empty box from a rubbish heap outside, and followed\nthe medium through the rooms. She elected to remain in the large\nbedroom, on the first floor, out of which opened the bathroom, and she\nsat down on the box and leaned her back against the wall, whilst we\nlounged about the room and awaited events. It was a sunny summer\nafternoon, and the many broken panes of glass throughout the house\nadmitted plenty of air.\n\nAfter some minutes it was plain to see that the medium had fallen into a\ntrance. Her eyes were closed, and she lay back as if in sound sleep.\nTime passed, nothing happened, we were all rather silent, as I had\nwarned the party that though we were in a room at the side of the house\nfarthest from the road, our voices could plainly be heard by passers-by,\nand we wanted no interference.\n\nJust as we were all beginning to feel rather bored and tired of\nstanding, the medium sprang to her feet with surprising agility, pouring\nout a volume of violent language. Her voice had taken on the deep\ngrowling tones of an infuriated man, who advanced menacingly towards\nthose of us who were nearest to him. In harsh, threatening voice he\ndemanded to know what right we had to intrude on his privacy.\n\nThere was a general scattering of the scared party before this\nunlooked-for attack, and the soldier gave it as his opinion that the\nmedium was now controlled by the spirit of a very violent male entity. I\nhad no doubt upon the point.\n\nThen commenced so very unpleasant a scene that I had no doubt also of\nthe medium's genuineness. No charlatan, dependent upon fraudulent\nmediumship for her daily bread, would have made herself so intensely\nobnoxious as did this frail little woman. I found myself saying, \"Never\nagain. This isn't good enough.\"\n\nThe entity that controlled her possessed superhuman strength. His voice\nwas like the bellow of a bull, as he told us to be gone, or he would\nthrow us out himself, and his language was shocking.\n\nI had warned the medium on entering the house that we must be as quiet\nas possible, or we would have the police walking in on us. Now I\nexpected any moment to see a policeman, or some male stranger arrive on\nthe scene, and demand to know what was the matter.\n\nThe majority of our party were keeping at a safe distance, but suddenly\nthe control rushed full tilt at the soldier, who had stood his ground,\nand attacking him with a tigerish fury drew blood at once. The big\nbuilder and I rushed forward to his aid. The rest of the party forsook\nus and fled, pell-mell, out of the house and into the garden. Glancing\nthrough a window, near which we fought, I saw below a row of scared\nfaces staring up in awed wonder.\n\nThe scene being enacted was really amazing. This frail little creature\nthrew us off like feathers, and drove us foot by foot before her, always\nheading us off the bathroom. We tried to stand our ground, and dodge her\nfurious lunges, but she was too much for us. After a desperate scuffle,\nwhich lasted quite seven or eight minutes, and resulted in much torn\nclothing, she drove us out of the room and on to the landing. Then\nsuddenly, without warning, the entity seemed to evacuate the body he had\ncontrolled, and the medium went down with a crash and lay at our feet,\njust a little crumpled disheveled heap.\n\nFor some considerable time I thought that she was dead. Her lips were\nblue, and I could feel no pulse. We had neither water nor brandy with\nwhich to revive her, and we decided to carry her down into the garden\nand see what fresh air would do. Though villas stood all round us, the\nfoliage of the trees gave us absolute privacy, and we laid her flat on\nthe lawn. There, after about ten minutes, she gradually regained her\nconsciousness, and seemingly none the worse for her experiences she sat\nup and asked what had happened.\n\nWe did not give her the truth in its entirety, and contrived to account\nfor the blood-stained soldier and the torn clothing, without unduly\nshocking and distressing her. We then dispersed; the medium walking off\nas if nothing whatever had occurred to deplete her strength.\n\nSome days after this the soldier begged for another experiment with the\nmedium. He had no doubts as to her genuineness, and he was sure that if\nwe tried again we would get further developments. She was willing to\ntry again, and so was the builder, but with one exception the rest of\nthe party refused to have anything more to do with the unpleasant\naffair, and the one exception stipulated to remain in the garden. She\nvery wisely remarked that if she came into the house there was no\nknowing what entity might not attach itself to her, and return home with\nher, and she was not going to risk it. Of course this real danger always\nhad to be counted upon in such investigations, but as the men of the\nparty desired a woman to accompany the medium, I consented, and we\nentered the house once more, a reduced party of four.\n\nAfter the medium had remained entranced for some minutes, the same male\nentity again controlled her. The same violence, the same attacks began\nonce more, but this time we were better prepared to defend ourselves.\nThe soldier and the stalwart builder warded off the attacks, and tried\nconciliatory expostulations, but all to no purpose. Then the soldier,\nwho seemed to have considerable experience in such matters, tried a\nsystem of exorcising, sternly bidding the malignant entity depart. There\nensued a very curious spiritual conflict between the exorcist and the\nentity, in which sometimes it seemed as if one, then the other, was\nabout to triumph.\n\nThose wavering moments were useful in giving us breathing space from the\nassaults, and at length having failed, as we desired, to get into the\nbathroom, we drove him back against the wall at the far end of the room.\nFinally the exorcist triumphed, and the medium collapsed on the floor,\nas the strength of the control left her.\n\nFor a few moments we allowed the crumpled up little heap to remain\nwhere she lay, whilst we mopped our brows and regained our breath. The\nsoldier had brought a flask of brandy which we proposed to administer to\nthe unconscious medium, but quite suddenly a new development began.\n\nShe raised her head, and still crouching on the floor with closed eyes\nshe began to cry bitterly. Wailing, and moaning, and uttering\ninarticulate words, she had become the picture of absolute woe.\n\n\"Another entity has got hold of her,\" announced the soldier. It\ncertainly appeared to be so.\n\nAll signs of violence had gone. The medium had become a heart-broken\nwoman.\n\nWe raised her to her feet, her condition was pitiable, but her words\nbecame more coherent.\n\n\"Poor master! On the bed. Help him! Help him!\" she moaned, and pointed\nto one side of the room. Again and again she indicated, by clenching her\nhands on her throat, that death by strangulation was the culmination of\nsome terrible tragedy that had been enacted in that room.\n\nShe wandered, in a desolate manner, about the floor, wringing her hands,\nthe tears pouring down her cheeks, whilst she pointed to the bed, then\ntowards the bathroom with shuddering horror.\n\nSuddenly we were startled out of our compassionate sympathy by a\npiercing scream, and my thoughts flew instantly to the experiences of\nthe former tenants, and what I myself had heard in passing on that June\nmorning of the former year.\n\nThe medium had turned at bay, and began a frantic encounter with some\nentity unseen by us. Wildly she wrestled and fought, as if for her life,\nwhilst she emitted piercing shrieks for \"help.\" We rushed to the\nrescue, dragging her away from her invisible assailant, but a\ndisembodied fighter has a considerable pull over a fighter in the flesh,\nwho possesses something tangible that can be seized. I placed the medium\nbehind me, with her back to the wall, but though I pressed her close she\ncontinued to fight, and I had to defend myself as well as defend her.\nHer assailant was undoubtedly the first terrible entity which had\ncontrolled her. At intervals she gasped out, \"Terrible doctor--will kill\nme--he's killed master--help! help!\"\n\nGradually she ceased to fight. The soldier was exorcising with all his\nforce, and was gaining power; finally he triumphed, inasmuch as he\nbanished the \"terrible doctor.\"\n\nThe medium was, however, still under the control of the broken-hearted\nentity, and began again to wander about the room. We extracted from her\nfurther details. An approximate date of the tragedy. Her master's name,\nthat he was mentally deficient when the murder took place. She was a\nmaidservant in the house, and after witnessing the crime she appeared to\nhave shared her master's fate, though by what means we could not\ndetermine. The doctor was a resident physician of foreign origin.\n\nAt last we induced her to enter the bathroom, which she seemed to dread,\nand there she fell to lamenting over the dead body of her master, which\nhad lain hidden there when the room was used as a large cupboard. It was\na very painful scene, which was ended abruptly by her falling down\ninsensible.\n\nShe had collapsed in an awkward corner, but at last we lifted her out,\nand carried her downstairs to the garden. When I tried to revive her\nwith brandy I found that her teeth were tightly clenched. I then tried\nartificial respiration, as I could feel no pulse. Gradually she came\nback to life, quietly, calmly, and in total ignorance of what had\noccurred. The most amazing thing was that she showed no signs whatever\nof exhaustion or mental fatigue. We were all dead beat, but not so the\nfragile-looking little medium, though externally she looked terribly\ndisheveled and draggled.\n\nThis was the last time I set foot in the haunted house, which is now\nbeing demolished, but I still had to experience more of its odd\nphenomena.\n\nThe date and names the medium had given us were later on verified by\nmeans of a record of villa residents, which for many years had been kept\nin the town of Torquay.\n\nThere is no one left now who has any interest in verifying a tragic\nstory supposed to have been enacted about fifty years ago. It must be\nleft in the realms of psychic research, by which means it was dragged to\nlight. Certain it is that no such murder came to the knowledge of those\nwho were alive then, and live still in Torquay.\n\nIf there is any truth in the story it falls under the category of\nundiscovered crimes. The murderer was able somehow to hide his\niniquities, and escape suspicion and punishment. I do not know if it is\nintended to build another house on the same site. I hope not, for it is\nvery probable that a new residence would share the fate of the old.\nBricks and mortar are no impediment to the free passage of the\ndisembodied, and there is no reason why they should not elect to\nmanifest for an indefinite period of time.\n\nThere can be no doubt that the scream was an actual fact. There are so\nmany people living who heard it, and are willing to testify to the\nhorror of it. Amongst those living people are former tenants, who for\nlong bore the nervous strain of its constant recurrence.\n\nThere remains one other weird incident in connection with \"Castel a\nMare\" which I will now try to describe.\n\nIn the winter of 1917 I was engaged in war work which took me out at\nnight. Like every other coast town Torquay was plunged at sunset into\ndeepest darkness, save when the moon defied the authorities. The road\nleading from the nearest tramcar to our house was not lit at all, and\none had to stumble along as best one could, even electric torches being\nforbidden.\n\nI was returning home one very dark, still night about a quarter past\nten, and being very tired I was walking very slowly. Owing to the inky\ndarkness I thought it best to walk in the middle of the road, in order\nto avoid the inequalities in the footpath at each garden entrance to the\nvillas. At that hour there was no traffic, and not a soul about.\n\nSuddenly my steps were arrested by a loud knocking on a window-pane, and\nI collected my thoughts and tried to take my bearings. The sound came\nfrom the left, where two or three villas stand close to the road. All I\ncould distinguish was a denser blot of black against the dense\nsurroundings, but by making certain calculations I recognized that I\nstood outside \"Castel a Mare.\" The knocking on the pane lasted only a\nmoment or two, and was insistent and peremptory. I jumped to the instant\nconclusion that some one was having \"a lark\" inside, and was trying to\n\"get a rise\" out of me. I was too tired to be bothered, and moved on\nagain with a strong inclination towards my own warm bed, when the\nknocking rang out more peremptory than ever. It seemed to say \"Stop!\ndon't go on. I have something to say to you.\" Involuntarily I stood\nstill again, and wished that some human being would pass along the road.\nI really would not have cared who it was, policeman, soldier,\nmaidservant. I would have laid hold of them and said, \"Do you hear that\nknocking? It comes from the haunted house.\"\n\nAlas! no one did come. The night lay like an inky pall all about me,\nsilent as the grave, save for that commanding order to stop which was\nrapped upon a window-pane whenever I attempted to move on.\n\nThough the being who thus sought to detain me could not possibly\ndistinguish who I was, or whether my gender was male or female, he could\ncertainly hear my footsteps as I walked, and the cool inconsequence of\nhis behavior began to nettle me. I was about to move resolutely on when\nI heard something else. This time something really thrilling!\n\nPeal after peal of light laughter, accompanied by flying feet. But such\nlaughter! Thin, high treble laughter, right away up and out of the\nscale, and apparently proceeding from many persons. Such flying feet!\nracing, pattering, rushing feet, light as those of the trained athlete.\nI stood enthralled with wonder, for in the pitch-black darkness of that\nhouse surely no human feet could avoid disaster. They were rushing up\nand down that steep, bare wooden staircase that I knew so well, and the\nlaughter and the swift-winged feet sounded now from the ground floor,\nthen could be clearly traced ascending, till they reached the third and\nlast floor. Tearing along the empty corridors, they began the breakneck\ndescent again to the bottom, a pell-mell, wild rush of demented demons\nchasing each other. That is what it sounded like.\n\nI must have stood there for quite ten minutes, longing intensely for\nsome one to share in my experiences, but Torquay had gone to bed, and I\nfelt it was time for me to do likewise.\n\nWhat could I make of the affair? Nothing! Rats? Rats don't laugh. Human\nbeings having a rag and trying to scare the neighborhood? No human being\ncould have run up and down that staircase in such profound darkness. It\nwould have been a case of crawling up with a firm hand on the banister\nrail.\n\nI gave up trying to think and turned resolutely away. As I did so the\nknocking began again upon the window-pane.\n\n\"Do stop; oh! don't go away. Stop! stop!\" it seemed to call after me\ninsistently as I quickened my footsteps and gradually outdistanced the\nimperious demand.\n\nWhat explanation have I to offer? None! The hallucinations of a tired\nwoman? That may do for the general public, but not for me. You see, I\nwas the person who heard it.\n\nThere are many haunted houses that are quite habitable, such as Hampton\nCourt Palace, etc. Where the apparition keeps strictly to an\nanniversary, or where the phenomena are mild and inoffensive, their\npresence can be endured with a certain amount of equanimity. The point\nreally lies in this. Are the ghosts who haunt a dwelling indifferent to,\nor hostile to, the presence of their companions in the flesh? If the\nsituation is according to the latter, then the ghosts will certainly\nscore. They will rid themselves of the human inhabitants by a\nwearing-down nerve pressure, which cannot be fought against with any\nchance of success. If the ghosts are shy or indifferent, wrapped up in\ntheir own concerns and containing themselves in a world of their own,\nthen there is no reason why the incarnate and discarnate should not live\npeacefully together.\n\nTo-day, February 27th, 1919, I read the following in the _Morning\nPost_:--\n\n\"Haunted or disturbed properties. A lady who has deeply studied this\nsubject and possesses unusual powers will find out the history of the\ntrouble and undertake to remedy it. Houses with persistent bad luck can\noften be freed from the influence. Strictest confidence. Social\nreferences asked and offered.\"\n\nWhat would our grandparents have thought of this means of turning an\nhonest penny? I have no doubt the lady \"possessing the unusual powers\"\nwill be employed, and in many cases she will be successful. In the\nmajority of cases I venture to say that she will fail, simply because\nthe majority of cases are too elusive to be dealt with by human means.\nHow would this lady treat the \"Castel a Mare\" scream? How would she deal\nwith the next story I am going to relate?\n\nIt is a simple matter to compile a book of thrilling ghost stories if\ndirect evidence is not given, if names of persons and places are\nsuppressed.\n\nI claim that my stories have a special interest and value, because I\nhave tried to restrict them to such as can be attested to by living\npersons, closely related to me either by friendship or by family ties.\nIn a very few instances I have been obliged for obvious reasons to\nsuppress the names of houses and hotels. In these cases I am ready\npersonally to supply full information to genuine students of the occult,\nif they are willing to approach me privately.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\nTHE HAUNTED LODGE\n\n\nA considerable number of people are alive who can testify to the truth\nof the facts I now narrate. I regret that I have not been able to\ninvestigate this case personally, but I hope to do so before very long.\n\nIn the spring of 1901, my sister and her husband, Major Stewart, rented\nan old shooting lodge in Argyllshire. The place was charmingly situated,\nthe shooting and fishing excellent, and the scenery around was noted for\nits romantic beauty.\n\nThough the main portion of the house was old, a new wing had been added\nfor the sleeping accommodation of servants, and this arrangement shut\nthem off at night from the ancient part of the dwelling. The original\nkitchen still remained in use.\n\nThe servants had been sent on in advance to prepare the lodge, and when\nMajor and Mrs. Stewart arrived they were at once confronted with the\ninformation that the place bore a very evil reputation. The villagers\nhad not hesitated to prime the maids with all sorts of creepy stories,\neminently calculated to cause their precipitate departure. Luckily for\nthe master and mistress the maids had been with them for some years, and\nwere neither of a timid age nor disposition, so the household settled\ncomfortably down, in those long spring and summer days, which in the\nnorth means practically no darkness.\n\nMy sister had banished the alleged hauntings from her mind, and probably\nthe maids had done likewise, for all was going quietly and well, when\nsuddenly, after a week's residence, there came a rude reminder.\n\nMajor and Mrs. Stewart were both awakened one night by unmistakable\nsounds of very noisy burglars, who appeared to have broken into the\nhouse through the kitchen quarters. The major lit a candle, and looked\nat his watch. It was just on midnight. What puzzled them both was the\nnoise the intruders made. Burglars naturally tread softly and\nstealthily, but these men stamped about in heavy boots, and were engaged\nin throwing about heavy articles. There seemed to be quite a number of\naccomplices involved in the enterprise, and they displayed an amazing\nindifference to detection.\n\nMy sister and her husband decided that events could not be left to take\ntheir course. This matter must be looked into. The major armed himself\nwith a loaded revolver. My sister armed herself with a lighted candle\nand a box of matches, and together they crept softly downstairs on their\nway to the kitchen.\n\nAll this time the noises continued. Stamping of heavy feet, crashing\ndown of heavy weights, but on the way downstairs a first glimmering that\nthe supernatural came into this affair began to dawn upon my sister. She\nbecame aware that an invisible presence was following them.\n\nThe noises continued as they cautiously and silently crept towards the\nkitchen. As they reached the door, suddenly utter silence fell. Inside\nnothing was disarranged. There were no signs of burglars, everything was\nas usual.\n\nConsiderably mystified Major and Mrs. Stewart returned to bed, and were\nnot disturbed again that night.\n\nThe next day, about four o'clock in the afternoon, the same sounds began\nagain. This time the noise was easily located in one of the unused\nbedrooms on the top floor of the house. Heavily shod men were tramping\nabout the floor overhead, throwing down heavy boxes and making a\nconsiderable disturbance.\n\nMajor and Mrs. Stewart ascended on tiptoe, and when outside the closed\ndoor listened intently. There was no mistake this time. Nothing could\nsound more human than the activity going on inside that room. Half a\ndozen men at least were in possession of it, and those men had to be\nconfronted. Luckily they had no means of escape. This time they really\nwould be caught.\n\nAfter a few minutes of silent listening the major, whose hand was on the\nknob, threw open the door and bounded into the room.\n\nInstant silence--nothing--not even the whisk of a defiant rat's tail!\n\nThe husband and wife sat down and stared at one another in utter\nbewilderment. The bright spring daylight seemed to mock them as it\nflooded every chink and cranny.\n\nShortly after this occurrence three guests came to stay, two women and a\nman. They were given bedrooms on the top floor, but the room whence the\ndisturbance had come was left severely alone. The household, with one\naccord, welcomed their advent as a pleasant distraction, and it was\nunanimously agreed that they should be kept in absolute ignorance of\nwhat had taken place.\n\nThe next morning the three guests all had the same story to tell, of\nhaving had no sleep. Heavily booted men kept passing their doors, and\nheavy articles were flung about in adjacent rooms. They had spent a\nnight of terror. No one had possessed sufficient courage to look out\ninto the corridor, along which the men were passing, and they had kept\nlights burning in their rooms till full daybreak. They refused to sleep\nagain upon that floor.\n\nMy sister moved them down to the second floor, on which she herself\nslept, and a thorough investigation of the house, outside and inside,\nwas made. No conclusion was come to.\n\nThe noises continued on the following night, but being overhead, and\nmore distant, they were more endurable.\n\nA second male guest now arrived, and the assembled household waited in\nbreathless interest to see how the ghosts would affect him. Nothing\nwhatever was told to him, and he was lodged in a bedroom immediately\nunderneath the noisy one.\n\nThe next morning, after all had passed a disturbed night, it was found\nthat some of the noises had proceeded from the new guest. He had carried\nsome of his blankets out into the garden and had slept there. He\nremained on, but refused to sleep in the house, and a tent was rigged up\nfor him outside. He stated that the disturbances were too much for his\nnerves, though he had no idea what they were. His behavior, on the first\nnight, in retiring to the garden, was meant as a strong protest against\nsuch treatment of a tired guest. His temper had got the upper hand of\nhim, after fruitless efforts to sleep, and, finally, he had tramped\ndownstairs with an armful of blankets, anticipating many apologies next\nmorning from host and hostess, and a peaceful night to follow.\n\nThe following day a new maid arrived. She slept in the old part of the\nhouse, and shortly afterwards asked my sister if the house was haunted,\nas she had been kept awake by \"heavy people running past her door with\nnaked feet.\"\n\nBy this time it was only the influence of the staid old servants which\nprevented the younger ones from taking flight. My sister and her husband\nwere not alarmed, they were profoundly interested.\n\nThe summer passed on, and there were days and weeks when nothing was\nheard, then quite suddenly the disturbances would begin again. As the\nnoises sounded so very human it was extremely difficult to believe that\nthey really did not proceed from incarnate beings, and my sister told me\nthat time after time, as she listened, she would say to herself, \"Now,\nbeyond a shadow of doubt there are men in that room.\" She would creep\nupstairs, listen for some time with her hand on the door-knob--then\nsuddenly throw it open--to find nothing. She never wearied of trying to\nsurprise those invisible men.\n\nAt times when her husband was away from home, she would spend the entire\nnight in an obstinate attempt to solve the mystery. When she had no\nguests, and the servants were asleep in their new wing, she would awake\nto the noise. Taking her candle she would mount on bare, silent feet to\nthe floor above, and listen at the door, often for half an hour at a\ntime. She had no fear, but intense curiosity. It was easy to trace what\nwas going on in the room. Men were packing, moving heavy boxes, throwing\ndown heavy articles, walking about the floor with ponderous tread. First\nthey would be at one end of the room, then move on to the other.\nSometimes they approached so near the door behind which she stood, that\nshe expected to see it open, and to be confronted by several burly\nruffians. She would rush suddenly in, candle in hand, only to be\nreceived in sudden, utter silence. Not even the scurry of a scared\nmouse. After half an hour of patient waiting within the room, she would\nleave it, close the door, and sit down on the staircase. In a few\nmoments the disturbance was again in full swing.\n\nWere I writing an account of these hauntings for the Psychical Society I\nshould go into the most minute details; suffice it here to say, that\nduring all this time every sort of investigation had been carried out by\npractical men and women, who had personally heard the disturbances, and\nwho were keenly interested in the phenomena.\n\nRats were, of course, the first natural suggestion, but no one put forth\nthis theory after having once, with their own ears, heard the\ndisturbances. No one could advance any rational conclusion. The whole\naffair was baffling in the extreme.\n\nIt would have been simple enough to leave the place and forfeit the\nrent, but my sister and her husband loved the sport and the beauty of\nthe surroundings, and were determined to remain, unless anything worse\ndeveloped. No one ever saw anything unpleasant, or even suggestive of\nthe supernatural, and the whole household had become more or less\nindifferent to the noises. They brought no harm to anybody, and might be\nsafely ignored.\n\nMrs. Stewart had four Pomeranian dogs which did not produce a calming\neffect upon their human companions. They were constantly seeing things,\nbristling and showing every sign of terror. Into the noisy room they\nrefused to go, and they objected to being left a moment alone. They\nslept in my sister's bedroom.\n\nOne night she was alone in the old house. Major Stewart had gone on\nbusiness to Edinburgh, and the servants had retired to bed in their own\nwing. Mrs. Stewart was sitting in the smoking-room, reading an\ninteresting novel by the light of a lamp. A good fire burned, and the\nfour Poms were asleep on the hearth-rug. The door was slightly ajar, and\noutside it ran a short corridor.\n\nSuddenly, at its far end a terrible noise arose. A very different noise\nto anything that had been heard before, and one so blood-curdling that\nMrs. Stewart at last knew the meaning of mortal fear.\n\nTwo men were fighting desperately, swaying and wrestling, and snarling\nfiercely like two tigers locked in deathly combat. She glanced at the\ndogs. They were sitting up, staring with terrified eyes at the door,\ntheir bodies quivering, their little fangs showing. Then--with a\nbound--they were off, tearing for dear life along the corridor towards\nthe stairs.\n\nIt was a situation that demanded considerable nerve. Impossible to sit\nthere alone in the dead of night, and listen to that hideous din, but a\nfew yards from the door. She must follow the dogs as swiftly as she\ndared.\n\nShe took up the lamp and moved stealthily to the door. The corridor was\nin complete darkness, and in that darkness the two men fought\ndesperately, and below their breath they raved, groaned, blasphemed,\nincoherently. One long drawn out babel of breathless discord.\n\nIn an overwhelming rush of terror Mrs. Stewart made a dash for the\nstairs, but while still in the corridor she heard flying feet\napproaching her from the end she was trying to reach. She shrank back\nagainst the wall, the flying feet passed in a wild tempestuous rush, and\nas they did so the lamp was struck violently out of her hand, and she\nwas left in complete darkness.\n\nShe reached her bedroom and locked the door, then she lighted the\ncandles and looked for the dogs. She found them huddled together in\nabject terror under her bed.\n\nThe next day my sister called upon the lady who owned the place, and\nrecounting her experiences asked to be told the origin of the hauntings.\nShe was told the following story:--\n\nMany years previously a farmer, who was a widower, lived in the lodge\nwith an only son, who was grown up. The old farmer married again, a\npretty young girl, and the son fell in love with his stepmother. A\nquarrel ensued, and a desperate conflict, in which the father stabbed\nhis son to death.\n\nThe Stewarts did not leave the haunted lodge till some long time after\nthe events I have narrated; in fact, my sister inhabited it after her\nhusband died, during a stay in the South of England.\n\nIt is difficult to form any conjecture as to the actual cause of the\ndisturbances. How do ghosts contrive to make such a noise? The common\nanswer would be, \"They were astral noises heard clairaudiently.\" But was\nevery one in the house clairaudient? It is possible, but most unlikely.\nWhen the noises began every one under that roof heard them, and\ncontinued to hear them till they ceased.\n\nThe lodge is still to let, so perhaps the mystery may yet be unraveled.\nWill a member of the Psychical Society not try his luck? The rent is\nlow, the sport, of more than one kind, is excellent.\n\nIn the course of time my widowed sister married again, and her second\nhusband has given me a curious and gruesome story of an experience which\ncame to him whilst he was still a bachelor. I will give it in his own\nwords:--\n\n\"About fourteen years ago I retired from the London Stock Exchange, and\nowing to ill health I was advised by my doctor to take a long sea\nvoyage. This advice I followed, and much benefited by rest and sea air I\nreturned to London, after an absence of nine months.\n\n\"Always having lived an active life I could not contemplate settling\ndown in utter idleness, and I consulted my solicitor on the subject of\nwork.\n\n\"He told me that a client of his had just bought a flourishing and\nwell-known mill in North Wales. He proposed to run it for a time alone,\nand then turn it into a company or syndicate, as he had not sufficient\ncapital of his own to ensure its ultimate success. In due time, my\nsolicitor gave me a letter of introduction to this man, and I went to\nstay at his house close to the mill, which he had just bought.\n\n\"It was a rambling old place, which in the good old days had been a\ncoaching inn. Owing to bad management the landlord had failed, and for\nmany years it had stood empty and 'to let.' It was a queer idea, I\nthought, to turn a coaching inn into a private residence, more\nespecially as I soon heard that it had a very evil reputation.\n\n\"Though I made many inquiries in the neighborhood I could never get\nanything more definite than that there was some evil influence in the\nhouse. Every one who lived in it came to a bad or violent end. I\nconcluded that its proximity to his work caused the mill owner to\npurchase it, and I thought no more of the matter.\n\n\"If I was favorably impressed, my intention was to put a certain amount\nof capital into the concern and learn the trade, but after staying for a\nfew days with the mill owner, I came to the conclusion that I would have\nnothing to do with so odd a person.\n\n\"He was of medium height and very thin, with rather straggling hair\nturning gray, and a sallow, hollow-cheeked face. He had a curious habit\nof glancing suddenly behind him, as if some one had just tapped him on\nthe shoulder, and several other little traits bespoke an extreme\nnervousness of disposition.\n\n\"One night I entered a room where he happened to be, and discovered him\nstaring at himself in a mirror. I suppose I exhibited some surprise, for\nhe wheeled round on me and cried, 'Well! how do you think I am looking?'\n\n\"Had I answered truthfully I should have said, 'Stark, staring mad.' His\nface was ghastly pale, and his eyes were blazing. I made some careless\nreply, and shortly afterwards left the house to play a game of billiards\nwith some acquaintances I had made. There I was given some interesting\ninformation. The mill owner was a declared bankrupt.\n\n\"I returned to the house at ten o'clock, and at once retired to bed,\nwithout again seeing my unfortunate host.\n\n\"The next morning I was awakened at half-past seven by my hostess\nknocking at my door, and inquiring if I had seen anything of her\nhusband. I replied that I had seen nothing of him, but if she was\nanxious I would dress quickly and have a look round for him. This offer\nshe accepted with gratitude. The station was not far distant, and she\nsuggested that he might have taken the train to Manchester. Would I go\nand make inquiries?\n\n\"I was soon on the way, and interviewed a porter, who informed me he had\nseen the mill owner about an hour ago, not on the platform, but staring\nat the rails. The man had watched him, thinking his behavior suspicious,\nand remembering the evil reputation of his dwelling, but after a while\nhe had turned away, and was last seen walking rapidly off in the\ndirection of his own home.\n\n\"I went back and reported what I had heard, and the very anxious wife\nsuggested that I should snatch a hasty breakfast and then make inquiries\nat a farm a mile off, which was also their property. This I readily\nconsented to do. I was extremely sorry for the poor woman, and though\nshe did not make a confidant of me, I could see she was consumed with\nanxiety.\n\n\"My errand was quite fruitless, nothing was known of the master, no one\nhad seen him, and back I went to the mill house, feeling by this time\nthat probably the wife had every cause for her anxiety.\n\n\"I saw nothing of her when I entered. I looked into every room on the\nground floor, and was just going to ring for a servant, when I fancied I\nheard a faint cry.\n\n\"I went out into the hall and listened intently. The voice was calling\nfrom somewhere below the ground, and I thought at once of the huge\ncellars I had been shown, where once the good old ale had been brewed\nand stored. I ran to the door which led to the cellars; it was open, and\nthen I clearly heard a woman's voice crying, 'Oh! bring a knife! bring\na knife quickly!'\n\n\"I darted back into the dining-room and caught up the first knife I\ncould find, a ham carver, then hastened to the door and began descending\nthe dark stairs.\n\n\"The cellars were fairly well lighted by two grated windows, and a\nhorrible sight met my eyes. There stood the wife, bending under the\nweight of her husband, who was suspended by a rope round his neck from\nthe great beam overhead. One glance at the hideously distorted face, the\nglazed eyes protruding from their sockets, the gaping mouth and swollen\ntongue, told me the worst.\n\n\"Hastily I severed the rope, and the wife and her dead husband sank to\nthe ground together.\n\n\"There was little to be done. We laid the corpse flat on the stone\nfloor, and I persuaded her to leave it and come upstairs with me, and\nwait for the arrival of the doctor and police. This she consented to do.\nShe was very quiet and composed, a curious apathy of indifference\npossessed her, and I would far rather have seen her in floods of natural\ntears.\n\n\"By evening the house had fallen into a dead silence. The doctor had\npronounced life to be extinct, and the corpse had been carried up to an\nunused bedroom immediately over the smoking-room. The police found that\nthe mill owner had committed suicide by hanging. He had jumped off a\nstone slab, after having adjusted the rope to the beam and his own\nthroat. With the exception of an old nurse who was devoted to her\nmistress, the servants all departed in a body, and the house was left\nbrooding under a weight of intolerable depression.\n\n\"I did not blame the servants. As a matter of fact, there was nothing I\nwould have liked better than to quit the mill house there and then, and\nnever set foot in it again, but I had the desolate widow to consider. I\ncould not leave her alone, whilst there was still the smallest\npossibility of my being of use. Added to this I had the queerest feeling\nthat she required protection, though from what I would have been at a\nloss to say.\n\n\"Another feeling, which I combated violently, was a sensation of being\nmocked and jeered at by some unseen entity. I was being urged to get out\nof the house, to recognize my own impotence, to mind my own business,\nand when I metaphorically replied, 'Get thee behind me, Satan,' I could\nhave sworn I heard a sly laugh.\n\n\"Of course I told myself all this was but the result of a shock to the\nnerves, and I was not going to pay any attention to it, so despite my\nintense longing to run out of the house I settled down with the daily\npaper, a cigarette, and a novel in the smoking-room, and resolutely\nturned my thoughts away from the tragedy.\n\n\"The widow, and her old nurse, who had promised me not to leave her\nmistress for a moment, had retired together for the night, so I felt\nsatisfied, so far as they were concerned.\n\n\"I suppose I must have dozed off, for I was suddenly roused broad awake\nby footsteps overhead, in the room where the corpse lay. I sat up\nstraight and listened intently. Were my nerves playing tricks with me?\nNo; certainly not. There was no mistaking that sound for hallucination.\nIt was perfectly clear and distinct. A man was walking about overhead,\nand the only man save myself within these walls had hanged himself by\nthe neck until he was dead. There it was--the sound. A man's footsteps\npacing slowly up and down the floor of the bedroom above, from end to\nend, backwards and forwards.\n\n\"I considered what I had better do. I was sure the widow and the old\nnurse were in the bedroom, quite at the other end of the house. Probably\nthey were both asleep. I hoped so. What had I better do--nothing? Yet\nthis inaction irked me. My curiosity was intense. The supernatural had\nnever occupied much of my thoughts, but now it began to do so. Those\nsteps must proceed from the supernatural. There was no other\nexplanation. I was the only live man in the house.\n\n\"At last I could stand it no longer. I jumped up and proceeded upstairs.\nThe lights had been left to me to extinguish; they were still on, and I\nsaw at once that the door of the bedroom was open.\n\n\"I entered the room, lit the gas and searched every corner. No living\nthing was present. The dead man lay in rigid lines beneath a sheet. I\nleft the room again in darkness, and carefully closing the door I went\nsoftly along to the widow's room, and knocked very gently.\n\n\"The old nurse came to the door. She told me her mistress was asleep,\nand that the doctor had given her a sleeping draught. Neither of them\nhad left the room since they entered it to go to bed, more than an hour\nago.\n\n\"I went downstairs again and took up the newspaper, but almost\nimmediately the footsteps began once more overhead, in the room where\nthe dead man lay.\n\n\"The sound was soft and stealthy at first, then it grew louder. The same\nfootsteps moving about the floor, up and down, up and down. I am not\nashamed to say that I felt a cold sweat break out all over me. I could\nnot stand that sound any longer. I made up my mind to go to bed.\n\n\"I removed my shoes and turned out the light. As I did so I could have\nsworn I heard a sly, low laugh behind me. I crept upstairs. The door of\nthat horrible room was again open. With a shaking hand I closed it, and\nhurried to my bedroom, locking the door at once.\n\n\"The next day I told my experiences to one of the acquaintances I had\nmade, and he volunteered to come in and keep me company until the\nfuneral was over. I gladly accepted his offer. I did not hear the\nfootsteps again. I conclude because the widow was sitting with us on the\nfollowing nights, and the ghost had no desire to terrify her.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\nAURAS\n\n\nI was born with the power to see auras, and I had attained to quite a\ngrown-up age before I discovered that every one could not see them.\n\nWhat is an aura? You will see them glittering round the heads of saints,\nand of The Christ in church windows. You will see them painted round the\nhead of the Blessed Virgin, round the head of the Infant she holds, but,\nindeed, auras are the property of all, however humble and lowly. Nothing\nthat has life, be the spark ever so faint, is without its astral\ncounterpart, its tenuous surrounding atmosphere. Science has\ndemonstrated this. Auras have now been photographed.\n\nHabitual seeing of human auras has made me no more or less observant of\nthem than I am of the human face. If I am asked by any one to say what\nher aura looks like, I do so to the best of my ability, but at that\ncomplacent moment it is a very tame affair, much like the aura that any\none may see surrounding a lighted candle. A medley of prismatic hues, no\ncolor predominating.\n\nWhere auras become really interesting is in a room full of people. I\nlook down to the far end of the room where a group is seated talking. I\ncannot hear what they are saying, but I can tell at once whether the\nconversation is harmonious or otherwise.\n\nOften there will be one member of the group whose aura is very\ndisturbed. It will emit flashes of brilliant red as he talks vehemently.\nThe aura of the man he is addressing has turned a sulky, leaden gray.\n\nA woman who is sitting listening has an aura of intense boredom. The\ncolors are all there, but they have become faded, and the extreme tips\ndroop dejectedly, like so many wilted blades of grass.\n\nThe biggest aura I ever saw was that of the late Mr. Sexton, a great\norator whom I once heard in the House of Commons. Some people have mean,\ntight little auras, others have great spreading haloes of brilliant\nlight. I met with a very unusual aura quite lately.\n\nA young woman, Miss L., came to tea with me, a charming, cultured woman,\nwhose profession it is to keep a large girls' school. She is much\ninterested in occult matters, and we \"got upon\" the subject of a rather\nwonderful case of spiritualism of which she knows the details--the\nmedium being a young girl whom I will call \"Elsie.\"\n\nWhilst I was talking to Miss L. I could not help observing something\nvery peculiar in her aura; it was all lopsided. In place of being a\ncomplete circle around her head, it had a huge bulge out to the left. I\nhad never before seen an aura like that, and it interested me greatly.\n\nJust before leaving she mentioned auras, and asked me what hers was\nlike.\n\nI told her honestly that it was peculiar, lopsided, and bulging on one\nside.\n\nShe laughed and said she knew that, because \"Elsie\" always chaffed her\nabout it, saying, \"You wear your halo all awry.\" This was very\ninteresting confirmation of my power to see auras correctly. I don't\nknow \"Elsie,\" I don't even know her name, which has been kept a secret,\nbut we evidently see Miss L.'s aura in exactly the same peculiar form.\n\nThe other day I was sitting reading by the window, and as I moved in my\nchair I caught sight, \"with the tail of my eye,\" of something bright at\nthe other end of the room. A patch of light about a foot deep, and two\nfeet long was coming from behind the edge of a tall screen that hid a\ndoor. I rose and walked out of the room. Behind the screen was a maid,\nwhom I had not heard enter the open door. She was busy over some quiet\nwork, and it was her aura that I had seen, though she herself was hidden\nfrom view.\n\nOnce before in my life my attention has been drawn to the aura of one\nwhom I could not at the moment see in the flesh.\n\nI happened to be passing a glove shop in the south of France, and as I\nstrolled slowly past the door a blaze of yellow gold inside the shop\ncaught my eye, and attracted my attention. I paused at once and looked\nthrough the open door. This great golden aura belonged to the Empress\nElizabeth of Austria, who was standing at the counter. Her back was\nturned towards me, and I stood for a minute watching this aura of a\nwoman whose restless imagination, and passionate love for the bitter\nwine of liberty, brought her finally to an absolutely fitting death. I\nbelieve she would have chosen this death before all others, for at heart\nshe was a born anarchist. She fell painlessly by the dagger of\nanarchism.\n\nOne effect of being able to see auras is that they fix certain incidents\nfirmly in the mind. I remember one such incident very clearly. I was\nstaying at Hawarden with the Gladstones whilst the Irish troubles of\n'82 were at their height. One afternoon we were all assembled on the\nlawn having tea; Mr. Gladstone was standing rather apart, his hands full\nof papers, which had just been brought to him. I saw him unfold what\nlooked like a large poster, glance at it, then suddenly he dashed it to\nthe ground and stamped viciously upon it. I heard him give vent to some\nexclamations of intense anger, but had I heard nothing I could not have\nfailed to know he was desperately annoyed over something, for he was\nsuddenly wrapped in a brilliant crimson cloud, through which sharp\nflashes like lightning darted hither and thither. He was \"seeing red.\"\n\nI remember Mrs. Gladstone murmuring something about \"posters being torn\ndown in Ireland,\" but I was too thrilled over her husband's aura to pay\nmuch heed to what she said. I shall never forget that scene, and the\npractical disappearance of Mr. Gladstone in the enveloping folds of a\ngreat red cloud. In a minute or two he emerged, and resumed his habitual\naura, which extended to about two and a half feet beyond his head, and\nwas largely tinged with purple.\n\nAt Hawarden Church on Sunday, whilst he read the lessons, I watched his\naura with much interest, because it changed so continuously, and I\ndiscovered that this change arose out of his absorption in what he read.\nOnly one little example can I remember to illustrate what I mean. \"And\nthe heart of Pharaoh was hardened and he would not let the people go.\"\n\nIn reading those words aloud Mr. Gladstone's aura deepened to red, and I\nsaw he was very indignant with Pharaoh's behavior. During the sermon he\nsat facing us in our pew, and in a chair just beneath the pulpit, and I\ncould tell by watching his aura just how he felt about the discourse.\n\nLater on, just after the tragic murders by the Fenians in Phoenix Park\nof Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr. Bourke, I received a note from Mrs.\nGladstone, asking me to go to breakfast with them in their London house\nin Buckingham Gate. When I arrived the first person I saw was Lady\nFrederick Cavendish, calm and composed, and bearing her loss with quiet\nstoicism, but the atmosphere of the house was very different from that\nof Hawarden. A gloom was over all, and for the first time I noticed that\nMr. Gladstone's aura was depressed and tired. Its vigorous vibrations\nhad considerably slowed down, like a jet of flame that had been turned\nlow, and the extremities drooped dejectedly.\n\nThough crimson red is the color of anger, there is a beautiful soft rose\nwhich is the color of love. The \"green-eyed monster\" of jealousy history\nhas handed down to us from the ancient seers, also the \"jaundiced\"\nappearance of envy. A gloomy, grumbling person has a very leaden gray\natmosphere, and one who has \"a fit of the blues\" shows he is \"off color\"\nin his dull, muddy blue aura. But there is a beautiful sky-blue to be\nseen in the auras of many artists and scientists. Very material, earthly\npeople have generally a deep, dull orange tinge in their astral\nenvelope, and there is a glorious golden yellow surrounding the heads of\nthe spiritually joyful and highly intellectual. Purple is the color of\npower, greatness. Children have an aura of crystal whiteness, which\ndevelops color after the age of seven.\n\nI remember the aura of Frederic Myers very well. A large and intensely\nspiritual halo. He is the only man I can remember in those days--about\n'92-'96--as having an aura within an aura, though this phenomenon is now\nbecoming more marked. \"A rainbow was about his head,\" those words\nexplain exactly what I mean. About a foot above his head circled a pure\nrainbow, and this beautiful decoration looked as if it were superimposed\nupon the original aura, which streamed out far above it. I have only as\nyet, in these later years, seen this rainbow above the heads of two\npeople: one alive, Miss Maud Roydon, one alas! gone west--the\nincomparable Elsie Inglis. I conclude it means a degree of\nself-sacrificing spirituality, which as yet has been attained to by very\nfew. Indeed, I would venture further, and assert that it stands for a\ncertain initiation conferred upon \"the beloved\" by the Masters of\nWisdom.\n\nKing Edward was blessed by a very fine aura of constantly changing\ncolors. I remember once noticing this in the most unspiritual of\nenvironments, and whilst the King was still Prince of Wales.\n\nWe were on Newmarket Heath, and His Majesty came up to me and said, \"I\nhear you are married.\" After a few minutes of friendly conversation,\nwhich had taken an amusingly domestic turn, he said to me, \"Now, how\nmuch has your husband got a year?\"\n\nThere was nothing in the question but the most friendly interest; still,\nit will naturally seem strange that he should have possessed the\nfaintest curiosity as to the financial situation of so humble a member\nof his people.\n\nWhilst he put the question, and waited for the answer, his whole aura\nand atmosphere deepened and intensified. He was actually interested in\nmy answer, and this I have always believed was the fundamental reason\nof his great popularity. The power he possessed of throwing himself\nheart and soul into the trivial, as into the great things of life. He\nwas intensely human, with a genuine fund of sympathy for the ordinary\naffairs of life. He liked to know the domestic conditions of those whom\nhe honored with his friendship, and the first time I ever spoke to him,\nat a dance given by the Rothschilds in Piccadilly, I saw at once that\nthe natural human simplicities of life absorbed him absolutely whilst\nunder discussion. Though a man who would not tolerate a liberty, the\neasiest way to get on with him when alone, was to confide in him any\npersonal difficulty, and to forget who he was, always providing that one\nhad the good breeding to remember instantly that he was the king when\nspeaking to him in public.\n\nThe most occult day (to use the popular expression) I ever spent was the\n26th June, 1902, the day of the postponed Coronation. I shall never\nforget that warm summer day of stupendous gloom, and oppressive\ndarkness. There was something more than meteorology in that leaden pall\nthat hid the skies, and enveloped the whole of London. Even the densest\nmaterialists were uneasy, startled and inquiring, for putting aside that\nmighty aura of sorrow and gloom rising up to heaven from the hearts of\nmillions, there was, as it were, the response of heaven herself. That\ndark and mournful response Nature assumed, when wrapping herself in a\nshroud of leaden darkness she brooded over the city, like the pall of\ndeath itself. That day the mystic walked in a dream, enmeshed in the\nwarp of great occult happenings being woven out in the loom of Karmic\nfatality. It was impossible to settle down to doing anything. One just\n\"sat about,\" living every moment intensely.\n\nOnce, when presenting a girl at Court, during the present reign, I\nnoticed what a very striking aura John Burns possesses. This girl\nnaturally wished to see all she could, so we went to the Palace very\nearly, and found a seat in the Throne Room, close to where the King and\nQueen would sit later on. In a short time celebrities began to stroll\ninto the royal circles, divided from us by a cord. First came the\npresent Lord Grey of Falloden, and then came Mr. John Burns, resplendent\nin dark blue knee breeches and gold-embroidered coat. He moved about\nquite familiarly inside the holy of holies, speaking first to one, then\nanother of the gathering little crowd. Being so close to him I observed\nhim with unusual interest. His aura is very large, and what I can only\ndescribe as massive, and already it was tinged by the gray veil of\ndisappointment. I have seen him several times since, and the veil has\nbecome more opaque. What interested me so profoundly in him that night\nwere the contrasts I knew to exist in his life, and which must have\nprofoundly influenced his outlook on human existence.\n\nOne afternoon I was walking alone up Piccadilly. There had been rumors\nof coming riots, but no one in the West End gave any credence to such\nsilly stories, and the streets were full of the usual gay throng, intent\non amusement.\n\nSuddenly, as I walked along, a youth on a bicycle dashed past the\npavement, shouting something I could not catch. More men on bicycles\nfollowed. The promenaders began to \"sit up and take notice.\" Carriage\nhorses were being smartly whipped up, and women began to scurry\nnervously.\n\nThen it seemed to me I could hear something above the roar of the\nordinary traffic, a hoarse prolonged shout. Servants now appeared on\ndoorsteps, and looked about anxiously for non-existent policemen, others\nbegan closing outside shutters before windows. Just as I reached the\nNaval and Military Club I saw that the servants had come out, and were\nabout to close both great gates--\"In\" and \"Out.\" One of these men\npointed up the street and advised me at once to seek cover, and I saw in\nthe dim distance what looked like a mighty crowd advancing.\n\nIn a second I had darted through the gates, and was safely inside before\nthey closed upon the approaching mob.\n\nI have only a very confused memory of what happened after. Of kindly\nattentions from the members. Of women's shrieks as their carriages were\nstopped, and their valuables taken from them. Of the deafening roar of\nfurious male voices, crashings of glass windows, howls of savage\nexultation, as a hosier's shop close by fell victim to the rioters, the\nclatter of hoofs from terrified horses. I could see nothing, but the\nbattering upon the club gates added tenfold to the terrifying din. The\nmembers withdrew, taking me with them, to the house, and prepared to\nhold it against the furious mob, should the gates give way.\n\nSuch wild moments are not easily forgotten, and why I looked upon John\nBurns that night at Court with such a peculiar interest was because he\nled that riot, and suffered imprisonment for so doing.\n\nLooking upon him in Court dress, in the royal enclosure, on intimate\nterms with the great of the world, though perhaps not the great of the\nearth, knowing him to hold high office in the government, I marked the\nchange. Then throwing back my mind to those poignant hours in the past,\nwhich he had created, I felt that nothing is too extraordinary to belong\nto the careers of some men; they live through several lives in one.\nTheir Karma is so crowded with stirring events, in the working out of\nthe past, in the makings of the future, that nothing human can be any\nlonger strange to them. The auras of such men are naturally great,\nbecause such contrasts of light and shade only come in the lives of men\npossessed of great and lofty ideals.\n\nFor some years little has been heard of the former idol of Battersea. He\nis facing west now, though a ray or two of dawning light may still touch\nhim in the near future. That wild idealism which comes to men who keep\ntheir eyes fixed upon a dawn so long in coming, fades out behind the\nveil of disillusion, as the days come not, and the years draw nigh with\nno pleasure in them. Man's ingratitude to man is one of the cruelest\ntests imposed upon the soul of idealism. The soul that can bear it\nwithout a tinge of cynicism has risen to mighty heights.\n\nSuch grandeur of soul was possessed by Elsie Inglis. So impregnated was\nshe with pure love of humanity, that when her own country virtually\nturned its back upon her, this irreparable disgrace, brought upon\nthemselves by her own people, cast no shadow upon her soul. In the years\nbefore the war I often noted her lovely aura as I sat amongst an\naudience, and watched her on a platform fighting woman's battle.\n\nAfter the war broke out I only saw her once, by the merest chance. It\nwas then I marked that a rainbow was now about her head, and I knew at\nonce that tremendous events were in store for her, though the British\nGovernment had refused her services. Ah! the poor little cramped mind of\nEngland's officialism! yet has not this very poverty of imagination,\nthis iron-bound worship of worn-out tradition, brought to birth an\ninternationalism which could never have been ours without it? It drove\nforth hundreds, thousands of ardent souls, to other lands. Rejected by\ntheir own, they clasped the pierced hands of strangers, and laid down\ntheir own incomparably gallant lives at the foot of a cross, whereon\nhung those who had at length become their brothers through a commune of\nagony.\n\nElsie Inglis received no honor or decoration from the people, or the\n\"Great of England.\" Only the body, worn very thin in the service of\nhumanity, was at last honored in death. Knowing the woman, and the stuff\nshe was made of, one can only feel intensely this was all as it should\nhave been. To offer Elsie Inglis a medal would have been a sacrilege.\n\"Hands off such souls as hers,\" is the cry one's every instinct rings\nforth to the \"bauble worshipers\" of this world. Besides, and this is a\nvery great besides, those who go with a rainbow about their heads are\nnot destined for earthly honors. They have taken the great step, they\nhave received the great Initiation, a jewel in the blazing crown of\neternity, and for them no more are the laurel wreaths that perish. In\njustice to those throned on high on earth, the above should be\nremembered. If it is with Elsie Inglis, as I fully believe, she would\nhave understood that for her God and Mammon were eternally divorced,\nand any attempt at worldly recognition would have been frustrated by\n\"The Lords of Eternal Light and Wisdom,\" whose chosen disciple she had\nbecome.\n\nThe psychology of the people is a very interesting and curious study, to\nthe aura seer. The analysis of the collective mind awaits some great\nwriter who will give us a book of absorbing interest. Those who can see\nauras have a great advantage, if they are public speakers. During the\nperiod of my life, when I had a great deal of political platform work, I\nwas always very sensitive to my audiences, because I could see how they\nwere taking my remarks. I have always found big audiences of the people\nvery colorless in the main. Flashes of bright color would be apparent\nall over the hall, but there was no sustained glow. Whilst sitting on\nsome one else's platform, often that of a great orator, I have marked\nexactly the same phenomenon. The soul of the people is still young and\nchildlike. It has the indifference of extreme youth, the forgetfulness\nand ingratitude of extreme youth.\n\nI look back upon the fall of Parnell and Dilke, great minds whose\nearthly careers were destroyed by the people. All the world knows why.\nTo-day I look on the \"perpetrators\" of the Gallipoli and Mesopotamia\ntragedies, and I see they have all gone up higher in the esteem of the\npeople. They have risen in the world, and are looked upon as ripe for\neven higher office. The poor human brain reels before such anomalies. I\nwas in London when the Gallipoli reports were given to the public. They\nshook me to the very foundation of my being. I think they were given out\ntowards the end of the week, because I remember saying to myself, \"on\nSunday morning the British working man and woman will read all this\nabomination of desolation and crime in their Sunday paper.\"\n\nPurposely I strolled about the London parks in the lovely afternoon of\nthat Sunday. Crowds were there, reading, courting, sleeping. I went home\nrealizing that no one cared. The collective aura of the people was as\nserene and indifferent as ever.\n\nI have come to think more kindly of our people's pathetic indifference,\nbecause I am sure it is the indifference of very young souls, who have\npassed through but few incarnations, and \"know not what they do.\" I see\nthem exploited by the politicians, given a rag doll to amuse themselves\nwith, anything will do, from the big loaf to the \"Kayzer,\" and sent to\nthe polls hugging their golliwog, but I doubt the returning troops being\nso easily amused and deluded.\n\nThe state of the Universe is the expression of man's desire, and man is\nreally the builder of his own body, that \"house not made with hands,\"\nthough in his youthful ignorance he attributes both to an over-ruling\nintelligence, whom he alternately blesses and curses. When men learn\nthat they must work with, and not against the mental laws, they will no\nlonger ask why God permits the world to be so full of misery. They will\ncease to erect a scapegoat, because they will have learned that they are\nthe makers of their own misery or happiness.\n\nMany people seem to think that the power to see auras must be very\nuseful in helping one to distinguish between friends and foes, but such\nis not really the case. Auras exemplify individual character, not\nindividual predilections, and some of my friends being very bad\ncharacters, indeed, have shocking auras. I had one great friend who, at\nthe beginning of our acquaintance, spent much of his time in prison,\nwhich was really a blessing for his ill-used wife. His aura was\nliterally in tatters, just a little irregular circle of rags and\npatches.\n\nI had just succeeded in making him sober, by insisting constantly and\nmost seriously that he was \"a cut above the public-house,\" and much too\nsuperior a man to mix with such degraded companions, when the war broke\nout. He went to the front, and on his first return to Blighty, badly\ngassed, he came at once to see me. I really felt a sort of personal\npride in him, and an actual sense of personal possession in his\nenormously grown aura. It was clear evidence of his sprouting soul. He\nwent back to France, but was wounded and again gassed, and this time his\nreturn was final, as he was of no further use.\n\nFor a few months he did odd jobs with great difficulty, then, finally,\nhe succumbed to pneumonia. I was very proud indeed of his aura as I sat\nbeside his bed, his hand in mine. There was real love in my heart for\nhim that day. Here, indeed, was an infant soul that had begun to develop\non the right road, and the tattered aura of rags and patches had become\na neatly trimmed little halo round his poor tired head.\n\nSo he went west, and his broken body, wrapped in the British flag, went\nto a soldier's grave, and a firing party gave him the Last Post.\n\nHis wife returned home to find that her neighbors, anxious to celebrate\nthe occasion, had brought their best china and had arranged a tea-party.\nAs we sat down, she turned to me and said:\n\n\"Well, thank God, my man's been buried like a gentleman.\"\n\nWhen I came to think it over I arrived at the conclusion that \"the worst\ncharacter in the slums\" had not done so badly with his life, after all.\nHe had died like a gentleman. The British Flag is a strange case of\ntransubstantiation. At first, just so many pieces of common material\nsold across a counter. Fashioned into the emblem of our Nation it\nbecomes a sacred symbol, taken kneeling like a sacrament, which indeed\nit has become. What better shroud could any man ask for?\n\nI am sorry that I have had no opportunity of seeing President Wilson's\naura, the man who has turned his face towards a heavenly ideal, and is\nscattering the seed amongst all the nations. When a man sets out on such\na long radiant path, he will carry visibly in the daylight an\nilluminated brow. He has brought to us the vision without which the\npeople perish.\n\nThe life of the heart has always meant much more to me than the life of\nthe head. The rebel by nature can only be held by love, and I have been\nblest by twenty-eight years of perfect union with one who has given me\nlove for love, faith for faith, and complete intellectual understanding.\nMy life has also been wonderfully gifted by staunchest friends, who have\nloved me through sunshine and storm, and who still clasp hands with me\nacross continents and seas.\n\nI suppose I must have enemies. They say every one has, but they have\nnever made me aware of their enmity, perhaps because there is no room in\na very full heart to receive aught but love. If I were to single apart\none outstanding feature in my life, it would be the wonderful kindness\nand friendship that has been given to me. Ah! how easy that makes it to\nwrite lovingly of others.\n\nBehind all this lies the master passion of the born mystic for\nliberation. The constant ache and urge for real freedom, and power to be\nvictorious over all circumstances. At home in all scenes, restful in all\nfortunes. There is the urge of the soul for universality of contact with\nall humanity, independent of race, color or creed. The urge of the\nspirit to smash the confines which pinion it down to earth.\n\nI think it is really the urge of reincarnating life still clinging to\nme. The knowledge that my immortal soul must return to the House of\nBondage, until perfection is reached, and there is the going out no more\nfrom the Father's House, from a freedom which has become supreme.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\nADIEU\n\n\nTo-day there are many, an ever-swelling number, who behold with joy the\ngates ajar, who standing in the twilight catch momentary glimpses of\ndawn upon the horizon of time, who know by personal experience that they\nhave come into touch with a region where vast schemes are conceived, and\nuniversal laws of boundless magnitude connected with the soul's eternal\npilgrimage are carried out.\n\nAgain, there are others, timid, shrinking souls to whom, by a mere\nchance combination of circumstances, a glimpse has been shown which is\nnone too welcome. Such affrighted ones drop the eyelids from the\nstartling vision. They will have none of it, and they are free to accept\nor reject, go on, or stand still.\n\nOthers, again, have actually been born with that super-normal sight\nwhich can discern the workings behind the drop scene shrouding the\nstupendous drama of cosmic government.\n\nI have long been conscious that the veil has worn very thin between\nmyself and another world lying around me. As the years draw swiftly on,\nand every second thrown back into eternity brings me nearer to blessed\ndeliverance I find the rents in the veil grow more numerous. They bring\nsingle shining moments, which reveal the spirit of life, its motives and\nconsecration.\n\nThrough the driving storm wrack there will come quite suddenly a\nbrilliant heavenly glimpse. It never lasts long, but long enough to show\nme reality. Something of the vastness of cosmos and the pathetic\nminuteness of this earth, just a speck of star dust in the palm of God,\nan atom of world stuff swinging in boundless space.\n\nSomething of the reality of those shining ones who guide the progression\nof natural order, embodiments of resistless energy and of stateliest\nimperial mien.\n\nGlimpses that show to me what was in the mind of the great Christian\nMystic when he wrote of a mighty angel: \"A rainbow was upon his head,\nand his face was as it were the sun, and his feet as pillars of fire.\"\n\nBehind such visions extend vast ranges of being, quite outside my ken,\nyet, nevertheless, speaking to me of things, for the expression of which\nno words have yet been coined. Infinitely greater than anything that can\nbe said. Significant in meaning beyond expression, and far transcending\nimagination.\n\nSuch glimpses show to me lives that as compared with ours, are as ours\nto the tiniest insect afloat for an hour on the breath of the south\nwind. Lives which ordain the fateful hour when the rise and fall of\nempires, the destruction of nations, and the clash of worlds, and their\ncosmic significance in world history shall begin or end. Where things\nlife promised but never gave come to full fruition.\n\nOther glimpses and echoes from the Great Beyond bring to me the answer\nto a problem, a few notes and a new melody, a new energy of hope and\nlove, an inspiration from the Great Brotherhood, whose lowliest\ndisciple I am, whose work to establish the Brotherhood, the true\naffinity of humanity upon earth I hold most dear, most high.\n\nIn the present dark hour all the world is drinking of one chalice, its\nwine the life outpoured for others. All humanity is partaking of one\nbread, a body which has most truly and literally being given to be\nbroken. Death has left many songs unsung, a myriad graves are filled,\nyouth is blighted in the bud, in this white winter men call death, and\nits cup is pressed close to the lips of love. Many are the hopes that\nlie folded away in the quiet cemetery of the heart, where we lay flowers\nof tender reminiscence. Yet, this sacrament of fellowship which is\neclipsed in the awful impoverishment of human life will one day be\nswelled by the return of the young, fallen on the Field of Honor,\nglorified and purified for their God-appointed work in evolution.\n\nPerhaps I have gone a few steps farther than most people into the\nmysterious beyond, come nearer reading the great riddle, for the\ncreature who is not afraid of thought and worldly condemnation, who is\nnot afraid of solitude or ridicule, will soon come near the truth, will\nquickly catch the incommunicable thrill of advancing destinies. She will\ncease to live under the despotism of days, the tyranny of years. She\nwill know that the swiftest touch cannot put a finger on the present,\nand that there is but one recorder of time, the great star clock of the\nsky.\n\nThe symbol of life is the Circle, not the Straight line, and each of us\nlives over again the story of humanity, as in the shadow of pre-natal\ngloom we repeat the physical evolution of the race. The increase of\nknowledge but widens the horizon of the unknown promised land, to which\nwe are moving onward and upward throughout the ages.\n\nHowever far the mind travels there is always deep down in the soul\nstores of information awaiting transference to the surface of\nconsciousness. Rich mines of knowledge are there awaiting the day when\nthey will be uncovered, waiting in patience the day when some Divine\nAdventurer will search for them and bring them to light.\n\nHowever great its aspirations the soul but looks out upon an illimitable\nhorizon, and sees the human pilgrimage as a long Emmaeus walk, with\nhearts burning by the way. Always must there be mystery in life, because\nlife is spiritual, not material. The presence of mystery in life is the\npresence of God, and the infinity of God shows that mystery must always\nexist.\n\nSuch glimpses beyond the veil are all transfiguring. They exalt the\nheart in a single flash to a glow point, and show the soul of the\nUniverse in the incandescent crucible of the eternal. In a deeply\nbeshadowed time such visions tell us all that we need know, and it is\nthis: God is with us and in us. Though obscure for the moment His\ntranscendence stands outside the change and flux of time, and His awful\nsovereignty sways irresistibly the tides of human circumstances.\n\nHours must come when the pen falls from the nerveless fingers, the task\nis left undone, when the weary cry goes up, \"There is nothing we can\ndo!\" We have been doing for so many thousand years, the years which the\nlocusts hath eaten. What have we achieved?\n\nWhen such hours come, as come they must, is there nothing to fall back\nupon but this awful confession of failure, this haunting undertone of\nall our mortal life that many ages have not hushed?\n\nSurely, yes! There is always for the mystic the unmeasured immensity of\nsoul land to explore, that Great Beyond and within which is infinite,\neternal, and of which we are all a part.\n\nAh! but it may be said, all are not mystics, to which I would reply, all\nwho desire can be mystics. For what, after all, is a mystic, but one who\nenters into possession of the inner life? One who becomes fully aware of\nher self-consciousness, and who gains thereby new faculties and\nenlightenment. It places her in touch with that supreme reality which\nsome call God and some The Great Creative Power. The mystic knows that\npower is to be found within through identification and submergence with\nthe Primordial Force which constitutes the ocean of life. She can always\npass the sky and clouds of earth, and enter the great, deep, real world\noutside. It is always possible to her to seek a fairer world where the\nonly things that matter are the eternal verities, which should be taken\nkneeling, like a sacrament.\n\n    Love and life which is Beauty.\n    Love and power which is Goodness.\n    Love and knowledge which is Wisdom.\n\nThe Road of the Flaming Sacred Heart is strewn with insight, kindness\nand sympathy, which gives eyes to the blind, ears to the deaf, and a\nvoice to the dumb! It is paved with love that serves the humble and\ndefends the disinherited. Bravely it walks the _Via Dolorosa_, and it\n\"Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, its reward\nto know the love of God, unutterable even to them that know.\"\n\nThe Mystic can face the future without fear, for the power has been\ngiven her to take her soul, and like a carrier dove, loose it into\nspace, to speed away into the fathomless, the everlasting, the voiceless\ndeep whose silence is the \"Welcome Home\" of God.","title":"Ghosts I Have Seen, and Other Psychic Experiences","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":87061}